Part 1

Football season had arrived (finally), but Bertram Seagram was not a happy man. Sole owner of the newly franchised team, the Memphis Maulers, things looked bleak when they should have held great promise. His staff of attorneys had finished sifting through the league contract and discovered something very disconcerting. If the team did not show a profit by the end of their very first season, the franchise would be placed in a lottery for other markets to bid upon. Of course, this revelation was made after Seagram had signed the agreement.

Bert was still kicking himself for being lured into signing such a ridiculous contract. He'd assured his solicitor that he knew what he was doing and now he had no one but himself to blame. There was no way he could turn a profit after forking out so much money in contracts, renovations, etc. He grumbled under his breath as he stepped off the elevator and entered the franchise's office.

He was busy scanning the sports page and didn't immediately notice anything amiss. He probably would have just strolled straight to his office and slammed the door, if it hadn't been for an odd sound. He paused, thinking it was the air conditioning. The sound stopped and he turned to continue in the direction he'd started, when he heard it again. It lasted long enough this time to ascertain that it wasn't coming from the duct work overhead.

"What the Hell!" Bertram thought. "Don't tell me the Maulers now have mice".

But somehow he knew that mice weren't the source of the noise. He stood quietly, waiting for the sound to return. Seconds passed and then there was a soft noise, like a cat meowing.

"Hello?" Bert called tentatively.

"mmmmmphh!"

It seemed to come from the closet. Bert strolled over cautiously, grabbing a letter opener on the way. He grasped the handle and held the opener over his head like a dagger. Taking a deep breath, he flung the door open and prepared to perforate whatever was on the other side. His arm froze in mid-air when he saw the human form. A very shapely human form.

"Miss Cranston???" Seagram stammered. He couldn't be sure, but the person WAS wearing the same snappy outfit his personal secretary had worn the previous day. The apparition let out a relieved, "Nnnnnngh!" in reply.

The reason he couldn't be sure it was Rebecca Cranston, was because someone had thoroughly restrained the woman. He was sure it was a woman, for in addition to the matching aquamarine skirt and jacket, he could clearly see her breasts straining against the sheer fabric of the bra. A bra that had become transparent due to excessive perspiration.

The woman's identity was hidden, thanks to the canvas currency bag encasing her head. 1" medical tape had been wound around the open end about her throat, foiling any attempts to shake it off. There was another anchoring point, vis-à-vis more tape wound around her head where her mouth should be. Indeed, Bertram could see the gaping indentation of the woman's lips pressing firmly into the canvas. It struck Bert as odd that her cheeks seemed to be puffed out for some reason.

Time froze and so did Seagram, except for his eyes. They wandered down to take in the rest of the woman's predicament. At first glance, she appeared not to have any arms. Her jacket had been bunched back off her shoulders, revealing her crisp, collared silk blouse. 3/8" cotton rope indented the blouse in several spots on her torso. Several bands encircled her chest, above and below her breasts (making them stand out quite nicely, Bertram noted). Another wrap had been pulled particularly tight around her stomach. Diving down from that binding was a doubled cord whose purpose stymied Bertram for a moment. But then he looked closer and sucked in his breath at what he saw.

During the process of her struggles, Miss Cranston's mid-thigh skirt had risen up. Risen up quite a bit. The hem now rested scrunched up at the tops of her legs, exposing panties that matched the same material as the bra. The undergarment too, was damp with moisture. Bertram felt himself blush as he stared at his secretary's dark blonde pubic hair matted underneath the gauzy fabric. But that wasn't all that caused the embarrassment.
The mysterious twin cords ran straight down through the young lady's crotch, bisecting the lips of her sex. The way it depressed her flesh and cleaved the panties inside her, it must have been VERY tight.

It was the first time that Bertram had known that her secretary had a small, heart shaped space at the top of her legs. The space existed even though her knees had been lashed securely together with more rope. That space had allowed him to see more of her than she'd ever intended. He noticed too, that she was seated on a wheeled office chair. The reason that she couldn't wheel herself out of the closet (besides the fact of not being able to reach the door knob) was how her ankles were fixed.

Instead of being tied together like her knees, each ankle had been brought back under the chair independently. Pure wonderment taking over, Bertram hazarded a look in back. There, the puzzle of the missing arms was solved.

Rebecca's jacketed arms were practically welded together. Whoever had done this must have had stock in clothesline. Rings of the white hemp crushed her arms at wrists, mid-forearm and elbows. The last cinch actually forcing her elbows to touch. It must have bothered her shoulders terribly.

Bertram's eyes followed the individual cords wrapped around her ankles (noting that one of her stylish, 3" heeled shoes had dropped off, exposing the stocking'd, sexy arch of her foot), up to where they merged at her elbow cinch. From there the cords ran in unison over the back of the chair. Seagram thought they just terminated there, but then he saw them re-emerge beneath the seat's back. From that point, they traveled down, clefting the crack of her derrière. Bertram reasoned that it must be the same doubled cord he saw in front.

Even from his angle, Seagram could see a splinter of light from the office outside, shining between the chair's cushioning and Miss Cranston's bottom. Apparently, the cords holding her lower legs practically doubled up, had been tied to the chair back. The cord in turn, passed down between her legs with such tension that it kept her elevated off the seat. Trying to rest her bottom on the chair would have only dug the rope in her crotch deeper. "Yeouch!" Bertram thought.

An absurdly muted "Mmmnnghff!" and Rebecca's clenching and unclenching hands snapped Seagram out of his stupor. He went around front and knelt to retrieve the letter opener that he'd dropped during the initial discovery. As he bent over, he heard an odd hum that wasn't coming from Miss Cranston. Well, it wasn't coming from Miss Cranston's head. Bertram's eyes scanned his secretary's pinioned body, his gaze settling on her most private domain. He leaned his head in closer and sure enough, heard a faint buzzing emanating from somewhere INSIDE her crotch. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know what it was. Miss Rebecca Cranston's sex was currently residence to a vibrator. A very powerful one by the sound of it.

Just then, Rebecca shuddered and screamed a sound that wasn't entirely a cry for release. When the spasms passed, she slumped against her bonds, twitching slightly. Bertram deduced that this was the cause for such copious amounts of perspiration.

"There' no telling how long she's been like this," Seagram pondered.

And that thought spurred him into action. Well, almost. You see, although a very busy man, Bertram was also a bit of a crime buff. He rarely missed an opportunity to catch his favorite "C.S.I." show on TV. In so doing, he was acutely aware of how important the gathering of potential clues was. An undisturbed crime scene stood a better chance of providing a lead. So he stood, letter opener in hand, not intending to use it.

"I'm sorry, Rebecca." He said meekly. "But I'd better contact the authorities. Once they get here, they'll have you out in a jiffy."

"Don't go anywhere." He said, not realizing the absurdity of the statement.

"GNNNUMMMGHHH!" Rebecca screamed in disbelief.

"Yes, I know." Seagram answered as if actually carrying on a conversation. "But you've been like that for a while, a little longer won't hurt."


Part 2

Detective Joanna August, Memphis PD-Robbery, surveyed the controlled chaos of the office. Besides herself and her partner, Danielle Frost, it seemed like there were two dozen people in the room. This included six uniformed officers, three pairs of EMT's, the guys from forensics and the watch commander. Joanna caught Danielle's eye and shook her head with disgust. The only thing to get more response than a jumper, was a tied up damsel. Right now, said damsel was being checked out by a female paramedic. Her partner was icing down the eye that had gotten smacked when he'd tried to remove the vibrator from the Vic. Joanna decided to forego an interview with the rattled woman and stepped over to where her partner was talking with Mr. Seagram.

"So you're pretty sure that's all that was taken?" Danielle was concluding. "Just one of the copies of the teams sale agreement?"

"Yeah," Said Seagram, still visibly shaken. "If word gets out about what fates this team rides on, it'll be open season for wannabe franchise owners."

While he was speaking, Mr. Seagram seemed unable to give Det. Frost his complete attention. His eyes kept darting to Miss Cranston, who although completely clothed, had additionally wrapped herself in a blanket. The beautiful secretary's hair was a mess and her make-up was a disaster. Her hysterics had calmed some, but she still shuddered occasionally as she talked to the medic. Bertram couldn't seem to keep his eyes off two other things that lay on the carpet nearby, being photographed.

One was the ivory colored vibrator. It had to be six inches long and almost two inches wide. Once her hands and legs had been freed (and after she'd punched the EMT), Rebecca couldn't wait to remove the plastic violator. It didn't occur to her that she was doing so in front of at least eight strangers. She'd gingerly removed it with two fingers and flung it to the floor, where it jittered on the high traffic carpet. Embarrassed as to where it had once been, she asked meekly if someone could turn it off, for its buzzing constantly reminded all, where it had resided. She was told not until it had been dusted for prints (good luck!).

The other thing that caught Bertram's eye, was one of the promotional items for fan appreciation day. It was a foam football, six inches long by three inches round, toting the team's colors. Nothing extraordinary about it, except that it too, had resided inside Miss Cranston. Once the authorities had arrived and it was deemed safe to release the victim, the canvas sack was the first thing removed. After cutting the bands of tape around her head and neck, the grey bag was lifted off her head. Much to everyone's shock, more tape lay underneath, encompassing Rebecca's head and cleaving her mouth wide. Scissors carefully cut the tape off at one cheek and it was pulled away (with it, more than a few strands of her honey colored hair). Miss Cranston's mouth was still held agape, the team's orange and black color scheme showing between her teeth. A medic had reached in and incredibly, pulled out the mass that was the football. No wonder she could hardly make a sound.

Mr. Seagram's questioning went on for a few more minutes, with nothing further revealed. Joanna went over and quietly talked to Miss Cranston.

She said she'd been working late on the payroll and as far as she knew, was the only one in the building. She had gotten up to get a cup of coffee and when she'd returned, that's when they'd jumped her.

"You say 'they'". Joanna pressed gently. "Do you know how many?"

"It was two, maybe three." Rebecca answered shakily. "I never got a look at their faces and they never said a word. They pushed me to the floor and jammed that whole football in my mouth. I thought my jaw was going to break! And that was before they wrapped the tape around my head. Once they put that sack over my eyes, I couldn't see a thing. I couldn't even fight back!"

Rebecca broke into sobs and Joanna decided now was not the time to press for more answers. After a few more questions to the crew first on the scene, she and Danielle walked back to the car.

"Weird," Danielle said.

"Got that right." Joanna agreed. "Did you see the way she was trussed up? They'd seen the digital pictures from the CSI camera. "It goes way beyond document theft. Someone ENJOYED tying her up that way. Let's check with the Sex Crimes unit when we get back." Danielle agreed.

As the two detectives strode to the car, two sets of eyes followed them. They liked what they saw. They noted that the slightly taller one, Frost, walked with the fluid grace of a dancer. The soft, lazy, Mississippi-like ringlets of her chestnut hair hardly bounced as she walked. Though she wore slacks, and a jacket over her sleeveless turtleneck, they could still see the trim of her 35C-26-34 physique.

August's blonde hair was kept short, in a kind of Brigitte Nielson hairstyle. Not only was it easy maintenance, but it complimented her face nicely. Her 34C-25-35 dimensions balanced perfectly on her 5'7" frame. She didn't move with the feline grace of her partner. Rather, more like the fluid, energized dance of a featherweight boxer. It was a stride that swayed her charms provocatively. Neither policewomen, however, had reached the rank of detective merely by their looks. The two observers knew that these two women were top flight crime solvers. They had to move with caution.

What Detectives August and Frost did not know yet, was one big piece of the puzzle had yet to be discovered. The team's sale agreement wasn't the only document mishandled. In a file drawer that had been made to appear untouched, a single folder had been photographed. That folder contained all the information on the current cheerleading squad for the Memphis Maulers. Not only girl's who had made the team, but also the names and vital statistics for the women who had made the tryout semi-finals. In all, the file contained the names, descriptions, places of employment and addresses for sixty five of the most beautiful, mostly single and certainly audacious ladies in the area.


Part 3

The rest of the day, detectives Frost and August spent their time talking to the different departments at the precinct, looking for crimes with similar M.O.'s. When nothing turned up, they decided to check with their informants the next day. Neither of them held out much hope, for professional sports franchises were not the forte of their snitches. However, a story this big in the sports world, especially one in a market that was relatively small, was bound to be exposed.

The next day, when Seagram didn't see the news of the break in splashed all over the front pages of the paper, he breathed a sigh of relief. Indeed, except for a small article telling of the robbery (which included a vague mention of a staff person being subdued) it appeared as though Seagram's secret was safe.

"Maybe I can still figure some way out of this, after all." He thought.

Later that same day, Morgan Firestone was getting ready to hook up with her dealer. She wasn't an addict, she told herself, she just liked to toot a little coke now and then. You know, to have a good time. She'd been feeling depressed lately and a little of the white stuff was just the ticket.

In fact, "a little of the white stuff" is what had caused her depression in the first place. She's been laid off from her job at the auto plant, with a promise to be brought back in a couple of months when business picked up. Morgan had thought that was fine, sort of a paid vacation. Then she'd seen an advertisement for cheerleader tryouts for the new football team.

"Perfect!" She thought. "I can get this gig for cheerleader and STILL collect unemployment."

Standing in front of the mirror, having no doubt that she had the goods to make the squad. She was very proud of her naturally red hair, which she kept in loose curls that hung past her shoulders. At 24, her breasts were still 'perky', a word she used rather than 'smallish', not yet affected by gravity. But she figured that enthusiasm could overshadow a 34-B bust at tryouts. From her bust, she tapered down nicely to a 25 inch waist, highlighted by a gold, four leaf clover, belly piercing.

Her hips flared to 35 inches, which included a rump that looked very nice by itself or packed into tight jeans. She was thankful that with her sunning this summer, her skin hadn't broken out in a rash the freckles inherent of people with her skin type. She did have a spattering on her cheeks, as well as on her chest. But these only highlighted the paler skin that had been covered by a very brief swim top.

"Yup." She thought to herself. "Can't be that many girls with looks that can top mine."

So, she was quite disconcerted when she arrived at the sports complex and saw at least two hundred women there, vying for a chance to be on the thirty person roster. But still extremely confident, she set about going through her paces. The judges' responses were encouraging and she thought that she was a shoe in. Then came the urine test. She hadn't expected that! Sure enough, the partying she'd done the previous night set off all sorts of alarms and she was told that she needn't report back to the next day's trials.

That had been two weeks ago. Since then, she'd seen the roster of the new Memphis Mauler's Mavens posted in the paper. The listing had included pictures. Morgan was heartbroken when she saw that her looks could have out shown at least two thirds of the squad. She'd gone out on a heavy binge of clubbing after that. Not really having any close friends or family, she took solace in the wild atmosphere of the nightclubs.

That was where she had been last night. She enjoyed being the center of attention, even though that may have been partially because of the eight-ball she freely gave samples of. When she'd awoke in the morning, she had nothing but a hangover and an empty plastic bag to show for her 'fun'. So she called her source and arranged to meet at a nearby blue collar tap room that served the early morning patrons.

When Morgan arrived, she was glad that she hadn't drawn much attention from the 3 or 4 men sitting at the bar. She'd purposely dressed in loose fitting painter's coveralls with a large t-shirt underneath. She'd tucked her hair up under a baseball cap and wore a pair of sunglasses. She couldn't do much to disguise the smooth, attractive lines of her face, but it seemed the patrons were more preoccupied with their longnecks of ale than with practicing their come on lines. She slid into one of the booths in back. Derrick, her contact sat across from her.

"I got some good news and some bad news." Derrick said, before Morgan could say a word.

"The bad news is, I'm fresh out of blow. Last night was a VERY profitable one." Morgan's heart sank. She really needed a pick-me-up.

"But," Derrick continued. "You're in luck. I met this couple last night and they have some really terrific merchandise. I offered to buy some, but they preferred to make deals for themselves. I can respect that."

"Anyway," He continued. "I told him about this very special client of mine, meaning you, who was feeling a little down on her luck. They agreed to meet with you. Their sitting in that booth over there."

Morgan looked in the direction Derrick had indicated and saw a nondescript couple sitting there drinking coffee. She turned back to Derrick with a questioning look, uncertain about dealing with someone new.

"They're OK." Derrick assured her. "And their blow is top notch. I've tried some."

Normally, Morgan would have balked at the change. But she really did feel lousy and wasn't looking forward to a day of coffee and orange juice recuperation. She muttered her thanks to Derrick, who finished his soft drink and told her to have fun. He left the booth and walked out, unconsciously patting the five hundred dollars in his pocket.

Why the couple wanted to have Morgan as a customer was beyond him. Frankly, she was a pain in his ass, calling him at all hours of the day. He could have turned them on to a dozen bigger customers easily (for a slice of the profits). But they had told him that they wanted to start out slow. Hell, they probably wanted to use Morgan as some sort of 'spokesperson'. It didn't matter to him. He was already thinking about the Gibson guitar he was going to buy.

Morgan slid cautiously into the booth across from the couple. The man had dark hair and a beard, his bulk could best be described as 'average'. The same went for the woman, whose dirty blond hair was parted down the middle and hung to her shoulders. Both were dressed in casual clothes which were slightly more pricey than that of the other patrons, but not excessively so.

"I'm Stanley and this is my wife Irene." The man said for introductions. He could tell Morgan was a little cautious, so he continued with his explanation.

"We just relocated from Pennsylvania and we're looking to set up a little business down here. When Derrick told us what an excellent customer you were, we asked to meet you."

"I don't deal," Morgan said defensively. "I'm just a casual user."

"No, no it's nothing like that." Stanley hurried to assure her. "We just thought that someone as fun loving and attractive as you, might be able to steer some prospective customers our way."

Morgan thought about that for a minute. She did know quite a few people from the clubs. Not very well, but she knew they liked to party. When Stanley mentioned her fee, Morgan became more interested.

"I'd have to sample some of the product." She said. It seemed like the thing to say, plus she really wanted to erase the fuzz in her head.

"Of course." Stanley said. "But not here. Too many prying eyes. Our truck is parked out back."

So they rose together and slipped out the rear exit. If asked later, no one would have remembered seeing them. Stanley's truck was a fairly new F-150, with plenty of room for the three of them to sit. After a cautious look around, Irene opened the glove box and withdrew a large zip lock bag. Morgan's eyes grew wide. She'd never seen so much coke at one time. Her mouth started to water in anticipation.

Irene dumped a liberal amount onto a compact mirror and proceeded to chop up the larger chunks. She formed a rather generous line and offered it to Morgan. The girl took the straw and smoothly inhaled the offered product. Instantly, her brain tingled with the familiar surge. Then her body seemed to sparkle all over.

"WOW!" She gasped. "This is really good!"

She closed her eyes, relishing the sensation. Oddly, the euphoria continued to build. This was the most intense high she'd ever experienced. Suddenly, she started to get worried. "Maybe she was going to have a heart attack' she thought. She turned to Stanley, who had a strange smirk on his face.

"Whuh..." Morgan tried to ask what was happening.

She tried to reach for the truck door, but her arms wouldn't move. She tried again to tell the couple that something was wrong, but no words came out. The edges of her vision started to blur and she struggled to keep her eyes open. She felt the seatbelt fasten across her legs, trapping her hands in her lap.

"That's right, slave" Irene growled into her ear. "Your days of partying are over. From now on, YOU'RE going to be the party."

Morgan was still trying to figure out what the woman meant when she blacked out.


Part 4

Morgan didn't 'come to' in the sense of the word. More like she slowly became more sentient. She noticed the small things first. She seemed to have a mouthful of something that refused to be swallowed. She felt chilly, but couldn't draw the blanket to cover her. The walls of her vagina tickled, but she couldn't scratch.

When her eyes finally did struggle open, she thought perhaps that she was still blind. All she could see was a field of grey. Very slowly, that field formed lines that gave it character. The first, was the outline of a door, she thought, but it had no handle. The softer, secondary lines focused into a cinderblock wall. She reached out to steady herself against the wall and that's when things rapidly became more focused.

She was in a small, monochrome room. The flat grey concrete floor matched the walls of cinderblock. The ceiling was of the same neutral color, the acoustical tiles broken only by a recessed light bulb. A closer look unveiled that the wall wasn't complete devoid of features. A plethora of steel rings were anchored randomly about. She couldn't see behind her, but imagined more of the same. Finished her examination of the room, she took inventory of herself.

"I can't move my arms!" She thought wildly. The same went for her legs. And it got worse from there.

"Hmngh?" She asked out loud. There wasn't much 'loud' to it.

She pulled on her arms, but they remained up and out to her sides. She realized that her legs were bent in a crouch, but when she tried to stand, they refused her command. That's when she noticed the ache in her jaw. With surprise, she felt that that wasn't all.

Her tongue seemed to be displaced, squashed down on the floor of her mouth. She wriggled it and it pressed against something slick and bumpy. She tried to shimmy the taste budded tissue backward, but the obstruction seemed to have no end. Something nagged at the back of her mind while she continued her limited exploration of her mouth. Then she had it!

"It's some kind of plastic cock!" She thought, becoming slightly queasy.

But nothing like she'd ever seen (or felt) before. It was huge in her mouth. The muscles in her jaw sang with the tension of being held so wide. She tried to bite down on it and it did give slightly, only to expand when she could clamp no longer. She then became aware of a squeezing, almost smothering sensation around her face and head. Something was mashing her lips against her teeth and pressing painfully into the base of her skull. Her skin felt hot and sweaty underneath it.

Once again she tried to stand, this time with more urgency. She began to rise and the tickling sensation in her sex became more animated. Then there was a broadening ache in her rectum. She immediately resumed the exaggerated squat, reducing the stretching blaze on her anus, but her insides still felt bloated. She looked down and saw bands of leather encircling her thighs and ankles. A three link chain connected the bands, insuring her squatted stance. A thin steel chain had been fed behind the folds of her knees. The chain from each leg went straight out to the sides, splaying her knees wide. Morgan was acutely aware at how exposed her sex now was.

She did not have to look, but felt compelled to check on the state of her pussy. Leaning forward, she knew it was not good. Bolted to the floor was a chrome shaft, 2" round. The shaft rose, quickly transforming into a spiky pink abomination. She could only see a few inches of its surface, for the remainder disappeared between the gaping lips of her sex. Morgan rose the few millimeters the thigh to ankle chain allowed, before the strange pain in her rear entrance sprouted again. It was enough. She saw the pink surface with its spindly appendages ooze out of her sex. The little 'feelers' glistened with her own natural lubricant. Judging by her sense of fullness, she was nowhere near seeing the tip of the monstrosity. It felt as though it was almost pressing against her cervix.

There was no way to miss another revelation as she peered down at her impaled vagina. Her beautiful patch of crimson pubic hair was GONE! The recently exposed skin tingled from the cool air and memory of the recent shaving.

Morgan groaned and tugged on her splayed arms. They didn't move much and she looked to see why. She observed that each wrist had been cuffed with a leather band. Each cuff was secured with a padlock. She could tell by the firm grip, that there was no way of making her hand small enough to slip through the opening. A chain from each wrist ran to its corresponding wall at an upward angle. That was the reason she hadn't toppled over in her slumber. That and the rigid probe holding her up like some freakish stand for a Barbie doll.

Morgan swallowed the saliva built up behind the massive packing and padding of the gag and felt a restriction on her neck. Something held her throat tightly, though not quite enough to hinder her breathing. She wriggled her toes on the cold concrete floor as best she could, being that they and the balls of her feet were supporting all of her weight. The panic rising, she lunged at her restraints. Other than some feeble rocking, she was stuck. She did discover that she should avoid rocking her torso too much. Her body would move, the impaling pole did not.

She let her head drop down in a fit of exhaustion and defeat. She had no other choice but to endure her predicament until someone came for her. It turned out to be a long wait.

An hour later (it felt more like ten), she was snapped out of her disorientated state by the sound of an electronic *CLACK*. She lifted her head and tried with only partial success to shake the hair out of her face. A lone stranger walked in and Morgan immediately tried to voice her distress.

"Gmmnph, Hmmnnuhh, NNNNNNGHH!" Her screams came out like a summer breeze.

"Ah, you're awake 917. Good!" She stranger said.

"917?" Morgan puzzled. "What the hell does that mean. Just let me go, you dumb fuck!" Her bulging cheeks grew flush as she blurted her rebuke.

She looked up at the man, she had to, squatting as she was. He was well dressed in dark slacks and a sports jacket. He wore a white turtleneck underneath. Looking down, she noted that his shoes were expensive and polished like mirrors. She slowly gazed up at his face, clearly apparent that he wasn't here to rescue her. There was something familiar about his eyes. Then she had it.

"Umh-ngh?" The word 'Stanley' hadn't come out at all clear, but the man seemed to understand nonetheless.

"Sorry my dear." He chuckled. "But I'm afraid that 'Stanley' is just a figment of our imagination. He will, of course, be the focus of any police investigation, unlikely as that may be."

"We've arranged that you won't be able to straighten during this part of your indoctrination," He continued. "No doubt you've all ready found that out. Besides, I would strongly advise you against attempting to do so. Perhaps you've already felt the strain on your anus? That's due to a bladder in your rectum inflated to roughly the size of an apple. The balloon is in turn, chained to a ring in the floor behind you."

Morgan stared, repulsed by this new information. It certainly explained why she felt the urgent need to relieve herself. But there was NO WAY she was going to try and push something that large out. Her attention snapped back to the man when he held up some sort of headphone and goggle arrangement.

"This will start the first stage of your training." He said. "Besides of course, your familiarization with restraints. I suggest that you try and keep an open mind."

"SCREW open mind." Morgan huffed. "Get me the HELL out of this!"

The stranger's face frowned. "It appears that you need a little motivation to be more receptive."

He knelt down in front of her and reached into his pocket. He withdrew a silver chain. It appeared to be rather heavy. Morgan did not notice at first, what was attached at the ends. The man reached out and grasped her right nipple with thumb and forefinger. He pulled the tender bud out and moved the chain closer. That's when Morgan saw the spread jaws of the clamp. She whined, his intent now clear, but he snapped it in place without pause.

Sparks flew from her tit when the jaws closed. Morgan threw her head back and howled, and howled again as the other clamp latched on to her left nipple. Tears spilled down her cheeks and she gazed wetly at her tormentor. In addition to the steely bite, she could feel the added tug of the connecting chain.

"Oh god!" She thought. "These have to come off right now!"

But on they stayed. The stranger grasped her padded leather gag strap and peered into her watering eyes.

"The sooner you learn to accept your new role, the quicker we can stop your punishments." He growled.

Then he added in an almost soothing voice. "Pay close attention to what you are about to see. Call it a 'training video' if you will. Trust me, you will be tested on what you have learned."

Morgan squealed as he fitted the bulky, goggle-like apparatus over her head. Her world went dark. Next, it went virtually silent, when he positioned the headphones. All she could hear was her raspy breath and the thrum of her heartbeat. She jerked involuntarily when he gave her left breast a squeeze and then there was no more clue if he was there or not. She knelt there, mind spinning, when suddenly all was flooded with light.


Part 5

Morgan screwed her eyes shut against the bright light. It seemed to pervade her eyelids, making night, day. She screamed in pain against the rubber cock in her mouth. Still the light did not abate. Then she heard the voice for the first time.

"Subject's eyes closed during presentation." A female, yet obviously electronic voice echoed inside her head. "First digression. Punishment...Level One."

Morgan hadn't even time to ponder what had been said, when a jolt of electricity burst from her pussy. She screeched and tried to stand up, forgetting her situation. The balloon up her backside reminded her quickly. She shuddered, shaking her straight arms in small circles, causing the nipple chain to jostle and tug rudely. Somehow, the probe buried inside her pussy had just given her a shock!

"Subject eyes will remain open for this demonstration. Attempts to terminate viewing will be punished." The voice said flatly, without emotion. "Viewing time is approximately four hours."

"FOUR HOURS!" Morgan thought. "I can't stay like this for that long. I CAN'T!" She howled into the gag.

The voice didn't say anything for a few long moments, then spoke again. "Subject's eyes closed during presentation. Second digression. Punishment... Level Two."

Morgan forced her eyes open, but too late to stop the second shock, this one definitely more intense than the first. She screamed again but somehow managed to keep her lids parted. What she couldn't do, was keep her lower torso still. She bucked to the limit of the static pole inside her, pressing the feelers into sensitive tissue that still seemed to crackle with current. She groaned at the paradox of it all. She could hardly move at all, and what she could, only increased her discomfort.

Through blurred vision, she watched as the field of white slowly transformed into a shape. A three dimensional shape. Besides the figure, there was little else in the form of background. Just a zone of grey that seemed to have no edges. The image became crisper, to the point where Megan thought if she were able, she might reach out and touch it. Then a coldness formed in her gut.

The image was that of a woman, one with red hair. She was squatting in the middle of the grey nothingness, arms held out to the sides. Morgan knew that it was none other than herself. The camera (or whatever it was) zoomed in to focus on her face. She could see very little of it, due to the wide black band over leather covering the lower half and the goggles the upper. Only half conscious of it, Megan slowly shook her head and the image mimicked the motion exactly.

The picture swept down past her heaving chest. Her firm breasts were held slightly apart by the stretch of her arms. Her nipples were bent cruelly toward the floor by the weight of the clamps and chain. The picture did not pause but proceeded downward, stopping at her violated sex. The horrid prod looked like a strange, pink rocket ascending into the cloudy folds of her vulva. The newly denuded skin above was still rosy from the epilating.

The image backed away and showed her whole body. Her legs were splayed wide, forming a straight line. There was no way to hide how she was being violated. Then the camera moved smoothly around behind her. She could see the short chain running from a ring in the floor up to, then disappearing between her ass cheeks. It then passed over her shoulder and settled once again in front, capturing her entire image. It was as if Morgan had stepped outside her body and was looking at it from across the room. She started when a male voice broke the quiet.

"This is your life now." She immediately recognized it as 'Stanley's' voice. "We have placed you in a position of OUR choosing. Choice, is now a luxury you no longer posses. Your only purpose is to do our bidding."

Morgan didn't know what to think. And before she could mull it over further, the voice spoke inside her head again.

"These are the rules by which your life will revolve. Learn them. They are your life now."

1. Obey any and all commands immediately.
2. Never speak unless ordered to do so.
3. Violation of Rules One and Two will not be permitted and will be punished immediately.

"While committing the Rules to heart, you will be shown various tasks that you will be expected to perform. Do them well and you will be rewarded. Unsatisfactory performance will not be tolerated."

Morgan watched herself disintegrate, replaced by a different scene. A woman kneeled naked in front of an equally naked man. Her hands were handcuffed behind her, but that was all. The man was reclined in a chair, the woman between his legs. Morgan could immediately tell that the man was receiving a very energetic blow job. From there, the images got decidedly worse.

Morgan snuffled away some of the tears that irritated her sinuses. The action initiated an acute tickle in her nasal passage. She tried to snort the annoying irritation, but it only grew more pronounced. Then, an involuntary reaction took place. She felt it coming on, but could do nothing to stop it. The sneeze was tremendous and it had undesirable side effects. The muscles of her pussy clamped down on the rubbery spiked shaft and the nipple chain danced a jig. And, her eyes reflexively closed.

"Subject's eyes closed during presentation. Third digression. Punishment...Level Three."

Morgan screamed even before the shock began.

Joanna and Danielle walked into the precinct the next day. As they entered the Detective's department, they heard one of the male cops say, "Look, here comes Frost 'n August." They just ignored the pun they'd been tagged with since first being paired together.

They sat down at their desks and went over their messages. A day out on the streets had turned up nothing. It was one of the oddest cases either of them had worked on. It made no sense, stealing a copy of the agreement. The first person to bring it to light, would be implicating himself in the crime. This case was going nowhere fast, unless they did something to shake it up.

"What say you an I grab a bite to eat later tonight," Joanna suggested. "Then we'll swing by Rebecca Cranston's apartment and see if she's remembered anything more."

"Couldn't hurt." Danielle replied.

Derrick sipped his beer and enjoyed the taste. He strummed the cords on his new axe absently. Not knowing why, he wondered how Morgan had made out.

"Maybe I should give her a call." He thought. "Nah, she's probably partying hardy with her new friends. Maybe now I can get a decent nights sleep without her calling to cop a fix."

And that was the last thought he gave of her.


Part 6

Twenty six year old Tricia Koulikofsky was in a bad mood, but doing her best to break out of it. Only three weeks in Memphis, she was chasing her dream of being a Country singer. She had all the tools to accomplish her dream. Although only 4'11", she was never without shoes with heels at least three inches tall. She kept her blonde hair bleached nearly platinum and cut straight (which was the current fashion), but could easily curl it into a 'Faith Hill' kind of doo. And she had the pipes. She could switch from a Slim Whitman yodel to a Johnny Cash ballad effortlessly. All she really needed now was a break, an agent and a surname other than Koulikofsky.

Plus, she wasn't hard on the eyes. Measuring 34C-25-32, it wasn't usually her height that turned men's heads. She'd been happy to let her appearance open some doors for her in order to be discovered as the next great talent. Soon after arriving, Tricia had won herself a spot on the list of live acts at a local watering hole. It wasn't much of a place (a dive actually), but it was a start.

When she'd seen the advertisement for open auditions for the new football team's cheerleading squad, she pounced on it. This was the kind of exposure that would get her noticed. She'd shown up wearing a glittering silver halter top, her tightest short-shorts and high-heeled cowboy boots. She'd been told up front about the minimum height requirements, but doggedly filled out the questionnaire anyway. To many of her competitors chagrin, she actually made the first cut.

But it was not to be, however, thus her slightly depressed mood today. The letter thanking her for participating in the tryouts had come, but telling her all of the spots had been filled. The letter did include two tickets to the opening pre-season game.

"Great." She'd said out loud. "I don't even know anybody to share the other ticket with."

But ever the optimist and never knowing if tonight was going to be the one that would get her 'discovered', she got ready for her gig at the Mo-Zee Inn. After a shower and drying her hair, she slid into her lucky leotard. The crème colored garment had spaghetti straps and a thong bottom. The 'U' shaped neckline showed off just enough to keep the patrons attention, without having them jump up on stage. Her faded Levi's had enough holes and tears in them, to make one think they might rip clean off with one good sneeze. She clasped on the authentic silver belt buckle with turquoise inlays, and slipped into her doeskin jacket, complete with fringe. She tucked her jeans into her four inch heeled cowboy boots and was ready to go. Just as she was reaching for her cowboy hat and guitar when there was a knock at the door.

"Who could that be?" She wondered. The neighbors in her small apartment unit hadn't said so much as "Boo" to her since she'd been here. Apparently they didn't trust 'New Folk'. Even attractive ones.

Tricia opened the door two find a couple of uniformed men. They had with them a large box advertising a popular brand of dishwasher.

"Uh, can I help you?" Tricia asked.

The man in front looked momentarily lost, as he stared gaping at the lovely girl in the hot outfit. His partner jabbed him in the ribs with a clipboard. That seemed to break him out of his trance and he started to speak.

"I, yeah um, Miz Kowlu...um". He stammered.

"Koulikofsky." Tricia offered with a warm smile. "He's kind of cute." She thought. "The other guy though, looks like a 90 lb weakling."

"Yes ma'am." He said, glad that he didn't have to try and pronounce her name. "Where from Empire Appliances. We have a work order here to install this dishwasher."

"Really?" Tricia said puzzled. She'd asked the superintendent several times about the leaky toilet and the drippy kitchen sink and all she'd gotten in response was a noncommittal "Humph!" Now all of a sudden, he was springing for a new dishwasher? Will miracles never cease. She stepped to one side and allowed the men to wheel their cargo inside.

"This should only take about half an hour." The deliveryman said. "If you wouldn't mind waiting around, you can sign the paperwork when we're done."

Tricia still had ninety minutes before she was due on stage, so she agreed to wait. This way she could check out the cute guy's butt while they worked. The second man eased the dolly with the box down in the middle of the living room. Tricia figured that they had to remove the old one first. She watched as the man cut open the cardboard box. As he was doing that, the cute guy held out a clipboard. Tricia glanced absently at his hand holding the pen, not noticing the man's neatly manicured fingernails.

"If you wouldn't mind signing some of the preliminary paperwork, it'll make things that much quicker." He explained.

The singer did so and by the time she looked up, the dishwasher was out of its box. And something didn't add up. The machine looked ancient. There were dents and food stains on the front panel and hoses trailing out the back. Tricia's first instinct was that the superintendent was getting ripped off.

"What are you guyzzOWW!" Her question turned to a yelp when the hunk took a half step behind her and yanked on a handful of her hair. Something broad and black swung into view and collided with her teeth. The pull on her hair intensified.

"NNOOMmmmfffr!" Her cried died as some kind of hard rubber wedged between her white capped bicuspids. It reminded her of the mouth protector she'd worn while playing field hockey. She stiffened in terror as she saw a needle-like object rise up to her face. She knew that she was going to be stabbed with an ice pick.

But miraculously, the lethal object drove into the obstruction in her mouth. Tricia let out a nasal sigh of relief, figuring she had just avoided a violent demise. Then things went from bad to worse, as two things happened simultaneously. There was an odd 'ffffft' sound and something inside her mouth rapidly expanded. Almost before her brain could process the information, Tricia's jaws were pried apart and her tongue was flattened by what felt like a slippery, rubber bag of cement.

"hhnnnghhhf!" She gurgled in shock.

The cute guy yanked out the ice pick (it dawned on Tricia that it had been some kind of inflation device) and let go of her hair, taking a step back. The other man made no motion to intervene. Tricia's hands immediately went up to try and pull out the choking obstruction. Her hands brushed against some kind of leather flap. She yanked on it hard and winced with pain. The flap certainly was attached to the thing stuffing her mouth, but she was fighting against the laws of physics. That law being, the mass inside her mouth was much too large to pass between the relatively small space between her teeth. Realizing that the mouth stuffing was there to stay for the time being, Tricia looked around desperately for a place to run.

The two men gave her just enough room to bolt to her right, which she did. For a moment, she thought she had a clear shot to the front door. Surely if one of her neighbors saw the state she was in, they'd be compelled to render some aid. But that hypothesis never panned out, for she'd only taken two steps when an arm encircled her waist.

The cute guy picked her 92 lb frame up as easily as if she'd been made of cardboard. He threw her on to the sofa. In a flash, she was back on her feet facing her assailants. Already, she was panting hard from the reduced amount of oxygen she could draw in through her nose. She held her hands up, hoping to inflict an injury that would allow her to pass.

One of them feinted to her right and she turned to face him. That gave the other man an opening. He lunged at her and Tricia stepped back, forgetting all about the sofa. She tripped over it and fell into the cushions. Instantly, they were on her. She tried to kick and claw at them, screaming for all the good it was doing past the gag.

The cute one wrapped his arms around her torso, trapping her arms in the process. The other grabbed her legs with one arm and yanked a piece of clothesline out of his pocket. In spite of her furious struggles, it proved ridiculously easy to cross her ankles and lash her cowboy booted feet together. Tricia didn't know it yet, but her fight was lost.

"Hmmmmnnnhh!" She screamed again, begging to be released. Whatever it was filling her mouth was really starting to HURT!

Either misinterpreting or just not caring what her muted whines meant, the men just readjusted her position so that she was leaning over the back of the sofa. She tried to look over her shoulder to see what they were doing. Failing that, she looked forward and happened to catch her reflection in the mirror. Her first impression was that there was a vampire bat stuck on her face. She couldn't see her lips or mouth, they were hidden behind a wide strap of leather. The belt dangled from the front of her face, ending on one side with three buckles, the other with three small straps. Her eyes above the straps perfectly mirrored the panic she was feeling.

Leaning over the back of the sofa, with her ankles crossed and tied provided little opportunity for her to lash back at her assailants. One of them grabbed the collar of her jacket and wrenched it off. As her hands slipped free of the sleeves, they were ready and grabbed her arms before they could start flailing. She sucked in her breath as she felt some scratchy cord tighten around her right wrist. That arm was wrestled up until it was pinned between her shoulder blades. Her left hand soon followed and the two were lashed together. When they released their grip, Tricia was startled to discover that her hands remained high up her back.

"Nnnnnghhhh!" Her cry was purely one of duress this time.

One of them (She couldn't tell which, their heads were cut off in the mirror) held on to her wrists and a handful of her hair for good measure. The other guy wasn't by any means taking a smoke break. The singer could do nothing as she felt his hand slither around and release her belt buckle. He didn't bother with the buttons down her fly. Instead, he grasped the back of her jeans and pulled. It turns out that it would have taken more than a sneeze to destroy them, but not much. Tricia groaned as the denim ripped. Two more yanks and they were a pile on the floor. She was VERY aware at how her leotard had ridden up to the point of disappearing in her crack.

It turned out not to be a problem, when she felt the cool blade of a knife slide against her spine. A flick of the wrist later and the stretchy material sprang up to bunch around the middle of her waist. Not finished with the alterations, the knife made two more passes, eradicating the shoulder straps. Somehow, the material managed to cling to her breasts.

"This is it." Tricia thought with dread. "Their going to have their way with me."

Fresh tears of frustration and remorse trickled down her cheeks as she tried to prepare herself for the inevitable attack. But the rape never came. There was, however, more rope. She felt a length wrap around her already pinioned hands. The coarse hemp scratched under an armpit, traveled up behind her neck, then dove below the other armpit, back to her crossed wrists. To her dismay, tension was taken on the cord and her hands rose even higher between her shoulder blades. She couldn't have gotten loose, even with a knife in both hands.

The two men finally flipped her over so that she was seated on the sofa. That maneuver proved too much for the tenuous grip the leotard had on her breasts. The material slipped off, bunching around her waist. Tricia stared at them wide-eyed, unconsciously trying to close her legs held open by the crossed ankle bonds. She could only sit there, still reeling from the shock of the attack as well a the incredibly tight bindings, and watch as they continued their work.

The milk toast (Boy, had THAT been a wrong first impression) grabbed her hair and pulled her head forward. The cute guy moved behind her and when his partner had all of Tricia's hair out of the way, buckled the three straps of the gag. The petite woman hadn't thought the gag could have gotten any tighter, but she was wrong.

They picked her up and carried her with ease. Tricia tried to kick and wriggle out of their grip, but it was futile. Plus she didn't relish the thought of dropping to the floor, trussed as she was. They ended their short trip standing next to the beat up dishwasher.

"Now what?" The singer wondered.

One of them opened the lid on top and Tricia couldn't resist a look inside. She was dumbfounded at what she saw. There were no racks or sprayers inside the box. Instead, the walls were lined with the bars of a cage. Bright pink, solid core insulation lined all four sides, just outside the bars. Tricia doubled her efforts, deducing what was to happen next. But it did her no good as they maneuvered her legs inside and she found herself standing awkwardly in the box.

"Now," The smaller of the two said. "We can do this the easy way or the hard. Your choice."

Well, Tricia knew one thing, she wasn't going to help these bastards abduct her. She grunted a reply that was anything but cooperative.

"Have it your way." The man said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain wooden clothes pin. Tricia was still wondering what possible motivation that would do, when the man clipped it on to her nose. She certainly didn't appreciate the affect.

"NNNnnnnh!" She screamed, using up the precious little oxygen reserve she had left.

"The sooner you squat down in there," The cute guy said calmly. "The sooner you can breath again.

Tricia certainly didn't want to wriggle down in the close confines of the box, but she wanted to suffocate even less. She awkwardly lowered herself into the cage. Her back scraped against the tight confines as the fought to move her legs to allow more space. By the time her rear touched the barred floor, her head was pounding.

"Very good." He said, removing the pin. Tricia sucked in a delicious breath of fresh air.

Then she noted the state she'd placed herself in. Though she'd been able to wriggle inside the box on her own, there was no way to squirm back out. Her body was twice folded up. She was bent at the waist, her chest pressing against her thighs and her legs were doubled, calves squeezing against the backs of her upper legs. She peered up at them realizing that her head was still poking out of the top of the dishwasher's façade. There didn't appear to be any more room for it inside. Wrong.

The cute one grasped her hair and wrenched her head back. He began twisting something into the front of the wide gag strap covering her lower face. When finished, his partner showed Tricia what he had in his hand. It was a large chrome hook. The singer had never seen anything like it before. No doubt, especially one whose longer side ended with a tip that resembled the head of a penis. The shorter end had a small ring at its tip. From the ring, dangled a cord.

Tricia was still in the throes of disbelief of their intent, when the man applied some KY jelly to the head and advanced the hook down into the box. She tried butting her head against the invading arm but it did no good. She felt the cold tip at her entrance and clenched. Again, it did no good, as the lubricant and brute force made insertion relatively easy. Tricia's stomach churned as the steel shaft slid inside her.

When the man's hand retracted, he held the cord. This he threaded through whatever it was that had been screwed into her gag. Then the cord went down between her legs once more. Tricia could feel the shaft shifting inside her as the man completed his task. When the man's hand reappeared once again, it held on to the ends of the cord. He began pulling on the line.

Immediately, Tricia felt a tugging on the mass inside her mouth. The force was drawing her head forward and down into the box. Instinctively, she fought against the strain. As a result, she felt the shaft burrow deeper inside her. She realized that her head and crotch were lewdly connected by the cord. The other man helped his partner by pressing down on the back of their captive's head. It was an irresistible force.

Lower and lower Tricia's head went. She had to part her knees as much as the walls of the steel cage would allow. Finally, when her knees were pressing against her ears, the cord was tied off. The lid of the dishwasher was closed, cutting off the feeble cries of its occupant. The men tidied up the room, then placed the hand truck under their cargo.

Anyone looking would have seen a couple of workmen leaving a job, with the old unit they had replaced and the cardboard packaging from a new dishwasher in tow. The hand truck bumped down the steps, where the two men hoisted it into the back of their delivery truck. Nothing at all unusual. As the truck drove off, it was forgotten almost before it got out of sight.

Two hours later, the manager looked at his watch. Tricia Koulikofsky was a no-show. He'd called her apartment once and got no answer. He shrugged his shoulders and told the next act to get ready for their set.

"Show biz people are so unreliable." He thought to himself.


Part 7

Joanna arrived at Danielle's apartment at seven fifteen. On the way up, she'd come across three thugs in the stairwell who had nothing better to do than cause trouble. When they'd seen the shapely blonde approaching, it'd looked as though their entertainment for the evening had arrived. One of them blocked her passage.

"Hey, sweetheart. What's your hurry?" He'd said menacingly.

"Let me pass, dirt bag." the detective said in a sugar and cream voice.

The guy, pissed by the rebuke, grabbed her shoulder. Next thing he knew, he was taking an unscheduled flight down the steps. His friends, stunned for a moment, launched into action. Any fun to be had with this broad was forgotten. They wanted payback. Less than a minute later, both were slumped in a corner, moaning in pain.

"Danielle's such a sweet kid." Joanna thought to herself. "I don't know why she doesn't move to a nicer area."

She arrived at the door and knocked. Danielle called for her to come in. August entered and saw her partner sitting on the couch.

"You're late." Frost said with an atypical firmness in her voice.

"Uh, yeah." Joanna said, sounding completely unlike the woman in the stairwell a short while ago. "There was, uh, a lot of traffic."

"I told you to be here at seven o'clock." Danielle responded, making no effort to rise from the couch.

Instead, she loosened the sash on the short silk kimono she wore. She opened the robe, revealing that she wore not a stitch of clothing underneath. She spread her legs, exposing her meticulously trimmed pubic hair. Danielle licked her lips, causing them to glisten like the ones already shining with anticipation between her legs.

"You call that an apology?" Danielle said in a husky voice. "Come here and show your Mistress how truly sorry you are."

Without further prompting, Joanna dropped to her knees and started to 'walk' that way toward her partner. She kept her head bowed, staring at the carpet. When she got there, she immediately plunged her face into Danielle's crotch. Her tongue flicked out, tasting the heavenly tang of her lover. Danielle moaned softly at the wet caresses.

"Do a good job, my pet." She purred. "For this is the only thing you'll be eating tonight."

Joanna couldn't suppress the grin as she happily set about her work. She was glad that she had sat in her car for twenty minutes. She'd been rewarded with exactly the 'punishment' she'd been hoping for.

There'd been rumors and suspicions about the two detectives and their preferences, around the precinct. Besides the constant daydream by the male detectives of riding one of these beauties in bed, almost as equally arousing, was the thought of a little 'girl on girl' action. But trained observers of a person's body language, they'd detected no clues. The women hadn't appeared openly close. There wasn't any casual touching or talking in whispered voices that might indicate anything more intimate than a professional partnership. So the other officers had just assumed their pairing was one due to available manpower. They satisfied themselves with their fantasies, never knowing how true some of them were.

After a long, hot shower together, which had included more energetic love making, the detectives dressed and drove out to Rebecca Cranston's apartment. Although they'd called ahead, they noted that the door was still chained when she'd opened it a crack and asked for identification. Given the circumstances, it wasn't an unusual precaution.

Rebecca let them inside and offered them coffee, which they refused. They made themselves comfortable in the small living room. Miss Cranston had changed into a pair of pajamas, but still absently clutched the robe she wore tightly to her chest.

"I'm glad you called." She told the detectives. "If only just to look around the apartment before you go. I want to make sure that I've taken all the precautions I could."

The officers agreed to do so and asked if there was anything else she'd remembered from the attack. Rebecca sat there in silence for a few moments. Both Joanna and Danielle noted what an attractive woman she was, even without make-up. Neither though, would dare give any indication of attraction.

"There was one thing I remember." Rebecca said. "It was kind of odd. One of them said something like, 'Having their cake and eating it too'. I remember because the voice sounded so strange. It was deep, but almost feminine. Like a man trying to sound like a woman or just the opposite."

"That is odd." Danielle remarked.

"And that's the only thing else you remember?" Joanna asked.

Rebecca nodded. They talked a bit more about nothing in particular. Then the two detective's went about checking the windows and doors. After assuring her that all was secure, the two officers left.

Rebecca bolted the door, breathing a sigh of relief. She headed for the shower. She quickly disrobed and hopped into the steaming cascade. The hot water felt good on muscles that still ached from her long confinement the previous night. As she rubbed the soapy sponge over her body, she jumped every so often, as the sponge contacted an area irritated by the cord that had been used. Particularly sensitive were the areas beneath her breasts and between her legs.

The abraded areas of skin pulsed with an increased sharpness to her touch. Though she was thorough in lathering her whole body, her hands seemed to wonder back to those particular spots. She traced a finger under the curve of her breast and worked the sponge more energetically between her legs. The next thing she knew, she was leaning in a corner of the stall, recovering from a powerful orgasm. Chiding herself, she adjusted the water to cold.

After scrubbing herself three times, she finally felt almost normal. She shut off the water and stepped out of the shower stall. She reached for the big fluffy towel and her hand stopped short.

"That's funny." She thought. "I could have sworn I left it right here on the vanity."

She was about to look on the toilet seat, when something swooped down and enveloped her head. It was her missing bath towel. And someone was gripping it from behind, twisting it tightly so that it squeezed her head and face like and octopus.

"Nuughh!" Rebecca's scream was swallowed up by the thick linen.

Her assailant kept a firm grip on the towel near the base of her skull and used it to steer the blinded woman out into the hallway. He forced the dripping wet secretary down the hall and into her bedroom. Their short journey ended at the bed.

The attacker shoved Rebecca on to the bed, face down. Although she struggled wildly, it was a fairly simple matter pinning her to the bed by straddling her waist with his knees. Keeping the towel tightly bunched up in one hand, he used the other to pull a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.

He caught her flailing right wrist and ratcheted the metal manacle snugly around it. Then he wrestled the ensnared hand up behind her head. Gripping the handcuff chain with his right hand, he used the same hand to drive her face into the mattress. His now free left hand, easily grabbed her left wrist and guided it toward the cuffs. *Click* Rebecca still thrashed her legs and screamed into the mattress, but she knew in her heart that it was over.

The stranger worked her torso across the bed, so that her body was lined up foot to head. He spun quickly and replanted his weight on her back. Reaching down, he pulled the end of a longer steel manacle he'd positioned while she was in the shower and locked it to her right ankle. The other end was already anchored to the post at the bottom of the bed. This left Rebecca with only one free ankle, with which she tried hard to inflict any damage she could.

The man spun once more and poised himself behind her head. He unfurled the twist in the towel, then grabbed a handful of her damp hair, all the while keeping her face pressed down. When his other hand was ready, he yanked her head back sharply.

"WHU-OWMmmmnnh!" Rebecca cried out, before the large rubber ball seated itself inside her mouth.

The attacker knew that there was no way she would be able to spit out the ball once it was lodged behind her teeth, so he didn't bother with the strap for the moment. Holding on to her shackled wrists, he flipped her on to her back. He manhandled her wrists up over her head, where another prearranged cuff lie waiting. Snapping the manacle closed, Rebecca could no longer lower her arms.

More leisurely now, the man slid down her remaining free leg and attached the final cuff. Miss Cranston's legs were held very wide to the base of the bed. Rebecca's face was inadvertently blinded by her wet tresses, a situation that became more permanent when the stranger buckled on the padded blindfold. The gag strap was buckled quite tightly moments later.

Rebecca still writhed on the bed and howled at the top of her lungs. Neither effort raised much of a ruckus beyond the walls of the bedroom. When she could take the bite of the shackles no more, she lay quiet, breathing raggedly through her nose, her bare chest heaving.

She heard some soft sounds that could only mean one thing. Sure enough, she felt the bed shift and then her assailants bare skin brushed against hers. Rebecca whined and renewed her struggles, knowing it was fruitless. She could feel his heat between her legs. And then it happened.

The attacker thrust into her. Rebecca screamed and threw her head from side to side against her upraised biceps. His hot sweaty skin met hers, as he lay down on top of her. His chest mashed her breasts flat and she could feel his warm breath in her ear.

"Why," He whispered. "You didn't think we forgot about you now, did you Miss Cranston?"


Part 8

Tricia Koulikofski bounced along inside the cage disguised as a dishwasher. She had no room to struggle, other than fluttering the fingers which rested against her shoulder blades. She couldn't even wriggle her toes within the tight confines of her cowboy boots. She'd given up crying out for help. If no one had heard her as the rolling prison had careened down the steps outside her apartment, the chances were even slimmer, riding in the back of a moving vehicle. Besides, it took too much air and effort to try and scream past the monstrous blockage in her mouth.

Looking for a silver lining in what had become a very dark and gloomy day, she'd hoped that the lid of her prison would help hold her head down, lessening the pull on the atrocious anchoring method. Alas, a full ¾" space lay between her head and the latched lid. What little room there was, allowed her head to bob up and down fractionally with every bump in the road. This kept the otherwise inanimate steel phallus inside her very active indeed.

With absolutely no other options than to breathe and wait, she did just that. She had no idea how much time had lapsed when the truck came to a stop. She couldn't suppress a little squeak when she felt her prison tip back and then descend a few feet to the ground. It tipped once more, followed by the sensation of being rolled someplace.

Finally, her box came to rest and Tricia braced for what was to come next. The pitch black confines lightened when the lid was finally opened. A hand reached down and snipped the cord leading from the gag to her crotch. She didn't head butt the arm this time, she wanted nothing more than to have that connection
severed. A strong pair of hands reached down and started to extricate her from the tiny cell.

Tricia had planned to fight to her last breath, she really had. But as she immerged from the cage, it was no longer two, but four assailants waiting for her. Two of them she recognized as the delivery men. Correction, one deliveryman and a delivery WOMAN. The ninety pound weakling had removed her cap, revealing her dirty blonde tresses. The two new additions to the group were also women.

Tricia peered around at her surroundings. Initially, she thought it was some kind of small fitness center. Her first clue that this wasn't the case, lay in the fact that there were no windows, carpeting or painted walls. Everything was grey and ominous. Her second clue was the equipment itself. The majority of it was built of chromed steel and leather.

Further observation was suspended when the four strangers descended on her. All the twisting, writhing and whispered pleas couldn't keep them from lowering her to the cold concrete floor. She groaned in sore relief when the cords holding her arms were cut. She had no time to shake out the tingles, for her forearms were laid against one another in the middle of her back. One of them applied several turns of tape, holding them in place.

Tricia felt something soft slip up over her bent arms. It felt like some kind of sack. A few moments later, as the thing was worked up to her armpits, she caught the distinctive smell of leather. Her folded arms seemed to immediately get warmer. She tried to separate them, but the bag allowed little movement. Straps from the leather pouch went over her shoulders, criss-crossed her chest and buckled in back. She knew by the way these people operated, that there would be no way to slip out of it without their help.

Two pairs of hands picked her partially up from the floor and drug her someplace different. When they arrived, the rope lashing her ankles was cut. They stood her up in front of a device she recognized immediately. One didn't have to be a cowgirl or have watched "Urban Cowboy" to know what it was. It was a mechanical bull. One with features she was sure that Mickey Gilley's did not have. Both were resting on the spine of the bull. Both filled Tricia's heart with terror.

One was immediately recognizable as a long, curved dildo. Tricia reckoned that it had to be about seven inches long and almost two inches thick. The other thing, the singer couldn't identify. It looked like an elongated toadstool. The blunt tip flared gradually to a width of almost two inches. Then its diameter tapered to a base of about 1-¼". It stood perhaps five inches tall. Given the close proximity to the dildo, Tricia had no delusions as to its purpose. Both prods inclined toward each other slightly.

"Nnnnmmnnghh" The crooner screamed in disbelief.

That incredulity changed when the four assailants worked in tandem to get her 'mounted'. One held her upright, while two held her thrashing legs wide apart. The forth lubricated the prods and guided them toward her openings. Tricia tried futilely to clench when she felt the tip of the dildo press against her cunt. But gravity and four pairs of strong arms proved no match. Her stomach muscles clenched as the probe slid up inside her. Actually, she realized, she was descending on IT!

Appalling as the sensation was, she was in no way prepared for the second probe. She felt the tip contact the fleshy area between her vagina and rectum. An unseen hand maneuvered the prod back until it was lined up with her chaste back passage. Tricia tried to somehow levitate away from its exploring tip. However, there was no last minute reprieve.

The crown pressed against her tight ring, refusing to be denied entry. Tricia held out as long as she could, but soon understood that resistance would only make the insertion more painful. She tried to relax. Her body, not comprehending the command, continued to put up a fight. The abnormal stretching of her sphincter as it slid down over the ever widening girth, almost made Tricia forget the other probe slipping along the walls of her vagina. Just when she knew that she was going to split in two, her ring passed over the widest portion of the prod. 'Relief' wasn't exactly the sensation she felt. It was more like a reduced anguish. The base of the plug still stretched her round muscle beyond comfort, it was a sensation that couldn't be ignored.

As she settled down on the back of the 'bull', her legs were forced out wide by its girth. When she made contact with the saddle, she discovered yet another unpleasant modification. Her eyes flew wide and she peered down at the back of the mechanical steed. The area upon which her crotch rested was lined with fur. "Correction" her brain told her, it was lined with stiff horse hair. Tricia thrashed her legs trying to escape the prickly intrusion. Not only did this grind the bristles deeper into her delicate skin, but it also shifted the violators inside her. Everywhere, from the tender folds of her sex and stretched anus, to the inside curve of her ass cheeks and thighs, was needled by the equine hide. The itchy scratching was instantly unbearable.

Tricia couldn't stop fidgeting. The more she did, the worse the irritation got. And the more the ductile phalli wriggled inside her. With her legs draped on either side of the bull, she could get no purchase to raise herself. That problem compounded itself as she watched the cute guy appear with a set of large, steel manacles. He ratcheted the cuffs around her booted ankles. The problem was, the chain connecting the cuffs was rather short. It pulled her feet closer together under the bull. If one could overlook the restraints, it appeared as though she were intimately clenching the rawhide heifer with her legs.

"HHHMMNNNGHHHFF!" Tricia cried out.

Her captors went about things in an amused, business-like fashion. One of the women came up to her three identical steel rings. When she placed one around Tricia's throat, the girl realized that it was a collar. And that they weren't quite identical. The first once encompassed her throat easily, apparently too easily, because the woman selected a different one. This one squeezed her throat to a point where she thought she might choke. It too, was discarded. The third one pressed against her flesh and felt slightly restrictive when she swallowed. It remained in place around her throat. Her hair was moved to one side and something slipped between her skin and the collar. A long moment later, Tricia saw her shadow on the floor in front of her, silhouetted by bluish light, accompanied by a crackling sound. The back of her neck got hot. A few puzzled moments later and she had it.

"Dear God!" She thought. "They're welding it in place!"

They waited a few minutes for the metal to cool, then removed the protective membrane. The collar still felt warm to her skin. She had no doubt about its permanence. She'd noticed that the discarded collars were equipped with rings front, back and on the sides. Her's must have had them too, for they set about clipping long chains to it. She watched as the went off in four different directions, each person holding a chain. The other ends were clipped to anchors in the walls. The chains fanned up and out in a fashion that told Tricia they'd be her only means of support.

The man who in fact was a woman, walked up carrying two miniature cow bells. With a twisted leer, her hand raised to Tricia's breasts. The singer hadn't seen the toothy clips on the ends. Her large, firm breasts exploded when the clips latched on to her nipples. Tricia jerked uncontrollably, causing the bells to tinkle melodically. She twisted her torso violently, but the bells refused to fling off.

Young Miss Koulikofski grunted and groaned at the assault. Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn't make out what one of them held. "Enjoy the ride, 622." One of them said, then her world wet dark, as the goggles and headphones were applied. Being deaf and blind simply added more apprehension and duress to her overloaded brain.

Then, without warning, the bull lurched forward and spun to the right. Tricia braced herself, expecting to be hurtled across the room. But the beast never accelerated beyond that of a walk. Albeit one with a randomly broken leg. The problem was, Tricia could never anticipate which way the mount would pitch. The chains about her collar would jerk taut whenever she leaned to far, keeping her centered on the bull's back. Tricia bleated for them to stop the diabolical ride.

Suddenly there was a flash of light in front of her eyes. She closed her lids to ward off the brightness. An electronic female voice boomed inside her head.

"Subject's eyes closed during presentation. Punishment...Level One."


Part 9

"Whadya think about Cranston's story?" Danielle asked her partner.

"I don't know." Joanna replied. "If anything, it raises more questions than answers."

"You got that right." Her partner replied. "This case is about as clear as mud."

Morgan (917) was no longer cognizant of anything outside her body. The presentation had ended minutes ago, her vision plunged back into darkness. Yet still, she saw a collage of deviant acts playing across her mind's eye. She unconsciously rocked back and forth against the vertical prod, her damaged logic somehow figuring that if she kept the phallus happy, it would no longer shock her. Behind the gag strap, her tongue and cheek muscles worked in the confined space in an effort to caress the penis gag, trying to pleasure it.

It would have shocked the girl just hours ago, the lengths she was taking now to avoid punishment. And she hadn't even had a taste of the lash yet. Those observing on the hidden monitors did not overlook these subtle changes in behavior. They were pleased that the subject was so receptive. However, the knew also, that it was just a matter of time. This style of electronic training had been very productive in the past.

Morgan wasn't aware of someone coming in and releasing her. Her body felt as if it were floating when the raised her up off the rigid phallus. She mewed frantically, fearing that the loss of contact would result in another punishment. When it did not come, she blacked out. Her dreams were haunted by perverse visions.

Tricia (622) was in the second hour of her indoctrination. The bull was lurching in a rhythmless fashion, making it impossible to anticipate which way to brace herself. As it was, she could only devote half her concentration to body control. The other half was absorbed by what she was seeing. The torrid scenes acted out inside her head were so vivid, that Tricia soon forgot the goggles and headphones generating them. In her mind, she was an active witness to all that was going on. It was becoming harder and harder to hang on to what she believed to be reality.

This was her captor's intent. Extensively researched, they'd found that strenuous bondage, combined with Virtual Reality imagery, eroded a subject's resistance substantially. It did not matter whether the subject was almost immobilized (like Morgan), or subjected to exhaustive maneuvers (like Tricia), the results were astounding. And once a subject's will was fragmented, she was prone to adopt her new life more readily.

Currently, Tricia was watching a 3D depiction of three men having their way with a woman. It wasn't as simple as it sounded. The woman was held aloft in a horizontal spread eagle. The chains holding her arms and legs extended out beyond view. She was 'lying' face down, roughly three feet off the ground. A rawhide thong had been woven into her hair. The thong ran back to a thick leather belt around her waist. Tension on the thong kept her head raised so that she was looking straight ahead. Well, 'looking' if she hadn't been heavily blindfolded.

Some kind of ring with a strap had been wedged between her teeth. The strap in turn was buckled tightly behind her head. She knew that, by the way the leather pressed into the woman's cheeks. The ring kept her mouth open to what had to be a painful width. The young woman was moaning and mumbling in an obvious state of duress. The ring wasn't the main reason for her mute, distorted cries. A man stood naked in front of her, hammering his hard-on into her "O" shaped mouth.

Beneath the woman, lay a narrow table, more like a saw horse. Another man lay upon it facing up at the prisoner. The table was the perfect height, allowing him to ravage the girl's pussy with his own rock hard erection. As he pistoned into her, he was kneading both of her breasts with his hands. Every once in a while, he would nip at her nipples with a not-so-playful tweak with his teeth.

The third man stood between the reclining man's parted legs. He was rapidly rocking his hips back and forth, assailing the woman's long ago virgin asshole. As he fucked her from behind, he squeezed the cheeks of her ass as if they were potter's clay. Not satisfied doing just that, he'd occasionally smack her ass with his open palm. The 'Crack' of impact was so loud that it made Tricia jump.

Though the men were energetic in their violation, they were still human. Eventually, one of them would stiffen and broadcast a loud moan or growl. Once spent, he backed away from the abused orifice, only to be replaced by another strange man. This same scene had been playing itself out for the last forty five minutes. Tricia couldn't remember if it was sixteen or seventeen men she'd seen violate the woman. Frankly, she didn't much care, she had problems of her own. She was currently at Punishment Level Five.

Rebecca Cranston's assailant groaned and ejaculated into her ravaged pussy. Rebecca too, groaned as loud as the ball gag would permit. The man lay on top of her, spent. Rebecca concentrated on breathing beneath the man's crushing weight. Eventually, he rose up off of her and cleaned himself in the bathroom.

When he returned, he removed the blindfold and then the gag. Miss Cranston worked her jaw painfully and then cleared her throat to speak.

"You ASSHOLE!" She hissed at 'Stanley'. "Don't you know the cops just left here?"

"Relax, Becky." Stanley replied. "I made sure they drove off before I came in. It's not MY fault you were having so much fun in the shower."

"Jesus." Rebecca breathed. "If you'd been seen, everything would have gone down the shitter. (It would have shocked Bert Seagram greatly to have heard his secretary speaking in such a fashion).

"What are you doing here, anyway?" She continued.

"I just wanted to give you a progress report." Stanley said, slipping his clothes back on. "And I thought after last night, you might be in the mood for a little more fun."

"'Fun' isn't what it turned out to be." Rebecca griped. "I mean, I was only supposed to be tied up that way for 90 minutes, tops. Then that dickhead Seagram tells me to 'wait there' and phones the cops. I was trussed like a pig in a poke for almost four hours!"

"Sorry babe." Stanley said, not quite being able to keep the mirth out of his voice. "Just remember, it's for the greater good."

"Yeah, easy for you to say. So, where we at?" Rebecca said getting back to the business at hand."

"Firestone and Koulikofsky are both under wraps." Stanley answered. "Both grabs went off without a hitch."

He looked at his watch before continuing. "Greenwich gets off work in another hour. I've got plenty of time to meet up with 'Irene'. How about another quickie?"

Rebecca laughed and said, "Oh just let me loose and get going, you ass wipe."

Stanley stood there for a long moment, as if debating what to do. Then he smiled and started to unlock the cuffs.


Part 10

Dana Greenwich did what she did best. She moved quietly among the aisles, putting the library books back in their proper place. As she did so, she'd push her reading glasses back up her nose. It was a nervous habit. So too, was brushing strands of her straight, obsidian hair which fell past her shoulders, out of her face.

She couldn't remember what it had been in her past, that had made her so introverted. She could recall being lively and outgoing when younger, but no more. Perhaps it was that mystery that had spurred her to try out for the Maulers Cheerleaders. Such a brash thing as that was certainly out of character. She'd told no one about the tryout. The last thing she'd wanted was to be laughed at.

To her own surprise, she'd given a performance that she still wasn't sure where it'd come from. When she made it to the semi-finals, she was ecstatic. "This is just the shove I've needed to get back out amongst the living again," she'd said to herself. Unfortunately, when the final list came out and her name wasn't on it, she shrunk even deeper into her self imposed cocoon. And so it was back to the library and her lonely apartment and a life that seemed to hold no promise.

"Good night, Dana." Mrs. Hall said, startling the girl out of her daydream. "Be sure to lock up, won't you?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Dana replied. "Have a nice weekend."

"Such a nice girl." The senior librarian thought. "If only she had a little more self confidence." She shrugged her shoulders, knowing that it was impossible to save the world, sometimes even one soul at a time.

Dana finished her tasks and closed up the library. She threw on her plain cloth coat with a hem that reached her ankles. No one would know that the woman with the sparkling grey eyes possessed a 36D-26-36 body. Carried on a 5'8" body, publishers of men's magazines would have clamored over each other to get her to pose for their spread. But Dana would have been appalled at the idea. She still wasn't sure what had compelled her to tryout for the squad. Other than that deviation, she led an almost puritan lifestyle. She didn't even own a pet.

She walked through the deserted parking lot, noting that the street lamp near her car was out.

"I'll have to inform maintenance on Monday about that." She thought absently.

As she approached her ancient Dodge Dart, something seemed askew. Then she noticed the flat left tire. And she had just gotten four new tires in preparation for the upcoming winter! With a melancholy sigh, she opened the trunk and withdrew the jack. After raising the front end, she attacked the lug nuts. None of them would budge.

"The mechanic must have cross threaded the screws." She reflected. "Great!" (That was about the closest she ever came to cursing).

"Can I be of some help?" A voice said from behind her, causing her to jump.

"Goodness," She said breathlessly. "You gave me a start!"

"Sorry," The good looking gentleman said with a dazzling and apologetic smile. "Having some trouble?"

"I can't get the blasted lug nuts loose." Dana answered. She couldn't help giving the man a shy little smile.

"Let me try." He said and Dana's smile widened in thanks.

She moved a couple of steps back and watched her 'hero' attack the balky tire. She never heard 'Irene' slip up behind her. The first clue she had that something was amiss, was when all abruptly went dark. There was a moments confused hesitation, then her hands started up toward her face. They never got to their destination, for 'Stanley' had leapt to his feet and grasped Dana's wrists. Meanwhile, Irene pulled the drawstring of the canvas bag firmly about Dana's throat.

The librarian's self-defense training kicked in and she and she began stomping her foot, hoping to catch an instep. But her assailants techniques were too refined and all her sensible shoes struck was blacktop. She felt the man grasp her hands together in one of his infinitely stronger ones. Something sticky touched her bare wrist, followed by a ripping sound. It quickly dawned on her, that her hands were being taped together. In a matter of seconds, it seemed, her hands were fused together, from wrist to fingernails.

She didn't know what to make of this. Matters worsened, when the other assailant drove a knee into the backs of her legs, causing the to collapse. Dana found herself flat on the parking lot pavement. Her shoes were yanked off and more tape was wound around her feet and ankles.

"You'd better scream now, before it's too late." A harsh female voice rasped in her ear.

Deciding that was good advice, Dana prepared to do just that. She drew in a great lungful of air and screamed. That's when the ball crashed against her teeth. The scream momentarily died in her throat.

"It's a tennis ball." She thought, then on reflection. "No, it's a SOCCER ball!"

The sphere bored between her teeth, as if intent to pass through the back of her head. By the time Dana found her voice, it didn't come out as the loud cry for help she'd intended.

"H-OWmmmghhfft!" Came her whimpered sound of distress.

The course bag over her head had her completely disoriented. She didn't know where to lash out. It felt like their hands were all over her. She leaked out a pained "Gahhh!" when the ball settled behind her teeth. Her mouth was still pried impossibly wide, muscles threatening to tear at any moment.

Dana felt something press against her cheeks, and then there was a biting pain on the back of her neck. The pain corresponded with the ball inching yet deeper inside her mouth. Irene gave the gag strap another tug, tightening it one more notch. Miss Greenwich the librarian became even more disquieted when she felt more straps tightening about her head. Their crushing pressure told her that one rose up on either side of her nose, merging as one strap between her eyes, passing over the top of her head and buckling in back. Another passed over her eyes. It would have blinded her if she wasn't already. It traversed her head above her ears, then it too buckled in back. One final strap unbelievably cupped her chin and when snugged tight, made her chomp down on the hard rubber ball.

Whilst she was failingly trying to come to terms with the unimaginably thorough way she'd been silenced, her antagonists had shifted positions. The woman had placed her knee between the librarians legs. The good Samaritan placed his knee between Dana's elbows, effectively pinning her flat out on the blacktop. As Dana thrashed her head every which way she possibly, could trying to shrug off the horrid gag and canvas sack, a pair of scissors gleamed in the faint light.

A cut up each sleeve to the collar and her coat was now a pile of rags tossed to the side. Her knee length skirt came next, followed by her white cotton blouse. Dana shivered not just from the cold as she lay there helplessly in her undergarments. Said undergarments were the next to be cut to ribbons. The young woman was stunned. She hadn't been naked in the presence of a stranger since gym class in junior high school.

The two aggressors wrestled her up to a sitting position. The rough surface of the macadam scratched her tender tush. An irresistible force pressed down on her shoulders, while unseen hands guided her own pinioned ones toward her feet. A great weight kept her folded in that position and Dana heard, more than felt, more tape wrapping around her calves and forearms. The pressure of the tape squeezed right down to her hands and ankles. When the weight on her back eased, the librarian remained folded in half.

"They've taped my arms to my lower legs." She surmised.

Stanley and Irene stood back and appraised their newest captive. Dana's obscured head gyrated back and forth, apparently trying to see or shake off the gag harness. Neither was going to happen. They admired how her pale skin shone in night's soft illumination. It was clear that she was too modest to do much sunbathing, no bikini lines. They could see a glimpse of her full, round breasts pressed tightly against her thighs. Irene knelt and snapped a tiny padlock through each of the four buckles of the head harness.

Dana heard the locks closed and knew them for what they were. She let out a long, pained whine through her nose. Up until now, she'd irrationally held some kind of hope for getting loose. But the use of the locks had dealt her a staggering psychological blow. You can't remove locks, unless you have a key. And currently, Dana didn't even have any fingers.

Stanley opened the back door of the librarian's car and climbed in. Then he reached back and grasped the bound woman's ankles. With surprising strength, Irene picked up Dana's folded torso. The guided their helpless prey inside the vehicle. There, one more bombshell awaited.

Epoxied to the threadbare carpet on the floor, was a flat disk. Ascending from the disk, was an albino dildo. It gleamed with lubricant already applied. Irene carefully lined her target up with the car's newest accessory. No portent was given, the just let Dana plop downward.

"HUUMMMNNNGHHHH!" The woman shrieked at the sudden impalement. There had been no warning!

The pliable plastic python bent and snaked its way accommodatingly into her dark and private orifice. When her bottom touched the anchoring plate, all eight inches were buried inside. The 1-1/2 inch breadth stretched her almost virginal walls. Stanley lashed her feet to the door handle, keeping them raised off the floor and her weight focused on the narrow area on which she sat.

Irene got into the driver seat and grasped the adjustment lever. Then she shoved the seat backward, pinning the poor girl between the front and back seats. There would be no rolling off her 'companion'. Stanley re-inflated the tire he'd deflated earlier, the super glue on the lug nuts had been a master stroke. Irene covered their prize with a blanket. The destroyed clothing was tossed in the trunk. Irene gave Stanley a peck on the cheek and started off for their car parked around the corner. After Stanley started the woman's car, he couldn't even hear the defiled whimpers coming from the back.

"Three women down and the police haven't a clue." Stanley mused. "This might just work out after all."


Part 11

917's (Morgan) sleep was restless and restrained, though she was never truly aware of it. Images of her 'presentation' still flickered across her memory. These were now mixed with her own romantic forays of the past, coalescing until the line between fact and fabrication blurred. Her body twitched and spasmed as she was alternately aroused and repulsed.

She did buoy to consciousness briefly, noting her change in 'accommodations'. Her eyes had focused long enough to think that she was in the same cell. Everything was grey as before, but viewed from a different angle. She was lying on her back, upon something whose surface was at the same time hard and scratchy.

Something cool trickled down the back of her throat. Morgan sucked heartily, trying to quench her arid thirst. She could not identify the citrus taste of the sports drink, although the flavor was familiar somewhere back in her mind. The acidic taste helped to mask the mild sedative mixed into the solution.

Almost absently, she tried moving her arms and legs. Her mind was still too fuzzy to realize that she was afforded a great deal of motion. Perhaps deep down, she knew she was no less a prisoner. Her hands and forearms seemed unhindered. The same went for her lower legs. Before she could explore further, she drifted off once again.

When she came to once more, she felt slightly more alert. She did not know that this was her body adjusting to the narcotic. Her mind was still disoriented and her body responded sluggishly, but she was able to ascertain her predicament. There was no disregarding the fact that something gripped her knees and elbows snugly. She felt too, the unyielding hold of something across her throat and waist.

As her fogged head cleared somewhat, she was able to determine the method in which she was bound. She discovered that her arms were relatively free below the elbow. She could straighten them out and bend them until her fingertips could just brush the sides of her head. Her fingers though, did not touch hair nor skin. Rather they came in contact with some type of leather hood.

She of course felt the squeeze of the helmet encasing her head. There was what appeared to be an oval void of pressure around her eyes and nose. This missing coverage allowed her to see and breath relatively unrestricted. Her tongue slid across a smaller, yet now familiar shape of a penis gag. The reduced size allowed her teeth to clench firmly on its flattened base, an effect of the tight leather hood. Her thirst grumbled once again and she sucked on the prod. She was rewarded with another drizzle of fluid.

917 moved her legs experimentally. She discovered that she had a range of motion much like her arms. She could pendulum her lower legs, but remained motionless from the knees up. A moment of clarity explained everything.

Morgan realized that she was laying on some type of table or cot. The hard surface was covered with some kind of irritating wool-like blanket. Wide bands of leather had been snugged about her body. There was one at each elbow and knee, as well as her waist and throat. The straps held her appendages splayed in a spread eagle. She could think of no reason why her lower arms and legs were unfettered, unless purely for the illusion of freedom (For that, she was mostly correct).

She strained at the bonds and flapped her arms and legs valiantly. But fatigue seemed to settle in swiftly and in spite of her best efforts, she lapsed into unconsciousness once more.

622's (Tricia) eyes scanned a field of black once more, but her mind was a carnival of hedonistic images. Tricia never knew there to be so many ways to violate a woman. One after another, the scenes had paraded before her eyes. The common thread in all, was that the central character was a woman and that she was bound in one fashion or another. Often, it was clear that the subject was an unwilling participant. However, towards the end of the 'Presentation', fewer restraints were used and the subjects appeared more willing to perform their kinky tasks.

Tricia's brain was unaware of the subtle changes in her predicament as the tutorial progressed. Her concentration was so focused on the events unfolding before her eyes, she did not notice the motion of the 'Bull' gradually changed from its pitching to and fro, to a more gentle rocking action. Her torso was no longer jostled erratically. It had assumed a more linear gyration. Her weight was transferred forward on to her clitoris, then back upon the cleft of her ass. The weights still tugged at her nipples, but no longer jerked with such random ferocity.

Eventually, the mechanical stead beneath her had stilled. This should have been a moment of great relief. But much like a sailor too long at sea, Tricia's body still rocked to compensate for the anticipated motion. The aches in her bound limbs started to resonate with the distressed urgency to be freed. As the shock and disorientation caused by her capture and this demonstration slowly wore off, Tricia struggled to marshal her addled thoughts. By the time she recognized the damp cloth placed over her nose and gagged mouth for what it was, the need to think clearly seemed less important. She slipped easily into unconsciousness, almost welcoming it. Yet during her REM slumber, the visions danced on.

Dana Greenwich was having a most difficult time waking up from this dream. It had to be a dream, she kept telling herself over and over, nothing like this happened in real life. Yet the sticky grip of her bonds did not evaporate, nor did the stifling ache in her mouth and jaw. And most certainly, not the defiling, filled sensation in her most private sanctum. The analytical portion of her brain slowly convinced the rest of her that everything that was happening was a reality.

She tried to call out for help, but came to a choking stop as her cries log jammed behind the gag. Pulling and tugging against the tape merely caused more discomfort than she was already experiencing. The semi-rigid phallus inside her made her stomach turn, but she was unable to rise up off it. All of these things rattled the orderly lifestyle she'd created for herself. Yet, this was not the worst of it.

That had been when the two strangers had stripped off her clothes. The idea of being naked outside the privacy of her home, yet alone unwillfully and in the company of these unknowns, staggered her. Her modesty, something she treasured, meant nothing to these people. And the way they had fondled her so callously left her reeling. All of these abuses at once had initiated a mild state of shock.

She ceased fighting her bonds and began drifting in and out of consciousness. She did not know how long she'd been in the back of her car, until she became aware that its motion had stopped. Moments later, she felt the cool night air sweep over her bare skin and two pairs of hands lifted her from the floor. The sensation of the dildo sliding out of her was almost as nauseating as had been the initial intrusion.

Enough of her senses remained intact, that she tried to struggle free of their grasp. But doubled up as she was, there was little fight she could muster. For some strange reason, she suddenly remembered a nature documentary she had seen. It had been about alligator trappers in Florida. Once their quarry was caught, its limbs had been secured with tape. Even at this, the large reptile would undulate wildly in an effort to escape. She realized that she was now the prey, caught in the clutches of these unknown assailants. The air warmed slightly and the outside noises hushed.

"They've brought me inside...somewhere." Dana deduced. The only problem was, she had lost all track of time. 'Somewhere', could be anyplace. She suddenly felt very small and even more vulnerable.

Her ride lasted another sixty seconds or so, then stopped. She was lowered to the floor. She felt the cool, coarse concrete beneath her scratching against her skin. Almost gently, she was tipped over to her side. A sudden warmth washed over her back, as one of them knelt close to her.

"Welcome to your new home, 809." The voice said, in a voice that was colder than the concrete upon which she lay.


Part 12

The next thing she knew, 809 (Dana) heard a 'phhht, phhht' sound down near her taped wrists and ankles. What followed was a cool, damp sensation on her skin. She hadn't intended on breaking the tape holding her hands and feet together, but just the unnatural strain she'd been placed into did the work for her. As if by magic, the duct tape ripped away like crepe paper. As her limbs sprang apart from each other, Dana's spine groaned with relief. The librarian gathered herself for a counter-attack. The first time, they caught her unawares, this time she'd put up a fight. Or so she thought.

The hood and gag still rendered her blind and most definitely mute, a distinct disadvantage from the start. She succeeded in flailing her arms once or twice, contacting nothing. She heard the amused chuckles as several pairs of hands grabbed her and rolled her on to her stomach. A knee landed not so gently in the back of her neck, effectively immobilizing her. She was mildly grateful for the hood, as it prevented the coarse floor from scratching her cheek. The gratitude did not extend to her breasts, which were currently being mashed into the concrete.

Each of her wrists were grabbed and wrestled behind her back. Something began to slide up her arms, enveloping them. Its interior seemed to cling to her skin, making the fitting more difficult. The size of whatever it was didn't help either. Dana could feel her forearms being squeezed closer together the higher it rose. Suddenly, to her surprise, her hands popped through the bottom of the pouch. Unfortunately, the funnel shape of the garment kept her hands pressed firmly together, palm facing palm. She could wriggle her fingers, brushing them against her rump, but that was all.

By the time the pocket had been worked up to her armpits, Dana's elbows were almost touching. She did not overlook the fact that this thrust her chest out involuntarily, flattening her breasts even more into the floor. She groaned at the strain and at how easily they were manhandling her.

"What is this thing and why were her arms feeling so warm?" Dana wondered. One of her assailants conveniently provided the answer.

"It's called an arm sheath, 809." A disembodied male voice informed her. "This particular one is made of rubber. Call it 'A condom for your arms' if you will. Once we finish with the straps, we'll get to work on your legs."

"Straps!" Dana thought. "I can hardly move my arms as it is!"

What little movement she did have rapidly disappeared, as the straps at her wrists, forearms, elbows and biceps were buckled brutally tight. To her dismay, Dana's elbows did finally touch. Correction, her arms touched well above her elbows. The joints themselves, ground against one another, adding further grief to the stringent bind. Her fused arms were held straight down her back, capable of practically no lateral motion. Already, her shoulder joints protested loudly about the strain they were enduring.

"Hhgnnmmfff!" The young woman groaned into her gag.

Unfazed by her muted protest, her handlers began binding her legs. Dana tried to kick feebly, but she was no match to their superior numbers. One at a time, each leg was folded until her calf pressed against her thigh. Some sort of sleeve was shimmied up each folded limb. By the way the material clung to her skin, Dana deduced that these too were made of rubber. In no time, each leg was encased in its own rubber tube, from kneecap to crotch. She felt four distinct areas of increased pressure on each leg, where straps were lashed down. She felt like an amputee.

Suddenly, she began wriggling her feet frantically. In part, because they were about the only body parts left that had any range of motion, but mostly because she was terribly ticklish. One of her abductors was in the process of latching a tiny leather strap around the base of her big toe. Dana's shriek faded as he finished his task, only to renew when he repeated the process on the other toe. An experimental tug told her that her two toes were now connected by some kind of bar or rod, roughly six inches long. Both feet could still move, but only in impeded unison.

The phantom hands then 'helped' Dana to her feet, rather, her knees. This triggered another groan from the helpless woman, as all her weight settled on her 'stumps'. She felt some fiddling around the back of her head. To her relief, the straps holding the monster ball gag began to fall away. But instead of prying it from her mouth, her captors let it remain in place. Dana desperately pushed at it with her tongue, but the massive sphere was too deeply imbedded.

She felt them free the open end of the sack around her neck. Once it had been pulled up out of the way, something soft, yet rigid, encircled her neck. Having been in a car accident a few years prior, she recognized the cervical collar for what it was. That quickly, her head had become as immobilized as the rest of her body. Only now was the ball gag wrenched from her mouth. The sack was pulled up, still shielding her eyes and she felt something touch her lips. As the sports drink trickled across her parched lips and tongue, she drank gratefully.

When the flow stop, Dana wet her lips and prepared to speak. Surely these people had made a mistake. She had no wealthy relatives and on a librarian's salary, no savings. Just as she started to squawk her protest, something blunt tipped pressed against her teeth. Instinctively, Dana clamped her jaws closed. Or rather, tried to. The slick, cylindrical whatever had already gained the advantage. Once the tip had breeched her teeth, no amount of biting could reverse its course. A strong hand gripped the back of her head, while the driving force increased the pressure.

"Uunnnggggghh!" Dana cried, as the semi-resilient object continued to bore into her mouth. She was reminded of a torpedo sliding into its launch tube, the fit was so tight.

Just when she thought they were intent on shoving the shaft all the way down her throat, the insertion ended with an unbelievably wide, padded band. Its top pressed against her nostrils, threatening to block them entirely, the bottom cupped her chin snugly. Dana could smell the leather of which it was made with every frightened breath. The strap was buckled behind her head with characteristic tightness. Dana tried to call out, to tell them that there was no way she could tolerate this excessive packing, but the hum she uttered sounded weak even in her ears.

Finally, the sack was pulled completely from her head. She gazed up, teary eyed from the shock and near choking effectiveness of the gag. She was surrounded by four people whom she did not know. Their expressions did not reflect that this was some sort of prank. Dana tried once again to communicate her belief that this was a case of mistaken identity, but stopped short as the tip of the prod threatened to trigger her gag reflex. Without a word, they stooped down to pick her up.

As they turned, with her body in tow, Dana noticed for the first time that the room was quite dark. There was no telling if was as small as a bedroom or as large as a concert hall. The light illuminating her captors seemed to be ambient. When her body was turned, she saw the source and shrieked.

Illuminated under a bright cone of light was a backless chair, more like a stool. One like she had never seen before. It sat on four sturdy legs. The seat was shaped like the body of a violin. That's where any similarities ended. Rising from the base of the seat was a long, arched metal rod. Suspended on the tip of the rod was a wooden box, roughly 14" square. Dana's eyes only briefly noted the box. Her gaze was currently locked on what rose from the chair.

Two penis shaped shafts sprouted from the seat, one slightly larger than the other. Both were exact replicas of a male sex organ, right down to the veins and bulbous heads. Somehow knowing this was to be her final destination, Dana writhed like a madwoman, not caring what a fall to the ground could cause. But her captors merely tightened their grips and walked closer.

Sobs wracked the librarian as they held her over the seat and began aligning her privates. There was no countdown, she just suddenly began to descend. Instinctively, she clamped her orifices closed when she felt the tips of the violators. But a steady pressure and lots of lubricant insured that soon her ass contacted the cold wooden seat. Dana felt nauseous as her vagina and rectum were filled as never before (This included the harrowing ride in the back of her car).

To her chagrin, she found that the shape of the seat forced her legs wide apart, insuring that every millimeter of the invader sank inside her. Dana was forced to watch her own violation, for one of them was pressing her head forward and down during the process. Her feet suddenly went en pointe, as the bar holding her toes settled in place behind her. The hold on the back of her head was eased. Before she could grasp what was happening, as set of headphones was fitted snuggly over her ears.

Her head was eased back further, into the now open wooden box. Claustrophobia grabbed her, as her head became surrounded on all sides but the front. She noted that there must have been an alcove carved in the base of the box, one that mated perfectly with the thick collar around her neck. As the harsh light above spilled into the 'head coffin', she also saw that the interior of the box was lined with black, leather padding. A face appeared suddenly in front of hers. The cold smile creasing it did nothing to waylay her fears. Then, without a word, the front panel of the box began to swing closed. Dana thought she caught a glimpse of something reflective on the panel. Something like glass.

Suppressing the panic that was welling within her, Dana concentrated on her breathing. She started when someone grasped her sheathed wrist and pulled them back, away from her body. There was a moments pause and then her arms froze in mid-space. She could almost conjure a picture of them, held there by a cord tied off to the arched bar that supported the box. This new development caused her to lean forward, the crate encasing her head moving accommodatingly. Dana deduced that the curved bar contained enough spring to allow for this all to take place. It also forced her crotch more firmly down on the invaders.

Panic swelled in her like never before in her life. Her fingers clawed frantically behind her, but they contacted nothing but the fiddle string tight cord holding her arms away from her body. The effect was not lost on Dana. For even though her hands were 'free', all they could do was confirm how helplessly bound she was.

The isolation and blindness caused by the wooden crate encasing her head magnified the sensations other parts of her body were experiencing. No more so than within her sacred sexual secrets. The silken walls of her vagina felt every ripple and bulge of the prod bloating it. The sensations were compounded within her virgin ass. She was certain that she would split at any moment.

A new discovery made itself known, also. The seat, which had appeared smooth at first glance, was in fact lined with some sort of coarse, short hide. It prickled and stabbed areas of flesh that were not meant to endure such treatment. Particularly irritating was the small fleshy area covering her clitoris. The bristles seemed uncharacteristically longer in this area. A sensation more potent than an itch quickly ensued. Dana tried to wriggle, to which she was successful, but only managed to dig the fibers deeper into her skin.

Then, from out of nowhere, explosions rocked her chest. Dana shrieked at this unexpected assault. As the pain ebbed slightly, she could feel a constant bite on each nipple, as well as the buds drooping slightly toward the floor due to the weight of whatever had been attached. One of the kidnappers had been leaning close to the head coffin, listening for any noise. He was pleased to hear her screams amount to little more than a carton full of mosquitoes.

Dana fought off the sobs that might block her only airway. She could hear the lining of the box swallow up the little squeaks she was making like a sponge. She remained hanging/sitting for some time, wondering what had she done to invite this.

Suddenly, a bright white light flashed in front of her face. As she fought away the stares flashing across her eyelids, she realized that the glass she'd seen on the front of the box, was in fact the face of a flat screened monitor. The blur in front of her eyes focused into words when she blinked the tears out of her eyes. The two short sentences read:

INITIAL SLAVE PRESENTATION. WATCH CLOSELY.

"Slave presentation?" Dana puzzled. "What the heck is going on?"

She could ponder no further, for the screen again flared with light. Instinctively, Dana closed her eyes. A voice seeming to come from inside her head said, "Subject's eyes closed during presentation. Punishment...Level One"


Part 13

Dana's (809) stamina endured no better than the previous two women. By the time the isochronal presentation had ended, her physical and emotional state was rattled to say the least. The images she'd seen (as well as the shocks she'd received when trying to block them out) had transformed her sense reality into something that resembled a house of mirrors.

The line between, 'What was Good and Wholesome' versus, 'What was Lurid and Repulsive' blurred. Dana still KNEW what was wrong and right, didn't she? She tried to shake her head inside the darkness of the box, in an effort to shed all the images that still danced inside her mind.

And that wasn't all that bothered her. Her sex was another focal point of crossed signals. On one hand, it still stung from the shocks it had received, yet at the same time tingled with arousal. That carnal itch had spread, branching icicles up her spine and a hot chocolate warmth through her abdomen. Her breasts too, had not escaped the stimulation. They grew more flushed in spite of the cool air of the room and her nipples swelled, compounding the clamps' bite.

Although it had been only a few hours since she'd been surrounded by the ordered structure the library had represented, for Dana it seemed as though weeks had passed. She felt hands remove her from the diabolical chair, yet wasn't entirely conscious of it. No call to struggle or resist was ever conjured up by her brain. It had been taxed to the breaking point and had basically shut down.

A short time later 917, 622 and 809 were all strapped down in identical fashion, each in her own cell adjacent to the others. All were being fed a solution of sports drink and narcotic. Their captors would allow them to rest before resuming the next stage of their indoctrination.

With no other leads to pursue, Danielle and Joanna had agreed they had little choice but to start at the beginning. They arrived at the Mauler's headquarters and canvassed the office once more. Danielle was examining the files, while Joanna searched the closet that had held the unfortunate Miss Cranston. Det Frost was just about to close the filing cabinet when something caught her attention. Whomever had maintained the files had done so with an almost fanatical neatness. All of the folders were neatly aligned with one another. All except for one. Mostly out of curiosity, Danielle removed it to ascertain its contents.

"Hmm." She said to herself as she examined the cheerleaders' file. She didn't see any connection of this with the break-in they were investigating. One odd thing she did notice, was a shadow across one page in the file. The shadow was consistent with that of a smudge left on a copied slip of paper.

"One of the copies must have gotten mixed up with the original." Danielle reasoned.

She did not mean to linger over the glossy's attached to each file, it was just that she hadn't known that so many good looking women lived in the area. Well, that wasn't quite true. She hadn't known that so many attractive women were brash enough to flaunt themselves for something so vicarious as a cheerleading squad.

"Find anything you like?" Joanna said right in Danielle's ear.

The brunette jumped, she hadn't heard her partner move up along side of her. It took a second to regain her composure. With more reluctance than there should have been, she closed the folder and placed it back amongst the others. Seeing the flustered look on her partner's/lover's face, Det August decided to needle her a little more (It wasn't often that she had the upper hand in their relationship).

"You're not thinking of trading me in on a newer model now, are you Danni ?" The petite blonde teased.

Detective Frost's face reddened at the awkwardness of the moment, but she quickly managed to resume control.

You keep sneaking up on me like that, and getting 'traded in' will be the least of your problems. Next time I might shoot first and ask questions later." She growled good naturedly. "What did'ya find in the closet, anything?"

"Nah," Joanna answered. "Same as before. Zip."

"I can't help feeling as though there's something we're missing." Danielle mused. "Something right under our noses."

Danielle was glad that Joanna wasn't pressing her about the contents of the file. Truth of the matter was, her rosier than normal complexion wasn't entirely due to embarrassment. Even though her current lover was more than she could ever ask for, Det Frost had found herself becoming quite aroused by some of the women pictured in the file. She felt a little guilty and tried hard not to show it.

"C'mon," Danielle said to her partner. "Let's get some dinner and then you can show me how sorry you are for almost giving me a heart attack."

Joanna flashed her best 'I Didn't Mean To' pout, but inside couldn't wait to get back to her lover's apartment. This making up for being naughty was a lot of fun, she thought.

Stanley and Irene watched the detectives depart for the second time in as many days. They hadn't been able to get close enough to hear what the two had talked about inside the office, but they had certainly been able to witness the re-examination of the crime scene. Most disconcerting, was the scrutiny Det. Frost had given a particular folder. Both kidnappers held their breath, hoping that an impromptu intervention wouldn't be necessary. Unlike their previous victims, these two fine looking women carried guns.

When no apparent alarm had been raised, the couple followed the policewomen out of the building. Both raised a set of eyebrows as each crime stopper placed an arm casually around her partner. The way the two officers strode that way to their car, spoke volumes about their intimacy. This was something the kidnappers hadn't suspected, but knew could be very useful.

"Did you see that?" Stanley muttered to his partner. "The blonde practically had her whole tongue planted in the tall one's ear."

"And you call yourself a 'free thinker'". Chuckled Irene. "This could be the leverage we need, should they snoop too close.

"Yeah," Admitted Stanley hungrily. "I wouldn't mind giving either of them a lesson in the merits of straight sex."

"Geez," Countered Irene. "You really are a Neanderthal. C'mon, let's follow 'em".


Part 14

Danielle and Joanna decided to have dinner at the Mo-Zee Inn, which, in spite of its tacky name, had pretty decent food. That and the entertainment was top notch. Slim, the owner, hustled up to them as they entered the dining area. He showed the ladies to a table up near the stage and personally took their orders. Since his was a fairly legitimate establishment, he welcomed the presence of Memphis' finest. It was like having free security.

It didn't take the male patrons very long to notice the two beautiful women sitting up near the stage. Like paparazzi to a Brangelina sighting, they sauntered up solo or in pairs. With an exasperated sigh of having been down this road before, Danielle slipped off her blazer, revealing her shield and holster rig. Joanna stifled and amused smirk as, inevitably, there was at least one guy turned on by the sight of a beautiful woman packing a Glock. Fortunately for all involved, and in spite of the frustrating day the two detectives had had, all advances were declined diplomatically and without bloodshed.

The arrival of their spicy steamed peeler's coincided with the first act on stage. Mildly disappointed, both detectives noted that it wasn't the new girl, Tricia "Something-or-Other". Joanna caught Slim's attention and posed the question when he came over.

"Where's that new girl?" Detective August asked. "Tricia Whatsername."

"Koulikofsky." Slim filled in the blank. "She never showed up for her set. Didn't even call to let me know." He said, making it obvious that he was more than a little miffed. Half the patrons here tonight had come to see the petite blond knockout. Slim bid them a hasty "enjoy" and hustled over to stop a quarrel before it got out of hand.

Danielle leaned over and said, "You know that she tried out for the Maulers cheerleading squad".

"Who?" Joanna queried, wiping her chin with a paper napkin.

"Koulikofsky." Danielle answered. "I saw her glossies in the folder at the office. Quite a looker". She added teasingly.

"Yeah?" Joanna replied half seriously. "Well, you keep looking too hard and you'll wind up with a black eye."

Danielle laughed, having gotten a little payback for her earlier embarrassment in the football team's headquarters. She dove into the spicy shrimp and the two women enjoyed the live music. Neither had an inkling of the clue they'd just unearthed. After dinner, it was back to Danielle's place where the love making was as intense as it was passionate. Later, as it had become their habit, Joanna snuck out of the apartment and headed for her place. Neither woman liked the arrangement, but both loved their job almost as much as they loved each other. As long as the climate remained chilly against same sex relationships, they'd have to live their dual lives.

Tricia (622) leaked out another involuntary groan whilst trying to focus on the task at hand. It wasn't easy. Never an early riser, this morning's wake-up call had been particularly harsh. She'd been jolted from her drug induced slumber by what felt like a dozen hands roaming all over her body. She'd tried to lash out, but her movements felt as though they were under water. She couldn't call out, for her mouth was still plugged by the feeding tube gag. It had been ridiculously easy to restrain her wrists and ankles with handcuffs. A leather blindfold was slipped over her eyes, blotting out her sight.

She'd let out a tiny screech as she felt momentarily weightless when they'd picked her up. She struggled (for she felt she had to) but not too hard, for fear of being dropped. She could tell that there were at least four abductors handling her transport. A person was holding her around each arm, while the third held on to the chain connecting her ankles. It was the fourth person that was truly causing her duress. He (it had to be a man, for he had such a large, calloused hand) had roughly inserted two fingers into her slit. Even more offending was the fact that he'd also embedded his thumb up her rectum. He was basically supporting the weight of her torso as if holding a bowling ball. Tricia tried to writhe from his grasp, but that only made him latch on tighter.

Finally, she'd been roughly set on the ground. Her ankles had been uncuffed only to have her knees bent so that her calves pressed against one another, her legs forming a triangle. Her crotch was the apex and her bent knees made up the two base angles. Her calves, feet and even toes were lashed down flat. She couldn't even wriggle the toes of her left foot behind her right knee and vice versa. A wide belt was jerked incredibly tight around her upper arms. Tricia wailed into the tube gag as her elbows were soon grinding against each other. Only then were the handcuffs removed. They were just as quickly replaced with another belt, welding her wrists and hands palm to palm. Some sort of tight leather pouch was pulled up over her wriggling fingers, arresting their movement. Tricia found this most distressful. With the loss of her fingers, any attempt of extricating herself, withered before it could start.

She felt her near immobile body being wrestled up to rest on her bound and folded legs. A hand fumbled with the strap behind her head and when it fell free, the tube gag soon followed. Tricia worked her jaw frantically, trying to form the words that might gain her release. Just as she managed to clench her teeth, her jaw was pried apart once again. Something hard settled behind her teeth. More strain was exerted on her jaw, to the point where she saw painful flashes of light behind the blindfold. A similarly hard object rooted itself behind her upper incisors. Much to her dismay, Tricia's mouth was again frozen wide open.

"AYTE, AYTE!" Tricia tried to plead for them to 'wait', to let her beg for mercy.

But there was no reprieve. Tricia let out a shrill little shriek as she was inclined forward. Without warning, something touched her frantically wriggling tongue. The something quickly turned into a slippery, cylindrical shaft. She didn't need a vivid imagination to deduce what the firm rubbery object resembled. 622 started to fear that she might choke, when her chin came to rest on something firm and cushioned. Although her airway remained open, it was a near thing.

Tricia was focusing so hard on drawing a breath (that and the fact that she was so stringently bound) that she could offer little resistance against the prods being inserted up her ass and love tunnel. Both were of a fairly narrow diameter and well lubricated. That didn't help quell the nausea Tricia felt at the violation. Tears had welled in her eyes once more at the ease in which these people manhandled her. Her muffled grunts of distress rose in pitch, when the prods started to inflate. Their girth quickly expanded beyond the point of mere discomfort and the singer thought that this was leading to a horrible conclusion. A harsh whisper in her ear caught her off guard.

"Your training continues, 622." The cold voice announced. "This session involves oral proficiency. The harder you suck on the prod in your mouth, the smaller the other inserts remain. Conversely, stop sucking and the plugs will expand to quite uncomfortable proportions.".

"I know what your thinking, 622." Continued the voice. "This situation literally sucks!" A laugh followed the cruel pun. "This session will last for 90 minutes. I suggest you give it your undivided attention."

There was a slap on Tricia's ass and then she felt as though she were alone. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she took her task to heart. She had no alternative. She sucked down hard on the prod, her cheeks collapsing in on the sides of the shaft. She was rewarded with a greatly reduced sensation of fullness in her privates. Sweat broke out all over her body and she tried to fidget to a more comfortable spot on her knees. There was however nowhere to go. Each minor movement shifted the phalli inside her and threatened to break the seal of her lips around the shaft.

All ready, Tricia could feel the first tingling of fatigue in her cheeks and tongue. She did not know what her state would be like at the end of the designated time period. She was certain that it wouldn't be pleasant and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. She let out another groan of discomfort. She thought she heard an equally muffled and distressed response from nearby. Could it be that she wasn't alone? Further rumination was interrupted when the dual prods between her legs erupted to life, vibrating with jackhammer intensity.


Part 15

Dana's (809) concentration lapsed momentarily at the feeble sounds off to her left. In doing so, the tentative seal her lips had on the rubber shaft was lost. The two probes buried inside her expanded yet again. She gurgled out a distressed wail, much of which never made its way past the prod plugging her mouth. She tried once again to re-establish contact around the cylindrical muzzler. Drool bubbled and spilled over her lip and down her chin, making the already slick rubber that much more so. The delicate muscles of her cheeks, tongue and lips faltered at the task being asked of them. The had performed this duty many times prior, but could do no more.

Dana blathered and gurgled as her privates filled and trembled. Her personal universe had collapsed upon itself to the point where few things mattered. Those things all dealt with varying degrees of discomfort. Her folded knees ached where they pressed into the concrete floor. Her arms, held straight and fused together behind her back sung in protest. Her jaw ached, as did the muscles that made up her mouth and lower face. Leaning forward on to the rubber phallus crammed in her mouth placed extraordinary strain on her neck and back. There was no shifting to a more comfortable position. And the only control she had over the level of her misery was lost, when she'd allowed herself to become distracted.

"hhrrrummmnnfffff!!!" She bleated out in frustration.

Moments later came an noise that sounded quite stifled, feminine and equally distressed. Automatically, Dana tried to turn toward the source. The effort was thwarted by the prod. Her eyes darted to the left under her blindfold, but no solace could be seen in the darkness behind the leather and padding. 809 could draw little comfort from the fact that somewhere nearby was a stranger suffering what must be a similar fate. She knew that if that person were able, she would have all ready offered assistance.

"No," She reasoned. "That woman is no better off than I am."

This thought left her feeling more isolated than ever. If these people could snatch and imprison women with impunity, what chance did she have at escape? The answer was none. The only choice she had left, wasn't even a choice. She had to do whatever these people commanded her to do. As her body hitched with the sobs of hopelessness and the padding of the blindfold soaked up the tears and sweat, Dana renewed her efforts at suckling the prod.

Though Tricia (622) and Dana (809) were aware of each others presence (and apparent powerlessness) neither was aware that Morgan (917) was only a few feet away. The redhead was lashed in identical fashion to her two compatriots, but had been positioned first. That had been thirty minutes ago. By now, she was deeply immersed in her own tiny little purgatory, oblivious to outside stimuli. The intense high she'd experienced in the pick up truck had faded long ago. The cobwebs had fully evaporated from her head, leaving her acutely aware of her predicament. Aware and hyper-sensitive. It seemed like every nerve ending tingled with pent up agitation. She was grateful that there wasn't any residual nausea, being that her mouth was filled almost to the chocking point with a giant rubber cock. Even so, she had to focus on not allowing the tip to tickle her uvula.

She had maintained her suction for what she believed to be almost the entire ninety minute interval. When her mouth could no longer hold the seal, she blew out a great gasp of exhausted relief. Her spittle spilled out from around the padded base of the mouth prod, elongating into glistening, web-like strands. As they dropped between her breasts to the floor, they formed a small damp spot on the concrete. A spot that matched the ones forming at each knee, caused by the copious amounts of sweat trickling down her body. Any moment now, her tormentors/rescuers would be releasing her from this torturous pose.

Morgan's eyes blinked blindly behind the blindfold. What she did not know was that her valiant effort to shrink the size of the dildoes in her ass and pussy had lasted only nineteen minutes. The rescue she thought was immediate, was still 71 minutes away. This fact would certainly become more evident as time passed...slowly.

Margaret Seagram rolled over to find her husband's side of the bed had not been slept in. Rising and throwing on a robe, she went downstairs. She found Bertram, still clad in his pajamas, staring out the window of his study.

"Honey, is there something wrong?" she asked.

Bert turned and offered a weak smile.

"No sweetheart, just pre-season jitters I guess." He explained

Bertram looked at his second wife with deep affection. He could tell that she wasn't buying his excuse, but had said nothing. He couldn't also help thinking how radiant she looked, even after just waking. Her auburn hair fell in loose curls past her shoulders to the middle of her back. She wore a pair of olive colored, satin boxer shorts with matching short sleeved pajama top under her wispy, floor length robe which was mint green. In spite of being somewhat modestly dressed, Bertram could still the curves that had first caught his eye two years ago.

'Maggie's' 38-D chest seemed to want to explode out from behind the two halves of the robe. They had been a first anniversary present. From there, her torso tapered down to a twenty six inch waist beneath the belted cover-up. Panning down, she swelled smoothly yet quickly to her thirty four inch hips. Maggie unconsciously posed herself in her 'spokesperson' stance, that is, one leg slightly in front of the other. This allowed her well toned gam to slip through the part in her robe, exposing it up to above her knee. Always self conscious about her 5'2" stature, her feet settled into matching slippers with three inch heels.

Bert had often confessed to her that he cared not one bit about how tall she was. But Margaret continued to wear heels whenever she was standing (and sometimes when she wasn't).

Margaret strolled over and rested her head against her husband's chest.
Bert wrapped his arms around her protectively. Her warmth radiated through him and he felt himself becoming aroused. Maggie couldn't help noticing the shift in his pajama bottoms either and she looked up at him with a mischievous grin. She slid down his frame until she was kneeling in front of him. She released his rod from the confines of his sleepwear. Maggie playfully licked and nipped at the throbbing shaft, then suddenly went down on it like a boa constrictor. Bertram leaned back against the desk and exhaled.

"Maybe things aren't as bad as they seem." He thought.


Part 16

Detectives Frost and August peered at each other from across their desks, trying to find some common thread that would make sense of this case. Both investigators were experienced enough to know that what appeared to be a petty case of breaking and entering, stank of something more. No one person or persons would go to such lengths just to steal the contract the Maulers had with the league and in the process, bind the team secretary in such a devious manner.

Neither paid any attention to the conservatively dressed woman who walked in and began speaking to the Watch Commander. After a brief exchange, the policeman barked out, "Detective Evans! Got a lady here who wants to fill out a missing person's report. Lady named Greenwich didn't show up for work today".

Danielle Frost's head snapped up. There was something about that name! She intercepted the woman on her way to Evan's desk. After asking a few questions, she steered the woman over to her work station. After introducing Joanna, Danielle began asking some more questions.

"Yes, the missing woman's first name was Dana. Yes, she was quite an attractive girl. No, she didn't believe she would ever be so bold as to try out for some cheerleading squad. No, she's never missed a day of work in three years, at least not without calling first."

When they'd finished their questions, they sent a very confused, senior librarian on to see Det. Evans. When she was out of earshot Danielle brought Joanna up to speed.

"Remember when I told you that the singer Tricia Koulikofsky was on the Mauler's cheerleading list? Well, so was this Dana Greenwich. Now, one could just be coincidence, but TWO?"

Joanna had to agree. It was slim, but still something that held a modicum of authenticity. They'd ask Bert Seagram for a copy of the applicant's list and if he wasn't cooperative, they'd get a subpoena and he'd be suspect numero uno. Of course, things were never that easy. Bertram handed over a copy without hesitation, anxious to help the investigators in any way he could. He could still be guilty, but in his actions he was making it easier to slip the noose over his head. A guilty man would be reluctant to do that.

Now that August and Frost had a place to start, didn't make things any easier. It was, after all, still a theory. They knew that they couldn't start warning all the applicants, for the story would definitely leak out and the perpetrators would go underground. They decided on a process of elimination, something that wouldn't cause too much of a buzz. Through phone calls to work places and homes, they managed to account for everyone except one Morgan Firestone. No one seemed to know where she was.

So now what? Were they dealing with a trio of missing women? Or had the three dropped from the radar for purely innocent reasons? They could ponder this until the cows came home, or shake things up a bit and see what happens. For all his well intended actions, Bert Seagram still appeared to be their best suspect. The two detectives decided to rattle him a little bit with an accusation and see what happened. Their call to the Mauler's owner was brief and to the point.

"We know all about the missing applicants from your roster, Mr. Seagram. It'd be better for you to come clean now. Otherwise, you'll be old and shriveled by the time you get out of the slammer."

Seagram, for his part, was at a loss for words. "But...but.." He stammered. "I have no idea what you're talking about!"

The two detectives hung up. They'd either flushed a rat out of his hole, or opened up a slander suit against the department. Seagram continued sitting at his desk, staring at the telephone in his hand.

"And I thought things couldn't get any worse." He mused.

In the outer office, Rebecca Cranston quietly hung up the extension. They'd underestimated the two detectives. It had been believed that they wouldn't find a pattern until at least after the next two acquisitions. She walked to a vacant conference room and placed a call on her cell phone. This latest development had to be passed on.


Part 17

August and Frost went through the motions of trying to cull some leads out of the meager supply of evidence on hand. They had no proof that there was a link between the three missing women, other than their gut instinct. It was a cliché, but that instinct had rarely steered them wrong.

Joanna and Danielle would have been impressed by the amount of activity their phone call to Bert Seagram had initiated. However, these clandestine dealings transpired with the deliberate intent of staying off the detective's radar. Three plans had been devised to deal with any interference from the city's law enforcement community. Unfortunately, they'd been designed with a chauvinistic mentality that assumed the detectives assigned to the case would be plodding, butt-scratching males. Matters would have to be handled a little more delicately for two gorgeous women.

It was concluded that the simplest plans usually worked best, so after a little modification, the wheels were set in motion. All that had to happen now, was for an opportunity to present itself. Providence would arrive sooner than they thought.

Dana Greenwich (809) shuffled along as though she were a ninety year old woman. Certainly, she was stiff and sore from her recent ordeal of "Oral Proficiency Training", but that wasn't the primary reason. No, the reason for her spasmodic gait was the steel contraption they'd locked her in.

Dana had given her all during the last defilation, an effort that had left her exhausted. Her abductors though, had allowed her no time to recuperate. She couldn't suppress the groan that burbled out around the rubber prod jammed in her mouth as the two phalli were yanked from her now slick and sore passages. The cords lashing her legs in the unnatural triangular pose were cut and she was lifted off the gag prod. She was laid on her stomach, arms still strapped together behind her back.

"Ehh, Kah, Ehh!" Dana slobbered out, trying to form words with a stiff jaw, numb lips and tongue.

The unintelligible, yet obviously distressed mumblings had no effect on her tormentors. Work proceeded with an unsettling efficiency. Though she couldn't see, thanks to the padded blindfold she still wore, Dana completely cognizant of what was happening around her. And to her.

She caught a whiff of rubber moments before the panel touched her face. It cupped her chin back almost to the throat and rose up across her lower face. And as it rose, it grew tighter, much tighter. In no time, no part of her skin eluded the touch of the clinging latex, from ear to ear, throat to nose, which was wedged through a small triangular gap. What must have been integral straps were pulled up and behind her head. For some ridiculous reason, Dana pictured a bizarre bathing cap, being applied backward. The straps traversed the back of her head in four places, evenly distributing the relentless pressure.

Although this was the first time since her abduction that she'd not had something stuffed in her mouth, Dana was no less silenced. She tried to pry her jaws apart and cry out, but the squeeze of the rubber mask kept her teeth clenched together. All that she achieved was to force a little spittle out between her flattened lips. The pressure on her head made her temples throb. There seemed to be no end to this nightmare.

She started as something cold and hard encircled her neck. She determined it to be a collar and a click at the back of her head told her it had been padlocked in place. Fortunately, the fit of the collar was fairly loose and it didn't restrict her breathing in any way. Dana could tell by the way it rested on the back of her neck that it was heavy, bulky and metallic, probably steel.

Dana let out a sigh that developed into a groan when her elbow strap was released and the feeling rushed back to her limbs. She shuddered as something long, cold and thin was rested against her spine. A soft *snick* at the back of her head announced that it had been locked to the collar. The tight leather bag that had enveloped her hands was removed, as was the strap around her wrists. Although her arms were momentarily free, they did Dana as much good as a set of flippers. She managed to flail them briefly before a strong grip captured her wrists. The reward for her act of disobedience was a sharp smack on her bare bottom.

The thin, cold object resting on her spine was lifted and she felt her hands maneuvered to join with it. Her arms were pulled straight, her hands merging at the base of her spine. A now all too familiar feeling of cold steel encircled one, then the other wrist. Each bracelet was ratcheted down tightly, eliminating any chance of her twisting her arms within their grip. Her hands were released and they plopped down as one, to rest at the apex of her ass crack. She tested the new manacles and felt motion at the back of her head.

"They've locked my wrists to some kind of bar or rod attached to the collar." Dana deduced correctly.

Dana tried to articulate her hands and found her range of motion had utterly vanished. There was no twisting nor rotating of her wrists within the manacles as they would, had they been connected by a short chain. It was as though each bracelet had been welded to the rod, which was in fact the case. The end result was that her arms were held straight, behind her back. It was quite debilitating, yet her captors were far from finished.

Dana felt a firm grip at each elbow and knew with an unsettling familiarity what was to happen next. The joints were drawn closer, the flesh of her forearms soon pressing against the rod running down her spine. Manacles that were slightly larger than the ones at her wrists, yet equally inflexible, were tightened firmly around each bicep just above the elbow. The result was as before, Dana's shoulders were wracked back, shoving her chest out and causing a general sensation of utter helplessness.

Dana could do nothing but lay there blindly as more of the unyielding steel bands were locked around each thigh, midway between crotch and knee. A final set of manacles, accompanied by a deep, industrial-like clinking sound, were fastened around her ankles. Before she had a chance to size up these new 'accessories', two sets of hands manhandled her to her feet. Her grunts of painful protest during this process were once again ignored.

Once standing, Dana had just enough time to ponder if they were done binding her, when the activity continued. Her arms were pulled stiffly away from her body and held there. There was some action down about her wrists about which she hadn't a clue.

"Spread you legs, 809." barked a voice to her left. Dana couldn't be sure, but the voice seemed to have an almost bored, detached sound to it.

Dana hesitated a moment, not quite sure what exactly an '809' was. Then a laser burned across her breasts, followed immediately by a sharp *CRACK*. The blow literally robbed the air from the poor librarian's lungs. She was held upright by the two pairs of arms as she struggled to draw in a breath. The rubber face mask/gag made that considerably more difficult. Finally, through tremendous effort, she was able to hitch in one moderate, trembling breath. It did nothing to ease the fire consuming her chest, but at least she wouldn't asphyxiate. At the moment, Dana couldn't decide if that was a good or bad thing.

"Now," the voice repeated. "Unless you like the taste of the lash, 809, you'll spread your fucking legs!"

Being a bright girl, Dana deduced that 809 must somehow mean her, so she quickly spread her legs. They didn't go far before the movement was arrested by the steel bands around her thighs. The restraints were connected by a steel ring. Dana flexed her legs and felt the tenuous grip the metal restraints held on her flesh. Any amount of jostling and the rigid cuffs would slide down the more narrow part of her legs toward her feet. She was not allowed time to test her theory.

Whilst firm hands settled on her shoulders, another pressed into the base of her spine. This caused her to arch her back. It was an awkward position and Dana could do nothing but tense when she felt troubling activity behind her. The rod and thus her arms, were pulled downward then brought back closer to her body. Before she knew it, there was something poking at the entrance to her rectum. With disheartening ease, something cold, hard and slender slid past her puckered anus, which was still lubricated from the previous exercise.

Dana realized that the end of the rod must have some sort of hook shaped extension that was now curving up inside her back passage. The tension on her back and arms held steady, then increased even more. There was some soft clicking noises, then the hands lifted from her skin. To Dana's absolute horror, she remained in the exaggerated arch.

Somehow, they had shortened the rod on her arms, forcing her to maintain the bow in her back. If she tried to straighten her spine, the metal hook anchored in her ass arrested any such motion. This then, pulled the metal collar alarmingly snug against her windpipe. Dana grunted and huffed as her body involuntarily whip-sawed back and forth, before it realized that there was nowhere to go.

As she pranced around in mincing steps, trying to come to terms with this development, the hands were on her once again. Dana was only dimly aware of a new burning at the base of her thumbs. This was followed by an odd tugging sensation. Her thumbs suddenly felt heavy and had no dexterity.

"All right, 809," the same voice proclaimed. "Now that you're ambulatory, it's off to the showers and then to wardrobe. Give us any trouble and you'll receive a few more stripes like the one you have across your titties.

Well, as horrid as things were, Dana knew that she never wanted to feel the pain like she had when the first blow had struck her breasts. The problem was, did they really expect her to walk trussed up like this? Her answer came as a new strike lashed across her snare drum tight stomach. White hot strobe lights burst in front of her eyes adding to the opera of pain.

"HHHGNNNNNHHHH!!!" Her bleated cry whistled out of her nose.

She lurched forward, almost toppling over. A hand steadied her momentarily. There was a *Whisk...Whisk* sound that could only have been the crop slicing through the air, prompting her to continue. Dana took another awkward step forward, well, half a step actually. It appeared that there was a chain connecting her ankle cuffs and that chain had snagged on something.

"C'mon, 809." The disembodied voice chided. "That's only a 25 pound ball connected to you hobble chain. Wait'll you try the fifty pounder. That'll give your legs a workout. Let's go."

There was no choice or alternative in the statement. Dana was to walk, or be lashed and THEN walk. The librarian groaned and surged forward. The ball scratched a few inches across the floor. Another step and a few more inches were achieved. Dana found, much to her dismay, that if she leaned forward as much as was allowed, it provided a few more ounces of leverage. She also discovered the mystery involving her thumbs. They now brushed against the ring joining the wide metal bands encircling her thighs. The digits appeared to be cuffed (thumbcuffed, she'd find out later) together. These cuffs were then attached to the thigh hobble, preventing the shackles from sliding down her legs. In all, it was a diabolical, utterly miserable arrangement.

"Let's pick up the pace, 809" the voice cautioned. "We've got a schedule to keep."

Another lash swept across her upper thighs, this one though, was blessedly not as severe as the first two. It was probably more of a reminder that her jailer hadn't forgotten how to use it. No matter, the message was clear and Dana doubled her efforts. In a sense, she was almost happy to be blindfolded. This way, she didn't have to witness herself shuffling naked down the dank corridor, breasts and pelvis thrust out provocatively, each already adorned with an angry red stripe.

The other jailers watched as briefly, as the wardeness escorted her charge to the next stop. The sound of whimpers and gasps, accompanied by the grinding of the iron ball on concrete, echoed off the stone walls. They knew the ex-librarian was as helpless as a kitten and could merely be steered down the corridor. But they knew too, that corporal punishment was the quickest way to break down a prisoner's resolve and prepared the way to a new life as a slave. Plus, these people were a sadistic lot and enjoyed laying the lash to helpless flesh. Speaking of which, they turned and prepared to ready the other two 'recruits' for their stroll.


Part 18

Tricia Koulikofski (622) was exhausted, yet sleep wouldn't come.

Earlier, she'd listened as two other women, obviously captives as well, had been 'escorted' away from the "Oral Proficiency Training" session. She knew not who they were, nor how they got here. In fact, the only thing she knew about them, was the cryptic title each had been assigned. After 809 and 917 had been ushered out, it had been her turn. She'd heard the stern warnings and subsequent floggings each woman had endured and vowed not to be on the receiving end when her turn came. However, it had been impossible to comply with all of her captor's preposterous demands whilst shackled so securely in steel manacles. So by the time she'd reached her destination, her thighs, breasts and bum sported deep pink stripes from the crop.

Still blindfolded, the first thing she noticed about this new room was the wet, slick tile under her feet. Traction would definitely have been an issue, but fortunately, she wasn't ordered to walk more than a couple of paces. When the blindfold was removed, she saw through squinting eyes that she was in a large, open, community-style shower. She also noted the chains, still dripping with water, hanging from the ceiling. The hook-to-collar rod was removed and she was maneuvered over a toilet sitting out in the open. Her jailers hadn't needed to issue any instructions, Tricia's insides were practically exploding with the need to go. No effort was made to wipe her clean when she'd finished. Instead, she was ushered into the shower area. All of her bonds were removed except for the awful rubber half-helmet that still gripped her lower face and robbed her of speech.

Being so short, the chains from the ceiling had to be lowered to accommodate their prisoner. Tricia felt they hadn't been lowered enough, for when her arms had been locked wide and high above her head, she was forced to stand on her toes. It got worse. Each ankle was secured with its own chain, splaying her feet wide to the point where she lost all contact with the tile floor. Tricia groaned at the strain, but she remained utterly helpless and exposed.

She'd anticipated a dousing by the shower, but when the cold water struck her, it was still a shock nonetheless. The two guards attending to her, attacked her with sponge mitts. As if the cold water cascading down on her wasn't enough, one of them would periodically assail her with a garden hose, the cold stream hitting her from all angles. The woman seemed particularly interested in focusing the flow on her privates. The lathering was thorough and extensive, right down to between her toes and deep within the lips of her sex. Her hair had been vigorously shampooed, after which, and herbal scented conditioner had been applied.

After the final rinsing, an astringent smelling lotion had been smeared all over her body, from her neck to her ankles. The only spot spared, was the small patch of blonde hair above her vagina. Tricia's skin tingled with a near burning sensation. She deduced correctly that they were using some sort of depilatory cream, though by the way her skin stung, this was more potent than any OTC product she'd tried in the past.

Gratefully, she was lowered at last, though not released from the shackles. Her body received a brisk rubbing with towels still damp from prior use.

"Must be saving on laundry bills." she thought mirthlessly.

Finally, the shackles were released, only to have the two women wrench her arms up behind her in a hammerlock. Tricia 'humphed' in frustration. Not once did these people allow even an chance to escape. She was guided, none to gently, over to an odd framework made almost entirely of metal pipe.

Tricia didn't figure out it was a chair until her abductors forced her to sit on it. There was no seat to rest her derriere on, just a length of pipe which quickly wedged deep between her cheeks. Her struggles to rise from the offensive bar she straddled were cut short, when a pair of strong hands grabbed her shoulders. She was pulled back against the upper portion of the contraption, where a wide belt was quickly tightened around her throat. While still deciding whether to use her hands to push herself up off the pipe, or try and loosen the strap, the choices were robbed from her.

Each jailer grabbed an arm and efficiently strapped it down to a corresponding extension. To Tricia's dismay, it didn't stop with just a strap around the wrist. Soon each arm was belted at the wrist, forearm, elbow and bicep. Wider belts encircled her chest, above and below her naked breasts. Her upper body immobilized, they set to work on her legs.

Again, each leg was fastened independent of the other and no less secure. It seemed to Tricia that only seconds had passed before each leg was held rigid, by straps at her ankles, mid-calf and two places across her thighs. And this was only the beginning. A flat, cold metal plate was swung up against the sole of each foot. Tricia could just make out the small straps that dangled from it. In no time, the straps tightened down over the arch of her feet. Incredibly, even smaller straps were then tightened down over each of her ten toes. She couldn't wriggle them at all.

When similar plates were swung up to meet the palms of her hands, she was ready. She closed her fists tightly, determined to win this battle. She expected angry frustration from her captors, but they merely sneered at her. One of them walked over to a nearby shelf and returned with something about the size of a cell phone. Holding it in front of Tricia's face, she pressed a switch. An ominous blue stream of light crackled between the prongs at the end of the device. Tricia needed no elucidation, she'd seen tazers before on TV. She knew them to be incapacitating, but more importantly, painful. Her eyes got wide as the guard placed the prongs to straddle her left nipple. The guard raised an amused, questioning eyebrow. No words were needed, the implication was clear. "Are you going to cooperate?" Tricia wanted no part of the "Or else" equation, so she quickly opened her hands, fingers splayed wide. A brief flicker of disappointment flashed across the guard's eyes.

In about the time it took Tricia's heart to calm down, her hands were gone from her. Each had been secured across the back and as with her feet, and around each individual finger. The guard made to turn away, then suddenly turned back and stabbed the tazer into Tricia's mid-section, just above her navel and triggered the device. Tricia stiffened, then shuddered against the restraints as if she was having a seizure. The rubber gag/mask proved extraneous, for any sounds the prisoner tried to muster, died in her throat.

Long, panicked seconds passed before the blonde could draw a fresh breath. Fresh tears poured from her eyes, further compounding her feeling helplessness. When at last she could manage several consecutive, relatively pain-free breaths, she blinked to clear her vision. Looking down as best she could against the neck restraint, she half expected to see wisps of smoke and a gapping hole in her stomach. To her surprise and relief, there was very little visible evidence of what had just taken place. She looked up at her captor with a mix of terror and fury.

"Disobedience will NOT...BE...TOLERATED." The guard said slowly, as if speaking to a third grader.

Tricia caught something else in her voice. The undertone of ardor for the act she'd just done. This woman loved controlling and punishing helpless women. The restrained singer realized that there'd be no reasoning with these people. Pleas for mercy or release would just fuel their sadistic fire. Her best chance to escape rode on her ability to lull her captives into complacency. She grasped on to that thread of hope, slender it may be.

The current lesson having been administered, the two guards set about their tasks. One lowered the pipe 'headrest' and began vigorously brushing Tricia's long golden mane. The other produced a bottle of nail polish from her pocket. The petite woman could do nothing but sit there, strapped to the contraption. She could just see the kneeling guard carefully apply a coat of shimmering, ruby colored polish to each of her toes. The job went smoothly and efficiently. For once, Tricia was glad that her toes had been so thoroughly secured. It eliminated any chance of her inadvertently moving, which would have no doubt incurred the woman's wrath.

When the last nail was expertly painted, the woman used what looked like a small hair dryer, though the heat it produced was measurably more intense. Now, Tricia tried to wriggle her toes away from the excessive toasting, but they wouldn't budge. Just as she was sure it was going to raise blisters, the drying tool was removed. The paint on her toes glittered like a polished fire engine. The process was repeated on her fingernails and soon they sparkled in the overhead light.

The guard brushing her hair hadn't been idle during all of this. Using a standard hair dryer, she continued brushing the long, straight tresses. When satisfied, she altered the direction in which the brush traveled. Soon, Tricia felt her still warm hair cascading down over each shoulder. Then, one side at a time, the guard gathered up the loose mane. Tricia thought she was going to lose some follicles as her hair was bunched up tightly at her scalp. Repeated wraps of a rubber band insured that her hair would stay as it had been arranged. Tricia realized that even her hair wasn't going to escape their evil bondage. The same process was repeated on the other side of her head.

The guard who had painted her nails approached with a small swatch of cloth. It was coal tunnel black, with hundreds of small, umber colored sequins sparkling in the light. She recognized the shimmering material as Liquid Lame. At first, Tricia thought it was a man's handkerchief. But then the woman cautiously unfastened the lower half of her right leg. She slid the material up around Tricia's ankle, the re-applied the lashings. The process was repeated with the other foot and a ridiculous thought crossed Tricia's mind.

"No, it couldn't be." she thought rationally.

But then as it was worked up her legs, one restraint at a time, she could see the pleats in the material. This tiny band of material WAS an obscenely short skirt. Her ass crack got a very brief reprieve, as the skirt's waistband was stretched up into place. Then she was forced back down on to her cold steel perch. Another piece of the 'wet-look' lame materialized. This one was a rich tangerine color. As it was positioned across her naked breasts, the material seemed to grip her skin. With a considerable bit of tugging, the halter was finally hooked in back. As the top halves of the halter were hooked behind her neck, the all-too-small garment hefted her 34-C bust with it. Some pinches and tugs followed, as the woman arranged the R-rated top on her captive. To Tricia, there was something oddly familiar about the color scheme.

The guard who's styled Tricia's hair, then began to remove the rubber gag/mask. The blonde's attention wasn't focused on this action. Instead, her eyes were locked on to what the other guard was holding. In one hand was a black, odd shaped object, that glistened with as much sparkle as her nails. In the other hand was the tazer, its purpose Tricia remembered all too vividly. As the mask fell away, Tricia knew what was expected of her. She pursed her lips together tightly, not trusting herself in remaining absolutely quiet.

"Open!" the guard barked, leaving no room for argument.

Tricia did so instantly, not wishing to seem at all rebellious. The guard immediately began to wedge the black form between her teeth. It hadn't looked that large in her hand, but now the poor girl struggled to open her mouth wide enough to accept the gag. To her relief, when in finally popped in behind her teeth, much of the strain eased on her jaws. She was surprised to find that her teeth rested in to slots on the plug, as if it had been custom made.

Apparently reading her thoughts, the guard parted with a little gem of information. "That's right, 622. We made that special, just for you. You didn't think that we just let you sleep the night away without paying you a visit, now, did'ja?"

Tricia immediately wondered what other measurements had been taken whist she'd been drugged. But her ponderings were interrupted as the guard leaned in and began applying some bright red lip gloss. Tricia didn't have to be told to remain still. When the woman finished, she did a curious thing. Using both hands, she pinched and molded Tricia's lips together. When the hold was released after about thirty seconds, the blonde was horrified to find that her lips had fused together. She looked up, wide eyed, at the guard.

"Lip gloss with marine epoxy." the woman explained. "Don't worry, the solvent doesn't hurt TOO bad".

Tricia blinked, all ready dreading the time when her lips would be freed. She snapped back to the present, as the strap around her neck was unbuckled. The guard who'd worked on her hair appeared, carrying a long, flat bar that gleamed like chrome. The bar itself was half an inch thick and perhaps two inches high. It was almost three feet long, interrupted by three circles. The largest circle bisected the bar in the center, while smaller, identically sized circles rested on each end.

The other guard pocketed the tazer and grasped Tricia's head by, what were now obviously, two ponytails sprouting from each side of her head. Tricia couldn't fight the leverage as she was pulled forward. She felt the icy steel touch the back of her neck, then completely surround it. She couldn't see it, but definitely heard the *snick* of a padlock at her Adam's apple.

One at a time, her arms were freed. Each hand was wrestled up so that her wrist was captured in one of the circles at the end of the bar. In no time, she sat there helplessly, her arms held in an 'I surrender' pose. Her feet were freed from the metal plates they'd been lashed to. A pair of black, strap-on, open toed sandals were buckled on to her writhing feet. Tricia figured that the heels on these demons must have been four inches tall. Her legs were unshackled, only to be joined once more by a frustratingly short, 10" hobble. The remainder of the straps holding her to the 'chair' were removed and she was hoisted to stand. They shuffled her over to a large mirror, so that she could appreciate their handy work. Tricia gazed in astonishment.

"That's why the color was so familiar!" She thought, dumbfounded.

Her reflection unveiled a primped up harlot dressed in a shockingly brief knock-off of a Memphis Mauler's cheerleading costume. Even with the waist of the pleated skirt riding low on her hips, the hem barely concealed her privates. Tricia had no doubt that the view from the back would reveal more than a glimpse of her naked butt. The halter allowed ample cleavage to spill out from the shiny material. The lapels of the material that rose to fasten behind her neck, seemed to act like arrows, pointing accusingly at the globes straining against the fabric. Her hair had been done up in a 'naughty school girl' style, ponytails falling down over each shoulder. Tricia immediately decided that this was worse than being naked. The entire effect screamed "Take me! Use me!" Her skin blushed with embarrassment.

Then, the fashion show ended and the two guards each took an arm and scurried her out of the room. They walked for about thirty yards and entered another room without knocking. Tricia's eyes were immediately drawn to two other figures in the room. Neither of them would be any help to the petite blonde. They were obviously the other two captives. Each had been dressed in the ridiculous cheerleaders' out fit, their arms held like Tricia's in gleaming metal stocks. They seemed to be standing motionless, at attention, on a small riser. Tricia saw their anxious eyes look her way, and when it was clear that rescue was not at hand, cast their gazes downward.

Only after Tricia was picked up and placed on the riser, did she notice two poles jutting from the floor, one much taller than the other. The shorter one ended with a blunt tip and she was ushered over to it. Too late, did its purpose dawn on the poor girl. While one of the guards held her in place, the other stooped down. Out of nowhere, Tricia felt the metal tip surge up against the entrance to her womanhood. But the time she jerked her hips away, it was too late. The pole had already slid two inches inside her, spearing her like a butterfly to corkboard.

"Hnnnmgghhh!!!" She squealed as it continued its ascent.

It seemed as though it would never stop. But it did, leaving Tricia's legs quivering from the cold steel and bloated sensation inside her. She offered little resistance, as the hobble was removed and her feet were spread shoulder width. Thankfully, the rod inside her sank slightly, otherwise she thought she might have been seriously injured. When she felt yet more cold steel encircling her ankles, she looked down and saw that a bar similar to her arm restraints jutted out from the vertical pole. Her ankles had been shackled to each end of the bar, allowing her no option but to stand with her legs spread as they were. The pole inside her froze in place, as one of the guards tightened a thumb screw, locking it.

There was a tug at the back of Tricia's collar, followed yet again by the familiar *snick* of a lock. Tricia's upper torso was virtually immobilized, now that the steel collar had been fastened to the taller pole behind her.

"That's why the other two didn't move much when I came in." the blonde deduced correctly.

Tricia could do little more now than gaze at the dark curtain before them, wondering what on earth was next. She didn't have to wait long. She sensed someone on the other side of the curtain, a premonition proved right when the person began speaking.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the electronically altered voice stated. "So glad you could be with us today. We have a real treat for you."

Tricia's brow furrowed. There was something wrong, but she could put her finger on it (obviously). Then she had it. Being a performer, she'd often worked places where the crowd was small. Often, the patrons would grow silent to listen to the performer. But the room was never totally quiet like it was now. There were no clearing of throats, nor soft murmur of voices. Nothing from the other side of the curtain other than the mystery speaker. Her musings were interrupted, as the curtain suddenly parted and she was blinded by white hot lights. She sensed that both of the other women were cringing from the assault as well.

When her sight finally returned, Tricia saw a black clad figure off to her left. No skin nor hair was visible behind the dark camouflage. Then she looked out, expecting to see leering faces. Instead, all she saw was a small, blinking red light. Puzzled once more, it took a few seconds for recognition.

"It's a camera!" Her addled mind finally grasped. "We're on close circuit TV." Then her dread deepened when she thought, "We could even be on the internet!"

Which was in fact the case. The 'auctioneer' had proceeded to showcase each of the captives, one by one. Each sales pitch had ended with the merchandise's halter unbuttoned and the hem of her skirt tucked into the waistband, leaving nothing to the imagination. Periodically, the auctioneer would acknowledge an apparent wager by an electronic bidder. The locations boggled Tricia's mind. Qatar, Singapore, Kazakhstan, Columbia, the list went on and on.

Finally, the bidding was over. The host thanked all the guests and told them that payments could be made through the usual channels. But by then, Tricia was almost comatose with disbelief. She did not remember being led back to her cell. She came to, hours later, shackled to the bed, the skirt still hiked up around her waist.

And that's how she lay now. Not kept awake by the bright lights burning overhead, but rather the knowledge that she'd been sold, for almost three quarters of a million dollars, to a buyer in Libya.


Part 19

Joanna August stared at the ceiling without really noticing the tobacco stained acoustical tiles. She absently twirled her short blond hair with her finger, lost in thought. Finally, she sat up and addressed her partner, Danielle Frost, who was sitting at the desk across from her.

"Well," she said resignedly, "it looks like our blitz on old Bert Seagram was a bust. All we did was cause the guy a near coronary. Decent of him not to sue the pants off us."

The last comment caused Danielle's face to crinkle with a wry smile, accompanied with a raised eyebrow. Interpreting the look, Joanna quickly countered.

"Oh, you know what I mean! Geez, get your mind out of the gutter, willya?"

Danielle laughed at her friends faux pas, then decided to run an idea past her.

"You know," she began, "maybe we've been going about this all wrong. In spite of his innocent appearance, Seagram's still our number one suspect. Rather than confronting him head on, let's try and end around."

Neither detectives noticed that they'd begun using football terms in discussing the current case.

"Let's talk to the wife," Danielle checked her notes. "Margaret Seagram. If we use the feminine touch, we might not be greeted by a stone wall. At the very least, we could discern any changes in Bert's demeanor lately."

"I guess," Joanna conceded, "depending on what you mean by 'the feminine touch'". Now it was her turn to flash a quizzical expression at her partner/lover. Danielle's cheeks flushed and she countered with, "Who's mind is in the gutter now?"

They shared a laugh, then gathered their things for a trip out to the Seagram household.

When they got there, they found out from the butler that Mr. Seagram had left for the office, but Mrs. Seagram was down at the stable preparing for her ride. If they hurried, they might catch her. Doing just that, they pulled up just before Margaret Seagram was about to mount a beautiful Appaloosa. Both policewomen noticed immediately the woman's sensual figure, in spite of her riding attire. She wore khaki riding britches and a starched white, long sleeved blouse, the top three buttons below the crisp collar were unbuttoned. She'd pulled her amber tinted hair back into a ponytail, held in place with a piece of black ribbon.

"Well, I really don't know what I can tell you." The beautiful redhead replied. "Besides, if I don't get Tempest here, out for some exercise, he'll be bouncing off the stall walls. Tell you what, ride with me and we'll talk on the way."

Seeing the unnerved look on the shorter detective's face she graciously added, "Don't worry, at most we'll do is a trot."

Danielle could tell that Joanna wasn't very reassured by this statement, but giving her credit, her partner did well to disguise her unease. Some stable attendants were summoned and in short order, two other steeds were outfitted. Both policewomen were relieved when it took them only one attempt to mount their rides. They headed off at a leisurely pace until they could get accustomed to their mounts. Danielle had ridden when she had been a girl and fond memories flooded back to her. This was Joanna's first time on a horse and she couldn't get over the size of the beast.

"If this nag decides to take off, I'm going to break every bone in my body when I jump off." She thought apprehensively.

But 'Nugget' and 'Lord Byron' seemed perfectly content just to amble along on a beautiful autumn day. The air hadn't turned cool yet, so when they trio approached a small brook, Mrs. Seagram suggested they dismount so that the horses might get a drink. The three of them stood chatting about not much at all and that's when it happened.

The horses were the first ones to sense anything wrong. They abruptly stopped drinking and pricked up their ears. Before the riders could pick up on their mounts' unease, four masked figures had materialized from the brush surrounding the stream. With a cops instinct, both Joanna and Danielle could tell from their physiques that this new party consisted of three men and a woman. The three males were pointing very lethal looking, pistol gripped Mossburg 500 'Persuader' shotguns. The smaller figure with fuller curves brandished a 9mm Beretta semi-automatic. All of the weapons were brandished with an air of familiarity and competence.

Instinctively, both Danielle and Joanna's hands drifted toward their sidearms. This motion was rewarded with the sound of three shells being racked into their chambers. Both women froze. Each officer knew that it would be a race they would lose. Slowly, they raised their hands.

"Don't do anything stupid, cunts." cautioned the masked female intruder. "It'd be a shame to damage such fine equines."

Even Margaret caught the meaning behind the threat. These people cared less about the humans they were pointing guns at, than the horses standing beside them. Making sure her compatriots had the two officers covered, the masked woman aimed her firearm at Margaret.

"All right, Chesty." she barked. "Very slowly and standing off to one side, I want you to reach into each cop's windbreaker and, using only your thumb and forefinger, remove their weapons. Any heroics and you'll wind up scattered all over creation."

Margaret complied, then threw the pistols into the stream as directed. The trio were then told to lace their fingers together on top of their heads. Immediately after doing this, the prisoners were marched up the bank of the stream and led to a nearby clearing completely surrounded by trees. Little time passed before the next order was given.

"Very good, Cunts." the woman (and by now, quite obviously the leader) said. "Keep doing what your told and you just might live to see another day." Although cliché, none of the captives doubted her sincerity.

"Strip!" she barked next.

Danielle, Margaret and Joanna balked, not certain they'd heard correctly. Or, more accurately, hoped they'd misinterpreted the order.

"Goddamit, you heard me!" the woman said, clearly losing her cool. "Down to bras and panties. NOW!"

Wishing they could be doing almost anything else, the three women slowly began to discard their outerwear. Each could almost see the leers of the men, behind their masks. At the continuous prodding of the ring leader to hurry up, the three women were soon standing in their underwear, hands once again entwined on top of their heads. Each woman's skin grew a deeper shade of pink at the mortifying situation.

Perhaps not with a professionally trained eye, rather some deeper, feminine inquisitiveness, each woman couldn't help but steal a glimpse at what the others were wearing. Joanna and Danielle both wore a variation of a sports bra. This was practical for their line of work. One never knew when she might have to chase a fleeing suspect. Each woman had color coordinated her bra with her panties. Joanna's were pale blue and cut high up the hips with a two inch waistband. Danielle's were honey colored, the front and back panels held together only by a string knotted at each hip. Although not Victoria's Secret, both women were profusely embarrassed by the sexy cut of their panties, so glaringly NOT police issue. Obviously, neither officer had expected to be doing an impromptu undergarment fashion show when they'd gotten dressed this morning.

Margaret Seagram wore undergarments that screamed wealth and sensuality. One would have thought that maroon would have been the wrong color for the woman's crimson tinged mane, but the effect was quite breathtaking. The full cupped bra was heavily re-enforced to support her surgically enhanced breasts, yet somehow retained a wispy, provocative look. The full cut panties consisted of a translucent material, interrupted by the outline of small roses. Her modesty was protected by an opaque panel at the crotch. From the rear, the vertical cleft of her ass could clearly be seen behind the flowered pattern.

Holstering her pistol, the ringleader spoke again. "Let's start with you, Blondie."

She tossed something dark through the air and Joanna instinctively caught it, then winced, thinking the sudden movement would trigger a storm of gunfire. But the men training their weapons must have expected this reaction and held their fire. Joanna looked at the black leather bag in her hand and gave it a squeeze. The contents shifted inside the hide and Joanna deduced that the mass contained some sort of small beads. She also noted that it was deceptively heavy.

"Let's go, Blondie." the woman urged. "Shove that into your pie hole."

Joanna bristled at the coarseness in which the stranger spoke, but at the moment could do nothing about it. She began wedging the leather sack between her teeth. The filling shifted, allowing for the operation to go smoothly at first. But the space inside her mouth rapidly filled, while a good portion of the sack still remained outside her lips. She paused, believing she could go no further.

"I want all of it in there, pig." the leader menaced.

Joanna's expression made it clear that she thought this impossible. The leader motioned to one of the men, who shouldered his weapon and stepped forward. The intent clear, Joanna held up her hand defensively and then began working on the packing with renewed vigor. The two other prisoners watched as the petite blonde attacked the mass with the index and middle fingers of both hands, choking and retching throughout the process.

When she'd succeeded at her task, she'd been ordered to once again place her hands on top of her head. Danielle looked at her partner. The blonde's eyes bulged slightly and were desperately blinking back tears. Danielle noted that her throat shifted constantly, trying to keep the gag reflex in check. She witnessed no more, as it was her turn next. She managed to stuff her packing in with no less difficulty. Soon, all three women stood, relatively silent save for the occasional hack or retch. They mused that they must have made for a strange sight. Three women standing outdoors in their underwear with their hands on top of their heads, mouths gaping wide, the black mass of leather a sharp contrast to their white teeth and tightly stretched lips, in varying shades of red.

The ring leader reached into a satchel she carried and withdrew a handful of identical items. Both policewomen recognized them immediately. They were plasticuffs. Long, off-white plastic bands used to subdue and control a prisoner. Incredibly strong, their one-way feed through a ratcheting head could only be removed by cutting them off. Definitely not a promising development.

Each officer knew from training that when properly applied, they would be uncomfortable as well as unbreakable. The discomfort played a major role in preventing a suspect from resisting to energetically. If improperly applied, the pain they caused could be intense. Both detectives knew that one version of the restraint came equipped with a small tab that could be used to disengage the locking mechanism, so that it could be re-used. They held little hope that the woman carried this style.

One at a time, the woman knelt behind her prisoners and forced their feet together, quickly trapping their ankles with a cuff. Danielle had been first and for a moment, had thought that the woman was going to show some compassion. But after snipping off the excess with a pair of wire cutters, she passed a second band between the cop's legs, encircling the first. She tugged the strap so forcefully that Danielle almost toppled over. Her feet merged together, the bones of her ankles grinding against each other.

"Ahn, Hghnn!" Danielle was stunned at how feeble her cry of 'Ow, Hey' sounded, as it leaked out through the packing.

"Definitely not good." pondered the brunette ruefully.

Joanna came next, then lastly, Margaret. Before applying the straps, the vile woman had stopped to caress one of Maggie's bra clad breasts, then slid her hand down to her crotch. Margaret mmff'd a protest and started to lower her hands. The ring leader grasped a handful of Maggie's brownish-red mane with her free hand and tugged. The owner's wife winced and passively returned her hands to where they'd been. The henchwoman continued to fondle her prisoner's genitalia while she spoke.

"Oh yes," she purred. "You certainly are a beauty. I bet 'Billionaire Bert' would pay anything to get you ba... what the fuck?" The masked woman paused, the shock clear in her voice.

The policewomen, puzzled by the reaction, watched on as the stranger suddenly shoved her hand down the front of Margaret's panties. They watched as the voluptuous woman's face turned scarlet as the captor's hand wriggled under the material. When she pulled out her hand, it glistened with the sign of Maggie's arousal. But that hadn't been the cause of the surprise. The woman opened her fist, revealing two, marble-sized, steel ball bearings. Not a single person in the group was chaste enough not to recognize them immediately for what they were. Margaret Seagram had ridden along, maintaining a steady conversation with the two officers, all the while having a pair of 'Ben-Wa' balls clacking around inside her pussy.

"Well," the woman laughed. "aren't you the kinky little minx?" The men in the group laughed lustfully. It was the first sound any of them had made since their initial encounter. Placing the balls in her pocket, she added, "That's a good thing to know, since you'll be in our company until Bert pays the ransom." The snickers slowly petered out as the woman continued the binding.

Once the woman had cinched the ankles of the captives, removing any ability of flight, she set about with stage two. One by one, the prisoners' hands were wrestled behind their backs until they were facing palm to palm. Then, as with their ankles, they were cinched with twin plastic bands. Soon, each of them felt the ominous pins and needles sensation throughout their phalanges, caused by the merciless binding. But the bitch wasn't done yet.

To their utter disbelief, each woman felt another band capture their upper arms. The serene sounds of the woods were broken by the muffled cries and bleats of pain as their elbows were drawn closer together. Another cinch made the impossible possible, as the joints soon rubbed angrily together. Through the haze of discomfort, all three women were aware of how this new posture thrust out their chests, no one more so than Margaret. They could clearly see the sparkle of lust in the eyes of the men training their weapons on them. Nothing good could be interpreted from this situation.

Believing that they could be immobilized no further, the women were dumbfounded by what came next. The leader took another strap from what seemed to be an endless supply. One at a time, she passed the band over a captives head and centered the strap across her throat. Then the ends were pulled back and guided down between the shoulder blades, finally ensnaring the bands crushing their elbows. With a spine chilling 'zzzzzzp' the length of the band shortened. Each woman found herself struggling to raise her pinioned arms in order to ease the pressure on her windpipe. Struggling to get free had vanished as an option (if it had ever been there in the first place).

After each prisoner's legs had been further quieted with cinching bands above the knees, the leader reached into another pocket and withdrew three more plastic bands. These though, were slightly different in appearance. Each had been forged with a ring roughly 1" in diameter, midway down its length. She made a small hand gesture and one of the men set down his shotgun and moved forward, while the remaining two kept their weapons trained on the hostages. Even for a civilian like Margaret, this clearly sent a message that these people left nothing to chance. That in turn, meant that the prisoners had virtually no chance at all.

The man approached Joanna first and clasped the sides of her head with his massive hands. Joanna tried to flinch away, but her head didn't budge. She snatched a glimmer of the woman's hands passing under her co-conspirator's arms. Something brushed against her tightly stretched lips then suddenly, her air was cut off. This was followed immediately by a crushing band of fire around her head. Desperate moments passed before she could deduce what had just happened. Slowly it dawned on her, that the plasti-cuff had been placed between her teeth and was being drawn tight as a gagging strap. Her head was jerked like a kitten in the jaws of a Doberman. The man changed his grip and grabbed her ears painfully to hold her head steady. In the meantime, the woman placed her hand on the back of Joanna's head so that she could apply more leverage. The detective mewled uncontrollably.

Danielle tried to see what was going on, but the man's massive forearms blocked most of her view. When the leader finally snipped off the excess band, the arms moved away and Danielle was afforded an unobstructed view of her friend/partner/lover. A single large tear tickled down Joanna's face, whose complexion had turned an alarming shade of scarlet. Danielle could see her partner struggling to control her gag reflex, all the while trying to draw in any modicum of air. Much to her relief, Danielle watched as Joanna regained some self-control and began to gingerly draw in some much needed wisps of air. Slowly, the color of her face faded to almost normal, but the distress in her eyes spoke volumes as to her discomfort.

Danielle noted that the band's ring was centered vertically in the middle of Joanna's mouth. Experiencing the packing firsthand, Danielle hadn't thought it possible that it could be forced any deeper into her mouth. But such was the case, as she saw that the strap was now seated deeply behind Joanna's teeth, which had been laid bare when her tautly stretched lips pulled back even farther. The effect was an involuntary grimace frozen on her lover's face. Pity wracked her heart, as she realized that Joanna's teeth had actually been forced to clench down slightly around the packing. Her bulging cheeks were bisected by a deep furrow caused by the gag strap.

"unh, unh" The detective made soft, involuntary grunts as she struggled to remain calm and keep her airway open.

Danielle had thought she'd be prepared for what was about to happen, but she was wrong. When the woman cut off the leftover banding, she found herself struggling for every life giving molecule of oxygen. Her temples throbbed and she was certain that her severely stretched lips would tear any second. She tried to sound a cry of alarm, but she could neither muster enough air, nor force it out through the dense packing in her mouth. Margaret's cries were no more forceful and equally ineffective when her time came. There was no mistaking the fear in the three captives' eyes when the leader moved around to face them once more.

"Well, that just about does it." she announced. "Now we'll just get you two law enforcers settled in and we'll be off with our prize."

This baffled the two policewomen. Since the group had taken such pains to bind them so thoroughly, both had assumed that they would be brought along with Maggie Seagram. This clearly was not the case, as the leader approached Danielle and slipped her finger through the ring of the gag strap. With a tug, the detective was forced to hop along behind her captor on pinioned feet. She was steered toward a moderately sized tree with a trunk 18" in diameter.

"Diospyros virginiana." Danielle surprised herself with a long forgotten memory from her high school 4-H days. "A Persimmon tree."

She was led up to within a foot or two of the trunk. A none-to-gentle kick in the back of her legs forced her to sink awkwardly to her knees, her nose winding up inches from the rough bark. Now the mystery of the gag strap ring was disclosed. Yet another, but considerably longer, plasti-cuff was threaded through the ring. The henchwoman yanked up dispassionately, forcing Danielle to raise up to her full height (albeit kneeling). The long strap then passed around the tree trunk and was ratcheted tight. To her dismay, this caused Danielle to maintain this posture. The coarse bark dug into the bare skin of her thighs and stomach and she was grateful for what little protection her bra afforded her breasts. That wasn't to say that she couldn't feel the irregular spikes of bark stabbing into her tender titties.

It wasn't long before she heard her captor return, a grunting and hopping Joanna in tow. The anchoring band limited how much Danielle could turn her head, most of her vision was filled with the tree's dark, black-brown sheath. But she was able to momentarily spot her near naked friend as she hopped by on her way to the opposite side of the trunk. Grunts and grumbles left no doubt that Joanna was being secured in similar fashion. Then there was a particularly distraught hum that lasted for several seconds, then morphed into a string of angry, unintellible mumbles.

Danielle couldn't see the smile on her captors face, a fact not only because of her mask, but she soon experienced what had placed it there. She knelt beside the near immobile policewoman and grasped her bound ankles. She then lifted her pinioned feet off the ground, bending her legs at the knees. When her heels were almost touching her banded hands, the woman slipped her thigh under them, holding them in place. Danielle felt fingers brushing her skin in several places, there was yet another 'zzzzzp' of a one-way ratchet and then without warning, the support for her feet vanished. In equal parts due to gravity, the pressure on her leg muscles from the plasti-cuffs and the unnatural posture, her feet naturally fell back to earth. It was a short fall, for almost immediately the motion stopped and several things happened. There was a sudden strain on her hands and arms which immediately translated to a tightening of the strap across her throat which was anchored to the elbow cinch. Danielle alarmingly realized that she had been hogtied, but in no fashion she'd ever dreamed of.

Yes, she'd been in on arrests where they'd encountered some hop-head so whacked out on PCP, that he represented an danger to himself, as well as the arresting officers. It was common practice that, once the perp's hands and feet had been secured, to connect the bindings to reduce the damage he could inflict. But at no time, was the offender's airway ever compromised. In addition to that, the bad guy always wound up on the padded back seat of a patrol car, not lashed upright to a tree in the woods, half naked.

Danielle now understood the reason for Joanna's earlier distress. The cause for her partner's angry harrumphing became clear, when the henchwoman bunched up the rear panel of Danielle's panties and gave them a tug. The material sank deep into the crack of her bottom, emerging near the waistband in a 'whale's tail' like a thong's. Both of her firm, round globes were completely exposed and Danielle stood no chance of rearranging the garment. Laughter burst out behind her and she could feel her skin flush.

Both policewomen turned to look daggers at their aggressor standing to one side, Danielle out of her left eye, Joanna her right. Unfazed, the woman proceed to connect three plasti-cuffs to form one long one. Joanna could have sworn that the woman was humming a tune under her breath, as she passed the extra long band around the detectives and the tree they 'kissed'. When she inserted the tip through the ratchet, she quickly pulled out the slack. In no time, the band's pressure made its presence known across the base of each woman's spine. Their thighs, stomachs and bosoms pressed firmer and firmer against the jagged bark. Danielle quickly realized that little protection was no protection at all for her poor breasts. When she could pull no more, the woman actually went to each connection and gave it a serious yank. When she finished, not a millimeter of slack had been spared. In addition to the scabrous surface of the bark stabbing their skin in a thousand places, both detectives felt an alarming pressure against their ribcages. Each breath now required maximum effort. Not to mention the byproduct of this, which was their breasts slid fractionally up and down against the trunk with each breath.

Neither policewoman was able to witness Margaret, as her knees were bent double, then strapped tightly, calves pressing firmly against her thighs. They could, however, hear the faint whispers of her alarm. Murmurs that were often drowned out by the peaceful bird's chirp high up in the branches somewhere. They could not see as the quartet rapidly shoved her immobile body into a duffel bag, tightening the drawstrings around her neck. Nor could they watch, as a black cloth sack enveloped her head, its drawstring snugged tightly around her neck as well.

The largest of the three men (although any of the them could have handled the task) slipped his arms through the duffel's straps and hoisted Maggie on to his back. The others felt a twinge of jealousy, knowing that for the remainder of their journey, he would feel the glorious fullness of those magnificent orbs pressing against his shoulders. It was only then, while they cleaned up signs of their presence, did one of the men speak.

"Uh, boss?" He noted cautiously. "What about these horses? If we leave them, they're sure to trot right back on home, raising a red flag."

"Too true, Larry." The leader replied. She knew that if the need had arisen, she would have referred to the other men as, 'Moe and Curly'.

"But fear not, for I have come prepared. We'll tie dear Mrs. Seagram's horse out on the riding trail. That'll give the female super-fuzz here a chance to signal any rescue party that might stumble by. It's only sporting. I doubt if anyone would think to look back here in this grove."

"Leave the other two horses un-tethered". She ordered. "I've got just the thing to keep rider and steed entertained for the next hour or so."

She removed a can and paint brush from the small satchel and approached the motionless detectives. Joanna couldn't see, but she certainly could feel something being brushed on to the soles of her feet. She wriggled her feet furiously, disregarding the strain her struggles placed on her throat. She'd always been terribly ticklish and this sensation was absolutely horrific. Undeterred, the woman continued, making sure to swab thoroughly between each of her toes.

When she was satisfied, she began painting broad strokes across the exposed flesh of Joanna's buttocks. She repeated the process on Danielle, who was only marginally less ticklish than her partner. When done, she stood and mockingly held up her thumb as if studying the still-life she'd painted. She laughed when she thought that, in a sense, that was exactly what she'd done. She showed the label on the can to her comrades, who burst into a fit of laughter. Then, with a jaunty 'Ta-Ta!', the quartet vanished once more into the brush.

Within moments, the detectives were enveloped within the soft noises of the woods. Each struggled briefly to get free, but it proved too painful and hopeless. Almost instinctively, both officers' training kicked in. They realized that their situation was dire, but not hopeless. Soon enough they would be missed and someone would come looking for them. This wasn't, after all, the black forest. They'd be found eventually (neither dwelt too much on how long that would take). The best they could do was wait, whilst focusing on drawing labored breaths and beating back the tendrils of panic. It would be difficult and EXTREMELY uncomfortable, but if they kept their wits, things would be all right.

The two horses had remained nearby, docilely grazing on the sweet grasses that were plentiful here. Then the wind shifted and their noses picked up the unmistakable scent of the rarest of treats. Each lifted its head and tried to zero in on the source. It soon became evident that it was strongest over where the two humans stood unusually still. The notion that the women were almost naked, bound and kneeling never even crossed their primitive minds. They strode over cautiously to investigate.

Danielle heard the soft hoof falls approaching and for one ridiculous moment, thought the horses had sensed their riders' distress and were coming to the rescue. She dared not make a sound, for fear of frightening them away. She jumped, when she felt the hot breath of a snort waft across the soles of her feet. If she'd been able to jump higher, she would have, when the first rough, tentative swipe of the animals tongue brushed across her right foot. This was accompanied by a snort of delight and the tongue began an energetic scrubbing of both feet. Danielle fought the only way she could, by whip-sawing her feet back and forth and fluttering her fingers as much as she was able. This earned her a few moment reprieve, but the scent of the treat proved too great and the animal soon resumed. Danielle shrieked against the wet, sand papery sensation that swept chills up her spine. It was only a few seconds later when Joanna joined her in a symphony of vexatiously muffled whines of distress.

But in this case, the two horses were of one mind. They would not stop, until every bit of the dried, caked on layers of molasses had been savored. Not thirty feet away, the two officers' cries were obliterated by the gentle wind rustling the leaves that surrounded them. Somewhere in the distance, a crow let out a staccato 'Caw-caw-caw', that sound for all the world like laughter.


Part 20

The four masked kidnappers stopped not fifty yards from where detectives August and Frost were doing their involuntary tree hugging. Rebecca Cranston removed her mask and unzipped the black overalls. She shook out her hair and was unable to keep a wide smile off of her face. The others in her group were doing the same. Stringently bound Maggie Seagram lay on the ground, still encased in the duffel bag. Muted grunts seeped out from behind the black cloth sack enveloping her head. Rebecca paused for a moment, listening. As expected, she could detect no hint of the bound policewomen's presence just a stone's throw away.

Rapidly, the group had transformed into a quartet of nature walkers. Stanley and Irene (who had abducted the three cheerleader wannabes) stood grinning as well. As with Tricia Koulikofski's (622) abduction, Irene had altered her physical appearance so that she'd resembled a stocky, male abductor. It was a minor red herring, but one the police would be clueless about. The fourth member of the group was Andy Stewart, Equipment Manager of the Memphis Mauler's football team. Andy had been demoted from assistant coach of the team, because of inappropriate comments he'd made to some of the cheerleaders. Bert Seagram had thought it had been a compassionate thing to do, rather than kicking the man off the staff. It had in fact, left Andy with a deep seeded resentment. It hadn't taken much for Rebecca to talk Andy on board.

The four gathered up their disguises and stuffed them into another backpack. From there, it was a ½ mile trek off the Seagram property, to the parking lot of the adjacent state park. Once they arrived, they unlocked Andy's Dodge Magnum and lifted its tailgate. Margaret Seagram was unceremoniously dumped in back, where they anchored her folded form in place with cargo straps from convenient anchoring points. The security cover was pulled over the motionless figure and the four kidnappers got in and drove off.

About the time that Andy's car pulled out on to the highway, 'Lord Byron' and 'Nugget' had finished their serendipitous treats. Both Danielle and Joanna were barely able to catch their breath. The constant licking had launched each woman into shrieking fits of uncontrollable laughter. Heedless of how their struggles ground their skin against the rough bark of the tree, each had tried anything they could think of to escape the tongue lashings. Now that the horses had finished (including several additional licks to make sure they hadn't missed a spot), both detectives began feeling the combined effects of their struggles.

Besides being slightly lightheaded by the oxygen debt, other symptoms included abrasions, anywhere their skin touched the tree. In fact, each woman soon discovered that their bras had provided practically no protection at all. The tender skin of their breasts tingled from the involuntary scrubbing they took during their struggles. Joanna was most relieved when the steeds finally stopped their slurping. There had been moments when she thought she'd go out of her mind during the assault on her feet.

"mmngh?" she garbled a question to Danielle, out of sight on the other side of the tree.

"nnngff!" came the whisper soft reply. Still, it was a great relief to Joanna to know that her partner was apparently alright, given the circumstances.

Once more, Joanna wriggled and strained against her bonds and once more, they held firm. The only thing that had changed, was that now, Joanna was in a near state of exhaustion. She imagined that Danielle was in a similar state. "Frustrating" didn't even begin to describe Joanna's dilemma. She could run all day without getting tired and shoot the whiskers off a mosquito at fifty feet, but none of those talents could help her now. She turned her head as much as the plasti-cuff strap through the gag strap ring would allow and watched the two horses amble off. She did this with mixed emotions. On the plus side, it meant that there'd be no further tongue bathes from the two behemoths. On the other hand, their presence had improved the chances of the officers being discovered.

It dawned on Joanna that the shadows were slowly creeping up her inert figure. Evening was fast approaching and with it, the prospects of spending a long, cold, uncomfortable night outdoors. She wondered what kind of creatures called this glen home. She tried hard not to dwell on that subject for too long. She half-heartedly twisted against the inflexible plastic straps fusing her arms behind her back. Her shoulders ached at the constant strain on her arms.

"Hell," she thought, "I hurt all over. They definitely didn't cover this at the academy."

Orville Davenport was pissed. He wanted nothing more than to dress down the horses and go get a cold beer. It was bad enough watching that Seagram bitch saunter around the stables in clothes that threatened to burst any moment, all the while giving orders, now she and the other two bitches were nowhere to be found.

"I'll give 'em another half hour, then I'm gone." he bargained with himself.

Ten minutes passed, then Odie ( a play on his initials, O.D.) spotted two rider-less horses coming up the trail.

"Well ain't this peculiar?" he muttered to himself.

Now he began to worry. Mrs. Seagram's mount was nowhere to be seen. It wouldn't due for her to get hurt while he was on the job (though he didn't know how it could have been his fault, he still felt the blame would land on him). He hauled himself up on Lord Byron and turned him back down the trail. After some initial reluctance (the horse knew it was dinner time) Odie began re-tracing steps, er...hoof prints.

He rode for perhaps thirty minutes, calling out the name of his boss's wife. As he neared the stream, he spotted the tan coat of Mrs. Seagram's horse, standing by a tree. He thought it odd that the horse just stood there, until he saw the reins wrapped around a limb. He called Mrs. Seagram's name again, then listened. Something odd and very un-nature like filtered through the ordinary sounds of the woods.

"That sure don't sound like no pheasant nor bullfrog to me." he said aloud.

He shouted once more then listened. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the thicket to his right. He dismounted, thinking maybe someone was hurt. Cautiously he made his way through the brush, moved a branch out of his way and stopped, gawking. There, not ten feet away were two, practically naked women. Both were trying to turn their heads in his general direction, while at the same time, making frantic and very muffled noises.

Odie had prepared himself for what he might find, but this was beyond his scope. He stood there, dumbfounded, until the dark haired woman spotted him and began grunting and harrumphing agitatedly.

"Ummnnghhfff! Ghhnnnmmff!" The sounds she made were as incomprehensible as they were hushed.

Odie was so flabbergasted that he let go of the branch, which struck him squarely in the face. He moved cautiously forward, thinking this might be some kind of weird trick. As he moved closer, the blonde haired woman on the other side of the tree saw him too and she began huffing an obviously urgent mumble.

"What have you two ladies gone and done to yer' selves?" He asked. It still didn't quite dawn on him that they were unable to answer.

He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from their bare skin and shapely curves, even with the thin, white straps contorting their bodies. He felt a stirring under his coveralls. He could see now that, in addition to the straps running between their lips, a dark mass of some kind had been stuffed in their mouths, puffing their cheeks and reducing their frantic cries to a whisper.

Odie continued to circle the tree in order to get a clearer picture. He noted that their behinds were fully exposed, the seat of their panties disappearing into their ass cracks. Their faces were turning crimson as their bleatings became more insistent. Couldn't this man see that they needed help? Odie noted that their arms were quite flush, the straps digging furrows into their muscles. It was quite clear that these two women were completely, one hundred percent, helpless.

The stable hand's conscience was in turmoil. Raised to be a gentleman (when the situation was to his benefit) he ought to help these two gals out. But they were just so damn PRETTY. And helpless to boot. He could do anything he wanted to them and nobody would be the wiser. Then he'd just mosey back to the house, his lust satiated. It didn't help matters that the dang women wouldn't stop their caterwauling. Then he had a thought.

"These two philly's are policewomen." he remembered. "If I help them, I might just get a reward or sumthin'. Plus, if I don't help and they get free, I'd be looking' at some serious jail time." The risk was just too severe for the reward, thus, his decision was made.

"You just hang in there, missus'. I'll get you out in a jiffy." he told them.

It turned out it was going to take Odie a couple of jiffy's when he discovered that the straps were made of virtually indestructible plastic. He did, however, have a pair of wire cutters back in his saddle bag.

"You jus wait right here, ma'ams. I'll be back in a second." Danielle and Joanna were so relieved, that they didn't even begrudge the man his slip of 'wait here'.

When finally freed, the detectives had massaged the feeling back to their numbed limbs and retrieved their weapons from the creek. Each of them also paused to pry their sweat dampened underwear out the cleft in their derrieres. Then they steeled themselves for the ride back to the house. It was that, or walk all the way back barefoot. Their rescuer offered Danielle his plaid shirt, to protect her modesty. Joanna had to make due with a spare horse blanket. The two women rode together on Lord Byron, clutching each other and their firearms tightly for comfort.

They made it back to the Seagram mansion without incident. The two detectives quickly disappeared into the main house with merely a cool 'Thank You' to Odie. It was clear that they thought he had spent WAY too much time debating about releasing them.

"To hell with 'em." Odie thought.

Later that night, and three sheets to the wind, Odie was trying to tell his story to any of the customers at the MoZee Inn (yes, the same tavern that Tricia Koulikofski was to entertain, 48 hours earlier). Try as he might, he couldn't get a single person to believe that he had rescued two, gorgeous, half naked women out at the Seagram place. See, Odie had a reputation for spinning a tale or two. So finally, when the bartender told him he'd reached his limit, Odie staggered on home and right before passing out, cursed himself for not having listened to the devil inside.


Part 21

The ride back to the Seagram house had been uneventful, although a couple of times, Joanna or Danielle had nearly blasted a hole through some furry forest creature that happened to be making too much noise while it foraged. They'd allowed Orville to hold the reins of Lord Byron, their horse, but both detectives kept a close eye on their 'rescuer'. Each woman was certain that he'd taken way too much time deciding whether or not to free them. That, and Detectives August and Frost were madder than hornets about what had happened to them. Each was itching for some payback.

After they'd arrived back at the house, Danielle called their commander to inform him of what had happened. They kept the facts of their plight vague, but each knew that eventually, all the lurid details would be the talk of the precinct. Bert Seagram returned home and it was Danielle and Joanna's painful duty to inform him of what had happened. Seagram was inconsolable.

The wheels of justice turned quickly when it was learned that two of their own had been in peril. The precinct commander rapidly made the necessary calls to assemble a hostage response team. As Bert, Joanna and Danielle (dressed in some of Margaret Seagram's more conservative clothes) sat in the kitchen waiting for the cavalry (i.e. the Special Crimes/Kidnapping unit) to arrive, the officers filled Bert in on what few details they knew. They omitted any mention of Maggie Seagram's equestrian use of Ben-Wa balls.

Danielle glanced at the wall clock. Nearly four hours had passed since the kidnappers had burst from the brush and ambushed the riders. The awkward silence was broken by a timid knocking on the kitchen door. Bert got up to answer it. Standing in the doorway was Bert's ten year old neighbor, Timmy, his faithful dog Lassie by his side.

"Hey there, Timmy." Bert said distractedly.

"Hi, Bert!" Timmy was very proud of the fact that he was on a first name basis with the owner of a professional football team and made sure to let all of his friends know it.

"Uh, Timmy," Bert confessed, "Now's not a really good time to chat about football. I'm kind of busy."

"Oh that's OK Bert." Timmy replied brightly. "A lady gave me twenty dollars to give you this". Then he added rather meekly, "She said that it was important and that you'd give me another twenty dollars when I saw you."

Bert glanced at the manila envelope. He noted that it was blank on the outside. He reached into his pocket and fished out a fifty dollar bill. Timmy's eyes lit up, but Bert held firmly on to the greenback.

"This lady, Timmy." Bert asked as casually as he could. "Did you get a good look at her?"

"Hm, not really." Answered the boy, his eyes never leaving the fifty. "She wasn't real tall and she was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt." He paused, apparently trying to picture the woman in his mind. "She was wearing a hat and sunglasses too."

Joanna and Danielle attempted to gently coax more information out of the boy, but it was clear that his attention had been on the cash. Plus, the boy seemed to be reluctant to open up to a couple of strangers. Pretty strangers sure, but strangers none-the-less. Realizing it was a dead end, Bert paid his neighbor and the young man raced off, the money, no doubt, already spent. Bert tore open the envelope. It contained a note, a DVD and a cell phone. He did this before either detective could warn him about fingerprints (though neither expected there'd be any). Bert read aloud the brief message.

SEAGRAM, NO DOUBT YOU'VE ALL READY CONTACTED THE POLICE. COOPERATE WITH THEM, BUT DO NOT DIVULGE THE CONTENTS OF THIS PACKAGE. WE ARE MONITORING ALL POLICE COMMUNICATIONS AND WILL KNOW IF YOU DEVIATE FROM INSTRUCTIONS.

WE KNOW THE TWO COP BITCHES WE PLAYED WITH, ARE THERE WITH YOU NOW. THEY ARE TO BE YOUR COURIERS. IF YOU DON'T WISH YOUR WIFE TO BE SENT BACK TO YOU ONE PIECE AT A TIME, YOU WILL PAY US $2.5 MILLION.

WHEN YOU'VE RAISED THE MONEY, CALL THE NUMBER STORED IN THE PHONE AND YOU'LL BE GIVEN MORE DETAILS. YOU HAVE TWENTY FOUR HOURS.

WATCH THE DVD. IF YOU DECIDE TO CROSS US, SWEET MAGGIE WILL CONSIDER THIS A DAY AT THE SALON.

Hands trembling, Bert inserted the disk into the kitchen entertainment unit. Danielle and Joanna re-read the note silently. It was on the lean side, as far as clues went. Their attention turned to the TV as it hissed to life.

The static gave way to a blurred, pale object, that filled the lower two thirds of the screen. Some kind of motion animated the top third. As the camera drew back, the picture focused, revealing a profile of a smooth, pale, buttocks. The motion portion in view, was that of a man's naked pelvis, its thick, magenta-colored erection pistoning back and forth. Bert, Joanna and Danielle were aghast at seeing what appeared to be thousands of spikes covering the man's member. It dawned on all three, at roughly the same time, that the stranger's penis was sheathed in a latex, 'French Tickler' condom. Judging by the stony look on Bert's face, Danielle knew he'd realized that the penetration was anal.

The sound suddenly kicked in, startling the trio. The kitchen was filled with grunts and moans. One set obviously male, the other female, though strangely distorted. The picture continued to pull back, exposing an odd, black triangle whose point ended at the apex of the buttock's crack. As more of the seen filled the TV, Bert's face became ashen at what he saw.

The man, dressed entirely in black, including a ski mask and sunglasses was savagely butt fucking a Caucasian woman. Bert couldn't bring himself to come to the obvious conclusion. The woman, whose head was still out of the picture, was bent over a waist-high, horizontal bar. They couldn't see her arms, though they knew they were there. They were encased within some kind of long, tight, black leather pouch.

Both policewomen recognized the manner of restraint, having experienced it earlier this afternoon. They could tell by the unnatural angle of the woman's arms, that her wrists, forearms and elbows were crushed together behind her back, inside the binder. Straps from the sheath ran up over her shoulders, obviously to hold the tightly laced and strapped leather in place. It looked so tight, that each officer thought that that feature was redundant.

The wider view of the image also afforded the viewers a look at the woman's muscular legs. They were spread wide, each ankle lashed to a pole supporting the bar she was bent over. Joanna noted that only three of her toes were actually touching the floor. Maggie's (Bert, Danielle and Joanna knew it could be no one else) legs quivered with the strain of their position.

Abruptly, the masked rapist leaned forward. He reached down and when his hand came back up, it held a handful of Maggie's luxurious copper colored hair. Bert let out an audible gasp when he saw his wife's face. Her beautiful features were distorted for several reasons.

The lower half of her face was distended due to an enormous, white rubber ball wedged in her mouth. Her soft, pink lips were stretched tightly around the blockage. Small pockets of drool bubbled out from the corners of her mouth each time she involuntarily grunted. The, "Umnghff! Umnghff!" sounds she uttered seemed impossibly muted.

A plethora of straps sprouted from the ball, going in all directions. The widest cleft her cheeks, on its way around to the back of her head. Two narrower ones rose from that, merging between her eyebrows and continuing as one, over the crown of her head. A shorter one, dove down under her chin, then back up again. It appeared to keep the prisoner's jaw motionless. One final strap passed around her forehead, running parallel to the belt that passed through the huge sphere lodged in her mouth. Everything had obviously been buckled extremely tight, as evidenced by how it dimpled the flesh of her face.

The features around Maggie's eyes were in a constant state of motion. Her brows would furrow, then arch exaggeratedly with every thrust from her attacker. Her eyelids fluttered and occasionally opened wide. She'd gaze miserably at the camera, probably not even realizing it was there. Then her eyes would squeeze firmly closed and another series of grunts and moans would dribble out from behind the gag.

The hand entwined in Maggie's hair lifted slightly more. Now it was Joanna and Danielle's turn to gasp. The kidnappers had tightened thin belts around the base of their hostage's breasts. Maggie's surgically enhanced bosom ballooned, blushing darkly. The true horror of what the detectives saw, dangled below the prisoner's crimson globes. Some sort of ornate, silver clamp had been affixed to each of her nipples. It was clear that their bite was severe, as testified by the darker hue of the tender buds.

Dangling beneath her breasts, in sharp contrast to the elaborate clamps, was an ordinary pair of pyramid-shaped, fisherman's weights. They were suspended from the clamps by a set of finely spun metal springs, something one might find in the workings of a time piece. They seemed to transmit every twitch to the weights, then back again. Danielle mused that they could probably be influenced by even Maggie's heartbeat. The weights were currently in a frenzy of motion, spinning and jogging up and down.

The rapist suddenly began grunting more urgently (as did Maggie in unison). The camera pulled back and stayed there. The man thrust brutally at Maggie's backside and remained there.

"MMMNNNGGNNNFFF!!!" Maggie gurgled, as her assailant climaxed inside her.

The ruffian expelled a long groan himself. They remained frozen this way for several long seconds. Then, he let go of Maggie's hair and the woman's torso dropped helplessly once more, her silken ringlets forming a pool of hair on the floor. The man was in the midst of backing away, when the DVD ended. The kitchen had become eerily quiet. Then, Bert hung his head in his hands.

"Dear God," he muttered into his palms. "I'll pay anything to get her out of that purgatory."

"Do you have that kind of money?" Joanna asked, as delicately as possible.

"Yes," he answered. "I think I can scrape together in time. It means that I'll probably lose the team. But at this point, who cares?"

Bert placed a few calls, being vague about the details. When he finished, he and the detectives discussed there next move. There weren't all that many. The kidnappers were holding all the high cards. Anxious to exact some revenge, plus rescue a damsel in distress, Danielle and Joanna agreed to help Bert with his clandestine operation. When the department's hostage response team arrived, none of the trio mentioned any of the unsettling new developments.

If Bert had been a heartbroken man watching the video, he would have been truly crushed by what transpired after the camera stopped rolling. Maggie lay doubled over the bar, moaning. The woman who'd been operating the camera walked up to her and lifted her by the shoulders until she stood upright. Then she reached around and started unbuckling the numerous straps of the head harness. With some difficulty, she managed to pry the enormous ball out from between Maggie's lips. The hostage worked her mouth and jaw tenderly, then suddenly, her lips spread into a grin.

"Andy that was fantastic!" she gasped to the Mauler's equipment manager. "I bet old Bert is having a seizure right now. But Ow, these nipple clamps hurt like a mother. Becca honey, could you take them off please?"

Rebecca Cranston hefted one of the 3 oz weights in her palm. Margaret Seagram hadn't yet caught on to the Cheshire like grin her co-conspirator was sporting.

"C'mon Rebecca." Maggie said in a sterner voice. "They really hurt. And this arm binder is starting to cramp my shoulders."

"Oh, I think your future foretells of a lot more aches and pains." Rebecca Cranston said coyly.

"What do you mean?" Maggie asked, a hint of concern tainting her voice.

"Well, you see Magg's," Rebecca expounded. "This little taping session wasn't just for the benefit of dear hubby Bert. As a matter of fact, it was sent out as a live feed to a couple hundred clients of mine. And boy, did they like what they saw."

Maggie was temporarily confused, the revelation hadn't sunk in yet. The door to the room opened and in walked Stanley. Right behind him was the faithful Irene. Maggie's eyes locked on the cat o' nine tails Irene was holding. The shroud of befuddlement was beginning to part. Stanley handed Rebecca a slip of paper. Glancing at it, Becca's smile grew wider.

"It seems, Magg's, that your stock is really rising. This latest bid has you selling for eight hundred thousand dollars. Now that ain't scratch."

"But," Maggie stuttered, "the ransom. We're going to get two and a half million. I know Bert's got it, I've seen the accounts."

"Yes," Rebecca sighed, "That's a fair piece of change, but why stop there? But don't feel too bad, Maggie. After all, it's you we can thank for all this bounty."

And before Margaret could utter another word, Becca rammed the ballgag back home with callous ferocity. Maggie shook her head and gurgled desperately. But Rebecca, skilled in the art of restraint, had no trouble buckling the straps even tighter than before. Margaret twisted her upper torso (her legs were still lashed wide to the poles) humming like a bezerk vacuum cleaner. Though helpless before, she hadn't actually realized how HELPLESS she truly was. A chill swept up her spine.

"Don't worry Magg's," soothed Rebecca, while Maggie's face turned scarlet with the effort to communicate. "I'm going to introduce you to a couple of friends of mine. Meet Irene and Stanley. Their naughty and nice. I'll leave it up to you to decide which one's which. With that, Rebecca pushed the hapless girl forward. Maggie couldn't stop her torso from folding over once more and was soon viewing the world upside down as before. She turned and watched the man 'Stanley' strip. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the enormity of the man's penis.

"Tsk, Tsk." Rebecca scolded. "We can't have you looking and ruining the surprise now, can we?"

She walked away, only to return with a gleaming, black cylinder. The tube was about eight inches round and six inches tall. Becca took advantage of Margaret's flowing hair spilling in the wrong direction, to fasten the posture collar in place. The collar had integrated 'ski boot' style fasteners that allowed for practically unlimited tightening. As it closed around Maggie's throat, the soft sounds that emanated from there, quieted to a whisper. It also held her head almost completely rigid. The blood, all ready rushing to her skull, now throbbed with an intensity equal to her poor breasts.

The beautiful, bound woman was forced to gaze back between her legs. She lost track of 'Stanley', until she saw his bare feet slip up behind her. Rebecca eased out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her, cutting off the first abbreviated shriek, of which many more were sure to follow. She gave her co-conspirator, the team's equipment manager, a deep, passionate kiss and said.

"Well, Andy." She said with a wicked grin. "How does it feel to be a millionaire?"


Part 22

Morgan Firestone (917) struggled to breathe. Which seemed rather odd, since her mouth wasn't currently stuffed with any standard gagging material, as it had been since her abduction. Morgan reflected glumly, that through all the humiliation and violation she'd been forced to endure, the situation now, was worse by far.

Her captors' tactics had left her muddled and confused (precisely what they had intended). They'd manhandled her in the showers, then dressed her in that ridiculously brief cheerleader's outfit. Then, if that weren't enough, to be SOLD via live auction. Part of the fiery redhead's brain still couldn't grasp the concept. To be thought of as a kind of commodity, like pork bellies or sugar cane, was just too bizarre.

"Slavery was something that went out 200 years ago. Wasn't it?" She'd thought. Yet, here she was.

After the auction, two guards had led her back to her cell and shackled her to the cot. For Morgan, time was becoming more and more skewed. Past and future were now abstract periods, the ability to influence them robbed from her. She had little choice but to remain in the present. Restrained, miserable and with little hope.

She'd been caught totally unaware when two guards (the same two? She couldn't tell) pounced on her later that night (or was it day?). She'd been in a deep sleep and hadn't been able to offer anything but token resistance. In fact, she'd surprised herself by falling asleep in the first place. The last thing she remembered, was feeling not the least bit tired.

Plus, it was hard to fight back when these people were so skilled at what they did. At no time were any of her limbs free but for the briefest of moments. The guards worked in smooth tandem, one holding her firmly, while the other applied the binding.

Before she was aware of what was happening, her wrists were freed, only to be re-fastened in front. They'd yanked her roughly from the cot and moved her to the middle of the floor. Her pinioned hands were brought up to a cable suspended from the ceiling, one she hadn't noticed before. Morgan tried to plead with them to let her go, but found that the adhesive still held her lips in a frozen pout.

The cable was raised by electric winch, until Morgan stood up on her toes. The cheerleader top, which had been left bunched up above her breasts, was cut off. In her stretched posture, the mini skirt rose up, completely exposing her privates. It too, was cut off. A wooden dowel with straps dangling from each end, was positioned between her legs. Each strap in turn was buckled tightly to her lower thigh, just above the knee. The resulting spread of her legs made her contact with the floor even more tentative. And that was the good news.

Morgan looked down, as one of the guards wrapped a wide leather belt around her waist. The guard proceeded to buckle it in back. Four sharp tugs that actually lifted Morgan's feet off the floor, guaranteeing that it was irrevocably taut. The bound redhead grunted, picturing her insides being displaced by the constriction. Yet there was more. Two, 1" inch wide straps dangled from the belt, one near each hip. With her legs splayed by the spreader bar, there was no way for Morgan to prevent them from feeding the straps between her legs.

The captive braced herself for the horrid, cutting fire of a crotch strap, like the one she'd experienced earlier. Puzzled confusion swept over her, when the straps appeared to miss their mark. Or did they? True, before being tightened, the two leather bands did split her womanhood. But as they were pulled through their buckles at her spine, they drifted away from each other in front. The trouble was, they had bisected her mons in the process. As the gap widened, the hypersensitive lips of her labia sprouted out like the glistening petals of a flower from behind their fleshy covering. When the straps were buckled, Morgan couldn't contain the blush of humiliation at how blatantly exposed her sex had become.

Her distress was averted slightly, as the guards continued with their misdeeds. Morgan had no clue as to the purpose of the blue rubber 'figure eight' that was slid up her leg to the knee. A matching one was worked up the opposite leg. Each stretched enough to grip her firm muscles just below the joint. The unoccupied loops of the '8' jutted straight out in front of her kneecaps. Apparently, they played no role in her current binding, for instead, one of the guards grabbed her left ankle. She drew the helpless girl's foot off the floor and up behind her. Balance now became a dicey thing, even with her hands suspended over her head.

Morgan's foot was drawn up until her heel pressed against her ass cheek. Smoothly, the other guard captured the doubled up leg with a two inch wide belt. It was efficiently buckled tight around the redhead's ankle and upper thigh. A second belt of similar dimensions encircled her folded leg a few inches below the first. Working on one, then the other strap, the guard was able to squeeze Morgan's calf and thigh muscles together with vice-like ferocity. The cheerleader wannabe was forced to hop unsteadily on one foot to maintain her balance.

Next, her right wrist was freed from the cuffs overhead and wrestled down to her side. There, attached to the leather belt, was a cuff, open and waiting to receive her temporarily unshackled wrist. In no time, Morgan's wrist was held firm at her side, just above her hip. As her left wrist was freed and wrenched down to the opposite side, Morgan was all too willing to allow her captors to steady her. Forced to stand there like a flamingo, the last thing she wanted was to pitch forward on her face. When both hands were ultimately immobilized at her hips, she felt yet more leather pass around her elbows. She hummed a protest, for she knew what was to happen next. Sure enough, the belt tightened, dragging her elbows toward each other in the center of her back. Even though the joints soon ground against each other, that didn't stop the guard from trying to coax one more notch out of the restraint.

Morgan's shoulders arched back, trying to relieve the pressure. This off coarse, thrust her breasts out exaggeratedly. Apparently, the guards were counting on this. For now, the one in front approached her, stretching out an over-sized rubber band as she did. It was clear by the effort showing in her face, that the band didn't want to stretch very far. Using both hands, she slid it over Morgan's left breast. The other guard assisted by working the flesh of the Morgan's tit through the opening. When released, the elastic immediately shrank back to its original two inch diameter. Morgan's breast instantly swelled, its blush turning darker by the second. Then there was a painful period as the guard pinched and plucked at the band, getting the twists out of it, so that its one inch width lay flat against their prisoner's skin. Soon, her right breast ballooned as well, jutting out in a most unnatural shape.

Her quivering right leg was finally relieved of its burden, as the two guards lowered Morgan to an awkward kneeling position. While one steadied her by the shoulders, the other deftly doubled up her last unfettered limb and soon had it as immobilized as the other. A hand truck (dolly, if you prefer) materialized and Morgan was strapped to it, knees on the lifting plate, facing back between the handlebars, her turnip shaped breasts poking through the metal lattice of the cart.

The dolly was stable enough to hold her in an upright position. One of the guards took what looked like a bottle of nail polish out and began painting Morgan's lips with the contents. Almost immediately, the helpless woman could feel her lips parting, millimeter by millimeter. In time, as the adhesive dissolved away, her mouth sprang open, due to the expansion of the packing inside it. A cautionary finger was raised, issuing a signal for "Silence", then the packing was extricated. A bottle of water was lifted to her lips, the liquid washing away the parched sensation in her mouth and throat.

Morgan was still trying to formulate a compelling plea for release, when her head was yanked viciously back by her hair.

"AAaaahhhckk!" her cry was distorted as something was wedged between her teeth.

Whatever it was, She could feel its grooves settle down over her front teeth, top and bottom. She explored this blockage with her tongue and found that her teeth had disappeared behind some kind of slick, hard rubber. Her tongue waggled in the opening that the device had created. She watched warily, as a guard inserted a small allen wrench near the corner of her mouth. Morgan's eyes widened, as the wrench was turned and the gap between her incisors increased. The hinge of her jaw screamed in protest. Morgan screamed too, until a fat, penis shaped rubber plug was shoved into her gaping oral cavern. Her protests were cut off like a light switch, frantic hums now filling the air. The guards paid her no mind and proceeded to brutally buckle the gag strap at the base of her skull.

Morgan shook her head and rocked feebly in the cart, trying to expel this newest silencer. But she had no effect on changing her state, other than bursting out in perspiration. Her struggles soon stilled, the sound of her ragged breathing filling the cell. A pair of hands roughly fastened her luxurious hair in a pony tail. Then her world went black as a thickly padded blindfold was buckled around her head. She squeaked as her head was pulled back. Their was some tugging on her hair, as well as some activity around her elbows. When the hands moved away, her head remained craned back, looking sightlessly at the ceiling. One didn't have to be clairvoyant, to know that they had tied her hair to the elbow strap.

As she was adjusting to this newest joint-wrenching pose, her dark world tipped abruptly on its axis. Momentary panic sent her heart racing, until she surmised that the hand truck she was lashed to, had just been tipped. Sure enough, she soon sensed the mildly weightless sensation of rolling along the floor. She heard a door open, then guessed they were traveling down the corridor. Not for a moment, did Morgan did feel the least bit appreciative that she didn't have to walk the corridor as before. She had no way to gauge time nor distance. But the journey did end as it began, with her propped upright, still lashed to the hand truck.

"I'm surprised they didn't trundle me up a flight of stairs." She mused.

More hands steadied her as the straps holding her to the dolly were removed. She was then laid down on the floor. She felt some gentle tugging at both of her folded knees. A moments pause, then a weird ratcheting sound. Understanding crystallized, as her knees suddenly began levitating.

"They're going to hoist me up, upside down!" was the dreaded realization.

There was no defense against her body slowly losing contact with Mother Earth. And once her right shoulder left the ground, she had no idea how high above the concrete floor she hovered. Fear swept through her, knowing that only the strength of the rubber "8's" secured behind her folded knees, were the only things keeping her from plummeting back to a bone shattering impact. She groaned, as already tight restraints shifted and grew even tighter. Then she gasped, as a smooth pair of fingers stroked her exposed sex.

"Hmmm, 917. You look quite delicious." Purred the feminine voice that belonged to the fingers. "However, it'll be YOU that's in store for some tasty treats. But first, we can't have you scratching your trainers now, can we?"

Morgan was puzzled, until she felt something pliant slide over her left hand, still strapped at her hip. It dawned on her that it was some kind of soft leather bag. There were some tugs on the bag, which constricted its size. This in turn forced Morgan to curl her fingers into a tight fist. The tugging stopped and the inverted redhead felt a strap snug firmly around her wrist. The same was repeated with her right hand and soon she was left with a pair of ineffective stumps.

The helpless woman jumped (sort of) when the fingers returned to her womanhood. This time though, the digits had a slick feel to them. They slid across her labia, a nail flicking not so gently against the hood shielding her clitoris. Then they slipped between the folds, entering her most private passage. Morgan tried to rock away, but her restraints, especially the hair tie, proved her struggles ineffective. Then, she felt the warming sensation.

She'd tried stimulating gels (her personal favorite was K-Y brand) in many of her sexual trysts, so she recognized immediately what was being so liberally spread about her labia and into her vagina.

"They can't possibly think that I'll get turned on while I'm trussed up like a rodeo calf!" she fumed.

At that very moment, two of the probing fingers pressed firmly against her 'G-Spot', while a second set of fingers pinched her clitoris. HARD! Morgan stiffened as nerve endings she never knew she had, suddenly telegraphed frenzied synapses. The sensation could hardly be described as arousal, more like a hyper-sensitizing of an already diaphanous area.

"Nnnnngphhff!" Morgan screeched at the pain (but was there some other sensation weaved in there as well?).

In her distress, she actually arched her back, in spite of the ruthless fashion in which she was bound. However, the fingers buried inside her, used the purchase to keep her from swinging away. The offending feminine fingers changed their tact, dancing and stroking about the rapidly moistening folds of Morgan's sex. Suddenly, yet another pair of hands began pawing the captive's rubber band ballooned breasts. The redhead could tell the set belonged to a man, for they were larger and calloused. The unseen hands stroked and squeezed her sensitive orbs. Then he raked them with his fingernails. If that wasn't enough, he began to bat them up and down as if they were a pair of juggler's balls.

Morgan rocked, twisted and turned, but could not escape the mauling. The blood pounded in her head, not all of it due to her inversion. Then, as if on cue, the hands left her body. The tingle and sting on her skin remained. Morgan could not see the man's hands grasp the leather handles riveted to her tight waist belt. She had not, as she was being bound, noticed them before. But it was obvious that her kidnappers had a use for them.

The man pulled down on the handles. Morgan sensed a stretching tightness in the rubber "8's" encircling the knees of her folded legs. Apparently, the "8's" were attached to whatever she was suspended from, allowing for an abbreviated 'bungee-like' motion. Then it came. Something smooth and hard began pressing between her labia. The something rapidly swelled to impossible proportions.

"Nghhhnn! Nghhhnn!" Morgan grunted frantically. "Oh God!" she thought in distress. "It feels like a watermelon!"

The head of the prod, was in fact, much smaller and shaped like a light bulb. The rotund head tapered to a shaft perhaps 1-½" in diameter. Morgan could not see her captor anchor the base of the probe to the spreader bar above her parted knees. A switch was flicked and the redhead thought that a jackhammer had been unleashed inside her sex. She was certain that the vibration caused a visible quivering of her stomach and thigh muscles.

"All right, 917" came the disembodied female voice. "Now that we've arranged some entertainment for you, it's time for you to do your part. I don't think instructions will be necessary."

With that, the rubber cock stuffing her mouth was removed. However the ring capturing her teeth held her mouth agape. Morgan sensed, rather than felt, a pair of hands slip into the handles on her belt. There was a downward tug and two things happened. The first, was that the head of the immense vibrator slid back toward her opening. She realized that it was fixed to something stationary.

"Probably the spreader bar." she thought correctly.

Now, the purpose of the rubber "8's" became clear. As her body was stretched up and down, she would slide up and down on the probe in unison. This revelation was unpleasant enough, but paled with what came next. Her recently un-stuffed mouth came in contact with something hot and moist. Momentarily confused, everything crystallized when the soft tuft of hair tickled her nose. Morgan's bleat of repulsion was swallowed by her captor's cunt.

"Get to work, 917". Came the command.

A moment of hesitation was rewarded by a set of fingernails viciously pinching her nipple. Purely out of defense, Morgan's tongue shot out into the slick, silken folds. As she probed, the woman rocked her bound captive up and down, directing the wriggling pink muscle to spots that needed attention. The rocking motion also pistoned the vibrator up and down. One moment it was buried almost to her cervix, the next it would slide virtually free, stretching her entrance most unpleasantly. And all the while, the vibration would clatter against her G-spot or clitoris. This made it very hard for Morgan to concentrate on the task at hand. Then, she rose up only to hang there, the head of the prod buried deep inside her.

"Thank goodness," she thought. "Are they done?"

But alas, they were not. Morgan felt her trussed self descend once more, only to receive yet another surprise. Absolutely no warning came before the erection slid through her artificially spread lips. There wasn't a moments hesitation, as it slid deeper toward the back of her throat. When her nose once again became buried in a forest of pubic hair, her airway was cut off. Morgan bucked and twisted as best she could, but there was no way to un-impale her mouth from his organ.

"nnnnffff! nnnnffff!" she bleated weakly, stars of oxygen deprivation already bursting in front of her blindfolded eyes.

She quickly struggled to breathe through her nose, the ticklish curly hair threatening to make her sneeze. The man's voice commanded her to use her tongue along his shaft, which she obediently did in hopes to hasten an unobstructed breath. Then she was allowed to spring up once more, the vibrator filling her beyond capacity. A couple of deep, ragged breaths, then she plunged back down to find the woman's pussy anxiously awaiting her helpless lips and tongue.

And so it went for Morgan. Each time she descended, she knew not what her fatigued mouth would contact. Two additional men and women had joined the first. They were careful to keep their pattern random. During the course of the debasement, they'd incorporated additional items. One, was some kind of vibrating wand that they would place directly on the poor girl's clitoris. They'd keep it there until the undesired orgasm swept over her. Then they'd lash her pussy and inner thighs with a switch as punishment for coming without permission.

A set of nipple clamps were snapped on, convincing the wearer that her swollen breasts were going to explode. But of course, it didn't end there. Weights were attached, compounding the agony. Morgan's mouth and tongue had long ago gone numb. She wished, fruitlessly, that the rest of her body would follow suit. But it continued to thrum and throb in a convoluted mix of ecstasy and pain. For the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time, she choked on the blood engorged cock in her mouth, tears soaking the blindfold.

"When will this end?" had become her mantra.


Part 23

Captain Eugene Callahan, Chief of Detectives for the Memphis Metropolitan Police Department, was from the old school. He tolerated having women in his unit, but he didn't have to be happy about it. Even with the exemplary arrest record of detectives' August and Frost, he still felt uncomfortable placing women in harm's way. This attitude certainly stood true when he saw his charges at the Seagram mansion.

Even though Danielle and Joanna were wearing slacks and long sleeved blouses borrowed from Seagram's wife, Margaret, signs of their plight were still evident. The temporary, pink ligature marks of the plasti-cuffs, often peeked out from under the sleeve cuffs of the blouses, as the women de-briefed their captain. That, and no amount of make-up could camouflage the crimson bands marring their cheeks, thanks to the gag strap. Callahan was aghast and after digesting their account of events, promptly ordered them to take a few days furlough.

"Today's Friday," he told his star detectives. "I don't want to see you two in the squad room until Wednesday morning. Is that clear?"

When he didn't receive a litany of arguments from the two attractive policewomen, he assumed it was because they were indeed shaken by the assault. Little did he know, that he was playing right into the trio's (Bert included) plans for rescuing Maggie Seagram. And, if they were lucky, inflict a little payback.

Somehow, Bert Seagram managed to maintain his role of cooperative husband, with the Hostage Rescue negotiators. He did not have to fake the part of being grief stricken, for that emotion was all too genuine. He was able to excuse himself from time to time without raising suspicion. During those periods, he made the phone calls necessary to gather the ransom money. It took some time, but finally, he could tell Joanna and Danielle that it would be ready in six hours. Bert wanted to call the number on the cell phone right away, hoping to spare his wife from another minute of what they'd witnessed on the video. But the detectives were able to convince him to wait until the entire sum was ready. They didn't want anything to go wrong last minute. The passing minutes seemed to slow to a snail's pace.

Then, the phone rang in the living room. The Hostage Rescue negotiators and technicians sprang to life and looked at Bert Seagram anxiously. They'd briefed the millionaire on how to act and giving him a list of dialogue to keep the kidnappers on the line. The longer the phone call, the better chances of nailing the perpetrators.

"Hello?" Bert answered after being cued by the recording technician.

"Seagram?" came the obviously electronically altered voice.

"Yes"

"We have your wife. If you want her back alive, you'll pay us five hundred thousand dollars." said the eerie voice.

"Yes...Where?..." Bert stammered. The electronic voice cut him off.

"You have six hours. We'll call back then with instructions." The line clicked dead.

All eyes looked expectantly at the tech responsible for tracing the call. After a few moments, he slipped off his headphones and delivered the bad news.

"The call was too short." he said. "It definitely came from the metropolitan area, southeast region. But that's still a pretty big grid."

"At least we know where the call didn't come from." offered the HR task force leader. "We'll reconfigure our gear for that area, so the next time he calls, we should be able to get a good fix."

He'd said that mainly for Seagram, in order to keep up his moral, but he could see that it had done little to lift the man's spirits. He watched as Bert ambled back to the kitchen. He'd been spending a lot of time with Frost and August and the team leader assumed that that had been because the two detectives had been the last to see Margaret Seagram. He hadn't a clue of the conspiracy that was going on right under his nose. Hours passed, then suddenly, Bert's private cell phone (which he'd set to vibrate) rang.

"Yes?" he whispered into the device, as Danielle and Joanna looked on.

Bert listened for a few moments, then let out a long breath. His color, which had been pallid most of the evening, returned to almost normal.

"Thanks, Ernie." he spoke earnestly. "You're a life saver and I mean that literally."

After he hung up, he turned to the two detectives and briefed them in a low tone.

"The money's ready." he said, the relief evident in his voice.

"Then it's time to make the call." announced Joanna.

Joanna took the cell phone provided by the kidnappers and attached a small suction cup near the earpiece. A wire led to a personal tape recorder, so that the conversation could be recorded. The detectives were worried about Bert's powers of recollection, given his present state of mind. Danielle kept a lookout at the kitchen door, ready to run interference should an HR officer wander in at the wrong moment. Bert, his hands shaking, pressed the speed dial for the pre-programmed number. It only rang once before it was answered.

"You have the money?" It was the same voice from the video.

"Yes," Bert's voice quavered. "It's all here. I want to talk to my wife." he added firmly.

"Oh no, Bertie." the voice replied. "You don't make the demands here. Are the two bitches still there with you?" (Joanna would bristle at this, when they listened to the recording later).

"Yes, they're here." he confirmed.

"Excellent." the woman said. "We want the blonde haired bimbo to deliver the money. The brunette can stay and keep you company. Here's what you're going to do."

The kidnapper rattled off the instructions, then cut the connection before Bert could plead once again to speak to his wife. The trio sat close to the recorder, listening to what had transpired. The directions were clear, and brilliant in their simplicity.

"Good God!" Bert exclaimed. "I'd forgotten all about that."

Maggie Seagram was miserable. Not only had the brass ring been snatched from her, just when it had been within reach, but events had taken a unexpectedly bad turn for her. The two-timing Rebecca Cranston had made her plans clear, only after Maggie had allowed them to bind her so strictly for the video. Oh sure, Maggie had a decidedly kinky side. She'd actually enjoyed the rear "assault" by Andy Stewart, the Mauler's equipment manager and Maggie's secret lover (she thought). She'd often allowed Andy to bind her during their love making, the feeling of helplessness a real aphrodisiac. But now, what she was enduring was anything BUT "love bondage".

She'd remained bent over the bar at her waist, still bound and helpless, whilst 'Stanley' savagely raped her. Maggie would have bet the entire ransom (had it still been her's to bet) that there'd be no way her pussy could accommodate the man's massive erection. She considered it a small blessing that her passage was still slick from the excitement of making the video. That had been the only positive thing she could muster. He took his time, she was sure in part, to the fact that her orifice was being stretched like never before.

"Hmmnnngggfff!!! Nngff!! Nngff!!!" She'd screamed and grunted into the massive ball gag.

This only seemed to spur her attacker on. Margaret was sure that she was going to split open, from asshole to navel. Then she'd felt him swell even more, thrusting his pelvis hard against her backside. Maggie used strength she didn't know she had left and muscled herself up to a standing position in an attempt to launch off of her assaulter. This only seemed to play into his hands, for he grasped a handful of her thick, coppery mane and rode her like a stud thoroughbred, siring an unwilling mare. Margaret felt the swollen mass within her pulse, then seemingly buckets of hot, gooey sperm scalded and bubbled inside her abdomen.

Margaret felt sick to her stomach. The only things that kept the nausea at bay, were the facts that if she got sick, she'd choke, and, that she was currently on the pill (she hadn't wanted something like a pregnancy to complicate her extortion plans). Knowledge of these two factors however, did little to ease her dismay. Another wave of nausea washed over her, as she felt a trace of Andy's seminal fluid leak out of her anus, its goop beginning to mix with the first dribbles from Stanley.

Maggie had forgotten all about Irene, until the compact woman passed in front of her vision. She was carrying some kind of leather strap, but disappeared behind her before the bound ex-conspirator could get a good look at it. She thought, though, that it may not have been one belt, but rather two. She soon found out that she was both right and wrong.

Maggie looked down between her still ballooned breasts, as the strap was passed around her waist. The captive was able to look over her shoulder just enough to see that Irene was doing the application. The belt (as she realized it to be) began to tighten, showing no sign of stopping. Irene actually placed her knee in the small of Maggie's back, in order to gain more leverage. Bewildered, Margaret actually sucked in her stomach, thinking that cooperation might earn her, her freedom. Without so much as an acknowledgement, Irene took full advantage, tightening the belt down to one of its last notches.

Maggie grunted at the severe compression of her waist. She looked down once more, but could see practically nothing of the black leather band. It had sunk so deeply into her muscular mid-section that it all but disappeared, leaving a deep cleft in its wake. Margaret DID notice the strap that sprouted out from the cleft, just below her navel. There was no missing the fact that, jutting from the strap mid-way down, were two formidably sized faux phalluses. Each was a lifeless ebony color, their surface reflected the light as if made of glass. The upper one was no less than two inches in diameter and eight inches long. Its cousin was roughly 1-¼ inches in diameter and six inches long. Both jutted out ramrod straight from the dangling strap.

Stanley (who had yet to put his clothes back on) yanked back on Margaret's shoulders, creating a gap between her waist and the bar she'd been leaning over. Irene took immediate advantage of the chasm and threaded the strap through. Maggie had no delusions about their intent. She thrashed madly, trying to make their task unattainable. But with her ankles still tied wide and her passages still slick with juices, the job proved ridiculously easy. Once again, Maggie fought back the nausea, as both of her orifices ballooned with the firm plastic prods. Worse yet, she realized that the two men's cum was bottled up inside her, coating her slick, membraned walls for who knew how long.

Irene reached between Maggie's legs, her fingers articulating the trapped girl's inner and outer labia. The muscular woman held the lips apart as she positioned the crotch strap to pass right through the center. She then gave the butt prod a shove with the heel of her hand to make sure it was properly seated. Maggie rose up on her toes once again, as the vile strap grew tighter. And tighter. And tighter!

"Hhggnnnnnnngghnnn!!!" She screeched, shaking her head in disbelief. Surely something was going to rupture.

But nothing happened, aside from the fire that streaked through her crotch and around her waist. The padlock was momentarily removed, so that the crotch strap could mate with the belt, near her tailbone. Even before it snapped closed, Maggie tried to flex her abdominal muscles, either to snap the belt or jettison the inanimate plugs inside her. All she did was increase the already unbearable pressure. Tears dribbled down her cheeks as she fought to come to terms with this latest debasement. She failed to notice Irene step back, the cat o' nine tails dangling in her hand.

The first lash across her bared back side caught her totally off guard. The sound jolted her eyes open, followed half a heartbeat later by the searing pain. In fact, the pure volume of pain had yet to register, when the next blow landed, slightly lower.

"hmmmmMMNNNNH!!!!" A great bleating gasp jammed up behind the ball gag. By the time the third strike landed, Maggie could no longer find her voice.

The blows seemed to drive the oxygen from her lungs. She tried desperately to draw a breath, while the lashes rained down on her. Irene didn't stop at Margaret's derriere, but traversed down her legs and back again. Some of the strands striking her ankles even arced down and stung heels and soles of Maggie's arched feet. Close to passing out, her lower body ablaze in pain, Margaret didn't even register that the sadistic woman had stopped. The agony continued on, as though it would never stop.

Irene stepped in front and waited for her fiery haired captive to open her eyes. The moment Maggie did so, Irene let go a mighty arc of her arm. The swing was timed perfectly so that the end of the tails snapped, precisely when they contacted her captive's garroted breasts. Maggie's eyes flew open as if they were going to pop out of her head. The helpless woman stood completely rigid, not uttering a peep. Then she let go a wheezing, pitiful wail and began to swoon. Before she could drop forward, Stanley caught her arm. Then he held a broken capsule of smelling salts under his charge's nose.

Margaret snorted and tried to pull away, the ammonia stench assaulting her sinuses. Stanley relented and when it became clear that his hostage cognizant, Irene continued. No two blows were the same. Some landed with a downward arc, some swooping toward the ceiling. Save for her face, no area of skin between her knees and neck avoided the stinging leather braids. The worst, Maggie thought, were the blows to her poor, strangled breasts. Each impact made them jiggle and bounce madly. The weights, springs and clamps attached to her nipples gyrated like wind chimes in a hurricane, but refused to relinquish their hold on her tender nubs.

Throughout it all, Margaret remained maddeningly clear headed. This included the blows across her pelvis and the final three that swept up between her legs. The crotch strap provided no protection from the angry sting of the flogger, since her mons and labia lay completely exposed on either side of it. The leather splitting her sex did however, telegraph the crop's vibration up the length of the stiff, new-age rubber cocks filling her passages. When Irene finally stopped, Maggie stood swaying, hitching in deep, ragged breaths. She couldn't imagine being in any more pain if she'd been set on fire.

"THAT'S what'll happen if you give us any trouble." Irene sneered.

Stanley stepped forward and began unfastening the multitude of buckles securing the ball gag's harness. When he pried the huge, white sphere from behind her teeth, he gripped the back of her neck, pulling her forward. As Maggie bent once again over the waist bar, she saw Stanley's semi-erect member waiting for her. It still gleamed with a coating of her secretions and his cum.

"Clean it!" He growled at her.

"Nothing but lips and tongue," he warned, "Or I'll let Irene REALLY fuck you up."

In spite of the revulsion she felt, Margaret knew that she wanted no more of that crazed woman's abuse. When her head had been lowered to the correct height, she obediently opened her mouth. In desperation, she began licking and sucking as fast as she could. She couldn't believe it when she felt him growing harder. Soon, instead of holding her head so that she could complete her task, Stanley was bobbing it up and down, fucking her mouth. Several times, Maggie gagged, as his rod literally jammed down her throat.

Then, suddenly he groaned and Margaret felt him throb once again. The discharge wasn't nearly as much as the first time, but still, the helpless girl thought it might spill out her ears and nose. Fire raced through her scalp, as Stanley grasped her hair and dragged her upright. Margaret opened her mouth and tried to clear her throat of the thick, creamy fluid. Trickles of it spilled out the corners of her mouth.

Then, without warning, the same ball gag was smashed against her teeth. Maggie could offer little resistance as it was seated once again in her mouth. Stanley held her hair out of the way, as Irene buckled the straps tighter than they'd ever been. Everywhere the straps passed, her skin burned as if that area had been whipped too. Stanley did something curious, as he pulled Margaret's upper and lower lips down over the exposed portion of the ball in her mouth. More curious, was the ripping sound off o her left.

The answer came when something sticky was pressed down on her left cheek. That something, perhaps one inch wide, passed over her upper lip, flattening it against the ball. It continued on, over her right cheek and around the back of her head. When it returned to the front, it snared her lower lip immovably in place. Again and again it passed around her head, covering a swathe from her chin, to just under her nose. The squeezing crush was incredible, mashing her lips down and puffing out her cheeks. Irene stood in front of her, holding the empty dispenser.

"Water-proof tape." She commented matter-of-factly.

"Hmm," she added, "15 meters worth. That oughta keep my lover's taste with you a good, long time." She guffawed at the slightly unfocused look of horror on her captive's face.

The two then un-strapped their prisoner from the frame, leaving her still bound in the arm binder, her breasts garroted by the thin straps, nipples still clamped and weighted, plus the much too tight crotch strap. Each grasping a shoulder, they led her from the room. Maggie was in agony. Her skin felt hot and tight from the whipping. The prods inside her shifted uncooperatively as she walked. The weights on the nipple clamps continued to jounce erratically. And perhaps worse, the crotch strap sawed away at keenly sensitive flesh.

Her captors walked, she staggered, down a hallway relatively familiar to all. They stopped at the third door, Margaret pondering if she was to meet one of the kidnapped cheerleaders. But she saw that the room was empty, save for some manacles on the wall and a simple, metal cot off to one side. She was steered toward the cot. She noticed right off, that it had no mattress. The simple wire latticework, was attached to the tubular metal frame by springs, thus giving it some flex. She hoped she wasn't going to be made to lie down on it. Her hopes were dashed.

They forced her to climb on to the cot, until she was kneeling in the middle. Stanley picked her up and moved her down to the base of the bed. There, Irene positioned Maggie's feet to rest on top of foot rail, which ran roughly 12" above the cot's frame. Irene wrestled each Margaret's feet to the corners of the foot rail, heedless of the grinding of her prisoner's knees into the lattice. Maggie heard the now familiar sound of tape being un-spooled. Then she felt her right ankle being taped to the foot rail. She lost count of how many turns the tape took, but when it was severed, her ankle was locked as if in cement. Shortly, her left ankle was just as immobile.

"Packaging tape." Whispered Irene into Maggie's ear. "Ain't no way you're busting loose from that!"

Stanley grabbed Maggie's shoulders and pulled her forward. The scheming Mrs. Seagram tried to resist, but had no leverage. Stanley carefully lowered Margaret on to the cot's metal lattice. Not for pity's sake, but so that Irene could guide the nipple weights through the gaps in the wire. When Stanley at last released his burden, Maggie let out a feebly pitiful groan. With her legs spread wide, behind her and almost a foot over her head, most of her weight centered on her tortured breasts. It would have been bad if that had merely been the case. But with her arms still mashed together inside the arm sheath and her breasts ballooned by the cinching straps at their base AND the nipple clamps with their weights, it was all completely intolerable. Yet she was helpless to alter the situation.

Margaret painfully rested the right side of her face on the lattice, until one of the two yanked on her hair once more. Her world went black, as a thickly padded blindfold was secured over her eyes. Margaret felt her nose slip through a triangular cut out and realized there would be no rubbing it off. She'd never get the chance. For after it was tightened down, a cord was run from the buckle in back, down to the foot rail. The slack was drawn out and Maggie screeched mutely as her head craned back. In moments, her head was held almost motionless, sightless eyes peering forward. The strain on her neck was already intolerable, not to mention the added thrust down on her breasts.

Maggie lurched as something was looped around her left, big toe. She could not see the cord strangling the digit at its base, pass around the corresponding leg of the cot. She COULD feel her foot suddenly stretch toward the cot leg, her toe leading the way. Soon, her right toe and foot were stretched out toward its nearby cot leg. Her feet were, for all practical purposes, motionless. Minutes of almost complete silence passed, interrupted by faint scraping noises and voices she could not make out. Then, there came an odd mechanical sound. Maggie could not discern what the strange 'clack-clack-clack' was.

Stanley and Irene watched as their brainchild slowly ratcheted up the tension. Tailored after a mechanical pitching machine, the small device sat between Margaret's down and outward stretched feet. The small, fiberglass baton drew back in an ever increasing arc. Right before its release mechanism fire, Irene leaned close to Maggie's ear.

"Here's our little spin on the Bastinado, you little cunt!" She whispered.

Maggie was still trying to decipher what the woman meant, when the machine's tension peaked, it could retract no more, thus had to release its energy. This happened in the form of the baton suddenly striking out, right into the bare and defenseless sole of Maggie's right foot.

"nnnmmmmh" came Margaret's pitifully weak scream. The ball gag and medical tape were more than a match to whatever howls she could muster. As the sole of her foot glowed with a new fire, the machine was already winding back to deliver its next strike. This one landed on Maggie's left foot, with equal ferocity. There was no escaping it, yet Maggie tried, heedless of how her struggles mashed her already sore breasts into the wire of the cot's lattice. She had almost stilled when the third strike landed. This one right back across her left foot.

"You see, bitch," Stanley explained. "We designed it so that the strikes are random. In location, frequency and velocity. We designed it, and, even we don't know where its going to strike, let alone how soon or how hard. Keeps it interesting, doesn't it?"

Margaret's nasal bleat let them know that she wasn't enjoying the physics of their creation one bit. She tried to listen to the workings of the device, trying to perceive some clue as to when it would strike. But each and every time, it caught her unaware. Soon, Maggie's face under the blindfold was damp with tears. The excessive moisture did nothing to loosen the hold of the tape smothering her lower face. Stanley turned out the light, though their prisoner wouldn't know it. Even if they were soon to be millionaires, there was no need to waste electricity.


Part 24

Tricia Koulikofski (622) was currently experiencing what her captors had referred to as a 'Rest & Training Period'. Of course, Tricia found it not the least bit restful. She had no idea of the misdeeds and consequent double-cross of Margaret Seagram, wife of professional football team owner, Bert Seagram. Nor was she aware of co-captive Morgan Firestone's (917) current 'inverted entertainment' session in a nearby cell. Why, she didn't even know that the third of the original three abductees (Dana Greenwich, 809) was restrained not five feet away, suffering an identical predicament.

For Tricia, her focus had narrowed down to a very small window of awareness. Short of an earthquake or the building collapsing around her, she had no way to perceive events happening outside her world. In fact, the manner in which she was now restrained, channeled all of her perceptions back into a tiny universe that was her mind and body. Memories of the recent horrors she'd experienced, coalesced with data from her current state, assaulting her brain with more information than any sane person would attempt to digest. That is of course, if that person was afforded the choice to do so.

As with the others, Tricia's mind was still trying to wrap around the idea of being 'SOLD'. It just seemed to be too archaic, too preposterous to be real. Yet events decidedly led to its validity. That, in itself, was a torture. Tricia wasn't totally aware of these sub-conscious deliberations. Presently, her attention was focused on her current state.

Tricia hadn't been allowed the chance to see what awaited her, for just before she'd been taken from the auction stage, she had been blindfolded and marched out, still clad in the ridiculously scandalous cheerleaders outfit. Once again walking the cool, concrete corridor, it occurred to her that even though the structure she was being held in felt rather large, the distance traveled between cells was relatively short. After about fifty paces, Tricia heard the now familiar sound of a steel door being unbolted. She was firmly led inside and the door slammed shut, the deadbolt engaged. For Tricia, it was maddening. In order to escape, she'd have to somehow get free of the absurdly secure restraints, subdue two female guards who were obviously accustomed to manhandling their prisoners and THEN pick the lock on a steel security door. It was utterly disheartening, which was precisely the psychological trump card her captors played.

When the blindfold was removed, the petite blonde found herself looking at a pair of odd shaped frameworks, about whose purpose she hadn't a clue. She had no doubt that she was about to get an education. They stood roughly five feet apart and Tricia was muscled toward the one on the left. Her feet, still shod in the four inch heeled sandals, clacked erratically, shuffling to keep pace. The ten inch hobble made the task that much more difficult. As she drew nearer, Tricia appraised the apparatus.

It seemed entirely comprised of wood, its surface glossy from numerous coats of polyurethane. The 'trunk' rose from the floor to a height of about six feet. From the trunk sprouted two appendages. The uppermost arm was the shorter of the two and ended with a box roughly one cubic foot in size. In contrast to the rest of the structure, the box was made out of roughly hewn wood, like that of a packing crate. Oddly, a coaxial cable emerged from the back and ran down the trunk to a jack in the floor. Tricia didn't mull this over too much, for her attention was locked on the lower appendage.

The lower appendage jutted straight out from the trunk, the last 12 inches curving abruptly toward the ceiling. The length of the arm, including the curved portion was festooned knobs and nodules. Tricia guessed correctly, that it had once been a gnarled tree branch, now stripped of its bark, lacquered and mounted to the post. The man-hours spent crafting the piece was lost on Tricia, for her gaze was locked on one particularly large node. The 'stump' shot straight up from the arm, right at the genesis of the curve. The shaft of the protrusion looked to be about 1-½" in diameter, its six inch height capped off with a bulge the size of an apricot. One of the guards made a show of squirting a dollop of lubricant on the top, like whipped cream on a sundae.

Tricia's recent experiences with artificial male organs made her dig in her high heels, trying to stave off the inevitable. To her dismay, the yoke still holding her arms up and out at shoulder height, made excellent hand grips for the guards. Grasping the yolk with one hand, each guard grabbed the singer's thighs, just above the knee. In unison, they lifted, whilst Tricia desperately kicked her feet. The guards pulled Tricia's knees apart as they lifted. Even when the hobble chain stilled her kicking feet, they continued to pull, bowing her knees outward. They hoisted her up and over the tip of the curved portion, then began her decent.

"You'd better keep still if you don't want us to spear the wrong hole." One of them cautioned their prisoner.

The thought of the solid wood shaft reaming her back passage mortified the captive beauty. With all the fortitude she could muster, Tricia willed herself to remain as motionless as possible. She squeezed her eyes shut, only to have them fly open with disbelief as her sex met the tip and began to engulf it.

"Oh God!" she thought, "There's no WAY!"

Tricia panicked as her entrance stretched as never before around the bloated tip. She resumed her struggles in earnest, but the dye had been cast. Even though the guards lowered her down on to the wooden prong as gently as they could (not out of kindness, rather to prevent injury to their commodity), it was still an experience Tricia hoped never to repeat. Now, while the pliant walls of the blonde's sex were adapting to a most unnatural configuration, another unpleasant revelation was about to occur.

As the soft folds of Tricia's labia made contact with the primary branch, her high heeled feet had yet to touch the floor. The singer stretched her toes desperately, trying to make contact with solid ground. A toe, a toenail, anything would be better than being held aloft by her impaled crotch. And as she swung her legs madly within the limit of the hobble, more bad news came to her attention. The knobs of the limb were digging into the most sensitive of areas. The curved section behind her burrowed deeply into the cleft of her ass, its nodes pressing incessantly against her flesh.

Several dug into the thin dermis stretched over her tailbone and lower vertebrae. One particularly large bulge (to her anyway), scored a direct hit on the tight brown ring of her anus. It seemed not content with just making contact, and as Tricia writhed to ease the discomfort of her perch, it surged in through the breach, stretching the sphincter. Once in place, it would doggedly remain until the singer was extricated. As unsettling as these things going on behind her were, that is not what captured Tricia's focus at the moment.

Her attention had been riveted on the prominence of the hickory prod when she'd entered the room. Tricia had failed to notice its little cousin, jutting up directly in front of it. That oversight now had her complete attention. She'd felt the little appendage when her sex first touched down on the support branch. But as her weight bore down on the perch, the nub's true purpose was revealed. What started as a brief kiss against her hooded clitoris, rapidly transformed to steam roller intensity. The wooden finger was wide enough so that the compact bundle of nerves couldn't squirt off to one side or the other. It was trapped, mashed against the petrified digit.

If Tricia had been a blacksmith, or not impaled upon her diabolical perch, she might have appreciated what happened next. Each of her attendants used a key to remove her hands from the metal yolk holding her arms aloft. Her wrists remained gripped by the steel cuffs encircling them. As one of the guards wrestled the captive's hands behind her back, the other used her key to remove the metal extensions from the collar. Tricia did not see the short lengths of chain being attached to her cuffs, but she was certainly aware of the result. Elbows bent, her hands were muscled higher and higher up her back.

"nnnnnggh! nnnnngh!" her grunts deadened by the mouth packing and epoxied lips.

Her shoulders protested and her back arched, as her hands finally came to rest between her shoulder blades. Her hands clenched and unclenched desperately, fingers fluttering under her long, straight blonde tresses. As the squeeze of the collar increased on her windpipe, Tricia understood her dilemma. Her cuffed wrists were now attached to the collar, holding her arms in an intense hammer-lock. She tried to raise her helpless hands even higher, to ease the strain but couldn't. A few panicked moments passed before she realized that she wasn't going to choke to death. Yet breathing was still going to be a challenge.

A deep scraping sound caught her attention and Tricia glanced out of the corner of her eye in that direction. One of the women was dragging over two heavy cinderblocks. The blocks were positioned on end, roughly two feet on either side of the captive. One of the guards knelt down out of sight and the singer felt her ankles unshackled. Unexpectedly, each guard grasped the prisoner's ankles and pulled her legs outward. Tricia hadn't believed that she could sink any further on to her perch, but thus was the case. Then, miraculously, her high-heeled sandals made contact with solid ground. Well, her toes and balls of her feet did, anyway. The tips of the stiletto heels brushed nothing but air.

All too quickly, Tricia comprehended her plight. She was now 'standing', legs spread wide, on the two upturned blocks. If she gave it maximum effort, she could press herself partially off the diabolical wooden perch. Desperate to do just that, she arched her feet beyond what she thought capable of. She exhaled a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Though the oaken prod still violated her womanhood, at least the crushing force of the branch's nodes eased considerably.

Then, the first tremors in her leg muscles started. In no time, they were quivering from the effort. Frantic, Tricia commanded them to maintain their endeavor. But when muscle and bone could tolerate no more, they collapsed, dropping the woman back on to her nefarious support. In fact, Tricia's left foot slipped off its precarious perch, threatening to send the girl into a crippling fall. Fortunately, the guards had anticipated this and steadied their prize as her foot sought frantically to find its mark. Finally, it found its spot, once again giving Tricia the illusion of stability.

The singer watched through watering eyes as one of her tormentors manipulated the arm supporting the curious wooden box in front of the captive. An apparently adjustable arm allowed the crate to extend closer to their prisoner's head. Tricia started, as something cool and noxious was brushed against her sealed lips. In no time, the seal was broken. A pair of fingers roughly reached in and extracted the sodden, yet still frustratingly effective mouth packing. A squirt bottle sent a cascade blessedly refreshing water down Tricia's parched throat.

A guard twisted and spun Tricia's waist-length hair up into a loose bun, affixing it in place with some rubber bands. The other guard wasn't cooling her heels in the meantime. She unlatched a hook on the box and swung the crate open. Tricia could see that the crate was hinged nearly in half. On the bottom of each half was a semi-circle, which when the crate was closed would form a round hole. The back wall of the crate was completely taken up by a flat screen monitor. The other five sides were lined with dense, black padding. Most horrifying though, was the massive pink penis pointing back at her.

Tricia saw that the prod was mounted on a stanchion, which was bolted to the floor of the crate, just behind the semi-circular cut out. An unbuckled strap dangled far back at its base. The singer noted that the prod was almost on an even plane with her mouth and it didn't take advanced calculus to figure out the equation.

"No, please." she whimpered. Her plea had no effect.

A rough pair of hands grasped the back of her head, fingers reaching around to clasp under her jaw. The grip held her head steady, as the other guard extended the crate closer. As Tricia's head entered the one foot square cube, the guard grasping her head actually lifted it as well. Tricia could not turn her head as the tip of the prod pressed against her lips. She tried heroically to keep her mouth closed, but a harsh pinch on her nipple made her cry out in pain. That was all the opening they needed. The crown of the penis slipped between her teeth and the battle was lost.

"Oh God!" The blonde thought in alarm. "It's got to be five inches round".

In fact, it was only 3-½, but certainly much more than a female's orifice could accommodate comfortably. It was also less pliant than the gagging materials she'd had the displeasure to experience in the past. The shaft seemed to go on forever, until her front teeth finally clacked down in to two tiny recesses. Unfortunately, this hadn't happened before the prod's tip tickled the back of Tricia's throat.

"Ackffmm! Ugmmff!" The poor girl gurgled in an effort not to retch.

The straps were drawn around her head and buckled ruthlessly, driving the horrid phallus a few millimeters deeper. When buckled, the strap dug painfully into the back of her neck. Tricia became aware of a secondary, yet no less distressing development. The act of lifting her head during insertion into the crate, had allowed the bottom edge of her steel collar to slide in on top of the lip of the semi-circular cutout. This in turn, drove the top edge of the collar up into Tricia's jaw, consequently forcing her teeth to bear down on the prod that overfilled her mouth.

The blonde singer's head was held utterly motionless, her vision entirely consumed by the interior of the front half of the crate. The small amount of light reflected on the screen rapidly faded, as the back half of the crate was swung shut. The rear cut-out also captured her collar, insuring that her stretched neck remained so.

The darkness within was complete and a claustrophobic panic swept over her. Tricia writhed as best she could to get free, but her only payment was a grinding throughout her crotch, followed by her right foot's brief loss of contact with the cinderblock. The singer howled inside her tiny black holed purgatory, her pitifully hushed gurgle cut short by a fit of retching.

Tricia felt the crate (thus her head) move back yet further as the guards outside adjusted the position. Soon, the prisoner's spine had adapted a most unnatural and involuntary curve. It seemed that she was forced to sit back even harder against the bumps assaulting the cleft of her ass. Yet somehow, at the same time, thrust even more aggressively against the node crushing her clitoris. And, as illogical as it sounded, it seemed that the hickory stem raping her sex had gotten larger. At that moment, she did not know, that over time her isolated brain would convince her body that she was being raped by a petrified elephant.

Delusion not yet setting in, Tricia could feel the cold blade of scissors cut away her top. The laughably small skirt remained, barely concealing what was going on beneath it from prying eyes. Absurd since, the only eyes to cast upon it, were all too aware of what was transpiring there. In fact, the tiny swathe of cloth only served to make Tricia feel more exposed.

Something indefinable pressed against her right breast. Then she felt the pumping action of suction and the abundant flesh of her breast was drawn into some kind of rubber cup. The squeeze and pull of the suction was relentless. Moments later, her left breast received the same treatment. The suction did not stay constant, but rather suckled and kneaded her breasts. Tricia could sense her nipples harden from the activity. And then, it seemed, the guards were blessedly, horribly finished. Tricia 'stood' there, legs quivering, chest heaving, feeling utterly alone in the world.

The screen in front of her eyes flashed to life suddenly, her eyes blinking having already adjusted to the darkness. The blonde let out a groan more felt than heard, when she read the words in front of her.

'Subject's eyes will remain open during this demonstration. Attempts to terminate viewing will be punished. Approximate duration of instruction: 4 hours.'

Tricia groaned at the all too familiar phrase. She was about to endure yet another training session. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes in grief. The rhythmic pumping of her breast stopped and a jarring electrical shock was administered. The pain and current were enough to drive the air from the captive's lungs. Tricia willed her eyes to remain open, blinking away the tears. The pumping resumed and the first of countless portrayals of submissive poses began playing out on the screen.

When the same two guards returned twenty minutes later with Dana Greenwich (809) in tow, nothing had changed for Tricia. Already, she was deeply immersed in her lonely, painful world of sexual depravity. Dana hadn't needed to see the long, straight platinum hair, to recognize the petite frame of her co-captive. She did balk at seeing the plight the girl was currently enduring (the skirt hiding the worse of it). At that moment, Tricia happened to lose her concentration after yet another shock from the training session. One foot, then the other lost its purchase on the cinderblocks and the poor girl bicycled and splayed her legs frantically in the effort to regain her footing. Dana could only hear the girl's hysterical shrieks as a high, soft buzz emanating from her chest. Not a whisper could be heard from the rugged crate encapsulating her head.

Then Dana saw the identical, unoccupied framework she was being shepherded to. She fought like a tigress, having first hand knowledge of what the box perched on top represented. She doubled her efforts when she saw the wooden prod and accompanying nodes. It made no difference. Within fifteen minutes, Dana found herself perched in exactly the same state as her co-captive. Only, the process hadn't been nearly as gentle as Tricia's. The framework had been adjusted to accommodate Dana's height, but the black haired librarian was still stretched to joint popping severity. The probe and nodules dug relentlessly into her flesh and her legs quickly failed to provide any adequate leverage. As the first hour of the video approached, both women had sunken to an unfathomable state of despair.


Part 25

Joanna and Danielle bid Bert Seagram and the HRT members present, a reluctant good-bye. The eyes of each player told a different story. For the members of the Hostage Rescue Team who were privy to what had transpired that afternoon, there was a look of steely determination. They were going to catch the SOB's who imperiled the female detectives. Two, fine, FINE looking female detectives, every single team member thought.

For his part, Bert Seagram played his role of distraught husband perfectly. He hadn't really needed any motivation for this, his mind frequently contemplated what horrors his beloved Maggie must be enduring. Yet, as he said goodbye to the detectives at the door, both Joanna and Danielle noted the first glimmer of hope all day, reflected on his face. Each gave him a re-assuring hug, then ambled toward their car.

Anyone watching the detectives leave, would have seen body language that portrayed dejection and defeat. Who could blame them? To have gone through such an ordeal must have been harrowing to say the least. Although secretly, several of the HRT officers cursed there luck for not having been able to witness the two detectives trussed up in their unmentionables.

When they got in the car, Joanna showed great restraint not burning rubber out of the driveway. Each of them had some errands to run. Joanna to gather items specified by the kidnappers, Danielle some hardware from the precinct Tech lab. Although they'd been given the next four days off, both of them felt that this case would be resolved (and a little payback administered) within 24 hours.

When their tasks were completed, they rendezvoused at Joanna's apartment. Danielle sat on the davenport watching TV, Joanna curled up next to her, her head resting on Danielle's lap. By an unspoken accord, there would be no love making tonight. Both had to remain focused on the jobs at hand. Still, as Danielle sat there gently stroking her partner/lover's short blonde hair, she couldn't dissuade her feelings of concern for Joanna.

To everyone on the force, hell, everyone in general, Joanna was a tough-as-nails character. A real ball buster. But Danielle knew that this was a carefully constructed façade, a cloak to conceal the very timid girl within. It had shocked Joanna, when early on in their law enforcement partnership, Danielle had pierced through the veil. Each woman carried baggage from their past, which by unspoken agreement, was never discussed. Still, it was a common thread between them. And that created a bond of complete trust with one another.

They certainly hadn't planned on becoming lovers. Hell, neither of them had ever thought of themselves as anything but heterosexual. If asked (as if they'd ever tell you in the first place) who came on to whom, they'd be at a loss for an answer. It was as though each filled a need in the other. One minute they were discussing the current case they were working, the next, they were thrashing the bed sheets in a tangle of arms and legs, kisses and caresses. When it ended, neither felt the least bit of remorse. Rather, each felt the warm glow of contentment in finding a soul mate.

It would tickle anyone who knew them, that Danielle had assumed the assertive role in their relationship. In public, she was always the cool headed, thoughtful, intellectual one. Joanna was brash, outspoken, always ready to charge into the thick of the fight. But when they were behind closed doors, she was as meek as a kitten. Which is why Danielle now worried.

When it came time to make the drop, the detectives knew that they would be breaking every protocol. They could not rely on the standard method of direct communication with each other, (the kidnappers had assured them that they had the technology to monitor any radio communications. A fact that neither detective could dismiss) but they had devised an alternate plan. Danielle would be Joanna's only back-up. Yet the very nature of the drop-off required that she hang back, so as not to be discovered. Thus, Joanna was going to be out on a very shaky limb. Danielle had every confidence in her partner's ability, but there were a hundred things that could go wrong. That, and she knew that her lover had the tendency to go a little 'John Wayne' in certain situations. The last thing this assignment needed, was for Joanna to take any unnecessary risks.

But at the moment, there was nothing to do but hold her soul mate tenderly and offer up a little prayer that everything would work out. She leaned forward to give Joanna a kiss on the cheek and saw that she'd fallen asleep. It warmed Danielle's heart to look upon her lover's features, softened in sleep. Gone was the hardness and grit so familiar to all in the precinct. Danielle's eyes welled with tears of appreciation, that she was the only person on earth blessed with the good fortune to see Joanna for who she truly was. She leaned her head back and within minutes was fast asleep.

As for Joanna, she hadn't dropped right off to sleep as she had feigned doing. She knew of Danielle's concerns and hadn't really wanted to hear a lecture on safety precautions. Joanna had confidence in her ability to handle any situation she might come across. Her love for Danielle was beyond measure, but if her lover had one flaw, it was that she tended to be a 'Mother Hen'. Joanna knew this to be the result of a difficult life growing up.

Both of her partner's parents had died when she had been in junior high. By then Danielle was beginning to mature into the beautiful woman she would eventually become. Basically orphaned, she was taken in by a distant cousin, a cousin who took note of her budding beauty as well. One drunken evening, the cousin decided to extract a little payment for his generously providing shelter. His amorous advances resulted in him writhing on the floor, after receiving a vicious knee to the groin. Danielle was out the door before his high pitched scream faded.

Her life could have taken a nose dive, right then and there, but something within her refused to let that happen. Fate brought her to the doorstep of a shelter for homeless women. One of the volunteers there was an officer for the Memphis Police Department. The officer took Danielle under her wing, giving her a home and hope for the future. When Danielle earned her G.E.D., she joined the police academy. It seemed the natural thing to do, a chance to pay her mentor back, as well as pay it forward by serving the community. And the rest, as they say, is history.

People on the force today, would say that she was shy and aloof. Joanna knew that that wasn't the case at all. Her partner was cautious, yes. But that was all part of her thorough, analytical mind-set. Danielle never went blazing into anywhere. She always had a plan, a purpose, a mission. And Joanna knew that Danielle loved her as strongly, as she loved her back. Warmed by that thought, THAT'S when Joanna finally drifted off to sleep.

Bert Seagram couldn't fall asleep. Though he'd only seen it once, he didn't think he'd ever be able to purge the images from the video out of his mind. His huge bed felt even larger without the warm, comforting softness of his wife lying beside him.

"Oh Maggie," he thought. "What are they doing to you? Fear not my love, tomorrow you'll be set free and I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never get hurt again."

Margaret Seagram also couldn't fall asleep, even though she too was in 'bed'. She had no way of knowing how long the mechanical bastinado had lasted, before some unknown person had turned off the machine. The soles of her feet though, continued to blaze. They'd done nothing to remove her restraints or position on the wire netting of the cot. Her writhing and struggles long used up, she just lay there, helpless and miserable.

Morgan Firestone (917) was finally released from her inverted pleasuring position. Dizzy and disoriented, she could offer only token resistance to the guards who brought her into the cell containing Dana and Tricia. Morgan's expression was one of dismay when she'd seen the predicament of the two wide stanced, head encased women. She wanted to fight, to run, to wrest her freedom back from these people, but her body was just too weakened.

Fresh out of the strange, wooden perches the other two women straddled, the guards had prepared a wooden saw horse fitted with similar appendages. With the ease of manipulating a loose-limbed mannequin, they soon had Morgan standing, legs spread across the narrow edge of the horse. A faux penis plugged her sex, just like the other girls. Her head too, was trapped inside a wooden box, complete with training video screen. The only difference with hers, was that a chain from the box to the ceiling served to keep her torso upright. With all three women secured and enduring the latest training instructional, the guards turned out the light and bolted the door. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day.

Part 26

Eventually, with agonizing slowness for most, morning arrived. At 6:00 am, the phone in Bert Seagram's den rang. It was the kidnappers. The HRT techs went through their usual motions before allowing Bert to pick up the phone. When he answered, Bert confirmed that he had the $500,000, it was being brought to him by his accountant at 8:00 am this morning. Instructions were given as to how to deliver the ransom. Bert barely managed to hide his surprise, when he heard that the drop for the diversionary ransom, was to be at the same location as the actual payment. Bert then realized the kidnappers' intent. They could snatch the bankroll, whilst the police were focused on the pocket change. After he hung up, the technician could offer no encouragement. This time, the call had come from the northeast section of the city.

The HRT officers were surprised when Danielle and Joanna arrived at the house around 7:30. They were technically off-duty until Tuesday, thus not an official part of this operation. However, the HRT's were too busy scrambling around in preparation for the stake out at the ransom drop, to ponder their presence. The two detectives said brief a 'Hello', then settled in the kitchen, out of sight. They were soon forgotten by the busy policemen.

At eight on the dot, Bert's accountant arrived. He'd secretly been briefed by the grieving husband on the reason for the two ransoms. He handed over the briefcase and offered an earnest bidding that all would work out for the best, then left. The officers counted the money, then placed it in the Mauler's gym bag Bert had provided. They had already outfitted the bag with a transponder, as well as a new wrinkle on the traditional 'dye pack'. Rather than the big bang associated with dye, this device silently delivered a non-lethal radioactive isotope when picked up by the handle straps (after activation). Invisible, the isotope could be seen with special glasses worn by the police and also tracked by a hybrid Geiger counter. Finally, when the zipper was completely opened, any person standing within five feet would be enveloped in a cloud of pepper spray.

As the police proceeded with placing the cash inside the gym bag, Bert casually took the empty briefcase into the kitchen. There, he was greeted by Joanna and Danielle. Danielle was dressed in jeans and a Mauler's game jersey proclaiming the number of the team's quarterback. Over this she wore a windbreaker that effectively concealed her shoulder rig. Joanna was dressed in a seemingly uncharacteristic sweat suit.

He opened the case in front of them, then removed the hidden panel inside. From this he extracted two million dollars worth of untraceable bearer's bonds. He handed the bonds to Joanna, who slipped them inside the glossy publication she carried. Bert noticed the blonde's uneasiness, but wrote it off to her anticipation of the task at hand. He did not guess the true reason. He looked at his watch. It was 10:00 am, three hours until the drop. With nothing else to do, the three sat at the kitchen table, saying very little. Eventually, it was time. Each wished the others good luck.

Joanna and Danielle climbed into Joanna's yellow Firebird, Bert into his black, SL600 roadster. The detectives left first, followed by Bert and a convoy of police surveillance vehicles. Joanna turned right, as if heading back to the city, while Bert and his entourage turned left. Once our of sight, Joanna turned and started heading in the same direction as the football team's owner. All parties concerned were headed for the same destination.

By the time Danielle and Joanna arrived, the parking lot was already ¾'s full. It was opening day for the new Memphis Mauler's football franchise and the locals were curious to see how they'd fair. Smoke drifted up from countless barbeques and the atmosphere was quite raucous. The kidnappers had assigned Joanna a specific parking spot in which to leave her car. This told the detectives that, without question, Joanna would be spotted and tracked long before reaching the delivery spot chosen. Knowing this, Joanna stopped her car well short of the location and got out to shed her sweat suit.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Danielle still had to stifle a snicker when her partner climbed back inside. Now clad in what the sweats had concealed, Joanna's transformation was nothing less than shocking. She sat there, skin rosy with embarrassment, dressed in what the kidnappers had outlined. She wore white, nylon jogging shorts and a green top. The top was a replica jersey of Donovan McNabb, quarterback of the Philadelphia Eagles, the team whom the Maulers were playing today. But, of course, that wasn't the bad part.

Loyal fans all over the country often visited opposing team's stadiums, dressed in their favorite team's colors. This usually only results in some good natured heckling by the home team's fans (except in Philadelphia, where dressing in the enemy's colors would get you a beer shower and some colorful comments about self fornication). However, the kidnappers had been very adamant in their instructions regarding Joanna's garb. You see, Maggie Seagram's captors had specified that Joanna purchase and wear shorts and jersey only in youth size.

So there Joanna sat, even that casual posture threatening to split the seams of her attire. As instructed, the jersey was a brief cut, a great deal of Joanna's tummy exposed below the hem. Although modest in size, her 34" C-cup bust still distorted the jersey's #5. At least the mesh of the jersey stretched somewhat. That could not be said of the white, nylon shorts, whose stitching threatened to burst at any moment. The material hugged the detective's body tightly, the leg openings stopping scandalously high up her thighs. Although trim and fit and not one to shy away from wearing a bikini, this outfit made Joanna feel particularly tawdry.

Seeing her partner's discomfort, Danielle decided to get down to business, in order to keep her distracted. She handed her a modified BlueTooth headset. The kidnappers had assured them that they could monitor radio transmissions, but the detectives gambled that ordinary phone contact would go undetected. Joanna slipped the earpiece in place.

Danielle donned her own set and called the pre-set number. Except for some feedback due to their close proximity, the connection was crystal clear. Keeping the line open, Danielle leaned over and gave her partner a kiss on the cheek, followed by a cautionary look. She knew to say something now would only rile her partner/lover. She stepped out of the car and watched Joanna drive away. Then she double timed it toward the stadium. She wanted to enter the gate and take up position long before Joanna arrived. She flashed her badge to the attendant at the gate, entered and looked for a good spot to survey the area. There was no way to know, that a pair of binoculars had tracked her movements from the moment she stepped out of the car. It hadn't been hard, the Firebird's bright yellow paint job made it stand out like a school bus.

Joanna parked in the designated spot. She then slipped off her running shoes, replacing them with another pair of footwear. Again, the kidnappers had been very clear. White, strap-on sandals with heels no lower than three inches. Rarely feeling the need to dress up, Joanna didn't own a pair of shoes with heels taller than two inches, let alone something like these. She'd been forced to purchase this set at the mall where she bought the rest of her attire. They felt a little snug, even for sandals, but she thought they'd be all right. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves and got out of the car.

A group of men tailgating nearby, stopped their conversations in mid-sentence and openly gawked at the beautiful blonde who'd just exited the sleek sports car. Now standing a hair over 5'10", Joanna's long legs seemed to stretch forever. If it were possible, the short cut jersey seemed to ride up even further on her torso. The cat calls started at once and Joanna flashed them an icy glare. It did little to allay the taunting.

As she walked, Joanna used every bit of willpower she had, not to reach down and try to fix the legs of the shorts, which felt as though they'd ridden up almost to the waistband. The synthetic fabric was stretched so tightly across her firm derriere, that it'd left the policewoman with only two options, wear a thong or go without underwear altogether. Modesty had dictated a wispy, white thong, but even at that, she was forced to wear the waistband low on her hips, so as not to peek out above the shorts.

Joanna resisted the urge to clutch the Mauler's team program (which contained the bearer's bonds) tightly across her chest, protecting her modesty. Knowing that a good offense makes a better defense, she strode purposefully toward the stadium, head held high, chest thrust out. She wondered though, if the kidnappers hadn't intentionally made her park so far away from the gate (of course they had!). The lewd comments from the men came in a never ending stream. As did the indignant murmurs from the women, spawned mostly by jealousy of the blonde's remarkable body.

The detective couldn't reach the ticket gate soon enough. Not because of the cat calls, she knew there'd be more of those inside. No, it was because her new shoes were killing her. Joanna was sure that she'd be sporting some blisters on spots where the straps rubbed her skin. In addition to that, her calves were screaming at the unnatural posture they'd assumed, due to the height of the heels.

Once she entered, she looked around for Danielle, but couldn't see her. In as casual a manner as she could manage, she tilted her head and spoke into the microphone. Her partner's reassuring voice came through the earpiece, informing her that she had Joanna in sight. Another deep breath, then Joanna started off for the rendezvous point.

The location of the ransom drop having been established, Bert Seagram allowed the HRT vehicles to pass him, so that they could establish a perimeter at the scene. Bert had overheard them bemoaning earlier, the logistics of covering such a crowded venue. But that was the hand they were dealt, so they professionally began to make plans. Bert's mind snapped back to the present, as he also turned into the stadium parking lot.

Seeing the lot overflowing with cars should have delighted him and filled him with hope that the team's contract could be honored. Instead, he saw all of these people as obstacles at getting his wife back. Or worse yet, should something go wrong, an innocent bystander could be harmed. Bert couldn't forgive himself if that happened. He tried to shake off his trepidation as he drove into the private parking area.

As he got out of his roadster, he was besieged by a gaggle of reporters. By their excited babble, it was clear to Bert that none of them knew of his wife Maggie's dire predicament, nor of the contents of the gym bag he carried. Still, Bert clutched the hand straps a bit tighter on the bag bearing his team's logo, fearful that one of them might want to peer inside. Forcing what he hoped was a relaxed smile on his face, he patiently answered all of their mundane questions. Finally, when he could take no more, he politely as possible, excused himself and headed for the private elevator. Once the doors slid closed, he let out a breath and said a quick prayer. Then he punched the number for the floor in which he needed to visit. He hoped that the police had had enough time to get into position.

He exited the elevator and was grateful that the corridor wasn't terribly crowded. Apparently, many of the attendees were fans of Faith Hill, who Bert had managed to sign to sing the national anthem. That or folks were just plain excited to finally see professional football in their home town and were already in their seats, waiting in anticipation.

Bert could not see a single police uniform anywhere. He was a bit startled when he made eye contact with a man who seemed strangely familiar. The man was dressed casually, standing in line at the beer counter. Bert thought it curious when the man allowed another patron to butt in front of him. Then it dawned on him. It was one of the HRT officers. That's why he'd looked familiar. And his cover was brilliant, conceded Bert. The one place where there'd always be a line, was at the refreshment counter (the other would be the men's room, a little later on). If the officer was careful enough, he could maintain a continuous presence there and not draw suspicion.

Bert strode to the designated spot and looked around unconsciously. At least he had the presence of mind not to make eye contact with the officer again. When he felt no one was looking, he knelt and slid the bag under the elevated legs of a trash receptacle. Then he rose and strode back to the elevator, which he rode up to his suite. Before entering though, he stood out on the balcony looking down at the throngs of late arrivers. Again, what should have been a sight to give him hope for the team's future, he felt nothing but deep seeded concern. Then his eyes were drawn to a stunning blonde, dressed in as provocative an outfit as sportswear could be. It took Bert several moments to realize that it was Joanna August.

Thinking of her only as a policewoman before this moment, he hadn't realized how truly beautiful she was. Seagram noticed that she still carried the program under one arm, the drop hadn't been made yet. He looked around futilely for her partner, Danielle Frost, but the swirl of people made spotting her impossible. Bert took this as a good sign. Seagram's gaze returned back to the blonde, just as she was accidentally bumped by another woman. He watched as Joanna turned in frustration, but apparently could not spot the person who'd committed the infraction. Then curiously, Joanna turned down a secondary corridor reserved for stadium employees and disappeared from sight.

Wishing her good luck, Bert turned and entered his suite, prepared to tell his assembled guests the reason for his wife's absence. They offered their wishes for a speedy recovery (from the flu) and turned toward the field in anticipation of the kick off. The players were in place, the game about to begin.


Part 27

Orville "Odie" Davenport was still in a foul mood over what had transpired the previous day. That and he had a wicked hangover. He tumbled out of bed, still dressed in yesterday's overalls. His search around the tiny shack he called home, for a little 'hair of the dog' proved fruitless. He glanced at his battered pocket watch and saw it was 11:30 a.m.

"What the hell am I doin' up so early on a Sunday?" he said out loud.

It was then that it dawned on him, what had woken him up. There seemed to be an excessive amount of traffic on the road in front of his shack. He opened the front door and was blinded by the sunlight reflecting off thousands of car windshields. He slammed the door, waiting for the blobs dancing across his retinas to subside, cursing a blue streak the whole time. When he was able, he peered out once more, this time with eyes squinted.

What had once been a vast, undeveloped area of woods and fields, had been transformed into a broad plane of asphalt. In the center of this new wasteland, sat what resembled a huge, prehistoric seashell. Odie had complained colorfully against building the new stadium on the land adjacent to his property, but new jobs and revenue had drowned out his protests. So over the past year, he'd been forced to choke down the smoke from all the construction equipment. Now he was choking on the exhaust fumes from all the vehicles backed up waiting to get in to the game.

"The game." The thought jogged something in Odie's brain.

He stumbled over to his 'other' pair of overalls and rifled through the pockets. Finally, he pulled out a small, laminated piece of cardboard. Mr. Seagram himself, had given Odie this ticket earlier in the week. Odie had thanked him, but had no intention of going to the game. But then, Odie remembered Mr. Seagram saying something about the ticket stub serving as a voucher for a complimentary beer. Now, Odie wasn't positive about what "complimentary" meant, but he was pretty sure that it meant "FREE". Well, that was all the incentive he needed. He washed his hands and face, then debated whether to change out of his work clothes.

"Nah," he said. "I'm not goin' to get all gussied up, just to watch a bunch of overpaid jocks tryin' to knock the snot outta each other."

So he laced on his boots, ran a hand through his thinning hair and started off toward the stadium.

Joanna was almost becoming immune to the hungry stares of the men she passed in the corridor. Almost. It dawned on her too late, that there had been another reason for the kidnappers to insist that she wear such a revealing outfit. She could barely keep herself contained within the brief shorts and top, let alone conceal a sidearm. She was comforted by Danielle's voice, whispering occasionally through the earpiece. Joanna strode on, toward the designated drop point.

She didn't notice the woman, until after she bumped into her. Instinctively, she turned, ready for a confrontation. But the woman appeared to have vanished in the crowd. Then she felt the stickiness on her forearm. She looked down and saw a yellow 'Post-It'. Written in block letters was the message:

TURN LEFT, NEXT CORRIDOR
2ND DOOR ON RIGHT
PUT $ IN CAN MARKED 'RECYCLABLE'

Joanna turned once more, trying to spot the mystery woman or Danielle. She could see neither. She turned her chin toward the microphone and whispered this new development. Strangely, she received no confirmation. She wanted to repeat the message, but she had the odd feeling that she was being watched. Should the kidnappers determine that the detectives weren't playing by the rules, it could spell disaster for Maggie Seagram. So, hoping that her partner received her message, Joanna turned down the designated corridor.

Danielle spoke to her partner with a confidence she did not feel. Although Joanna was taller than ever, thanks to her high heels, she still disappeared too frequently within the mass of sports fans. Danielle had to constantly muscle her way through knots of people, who trying to determine where their seats were in this new stadium. It was nerve wracking, but at least Danielle had knowledge of where the drop was to be made, which was on the other side of the stadium near the end zone elevators.

Once again she lost sight of Joanna, only this time, her partner didn't reappear. Danielle waited for a few moments, thinking she might have gotten ahead of the blonde. A full minute passed, then Danielle spoke into her BlueTooth. No response. A knot of concern expanded in her stomach. With no other recourse, Danielle began moving rapidly toward the drop point. Her calls into the microphone became more urgent, but none were answered.

Andy Stewart, now ex-equipment manager for the Maulers, as well as ex-lover of Margaret Seagram, smiled from his perch up in the catwalk. Things were working out perfectly. From his near invisible hiding spot, he'd been able to follow the progress of both detectives, from the parking lot right to the corridor beneath him. He kept the device in his hand trained like a weapon, on the statuesque brunette detective. He was still able to keep an eye on her scantily clad partner.

"Nice of them to stay so close together." he thought.

Then he saw 'Irene' approaching Joanna. Right before the 'bump' occurred, he triggered the device pointed at Danielle. A stream of microwaves beamed invisibly around the beautiful detective Frost. Of course, she felt nothing. Nor did she know that her communication piece had been rendered useless. The kidnappers knew that the two policewomen would try to find some way to remain in contact, thus had devised this countermeasure.

He watched as Joanna glanced at the note passed to her, pause and then appear to speak into her shoulder. The blonde glanced about, paused yet again, then turned down the side corridor. Andy then spoke into his own microphone.

"Shield 1 coming your way."

"Roger." Came the response.

Andy could now give Danielle his full concentration. He soaked up the sensuous lines of her face, imagining them beautifully distorted by a nice big ball gag. Even wearing the windbreaker, the detectives trim physique made his mouth water. His grin grew even wider, as he watched Danielle's increasing trepidation shatter her efforts to remain covert. The brunette now placed a hand against her headset, obviously talking in a more urgent tone. Then she unconsciously patted the sidearm under her jacket and strode quickly toward the end zone elevators.

"Shield 2 coming your way, Baby. And she's packing heat." he cautioned.

"I'd be surprised if she wasn't." came the throaty response.

Joanna strode down the short corridor, glancing anxiously over her shoulder for a glimpse of Danielle. She hoped that her partner received the message about the change in plans. When she reached the designated door, she paused. From inside the cover of the program, she removed a slender, double edged blade. Made of composite material, so as not to set off the metal detectors, the hardened material was as sharp as any scalpel. She might not have been able to carry her trusted Barreta, but she certainly wasn't going to charge in harm's way unarmed. Holding the rolled up program in one hand, she used the blade hand to open the door.


Part 28

The light was off inside the moderately sized room, but enough spilled in from the corridor to illuminate the interior. Joanna noted the shelves stocked with janitorial supplies, as well as the containers lining the far wall. Most were green trash receptacles, but one was red, the word 'Recyclable' emblazoned on the side. Cautiously, Joanna's hand searched the inside wall for the light switch. Finding it, she turned on the room's overhead florescent lights.

The harsh lighting was a comfort to the detective. An inoperative switch would have been a sure sign of ambush. Still, she didn't let her guard down. Joanna shot a quick look behind the door, to insure that no one lurked there. She saw only more supply shelves. Blade held in front, she cautiously entered the room. The detective was about half way across the floor, her apprehension easing, when all of a sudden, the hair on the back of her neck tingled. She sensed, rather than felt, a shift in the air behind her.

She'd turned about half way, when stars exploded in front of her eyes and a sharp pain burst from the base of her skull. The blow sent Joanna stumbling forward, the trip ending with a crash into the waste cans. Being made of plastic, the collision didn't raise all that much of a din. The knife was knocked from the blonde's grip, clattering across the floor. She didn't realize it at the moment, but the BlueTooth had also been dislodged. Dazed, but not out, Joanna rose unsteadily to her feet and turned.

There, as if appearing out of thin air, was a formidably built woman. She wore a black jumpsuit festooned with pockets, the hard lines on her face curled in an evil looking grin. In her hand was the familiar shape of a blackjack. The question of where the woman had come from was still forming on Joanna's lips, when her mouth opened in a gape of shock.

Two more women emerged, as if by magic, from a split in the shelves beside the door. Both of them were of imposing stature. Black leather straps too numerous to count, dangled from their hands. Too late, it dawned on Joanna, that her quick glance behind the door hadn't divulged that there was actually a tightly stretched silk screen curtain, elaborately air brushed to resemble racks of janitorial supplies. It had provided the perfect concealment for the women to lie in wait.

Joanna shook out the last of the cobwebs and squared herself to her attackers. She wasn't too concerned, recalling her earlier confrontation with the thugs in the stairwell of Danielle's apartment building. Still, these women moved with an unsettling ease and purpose that the hoods at Danielle's place hadn't displayed.

"No matter," she thought, "These bitches are in for a world of hurt if they mess with me."

Still, it would have been nice if she still had her blade. Her eyes flicked down to the floor and back up again. The good news, she saw it. The bad news, it was right between the feet of the antagonist on her left. The woman knelt down and picked up the knife. Joanna's heart sank. But then the woman did a curious thing. She examined it indifferently, then placed it on one of the steel shelves nearby.

"All right, bitch." said the woman in the middle. "You gonna take your medicine like a good girl? Or do we have to teach you a lesson, like we did back in the woods?

The woman paused for a moment, letting that last statement sink in. Then she added for good measure.

"Or maybe you just want to cry out for your partner to come and rescue you?"

At this, all three women laughed. Joanna felt her face flush with anger.

"So THESE are the scumbags who attacked us in the woods." she fumed.

Actually, only the leader had been in on the assault which included Rebecca, Irene and Andy. But she had described the entire event in great detail, to the two women guards, after returning with Maggie Seagram in tow. The two guards had been chomping at the bit for the opportunity to test their skills against such a worthy opponent as Joanna. The kidnapped cheerleaders had quickly lost their fight and more or less resignedly succumbed to their bindings. The guards had no doubt, that the blonde detective would not yield so easily.

Joanna watched the three women for a sign of sudden attack, but they seemed perfectly happy to wait for the policewoman to make the first move. So be it. Fighting the urge to just lunge forward swinging, Joanna took a deep breath. She saw that the leader was a few inches closer than the other two women. She appeared to be the only one armed (Joanna's head still throbbed a little from the blackjack). The blonde figured she could strike her first and use her momentum to sweep out the legs of the woman on the right. With two down momentarily, she could land a shot to the solar plexus of the third, then dispatch the others almost at her leisure. She adjusted her weight slowly, so as not to tip her hand. Then without so much as a blink, she threw herself into a roundhouse kick.

Her assault was textbook. Even though her assailants were expecting it, the suddenness of the attack took them by surprise. Joanna's stance, the extension, the drive through the target, everything was perfect. Everything except for the footwear. Three quarters of the way through her kick, as the lead assailant was bringing her arm up too late to block the blow, Joanna's high-heeled sandal turned out from under her.

The sudden shift changed the trajectory of her foot, the blow landing harmlessly (albeit painfully) into the woman's bicep. The woman grunted and was knocked sideways. Joanna grunted too, as she thought she might have broken her big toe with the errant kick. Even though her ankle buckled and she was thrown off balance, Joanna still managed to pirouette around and stay on her feet. She thought she might have a slightly sprained ankle and her toe could definitely use some ice, but she currently had bigger problems.

The lead woman's face distorted with rage, then just as quickly, her expression returned to normal and she smiled. When she spoke, it was in a tone as if chastising a small child.

"Tsk, Tsk." she chided. "It seems that somebody doesn't play well with others. Okay, fine."

"Ladies." she said to her cohorts.

Then she lunged at Joanna. The blonde was expecting it and blocked the blow easily, her counterpunch landing solidly in the assailant's ribs. However, the parry had turned her back slightly to the woman on her right. That guard pressed the advantage and flung out a long strap, the end looped through the buckle. With uncanny timing, the woman snapped her arm back, whip-cracking the buckle of the strap into Joanna's bare midriff. The blonde sucked in her breath and instinctively brought her elbow in to cover the wounded area. In doing so, her right arm hung in mid-air.

That was all the opening the woman on the left needed. With a deftness that matched her partner, she let fly with her own looped strap. However, she waited to yank on the strap, until its loop had passed around Joanna's wrist. And when she pulled, the leather snare tightened down behind the detective's hand. Another tug and Joanna's arm was pulled away from her body. The leader took advantage of such an exposed target and landed a vicious jab to the blonde's stomach.

"Ghhuuhhh!" The policewoman's air surged from her lungs.

The attack was relentless. The guard on the right, swooped in and flung a strap around Joanna's right leg. Grabbing both ends of the strap, she pulled, dragging Joanna's foot off the floor. Her balance compromised, it didn't take much for the other guard to pull the detective over sideways. The officer landed on the concrete floor with a bone jarring thud. Then all three attackers descended on her, like linebackers on a loose ball.

The fight though, was far from over. Joanna swung with her free hand, raking her nails across the throat of one of her opponents. This drew a few droplets of blood and a steady stream of profanity. Joanna struggled to draw her arms under her body to: (A) Leverage herself back up and (B) So that these crazy bitches couldn't grab hold of them. The problem was, that this put her on the defensive. She would have much preferred to inflict more damage on the trio.

Out of nowhere, a knee landed in the small of her back. Joanna growled in pain and tried to twist free. As she was preoccupied with this, another guard cinched the strap that had hooked her right ankle. The blonde thrashed her legs wildly and connected with the guard. Joanna hoped that she'd hurt the woman as badly, as her shin bone did from the contact. She then shot out her free elbow, contacting with something, though she didn't believe it had caused any damage.

An observer to this queer sight might have been struck by something else. The room, for all the frenetic activity, was strangely hushed. Except for an undertone of grunts and muttered curses, the storeroom could have been vacant. One might have been reminded of the silent battle between a scorpion and fire ants.

In spite of every trick Joanna could think of, her strapped left wrist was wrestled behind her back.

"Shit!" she muttered through her teeth in frustration.

Pain exploded from her shoulder, as her hand was wrenched high up her back. She twisted her torso trying to ease the strain. In doing so, she exposed her cradled right arm. A firm grip grasped it and no matter how Joanna twisted, she couldn't break free. Two hands now seized it, manipulating it too, behind her back. Joanna ceased kicking her legs and focused on stymieing this development. That was all the break the woman at her feet needed. Two quick passes of the long leather strap around her ankles and Joanna's ability to kick was all but squelched. With her job accomplished, that guard was free to sit on Joanna's ass, reducing the policewoman's struggles even more.

Now, with a woman working on each arm, Joanna could do nothing to prevent her hands from being maneuvered up between her shoulder blades. The pain of the double hammerlock was intolerable and the blonde let out a yelp. She felt the pliant leather of the strap anchored to her left wrist, pass every which way around her arms where they crossed. When the hands gripping her arms eased their hold, her imprisoned hands remained up between her shoulder blades.

"Not good." Joanna thought to herself.

She did her best to twist and jack-knife away from her attackers. But with one sitting on her legs and another straddling her back, there was no way even a fit, 105 lb person like Joanna, was going to throw off almost three hundred pounds of women. In fact, the trio had stopped trying to add any more straps and were just waiting for the cop to tire herself out. And that was happening rapidly.

"This is not looking good at all." Joanna thought.

As if reading her mind, the leader asked in a sing-song voice, "Are you SURE you don't want to call for your partner?"

"Go Fuck yourself, you whacked-out bitch!" Joanna muttered through clenched teeth.

"Oh no, pet." the leader cooed. "You've got the roles all mixed up. See, you've been demoded to sex toy. YOU'RE the one whose going to get fucked, you just don't know it yet."

"Kiss my ass, dyke!" the detective spat.

But Joanna didn't feel the bravado of her words. She was in a real pickle here. It was time to call in the cavalry. She strained to pull in a breath (not easy to do with two psycho bitches sitting on your back). She eased her face toward the door and let go with a heartfelt cry for help. Or tried to.

"Hel-ahnnmmmfff!" her cry backed up in her throat.

Joanna was staggered by a flurry of simultaneous actions. Someone (it had to have been the assailant sitting on her back) grabbed her short blonde hair and viciously yanked her head upward. At the same time, her vision was blotted out by a strange, blue sphere. The sphere scored a direct hit on her mouth. Rather, it scored a direct hit IN her mouth. Reflexively, the blonde tried to bite down. The response was immediate and painful.

The hands in her hair switched position, latching on to her ears. The grip intensified, fingernails digging in to the sensitive cartilage. Joanna couldn't stifle the cry of pain. In doing so, she allowed free passage to the surprisingly pliant mass surging between her teeth. The spongy substance started filling her mouth in spurts, as the leader continued to pack it in with her fingers. Soon, it had muscled her tongue to the back of her mouth. Joanna's tongue tried to hold back the coarse, grainy-surfaced intruder, but it was outmatched. The detective noted that the inside of her mouth had become instantly parched. What was obviously some kind of sponge, was soaking up her saliva. She observed also, that the material dampened noise most effectively.

Even though she started to wretch, the hand kept shoving the foam ball between her teeth. Joanna abandoned most of her struggles in an effort to keep from vomiting into the blockage, thus blocking her airway. When at last, the entire bulk had been crammed behind her teeth, the leader clamped her hand over Joanna's lips, insuring that the packing stayed put. The blonde policewoman could not get any leverage on the wad, thus push it out. Her tongue was folded up in the back of her mouth, like a throw rug on a wooden floor.

She tried to bite down on the hand covering mouth and was shocked to feel how the stuffing held her mouth agape. Spongy as the mass was, there was so much of it in the relatively small cavity of her mouth, that it had assumed the density of a cue ball.

"ughmf! ughmf!" She grunted, trying to shake her head free. But the painful grip on her ears did not ease.

There was a tearing sound and a ring of silver/grey flashed in front of her eyes. Something stuck to her left cheek, near her temple and the ring passed in front again, under her nose. The sticky sensation traversed across her mouth to the opposite cheek and recognition struck Joanna.

"Duct Tape!" She realized in shocked disbelief.

The woman applying the tape did so with a great deal of tension. The gummy, two inch swathe shouldered its way between the blonde's teeth, compressing the sponge packing even more. To Joanna's utter horror, the spool of tape continued to traverse around her head. And when it reached the point at which it had started, it just kept on going.

The second pass between her teeth was three times as tight as the first. The third circuit, double the previous two. When the tape was severed and its end smoothed down near the nape of her neck, Joanna wasn't sure that her head wasn't going to explode. Absently, she couldn't figure out why the bitch holding her ears hadn't let go yet.

Her answer came with the tape being re-adhered near her left temple once more. Its path this time, took it down under her chin. Joanna was at a loss to see how this could make any kind of a difference. Close to a foot of tape was rolled off the roll, but before it was applied, a hand cupped her newly taped jaw. The hand pressed upward, causing Joanna to bite down on the packing. In one smooth motion, the roll passed over the top of her head and back down under her chin again.

"Holy SHIT!!!" Joanna hummed.

In spite of her best efforts, the sticky silver band completed four more orbits. Most of her hair was now obliterated under a cap of dull grey tape. The squeeze caused her to bite down with eye popping ferocity. And yet, they weren't finished. One final time, the tape began at her temple. It followed the path of the first application, now crinkled between her teeth by the pressure forcing her to involuntarily bite down. The five passes around her head that followed were smoothed down, her lower face disappearing behind a seamless silver/grey band of iron.

Finally, the grip on her ears eased. Joanna instinctively shook her head, trying to throw off the incredible crushing pressure. The short hairs on the back of her neck yelped, as they were nearly pulled from their roots. Nothing slipped or gave. It was as if her head was encased in cement. Joanna could not see how her cheeks puffed out over the top of the tape. Nor could she see the wild eyed look of panic in her eyes. But her captors could and relished every moment.

However, now was not the time for self-congratulation. There was work yet to be done. They noted that the detective's frenzied struggles had almost managed to work a hand free from the rapidly applied strap. Time to fix that. As one of the produced a two inch wide, foot long belt, another grasped Joanna's elbows. With their prisoner's hands still high up her back, the guard compressed Joanna's elbows closer together.

"nnnnnnnnngghhhhh!" came the officer's prolonged screech.

To the women in the room, it sounded like a dying mosquito. The strap was passed through the folds of Joanna's bent forearms. Two sharp jerks followed, before the double stems of the buckle were inserted through their corresponding notches. The detective's elbows now ground against each other in the small of her back. The relatively loose binding around her wrist was removed, now that her arms had been rendered useless.

Another two inch strap, this one even shorter appeared. This one had a narrow, ½ inch strap dangling from it. The belt was buckled around Joanna's incapacitated wrists and buckled snug. Then the thinner band was fed between her hands and forearms. When it was pulled taut, it cinched the wide band around the blonde's wrists like a vice. Apparently, there was still a little tape left, for that now came into play.

The sticky wrap was wound around the four straightened fingers of each hand, leaving her thumbs free temporarily. Very temporarily, as it turned out, for almost immediately, her useless hands were pressed together and taped that way. In moments, Joanna's hands (thumbs included) had disappeared, from her fingernails down to the wrist binding. Her arms were now completely fused together behind her back as if praying, the silver clump that was her hands, almost touching the back of her neck.

"nnghh! nghh!" Joanna choked out through the packing. "Shit!" she thought, "My shoulders are going to pop any second." But they didn't.

"Now let's do her legs." the lead woman ordered.

"No cunt cutter?" came a query from one of her henchwomen.

"Nah," Joanna heard the response. "The boss wants to put that one on herself."

"Cunt Cutter!?!" Joanna mused. She didn't think she even wanted to know what that was.

And while she struggled to come to terms with her state thus far, the trio had more straps to administer. With one constantly sitting on their victim's back, the other two tended to Joanna's legs. Similar belts with secondary straps were buckled remorselessly around the policewoman's ankles, mid-calf, above and below her knees, mid-thigh and finally upper thighs, just below the swell of her bottom. Each and every strap then had its smaller mate worked between her legs and around the larger belt. When the strap was pulled tight and buckled, it cinched the primary belts down to impossibly small dimensions.

Joanna grunted yet again, when another woman sat on the backs of her thighs. This guard grasped the helpless blonde's ankles and lifted her feet into the air. The only antagonist not sitting on the detective, removed Joanna's sandals, then began fitting the blonde's feet with an odd leather contraption. A series of ten leather hoops rapidly captured each writhing toe. The hoops were part of a larger swathe of kidskin that blanketed the tops of their captive's feet. A pair of straps from this, buckled across the soles of her feet. Another strap was tightened just behind her heel and the final strap, low around her ankle. A wider strap running the length of her foot, across the sole from toes to ankle was then tightened. As this happened, Joanna's feet were forced to straighten to an en pointe posture.

Joanna's calf muscles, already crushed behind the inflexible leather belts, protested even louder at this new strain, as her muscles involuntarily flexed. And yet, her attackers still weren't finished. Incredibly, Joanna felt them folding her legs back upon themselves. When they'd gotten her knees to bend a little more than 90 degrees, it actually took two of the women (one of them sitting on her shins) to finish the job. Two, three inch wide leather belts were ratcheted down tight around her folded legs. Joanna could actually feel the heels of her leather bound feet, pressing against her ass. A 'tightly coiled spring' didn't even come close to describing the incredible tension now harnessed within her straining leg muscles. It was more abuse than her too tight short-shorts could handle. The petite blonde heard a seam rip up one side, from hem to waistband.

Joanna tried to look over her shoulder, but could not swivel her head that far. Minutes later, it wouldn't matter. The detective's head had begun to buzz, primarily due to the incredible tightness of the sponge packing and tape wrap. She screamed silently to herself, not to pass out. Then she watched as the leader knelt down in front of her. The woman held something in her hands. What it was, Joanna had no idea.

If pressed for a description, she might have said that the formless object, resembled a poorly tossed mass of black pizza dough. The edges of the floppy, relatively flat, irregularly shaped 'thing', were lined with the opened teeth of a zipper. Dangling from another edge, was a long length of thin, tough looking black rawhide. The bottom of the bizarre oddity consisted of a semi-circular 'cuff', made of stiffer stuff. Joanna raised a quizzical eyebrow at her assailant.

"It's the latest in Fall headgear." the woman quipped. A humorless grin creased her face.

Well, Joanna didn't know what that meant, but she certainly didn't want that thing anywhere near her head. She started to thrash as best she could, until a painfully familiar sensation blazed across her ear lobes. One of the guards had grasped them yet again. With her head held up and facing forward, Joanna could do nothing but watch, as the object filled her vision. As it drew close to her face, her nostrils picked up the strong, musky scent of leather.

Joanna watched transfixed, as the leader turned the 'pizza dough' inside out. She noted a triangular depression on the inside, two short rubber tubes protruding from it. A chill ran up her spine when she realized that the depression bore the general characteristics of a human nose. The grip on her ears tightened to ripping intensity, holding her head rock steady. The leader adjusted the 'headgear' until the two tubes were in the forefront. Joanna still couldn't fathom what was happening, even as the tubes slid up each of her nostrils. It was an indescribably annoying sensation and she was immediately struck by the urge to sneeze. Once the tubes settled an inch up into her nose though, the urge passed.

"Bye-bye for now, Officer Cunt." the leader purred.

And with that, Joanna's world went dark, as the leather was pulled up over her head. Blessedly, the grip on her ears eased, but only in order for the leather to further encapsulate her head. In no time, she could feel that the hide completely envelop her skull. The black tanned skin began to shrink everywhere at once, as the zipper was drawn closed. Then her head was jerked back in a series of tugs. The sensation seemed oddly familiar, then Joanna had it. They were drawing the laces tighter on the 'helmet', just like lacing up a shoe. Joanna could determine no other factors, her senses reduced to taste, touch and smell.

The three assailants were all too aware of what was happening to their victim. They were currently lacing her into an 'isolation helmet'. And it was indeed, a devious contraption. The inner layer consisted of 1/8" thick, cured cow's hide. The outer layer was made predominantly of neoprene and about to be administered. Once the zipper of the inner helmet was engaged, the flaccid neoprene was closed around it with the integrated laces. Over the laces, was smoothed a wide flap lined with Velcro. Before proceeding further, the wide, built-in collar was closed around their prey's neck.

Joanna felt the collar encircle her throat. It muscled her chin up as it did. She tried to wriggle her head to a more comfortable posture, but the collar's rigidity made that nearly impossible. That was bad news, because in her present state, her face was pressed flat against the floor, thus flattening her nose. She tried to call out that she couldn't breath, but the whine that whistled out was barely a whisper.

The leader connected a small bicycle pump to the nozzle on the crown of the outer helmet, then started pumping away. In a matter of seconds, the outer rubber lining began to inflate. Joanna was not aware of this, until her nose ceased to press against the floor. She whistled a relieved breath through the nostril tubes. That relief didn't last long. Suddenly, her head seemed to be squeezed everywhere at once.

The trio watched as the outer helmet expanded to the size of a basketball. The lead henchwoman disengaged the pump and thumped its surface with her finger. The sphere gave off a dull sound, like rapping on a ripe melon. Each assailant knew that their prey could not her the thrumming, due to the helmet's unique design.

Connecting the leather inner hood to its inflated exterior, was a network of honeycombed baffles. The pliant chambers worked like the micro-chambers in acoustical tile, suppressing sound both coming in and going out of the tight, leather head gear. This same honeycomb network lined the stiff collar as well. The collar too, had expanded during inflation. Not in a constricting fashion, rather it elongated. At the moment, Joanna felt as though her head was going to pop off her shoulders like a champagne cork.

Inside the claustrophobic grip of the pungent hide, the detective could keep her composure no longer. She screeched and screamed in a panic induced terror. Most of the noise never made it past her tape smothered mouth. What did buzz through was swallowed by the thousands of compartments surrounding her head. The small squeak that was redirected out through her nose, traveled a twisting, turning route through the meandering nose tubes. By the time the scream reached the two exit vents near the padlocked back of the collar, it was nothing more than a soft exhalation of breath.

Unable to tolerate another moment, Joanna thrashed with every fiber of her being. The trio stood and watched as their captive twisted and bent at her waist in a frenzy. They could see her trying to roll over on to her side, but hadn't the leverage to do so. All the while, her writhing was done in utter silence.

"Reminds me of a shark we pulled on deck of that party boat last year." one of the co-assailants commented.

"Yeah," said the other. "But this one's got no teeth."

"Yes, well, let's finish up and get her back to base." the lead woman said, taking charge again.

'Finishing up' consisted of attaching a strap from the collar, down to the belt cinching Joanna's wrists. When it was shortened, it managed to hike her straining arms a few centimeters higher up her back. The last bond was yet another strap. This one went from a large, central ring attached to the leather loops corralling her toes, up to the belt encircling her elbows. When it was buckled firmly, it hauled her folded arms downward a fraction, as well as, flattening the soles of her pointed feet firmly against her ass. The conflux of tensions turned Joanna's body almost rigid.

One of the guards wheeled out a cart heralding a popular brand of hot dog. It had been secreted behind a janitorial cart. They opened the side panel and lifted Joanna into it. They were pleased to note that even though their captive's muscles tensed with struggle, there was hardly any movement of her body. They closed the cart, then peeled off their coveralls. Two were now dressed as Mauler's fans, the leader in the uniform of a hot dog vendor. The 'fans' slipped out first when the coast was clear. They then radioed to their superior, when to come out unobserved.

The 'vendor' made her way down the corridor, being stopped occasionally by a hungry patron. She pleasantly served them a steaming hot weiner, garnished with whatever they wished. The patrons all noticed at how the woman smiled so brightly. None could have possibly known that the source of her cheeriness, was the awareness of the special 'hot dog' she had roasting in the interior of the cart.

Part 29

Danielle Frost was trying hard to maintain her composure. It had been four minutes since she'd last been in contact with her partner, Joanna August. That in itself was bad enough. But take in the fact that the two policewomen were deeply in love with each other, and the level of her concern rocketed to an immeasurable level.

"Okay," the 5'9" brunette said to herself. "Be cool. The last thing you want to do is run down the corridor, gun drawn. Joanna's BlueTooth probably just dropped the call. Coverage has always been iffy in this area."

Although the logic made perfect sense, it did little to ease her apprehension. She should have at least re-acquired visual contact with her partner by now. Unconsciously, her focus narrowed down to just searching for her 5'7", blonde haired, scantily clad partner. All other persons and distractions around her were ignored. This included an unusually attractive hot dog vendor, as well as Orville "Odie" Davenport, who was standing in the beer line. Both of THEM though, gazed admiringly at the sultry detective as she hurried by.

"Odie" was standing in the concession line, waiting for his free beer, when Danielle happened to pass. He couldn't take his eyes off her, his mind wandering back to yesterday in the woods. It took very little imagination (which was good, for Odie had very little) to picture the lithe brunette in her underwear, since he had already seen her in that condition. Once more, he was struck with pangs of regret over lost opportunity. As the female cop faded into the thinning crowd, he sighed and turned back in line. There, a clean cut young man let him cut in front. Odie thought nothing of it, he was just glad to be one person closer to a cold, sudsy draft.

The Hot Dog vendor also looked upon the 36C-cup detective with a hungry gaze. She could see that, although Danielle appeared poised, the brunette's head swiveled frequently, swishing her long straight hair across the back of her windbreaker.

"Aw," the woman said softly to herself. "Looking for our partner, are we? Don't worry, she's in good hands." She patted her cart as she said this.

With that, the woman hung a 'Sold Out' sign on her pushcart and wheeled it on to a service elevator.

As Danielle approached the end zone elevators, the location of the ransom drop, she still hadn't spotted Joanna. Wanting for all the world to scream out her lover's name, her professionalism guided her to take up an observatory position. She spotted a souvenir kiosk that would do nicely. As she walked to it, she caught a glance of a vaguely familiar face. As the woman walked closer, recognition struck. It was Rebecca Cranston, personal secretary to Bert Seagram and first victim of this bizarre case. The attractive blonde strode toward Danielle, smiling.

"Detective Frost, isn't it? Rebecca said as she neared. "Here to watch the game?"

"Uh, yes." Danielle said. "I'm surprised to see you here Miss Cranston. I would have thought that Bert...er, Mr. Seagram, would have given you a few days off, after your ordeal."

Rebecca Cranston's face clouded for a moment at the memory of being bound in a closet of the Mauler's headquarters, but then brightened quickly.

"Yes, well," the blonde answered, "Just sitting around my apartment wasn't doing me any good, so I decided to return to work. This facility still has a lot of pesky details to get under wraps." It didn't occur to Danielle, that Rebecca's smile shone a little too brightly at that comment.

"So," Rebecca added. "You and your partner, Detective August, are hear to watch the game?"

"You've seen her?" Danielle blurted, kicking herself for sounding so desperate.

"Yes." Rebecca answered, seeming a little shocked by the policewoman's intensity. "Not thirty seconds ago."

"I must admit," confided the secretary, "I was a little shocked at her attire. That, and she's an Eagles fan."

"Did you happen to see which way she went?" Danielle asked, as calmly as she could manage.

"Of course," came the response. "She got on to one of the private elevators. I'd just assumed that Mr. Seagram had given you a pass card, so that you could watch the game from one of the suites. He's mentioned to me how helpful you two have been the past few days."

"Can you show me which one?" asked Danielle, apprehension once again creeping into her voice.

"Certainly." Rebecca answered pleasantly.

The two women walked over to the elevator bank. One of them was marked clearly, 'Private' and had a card slot in place of the usual 'Up & Down' buttons.

"Do you have your card?" Rebecca asked the female cop.

"No, uh, Joanna was holding it for me." Stammered Danielle.

"I wonder where she could keep it, with that outfit." Rebecca said, then she brought her hand to her mouth, feigning embarrassment.

"Sorry," she apologized. "That's none of my business."

Danielle let the jab slide, for now she was confronted by another quandary. She had no idea which direction her partner could have gone, once she'd entered the elevator. She shared her dilemma with her blonde guide.

"Oh that shouldn't be a problem." Rebecca assured her. "The computer keeps track of usage. I'm certain that your partner was the last person to use this one."

Danielle watched as the secretary slid her personal key card in the slot and typed some commands into the small keypad.

"Hm, that's strange." commented the lovely blonde. "Records indicate that she rode this down to the lower level. Nothing down there but storage."

"Can you take me there?" asked Danielle.

"Sure, no problem." came the reply.

Rebecca slid her card once more and pressed the appropriate button. Danielle did not notice that the blonde took half a step back, as the doors slid closed. As the descent began, the brunette looked up anxiously at the illuminated numbers indicating the location of the car.

"Might as well see how the game is going." the detective heard the secretary say behind her. Rebecca switched on a small monitor, high in the corner of the lift. Danielle paid it no attention, her mind willing the ride to proceed faster.

"Uh-Oh," she half heard Rebecca say. "Things don't look good for the visiting team."

Still, Danielle didn't cast her look to the monitor. It wasn't until Miss Cranston turned up the volume, that it caught the detective's attention. The interior of the small, private elevator filled with an odd, nasal "ummgff! ummgff!" sound. Danielle turned toward the monitor and her mouth dropped open.

She'd expected to see a wide, green plain lined with white stripes and occupied by almost two dozen heavily armored gladiators. Instead, it was some kind of storage room, a strange cast of characters huddled in the center. Recognition punched Danielle in the gut, as she saw her partner/lover in the center of the group.

A formidable woman was sitting on Joanna's back, grasping the blonde's ears with a white knuckled grip. Another woman was smoothing an incredibly wide swathe of duct tape over her partner's lower face. Danielle could see that the tape had been wound around Joanna's head, obliterating her features from just under her nose, all the way down under her chin. Joanna's cheeks puffed out over the top of the tape like a chipmunk's and her eyes were wide and watering from the incredibly tight wrap. More tape had already been wound up over her head, almost completely obscuring the blonde's short, spiky hairdo.

Danielle noted that her lover's arms had been bent up her back at an impossible angle, pinned there by the woman sitting on her. A third woman was buckling a strap around Joanna's ankles. Slow to process what she was seeing, Danielle finally snapped out of her shock. She turned to confront Rebecca, her hand sliding toward her firearm at the same time. It didn't make it.

"What the..." the detective stammered. That's as far as she got.

Rebecca had already extracted the small, pneumatic injector from her blazer pocket. She pressed the business end against the detective's neck and pulled the trigger. A precisely measured amount of Versed was injected directly into the brunette's jugular. An instant later, the interior of the elevator spun, then Danielle's world went black. Rebecca Cranston caught the unconscious policewoman under the arms and lowered her to the floor. She stood, grinning, looking down at the slumbering beauty.

"Shield 2 neutralized," she said into her radio. "We're on our way down."

Through the walls of the elevator, she could hear the muffled roar of the crowd, as Donovan McNabb had just been sacked for a loss. The visiting team was definitely, 'on the ropes'.

Odie Davenport had finally gotten his plastic cup, full of lukewarm lager. And not a minute too soon. His headache was thumping like a drum. He stepped out of line and was in the act of taking a long pull from the cup. But then he stumbled, sloshing a good portion of the brew down the front of him. Furious, he almost tossed the contents across the corridor, but caught himself just in time. Looking down, he saw the cause for his mishap. A boot lace had come untied.

Muttering to himself over such a stupid waste of some good lager, he moved off to one side of the corridor. He knelt to re-tie the offending lace and something orange caught his eye. Sticking out from under a trash can, was the handle strap of a Mauler's equipment bag. Not taking into consideration the troubled times we live in, it never occurred to Odie that it might be something dangerous. His reasoning was that, it was near a trash can, thus someone no longer wanted it.

Now, Odie may not have been familiar with the rules of ocean going salvage, but he certainly knew the code of any playground. "Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers." Someone didn't want the bag, thus it was rightfully his. Odie slid the bag out and picked it up, his beer temporarily forgotten. The groundskeeper didn't notice that he'd drawn the attention of half a dozen, very intense looking, clean-cut young men. The bag was heavier than he would have thought.

"There's something inside it." He said, delighted with his discovery.

He grasped the zipper and slid it open. Odie had just caught a glimpse of the unfamiliar face of Benjamin Franklin (Odie'd never seen a fifty, yet alone a one hundred dollar bill before), when there was a startling *POP*, like that of a tiny firecracker. Instantly, his eyes burned as if splashed with acid. He took in a startled breath, the fire searing his throat and lungs. In his agony, Odie dropped the bag, but the damage had already been done.

He took a staggering step backward. Then, out of nowhere, his body was bent in two different directions at once. This was due to the two officers who tackled him, one high and one low. In addition to his current agony, Odie now suffered from a bruised kidney and a wrenched back. A swarm of SWAT members descended on the scene, efficiently handcuffing the writhing man, in front of a group of startled fans. They more carried than walked him to the command van, which had been summoned to the nearest exit.

As the van drove away with its pained, confused and completely innocent occupant, the members of the team congratulated one another on a perfectly executed operation. No one got hurt and the bad guy was in custody. Orville "Odie" Davenport would spend the next seventy-two hours in isolation, suffering constant interrogation. Officers assigned to the Margaret Seagram kidnapping case would be sure that Odie's dimwittedness and proclaimed innocence, was merely the ruse of a clever mastermind. They said as much to Bert Seagram, who found that a difficult concept to swallow, but relied on the police's professional judgment.

Thus, for the next three days, the search for Maggie Seagram was almost non-existent. Detectives August and Frost had not had the chance to divulge the link concerning the missing cheerleader tryouts with anyone in the department. Plus, the two detectives were on furlough, so there would be no urgent need to contact them. So for the moment, the only persons aware of the missing women, were the victims themselves. And of course, their captors, who were planning on doing everything they could to make their stay as unpleasant as possible.

Part 30

Joanna August fought her bonds like a tigress. Not because the petite blonde was valiant or courageous, but because she was SCARED. She'd had a taste of these people's ridiculously stringent bondage less than twenty four hours ago. That eye opening experience of helplessness had left her shaken to her core. Joanna had always considered herself fiercely independent. Being bound to that tree had shown her how easy it was for someone to rob her of even the most intrinsic freedoms like movement and speech. She swore never to fall prey to that situation again. Yet, here she was. "No," she thought, "this is a hundred times worse." She strained against her restraints again. Something, somewhere, had to give or break.

"It just HAD to." she thought desperately.

It had only taken her seconds to become drenched in sweat inside the hot, steamy box her assailants had shoved her in. And then there was the overpowering stench that wafted through the nose tubes with each and every breath. She could feel the brief shorts and ridiculously tight top, cling to her like a sodden second skin. The leather bindings too, had attained clammy feel. That didn't mean that they had loosened any. Joanna had hoped they might, but they were too tight and there were just too many. Still, she couldn't quit. Surrender was too horrid an option to even contemplate.

"gnnnnnhhfff!!!" She screamed once more, hoping that someone might hear.

Her bellow dammed up behind the packing in her mouth, setting off a concert of retches and abbreviated coughs. Everything sounded strangely hollow to her, as if she were in some kind of vacuum. As she finally got a handle on the last bout of hacking, she decided that calling for help wasn't such a good idea. She'd have to get free on her own.

She flexed her legs, already tensed beyond their limit. She wriggled her fiendishly bound toes. The latter action somehow translating to a slight downward tug on her folded elbows. She ignored the pain in her shoulders as best she could and tried to lower her inconceivably bent arms. All efforts to bend her fingers failed, they remained petrified within their silver/grey cocoon of tape. Countless times she tried, with each effort getting a little more desperate. And a little weaker.

When she could find no weakness in the bonds themselves, she thought perhaps a shift in her posture might help. Breathing deeply as she could, she tried lurching on to her side. The results were a huge disappointment. She barely managed to shift her weight from one breast to the other. With all her limbs folded and locked close to her body, she had no leverage. In addition, the damnable collar held her head practically motionless.

"It's not fair!" she screamed to herself. All the heroines she'd ever seen in the movies, had had at least SOME ability to struggle. These people had bound her so, that any attempts to writhe failed before they got started. Joanna paused, utterly exhausted. She would not give up, but where would she find hope?

(Four hours earlier...)

Maggie Seagram's misery continued without pause. Though the miniature mechanical bastinado had stopped long ago, her aches and pains did not. She knew not of the developments involving her ransom. Not that she'd benefit one iota from it. As it was now, she'd be willing to pay, or do anything, just for the luxury of stretching out.

If asked, she would have said it would have been impossible to doze off whilst bound in such a strenuous position. So imagine her shock, when she was jolted from her troubled slumber by the pair of hands that mauled her body. Margaret harrumphed a surprised squeal and grunted desperate pleas to be released from her breast mashing position. The hands seemed to be in no hurry to do that.

Finally, the cord holding her head up and back was severed. The voluptuous redhead groaned in blissful agony, as she lowered her head to the steel mesh of the cot, as fast as her stiffened neck muscles would allow.

"Now, please God," she thought desperately. "get my tits up off of this wire bedding. It feels like my breasts are being forced through a cheese slicer!"

And, to her utter disbelief, her mystery caller began doing just that. Once the tape anchoring her ankles wide to the foot rail had been sliced, Maggie was free to roll on to her side. Her 38-D bust throbbed painfully, but at least they were free of her crushing weight. And then, her chest exploded once more, the epicenter being her clamped nipples. Said clamps had just been removed.

Tears soaked the inside of the blindfold as Maggie screamed into the gag. She jerked against the arm sheath pinning her arms behind her, wanting nothing more than to cradle her wounded breasts. But of course, her arms remained fused behind her. She had experienced a sheath in the past, during her erotic play sessions with Andy. And although that binder had proved inescapable, it had also fit rather loosely. Her elbows never got closer than six inches. Not so, the one she was currently laced and strapped in to.

Rebecca Cranston and her lover, Andy, had talked Margaret into wearing the arm binder for the ransom video. It had seemed like a good, even 'fun' idea at the time. Now, even after hours of sweating and struggling, it still mashed her elbows together. Her hands remained steepled arthritically within the too small confines of the sheath's terminus. Forearms clammy with perspiration hadn't the room to rub against one another more than a few millimeters. The ache in her straining shoulders had subsided somewhat, yet still ached nonetheless. Maggie tried to bat away the unseen hands that accosted her, but her arms moved as before, like one, impotent stump.

The hands grasped her around the waist, lifted and rotated her body a quarter turn. Then they plopped her down on her back, her arms now pinned between her body and the cot's wire lattice. The hands grabbed her left ankle and pulled her leg straight. A sickeningly familiar sensation followed, as her ankle was taped wide to the foot rail of the cot. And sure enough, her right ankle was soon taped to the opposite side of the foot rail. There'd be no rolling back on to her side.

The cot's webbing sagged as Maggie's assailant either knelt or sat on it. Clueless as to what was happening, she started when something pressed up under her distended jaw. Subsequently, her neck felt the all over pressure of something soft, yet unyielding.

"It's some kind of collar." Margaret deduced.

Yet it was like nothing she'd ever experienced. The leather (it had to have been, it felt so much like the other bindings she 'wore') clasped her neck from jaw line to shoulders. The front and back portions dove down even farther. In front, a stiff panel pressed against her chest almost to the sternum. In back, it dipped down between her compressed shoulder blades. Sharp jerks on the collar caused it to suddenly constrict. Maggie determined that straps and buckles were being tightened. When the yanking stopped, the two-timing redhead was alarmed to discover that she could neither turn her head, nor nod it up or down.

Moments passed, then she felt tension hauling her up by the front of the collar. The drag continued until she was sitting slightly past upright, her torso leaning toward the foot rail. There she stayed, as the cord from the collar was lashed to the foot rail. She felt a touch through the soft, yet unyielding kidskin trapping her hands. Something was happening down near her fingertips. The mystery unraveled as her arms were drawn away from her body, by a tension similar to that on her collar.

"gnnngnff! hhmmmnnngh!" Maggie groaned, as she was forced to bend further at the waist. "The bastard's tying my arms to the head rail!"

As the buxom redhead tried to adjust to the new position, again she felt fingers brushing her body. This time, it was down at the base of her spine. Then magically, then tension on the horrid crotch strap eased. An arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her firm, round ass off the cot. Maggie couldn't stifle a moan of relief, as the two inert latex plugs slithered out of her violated orifices. She shuddered, as she felt the trickle of seminal fluid leak out of her raped entrances. The arm lowered her butt to the cot.

Maggie was unable to turn her blindfolded eyes toward the sound of a light piece of furniture scraping across the floor. The noise ceased when it was directly beneath her. Silence...silence, and then suddenly, fingers were reaching up through the wire lattice, painfully parting the pinched flesh of her upper thighs. The strong fingers worked their way to the soft, slick folds of her sex. Her labia was indelicately stretched open and Margaret howled as the crown of an erect penis muscled its way inside her.

"He's raping me through a gap in the cot's webbing!" the failed extortionist realized.

It dawned on her that the scraping she'd heard, was some kind of stool or bench, which had enabled her attacker to position himself for this assault from below. Maggie could do nothing as she felt his fingers grab the toned muscles of her derriere through the lattice. The strong hands bench pressed Maggie's ass up and down, forcing Bert Seagram's treacherous wife to involuntarily fuck her assailant.

"mmngh! mmngh!" grunted the ex-car show spokesmodel.

She wanted to shake her head 'NO!' She yearned to roll off this unsolicited ravaging of her sex. Yet all she could do, was sit there, maddeningly restrained and slake her rapist's lust. Maggie found no pleasure in any of this, as she once had, for things had dramatically changed. Previously, she had been a willing participant in her kinky trysts. And although restrained, had still wielded a considerable amount of control.

The realization struck her like a bucket of ice water. Now, she was no more than a sex toy to be used when convenient, then discarded and forgotten until she was required again. Her beautiful body was nothing more than a vessel, something to be manipulated, restrained and violated on a whim. Fresh tears wept into the already soaked padding of the blindfold.

Maggie let out a long, vanquished moan as her rapist's cock stiffened inside her. She felt his hot sperm spurt inside her, heralding the fact that he wore no protection. Apparently, these people weren't worried, or just didn't care about possible impregnation. She could have no idea that a potent contraceptive laced everything she'd be given to eat or drink. The psychological horror of an unwanted pregnancy due to molestation was another weapon in the kidnappers' arsenal. All of these methods centered on keeping their captives' thoughts focused on the utter hopelessness of their situation.

Margaret hardly noticed when her assailant withdrew his semi-rigid member. Her attention did sharpen though, when an arm once again grasped her waist. Her awareness crystallized, when she felt the head of something definitely not human, nuzzle against her labia.

"nnghh! nnnnnghhh! nnnNNNNNGHHHHFF!" her screams rose in octaves and volume, as it became apparent that a different probe was being inserted.

The skin visible on Maggie's face flushed scarlet, as she howled in protest. The massive ball gag and harness, reinforced by the incredibly sticky tape, did an admirable job of choking off her outrage. If the former dildo, with its two inch by eight inch girth had been intolerable, this new prod was a physical impossibility. It had to be at least a full inch larger in diameter. And as the earlier violator had been smooth, this one was festered with warts and bumps. Its only saving grace was that it was pliant enough to accommodate the curved nature of Maggie's bent posture.

"gnngh! gnngh!" Maggie grunted, trying to come to terms with the unnatural distension of her sensitive tissue.

The prod burrowed deeper and deeper, as if it had no end. The treacherous blackmailer was certain that her lower abdomen would appear distended, due to the volume the mass displaced. But finally, Maggie felt the warmth of her attacker's hand brush against her pussy lips, as it rammed the base of the probe home. While one hand held the dildo from squirting out, due to the natural elasticity of Maggie's sex, the other inserted a blessedly smaller prod through the clenched ring of the redhead's anus.

Margaret felt the crotch strap once again thread between her legs. There was no need this time, to spread the petals of her sex, the new dildo accomplished this task admirably. She'd have had to been dead, not to notice the change to the inside of the strap. Starting below her navel, roughly at the crest of her crimson pubic hair and continuing uninterrupted between her legs up to the termination of her ass crack, were hundreds, no, THOUSANDS of stiff rubber spikes.

Her attacker tightened the crotch strap, actually lifting Maggie completely off the cot, using her own body weight to constrict the leather strap to its smallest possible circumference. She could do nothing but brace herself, certain to be eviscerated by the plethora of spikes. A small portion of her almost welcomed the end to this nightmarish ordeal. But as the strap sawed into the delicate flesh between her legs, she could detect no piercing of her skin. Oh, the barbs certainly made their presence known. The inanimate projections seemingly came to life, prickling her anywhere they touched, yet caused no permanent injury.

Finally, the strap was buckled in place, securing the prods indefinitely. Maggie felt a tug or two on the tip of the arm binder and then her arms dropped back to her spine. Moments later, the cord to the collar was severed, allowing the redhead to sit straight once more. Margaret groaned miserably, as the huge, pustuled phallus shifted inside her.

Her attention suddenly shifted a few inches, when an odd pumping noise was accompanied by the rapid expansion of the probe anchored in her back passage. In seconds, her rectum was stretched inconceivably by the now rock hard girth of the inflatable plug. Waves of cramps swept through her abdomen, spurred by the abnormal distention of her orifices.

The attacker once again gripped Maggie's waist and pulled her back, locking her widely splayed legs straight. Maggie had almost forgotten her strangled, recently whipped breasts when the man removed the straps garroting them at the base. New pain erupted as the blood rushed back into the strangled orbs. That pain more than trebled when a nipple clamp was unexpectedly snapped in place. Through the haze of fire, Maggie could feel a weight pulling on the newly administered clamp.

A hand, unfelt through the stiff posture collar, pressed down on the back of Maggie's neck. In spite of all the resistance she could muster, the redhead was forced to bend once again at the waist. She couldn't believe it when her assailant lay his chest on her back, folding her like a napkin. The pressure on her back remained constant as she felt the disembodied hands grip her silicone enhanced breasts. Each globe was maneuvered outside of her spread thighs. An irritating tug vibrated her clamped left nipple. A hand passed under her thigh, as did its mate, approaching from the opposite direction. Maggie felt something cold dance intermittently across the underside of her thighs.

Suddenly, there was blaze of white hot fire, as her left nipple was jerked downward. That fire soon had a companion, as fingers pinched her right nipple and yanked it down. Maggie's breasts were drawn further apart and down the flanks of her thighs. A dreaded pause, as the other shoe waited to drop, then sure enough, the second clamp gnashed down her right nipple. The pain was exquisite, for all the wrong reasons. Maggie's throat involuntarily constricted, choking off her cry of agony.

The rapist's weight eased off her back. Maggie's body naturally tried to straighten from its awkwardly bent position. Her chest erupted in a conflagration of pain. The redhead could barely discern the cool path of the nipple chain pressing on the underside of her thighs. She recognized immediately the import of her situation. The connecting nipple chain ran beneath her legs. She would have to remain bent over at the waist, or risk tearing her crimson hued buds from her breasts. Already, her back muscles were starting to knot.

Her attacker must have moved to the foot of the bed, for Maggie suddenly felt stiff wire ensnaring the big toe of her left foot. Tension was applied, dragging her foot to the right. Another wire loop lassoed her right big toe, the pull drawing it to the left. With her ankles spread wide and lashed high on the foot rail, only her feet were free to rotate inward, which they did. The wire was knotted, freezing her feet, with purpling toes almost pointing at one another. Then a sound reached Maggie's ears, which were virtually locked between her knees, that chilled her very soul. The mechanical clack*clack*clack of the bastinado machine.

When the first unpredictable strike landed, Maggie involuntarily lurched up. With a Herculean effort, she was able to scrunch herself back down to alleviate the biting, stretching pull on her breasts.

"There's no way I can endure this!" she thought frantically.

But endure it she must, for she had only one alternative, one that she couldn't even contemplate. So she focused all over her effort on keeping her immobilized head between her locked and splayed knees. She tried frantically to reach around with her pinioned arms in an attempt to remove the horrid nipple clamps. She only managed to brush the soft leather armbinder against her ass and hips, jostling the crotch strap's padlock in the process.

Andy stepped back and watched as his ex-lover's body become awash in a sheen of perspiration. He could feel himself becoming hard once again. But there was no time for that. He had to take up his surveillance position before the crowds arrived for the game. But he had one more task to do before leaving. It would be a shame to leave the gorgeous redhead with all pain and no pleasure. He reached under the cot and grasped the cord that dangled from Maggie's loins. Walking over to an outlet, he plugged in the electric cord. Immediately, the room filled with the deep hum of a small, yet powerful electric motor.

Margaret jerked as the vibrator came to life within her vagina. She hadn't believed anything could thrum so powerfully. And the shudders didn't stop with her pussy. The rubber spikes suddenly came to life, spurred by the mechanical earthquake. They danced and shivered everywhere they touched flesh. Her clitoris, enclosed within its hood, could not ignore the activity. It began to swell, the tightly clustered bundle of nerves not impervious to the stimulation. Indeed, Maggie could even feel her breasts flutter from the vibrations transmitted up her torso. It was a heinous mixture of pleasure and pain that no sane person could ever devise.

Absently (her focus was on more important matters) she heard the light switch flick off. This was followed by the sound of the steel door closing and its deadbolt being secured. After that, the only noise within the room was the maddening sound of the machine at her feet and the lawn mower-like buzzing between her legs. And of course, Maggie's own ridiculously muffled grunts, bleats and whimpers. To her disbelief, she felt her loins alight with the heat of undesired arousal.

(Back to the present)

As the elevator continued its descent, Rebecca Cranston knelt next to the unconscious detective Danielle Frost.

"First rule of kidnapping," she spoke softly to herself, "subdue your victim as soon as possible."

"No" she added with a giggle. "That's the second rule. The first rule is don't get caught."

She busied herself removing Danielle's running shoes and socks. Next, she unbuttoned the officer's jeans and slid them off. Her finger traced the line of Danielle's crisp white, string sided panties. The windbreaker followed, as did her sidearm and shoulder rig. Rebecca debated for a moment, then decided to leave the policewoman's mint green t-shirt on. It would be more fun to finish the disrobing when she was awake and alert.

Rebecca rolled Danielle on to her stomach. From her blazer pocket, Miss Cranston removed two sets of manacles. The first set of cuffs, joined by a solitary steel link, were ratcheted down snugly above the brunette's elbows. Rebecca admired how this rolled the woman's shoulders back and thrust out her chest. She reckoned Danielle's bust to be about a 34" C-cup. She'd find out later that she'd under guessed.

The next set of manacles had no connecting link. Instead, a hinge affixed the two cuffs together. She locked them around Danielle's wrists, knowing that the officer would be doing very little hand gesturing from now on. The blonde kidnapper had saved the best for last.

She rolled the unconscious beauty over on to her back. Then she scooped up the discarded ankle socks and rolled them into two balls. Then, one at a time, she stuffed them into Danielle's cheeks. She withdrew the last two items from her blazer pocket. The first, was a bright red, 3" rubber ball, with a ½" leather strap running off-center through it. Rebecca started wedging the moderately (moderate to the administer, enormous to the recipient) sized ball between Danielle's teeth.

It never failed to fascinate the blonde, at how the wearer's jaws and muscles would flex, as they struggled to accommodate such an abnormally large object in their mouth. Using the heel of her hand, Rebecca jammed the apex of the ball behind the detective's pearly white teeth. One more shove for good measure and then she gathered up Danielle's long straight tresses at the top of her head. Hair getting in the way would prohibit the gag strap from being buckled at its tightest possible notch. Rebecca fed the strap through the buckle and gave it a sharp tug, followed by another. She looked closely at the strap and gave it one last tug, in order to slip the hasp through the notch she'd chosen. The strap, not being centered through the ball, but toward the front, allowed for the majority of the mass to be swallowed behind the victim's teeth.

Rolling the slumbering policewoman once more on to her back, she looked at the calm face and was delighted with the results. The strap drew the corners of Danielle's mouth back in a partial grimace, whilst stretching her lips in a sealing embrace around the ball. The strap then cleft her cheeks, bulging from the socks within. It was, what they called in the business, an 'Eye Popper'. When awake, the victim's eyes would bulge due to the volume of packing in their mouth.

Next, she picked up the 4" by 10", flesh colored swathe. She glanced at the directions on the back with mild amusement. In bold print, it stated:

CAUTION: PRODUCT EXTREMELY ADHESIVE!

Cut patch just large enough to cover effected area!
May cause irritation and redness to skin.

USE ONLY AS DIRECTED!

Rebecca's twisted grin widened at the knowledge that she was DEFINITELY not going to follow directions. She ripped open a small foil packet and removed from it the small, alcohol soaked towelette. She used the wipe to remove all the make-up and oil from the bottom half of the policewoman's face. Examining her work, she frowned slightly, then made an adjustment. She plucked at Danielle's upper and lower lip, tugging them down so that they consumed more of the ball's surface. Satisfied, she peeled the backing off the 'Moleskin' blister dressing.

Very carefully, knowing she only had one shot, she pressed the top edge of the swathe at the very base of Danielle's septum. Gingerly, she smoothed the bandage down over what should have been a pair of lax lips and the rubber ball. She let the dressing hang off the edge of the brunette's chin for the moment. Careful not to let the other side stick, Rebecca stretched and smoothed the 'Moleskin' across the detective's left cheek. At the end, she crimped and pressed the bandage behind the dogleg of Danielle's jawbone. The right half went on just as smoothly and just as tight. Finally, she worked the floppy edges under the policewoman's chin and jaw line.

A thrill ran through her as she studied the results. The flesh colored 'hide' of the dressing was a few shades lighter than Danielle's peaceful complexion. The contrast highlighted her socks stuffed cheeks, which bulged over the top edge. The round, quarter sphere of the ball gag, as well as its strap, were clearly delineated through the bandage. The stunning blonde knew that the beauty before her, could scream until the cows came home, but the gag would not come off without help.

Rebecca's timing was perfect. As she stood, the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open. Standing there was one of the guards, fresh off the capture of Danielle's partner, Joanna. As the guard took the comatose detective under the arms, Rebecca gathered up all evidence they'd ever been in the elevator. Then they exited, pressing the 'Up' button as they did.

"Let's get her in a room." the blonde ordered the guard, "I want to see her reaction when she wakes up."


Part 31 (added: 05/05/2009)

Tricia Koulikofsk (622), Morgan Firestone (917) and Dana Greenwich (809) had each just experienced an epiphany. Although it was not the kind that would lead to salvation. During the course of this most recent "Training Session", they had learned the meaning behind the cryptic, three digit numbers they'd were being addressed by. Those numbers represented the exact time at which their previous lives had ended.

Whether it be AM for Morgan, or PM for Dana and Tricia, it made little difference. The significance lie in that it marked the inconceivable rift in their existence. In addition to it being their only source of identity, it served as a poignant reminder that each woman had lost everything, especially freedom of choice. They existed now only to service. And be punished if they failed to carry out that task.

The training session had reinforced this concept, providing absolutely no pleasure. The rigid wooden appendages filling their sex, did only that, fill them, because "That's what cunts do!" The video repeated over and over, the proper posture when kneeling, standing or sitting. Responses when permission was given to speak were, "Yes, Master (or Mistress)" and "No, Master (or Mistress)". Answers requiring more information were to always begin with, "This slave...".

They were reminded over and over, that these were simple rules, ones to be carried out without hesitation. The slightest infraction would be dealt with immediately and harshly. Little mention was made of who they had been before their capture, other than to say it was pointless to cling to those memories. No one was coming to save them. "Embrace your new life", each was told.

Each captive fought that concept in their own way and with varying degrees of success. It was difficult, for the battleground was being fought entirely in their mind. Brutally bound and thoroughly gagged, it was impossible for them to throw up their hands and shout "NO!!! I will not succumb to this!"

Morgan's (917) resolve was crumbling fast. Although she still fought her restraints, hoping to free an arm or leg, the futility of her situation was wearing her down. She had always relied on her beauty and physical attributes to open doors for her. When those charms failed her, she could lean on a drink or a drug to blot away the hurt and dejection. She had none of those crutches now and her body was no longer under her control.

It was becoming clearer that the only choice that was within her power to determine, was the amount of punishment she'd expose herself to. Total adherence to the rules she was being bombarded with, promised leniency and the occasional administering of pleasure. Reluctance to comply meant agonies she'd rather not contemplate. Her eyes and mind absorbed the images she had no option but to watch, within the crate locked about her head. Everything seemed so HOPELESS!

And so, with wide spread legs straddling the wooden 'horse' and its inert wooden penis filling her, she began to rock her pelvis back and forth. She tried to imagine that is was whomever would be deemed the title of 'Master', the person who if she pleased, would in turn be pleased with her. She struggled to convince herself that the pain of her clitoris mashing down on the crest of the horse was actually something desirable. The more it hurt, the harder she rocked. She became totally immersed in the fantasy, her body lunging to the limit of her restraints. Thus, the transformation began. Pain metamorphosed into something almost like rapture, her loins churning with heat.

The orgasm struck her with such ferocity that it took her breath away. Morgan screamed a scream that no one could hear. Her body went limp, completely used up. Her descent from the pinnacle was that of a brick dropping. Morgan wept uncontrollably. Her efforts were rewarded with a shock for closing her eyes.

Tricia (622) wasn't fairing much better. The petite blonde knockout had always fought for things in life, for she knew they were attainable. This was the first instance in which there appeared to be no alternatives. She hurt in a myriad of places and wished they would go away. But the pain remained constant, unwavering. It appeared that her only salvation, her only CHOICE, was being offered in the images before her. Tricia's eyes moistened, but she commanded them to remain open. She did not wish for another shock to ad its cymbal crash to her orchestra of pain.

"The pain," her muddled mind digested. "I just want the pain to end!"

Tricia too, had just turned a corner.

The ebony haired Dana (809), was fighting with every bit of her will. She was a person of higher education, who knew that servitude was not a component of modern day society. She lived in a country whose foundation was rooted in a person's freedom of choice. A freedom that could not be denied.

And yet, here she was. Heinously bound and gagged, in God knows where, being told that she was an object. No, a piece of property, destined for but one purpose. That concept was just too preposterous to contemplate.

Of the three women, Dana's shocks were at the highest setting. She had steadfastly tried to ignore the acts being portrayed on the screen, as well as the computer generated voice drumming into her head. The librarian had been informed that the last jolt was 'setting number six'. It had driven the air from her lungs as efficiently as a blow to her solar plexus. Assuming that the punishment scale went from 1 to 10, Dana had little doubt that either of the last two settings might possibly stop her heart.

Still, she had dug in her heels (figuratively, since the spreader bar held them so widely apart) and resisted what was being demanded of her. For reasons of survival, she forced her eyes to remain open, where they were deluged by portrayals of servitude. Dana conjured up memories of happier times, though to this point, she'd led quite a lonely existence. She tried to play favorite songs in her mind, to drown out the constant monotone of the computer.

Yet, in spite of all this, the message was slowly creeping into her sub-conscious. Several times, she'd been startled to discover the muscles of her sex clamping down on the knobby wooden phallus inside her, as the video had been instructing her to do. She'd command herself to go lax, chastising herself in the process, only to catch herself doing it again later. She had no way to gauge time, but it seemed that her periods of rebellion were shrinking. She realized that it was getting harder and harder to convince herself not to succumb. How much longer could she fight the good fight, she wondered.

Maggie Seagram shrieked, a sound that gurgled out of her in a staccato burst of grunts and tears. This latest orgasm had been the most intense so far, corresponding with a particularly harsh strike on the sole of her left foot. The wire mesh of the cot creaked gently, as the redhead shuddered and rocked slightly from side to side. Her spasming back pleaded to straighten up, while her chained nipples screeched "NO!!!" The monster vibrator continued on without pause, inconceivably churning up the promise of renewed arousal.

Margaret sobbed as she held her head between her knees. Her feet felt like they were walking on hot coals. Her breasts throbbed with the intensity of a thumb hit with a hammer. Her back, shoulders and the backs of her hyper-extended legs, knotted in excruciating bunches. The line between pleasure and pain was blurring. Her life had narrowed to the pinpoint of "now". She could not know that she was entering her fourth hour bound this way. To her, it seemed like months. How many days had passed, since hatching the scheme with Andy and Rebecca, to defraud Bert of his millions? Oh, how things had not gone as she'd planned.

Her woeful train of thought was interrupted by the building heat in her pussy. Her clitoris twanged like a tuning fork, from the surge of the vibrator. The vile rubber spikes poked and stabbed it, cajoling it to come out and play. Even the perverse expansion of her anus seemed to work in concert to deliver yet another unwanted orgasm.

Disquieting thoughts and images had staved off arousal for a short time. Now, even those wouldn't help. Maggie had lost control of her body. To make matters worse, some time during her sixth (or was it ninth) orgasm, her bladder had emptied. Most of the discharge had passed harmlessly through the cot and landed on the floor. However, the tight crotch strap had deflected a good portion of the stream, splattering her thighs, stomach and chest with the fragrance of her pee. Her sweat mixed with this, creating a pungent concoction.

Like the proverbial 'freight train coming', Maggie steeled herself for the orgasm that was as inevitable, as it was unwanted. Over and over, she told herself to keep her head down. But when the explosion struck, she threw her head back as before. Her nipples shrieked, as the chain running under her thighs connecting them, held fast. Sparks and great gobs of white hot light danced before her blindfolded eyes. Her ears roared, as if her head was being held under the surf. She screamed again, yet could not hear herself do so.

She hadn't any idea how much suffering the human body could withstand. She was sure that she'd crossed that threshold long ago. But it was not so. Sweat trickled down her back, slipping beneath the waist portion of the crotch strap and entered the cleft of her bottom. It left a ticklish track as it snaked its way between the globes of her ass. As if things couldn't get more annoying. More sweat dribbled down her nose. It was impossible to shake it off whilst wearing the severe posture collar. Maggie just had to make due with wrinkling her nose, hoping it would drop off.

All these minor (as well as the major) trials shared a common thread. She was as helpless to rub her nose, as she was to halt the waves of orgasms crashing upon her. She could not free herself, but was entirely dependant on someone else to do that. The very someone who had placed her in this predicament in the first place. Further reflection of this juxtaposition was halted as she climaxed again. Her wail this time, was too high pitched to hear.


Part 32 (added: 07/16/2009)

The guard dressed as a vendor and one of her co-conspirators removed the tightly trussed Joanna August from the hot dog cart. There was a brief moment when the women thought that their captive had expired, for her body was totally limp and listless. But then they noted her chest expand as Joanna took in a labored breath.

"Phew," commented the lieutenant, "I'm going to need a shower after handling this one".

It was true. Joanna's body reeked of processed beef and pork products. Although only trapped in the cart for forty-five minutes, her skin gave off an odor as if she were one big frankfurter. And if the two thought she smelled bad, imagine how their poor blonde had felt, breathing nothing but those noxious fumes for almost an hour.

"Don't worry," replied the group leader, "she's scheduled for a bath in just a few minutes.

The lieutenant noticed the 'Snidely Whiplash' like grin on the leader's face, and wondered what was in store for the attractive, 28 year old detective. She decided not to ask. It was better not to ask too many questions in this business, or one was likely to wake up one morning, brutally bound and awaiting shipment overseas.

The pair picked up the bound officer and placed her on a cot. This cot too, was devoid of a mattress. Perhaps it was the cool, CLEAN air of the small cell, or maybe the way the cot's springs poked at the policewoman's skin, but the duo saw the trussed woman renew her struggles. The were feeble (in large part to the restraints) but the guards gave her credit for having spunk.

The head guard released the air inflating the outer hood. Unzipping that and unlacing the inner leather helmet took much less time than it had to install it. When it was pulled free, their captive blinked furiously in the room's harsh light. Joanna's complexion resembled that of a steamed lobster. Creases covered the exposed skin of her face like scars, due to the inner stitching of the helmet. But what the guards noticed most, was the fire that burned in the blonde's eyes. This was a woman who would not succumb to her training meekly.

"Well, 116," said the chief guard to her captive. "Hope you appreciate us not making you walk the whole way here."

The guard's levity was answered with a flurry of muffled grunts and snorts that could have been nothing other than profanity. Joanna lurched against her restraints, then winced, as the coils of the cot's mesh dug into some very sensitive places. She seemed to calm down, but held her two captors with a steady glare. There came a knock on the door, breaking the stand off.

The subordinate went to and opened the door. In walked Stanley, his eyes going directly to the trussed up blonde on the cot. Joanna shifted her gaze to the male who had entered the room. Giving the detective credit, she didn't break off eye contact with the large man, but a trickle of sweat ran down her forehead. The man's look, posture and demeanor, spelled nothing but trouble. Stanley reached the cot and casually flicked open the switchblade he'd been palming.

"Christ!" Thought Joanna. "All this just to be killed?"

The officer closed her eyes, hoping that the fatal moment wouldn't be too painful. Her eyes snapped open, when Stanley's knife kissed along her right hip. Efficiently, the man sliced open the leg of her shorts. Moments later the other leg was cut, rendering her brief attire useless. He rolled the helpless woman on to her side and grasped the front portion of the tattered shorts. He gave them a sharp tug, however the crushingly tight strap squeezing her upper thighs, did not cooperate. It took three firm yanks which, in the process, bunched Joanna's underwear uncomfortably deep within her feminine cleft. Finally, the brief, white nylon slid free. Seeing Joanna's g-string underneath, he smiled and simply grabbed the garment's front panel. He yanked on it viciously. The wispy panel and dental floss waistband didn't stand a chance.

Joanna expected to be mauled right then and there, but instead, her molester cut off her top and bra. The blonde's skin blushed at her nudity in front of these strangers. Stanley reached down and pinched one of her nipples, generating an undercurrent of buzzing profanity. He smiled and motioned for the two female guards to assist him.

He rolled Joanna on to her stomach once more. Straps attached to the cot were drawn over the curvy policewoman at her shoulders, mid and lower back. The effect was that of a great hand pressing her down in to the wire mesh. She couldn't do more than twitch. Then the trio began unfastening her leg straps. Eventually, limbs that had been begging to straighten, were allowed to do just that. Briefly.

Even before the pins and needles in her muscles had waned, Joanna found her legs doubled against each other once again. Only this time each leg was strapped individually. Once more, her heels were pressing into her now naked derriere. More straps or cords (she could not see) were connected down near her folded knees. These were drawn to the edges of the cot and with it, each folded stump of her legs. When tied off, it left her limbs spread wide. Joanna felt very, VERY exposed.

"NOW, here it comes." Deduced the curvy blonde, figuring rape was inevitable. "Well, I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid." Her will was strong, but she still had a cold lump in her stomach.

She would have jumped if she wasn't tied down, when a greasy hand began massaging her crotch.

"Too greasy," thought the detective. "Must be some kind of lubricant. God knows I'm certainly not turned on by any of this."

The hand continued to explore her sex and rectum slowly, occasionally slipping a finger inside. Then it moved up to her breasts, reaching them from under the cot. The man squeezed and kneaded her bust, working more and more of each tit through the gaps in the mesh. Far from getting turned on, Joanna started to wish the bastard would just get it over with. She was completely baffled when the hands paused, then renewed their rubbing down on her feet.

This was truly unsettling, because Joanna was terribly ticklish. In spite of her dire circumstances, she could not suppress the snort of involuntary laughter as the hands roamed the exposed soles of her feet. Things went in to hysterics, when he started working his fingers in between her toes. The blonde's ears began to ring and she feared that she wouldn't be able to catch her breath, when thankfully, the hands moved away. She felt the man's weight rise from the cot.

"I think she's ready for her bath, now." Stanley spoke to the guards. "I'll be right back."

He left, but returned in less than five minutes. As the subordinate opened the door for a second time, she took a step back in surprise. In walked Stanley, followed closely by Irene. Each of them carried a pair of Golden Retriever puppies. As they entered the room, the stench of processed meat permeating off Joanna, sent them into a frenzy.

"Enjoy your bath, 116." Quipped Stanley and the duo set the four, four legged 'cop washers' on the floor.

Their laughter echoed inside Joanna's head, long after they had closed and bolted the door. Then her attention gravitated to something else.


Part 33 (added: 08/26/2009)

Danielle Frost's return to consciousness was not laced with surreal dreams of eating a giant marshmallow or any such nonsense. One of the reasons Versed was so popular in the medical field, was that it metabolized very rapidly in the system, leaving few lingering affects. Thus, post-operative patients were ambulatory faster, reducing the backlog in the recovery room. The healthier a person's metabolism, the faster the recovery.

Danielle had such a metabolism She didn't have to run every other day and work out in the precinct gym to maintain the 35C-26-34 figure, on her 5'9" frame. She did so, for she never knew when her job would require her to run down a suspect, or carry an injured citizen away from danger. At 31 years of age, it seemed like she could eat anything she wanted and not gain an ounce. And so it was, that the detective awoke only slightly groggy, very well aware that her jaw and shoulders hurt. And that she was cold.

Her eyes fluttered several times and she let out a groan, which seemed to pile up in her mouth, puffing her cheeks. That did it. He eyes snapped open and she grunted louder. The "hgmnngh" she heard, sounded like a distant leaf blower. Her tongue was dry and she tried to lick her lips. Clarity struck at that moment. A mix of something fuzzy and solid had been stuffed in her mouth. Danielle tried to touch it, but her arms didn't respond. She became cognizant of the biting at her elbows and wrists.

"Hhgrmmmfff!" She growled yet again. "Someone's stuck something in my mouth and handcuffed me!" she thought.

She moved her arms once more and discovered, "Christ! They've cuffed my elbows too!"

Panic was the first instinctual emotion to strike, but Danielle beat it down calmly. She knew that now was not the time to lose her cool. The first thing she did, was try to free her arms from the shackles. The brunette twisted and flexed her arms experimentally, searching for a weakness. It quickly became obvious that these weren't a set of children's toys, locking her arms behind her back.

Next, she worked her jaw, trying to expel whatever had been shoved in there. The entire lower half of her face, from ear to ear, seemed gripped by some kind of tremendous suction. "Adhesive!" it dawned on the policewoman. And behind that, what little her tongue could explore, was a firm, round object. The bite at the corners of her mouth, as well as the squeezing pressure at the base of her skull, told her that the round object was secured in place. She hadn't at the moment, any idea what the cloth-like substance stuffing her cheeks was.

Having determined that she was unable to move her arms or speak at the moment, she tried to reconstruct what had happened. If she could fill in some blanks, she'd be better equipped to understand why exactly she'd wound up like this. Memories of the ambush in the woods, Margaret Seagram's kidnapping and the consequent ransom demand came into focus. The natural series of events that followed, fell together like dominoes. Joanna and her ridiculous outfit, losing communications, then apparent salvation of stumbling into Rebecca Cranston.

"Cranston!" Danielle fumed. That was when she remembered the elevator ride. And the video screen showing her partner and lover, Joanna August in jeopardy. After that, nothing, until now.

"So Bert Seagram's secretary is mixed up in this somehow." the detective realized.

She would have never guessed it, the way the blonde had cowered in her apartment, after the attack on her that first day. Perhaps she was a victim of blackmail herself, Danielle mulled. Well, figuring out what role she was playing would have to wait until later. Right now, Danielle had to find a way out of here and get to her partner. It dawned on her that her legs and feet were cold. The brunette cast a look down her body.

"Son of a BITCH!" she grunted. They've taken my jeans, sneakers and socks!"

"My socks!!!" The *ding* went off in her head. "They've shoved my socks in my mouth!"

The salty taste she'd detected on her tongue, now made perfect sense. Well, for the moment, they were going to stay right where they were. She was glad she'd put on a clean pair this morning.

"This morning?" she thought, startled. "How much time had elapsed?"

Absently, she tried to look at her watch. Duh! Better to get down to business. First of all, where was she? Danielle rolled on to her back. There was a not-so-distant *click-click* and the bite at her wrists and elbows jumped up a notch. She realized that whomever had administered the cuffs, had omitted to double lock them. Now, they were REALLY tight. She rolled back on to her side and using her legs for leverage, swung herself up to a sitting position.

Before going any further, she reconnoitered the room. First, it was dark, lit only by some kind of weird, purplish glow. A black light, she realized, when she saw the way her brief, white cotton panties glowed in the dimness. Strange. Looking about the room, she noted very little in the way of furniture. There was some kind of vaulting horse, as well as solidly built, high back chair. Some chains dangled from the ceiling, most of them ending with metal or leather cuffs.

"Somebody's idea of a rec-room." she mused, trying to keep her spirits up.

She caught a slightly brighter glow out of the corner of her eye. Glancing that way, she could see light shining from under the door. She determined that to be her goal. With a dancer's grace, she swung herself on to her knees even without the use of her arms. Standing proved not to be that difficult either. The only thing that concerned her, was a worrisome tingling in her arms. That last ratcheting of the cuffs, was restricting her blood flow a little.

She made her way over to the door and tried the logical thing first. Turning her back to it, she bent slightly at the waist so that she could grasp the door knob. It didn't budge. Her fingers explored the obstacle and found a small latch on its center. She was shocked when the lever turned. Encouraged, she tried the knob again.

"It's turning!" she felt, triumphantly.

Twisting her arms and waist, she rotated the knob to its stop and pulled. Nothing. Still grasping the sphere, she tried pushing. Nothing, again. She released the handle and turned to examine the door more closely. Roughly sixteen inches above the door's latch was some kind of locking system. For the first time, she noticed the faint, green glow of the LED numbers, on a keypad to the right. A normal person might have been disheartened, having no clue as to the correct code, but Danielle saw this as only a minor hurdle.

Bringing her face in close to examine the pad, she could see no tell-tale signs of screws in its face. Score one for the good guys. Turning her back to it once more, she reached for it with her immobilized hands. Danielle found that she had to bend considerably at the waist, to get her hands high enough to reach the box. She separated her palms as much as possible against the grip of the cuffs and latched her fingertips to the edge of the panel. Then, she lunged forward. She was rewarded with a sharp, plastic, *crack* as she tore the pad free from its mount.

Her smile of triumph was stymied by the tape, but her heart still soared. She faced the ruined control box and examined the wires. It shouldn't be too difficult to create some kind of short to open the door. Just then, a light of spotlight intensity practically blinded her. Having adjusted to the gloom of the darkened room, Danielle had to squeeze her eyes shut against the dazzle. She heard someone clapping slowly behind her.

"Bravo! 127." came a disembodied voice. "Very resourceful. Of course you know, breaking that keypad will earn you some demerits."

The two figures looming before Danielle, slowly came in to focus as her eyes adjusted. There stood Rebecca Cranston, the blonde haired secretary of Bert Seagram, and a man Danielle did not recognize. Their stance was casual, exuding a confidence of having the upper hand. Each of them carried an odd looking contraption. To the officer, it looked like the three foot pole had a Dust-Buster on one end and a "U" shaped fork on the other.

"hhumnnrph!" Danielle's question 'What the hell?' came out as a whispered mumble of mush.

"Come now, 127." the blonde said mockingly. "You're the smarter partner, aren't you? A lot of people would pay large amounts of money for dishes like you and Frost. WE are here to fill that need."

"Money? Joanna?" It was so bizarre that Danielle was having trouble making the connection.

"But enough pleasantries, 127." Rebecca's tone turned frosty. "Take off your panties."

Danielle stood dumbfounded. She'd heard the attractive blonde clearly enough, but wondered what on earth made her think she'd comply with such a ridiculous request? She stood there, with an expression as defiant as she could muster with half her face obscured under the flesh colored swathe. Besides, how the hell could she comply, with her arms shackled behind her? She didn't like the way the couple grinned back at her.

"Andy?" Rebecca asked sweetly. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"My pleasure."

As the man strode toward her, the brunette assumed a defensive stance. Things would not be easy without her arms, but all it would take was a kick to the kneecap or knee in the balls, to bring down the perp. He carried the pole so casually at his side, that Danielle had almost dismissed it. Big mistake. In one smooth motion, Andy brought up the forked tip and lunged at the detective like a fencer.

Being predominantly a city girl, Danielle was shocked, both figuratively and literally, when the prongs poked her left thigh. It felt like a wasp the size of a housecat had just stung her. Her leg numbed a bit, but not nearly enough to deaden the pain from the zap. The shackled brunette bent over and turned to protect the injured limb. Pressing the attack, Andy touched the device against her right thigh and activated it. More excruciating current wounded that leg as well. It was all Danielle could do to remain standing.

"He can do this all day, can't you sweetheart." Rebecca said off handedly. "Maybe next time he'll poke under your top and nail one of your titties. So I suggest you do as you're told and take off those panties."

Danielle fought hard to hold back the tears. Somehow she knew that it was what they were waiting to see. She'd dealt with people like this, who got a thrill preying on the weak. Well she wasn't weak. She'd do what they say for now, let them get their jollies, but stay on guard for an opportunity. Problem was, where to start.

She forced herself to stand up straight and proud. Starting in back, she hooked her thumbs behind the waistband of her underwear. Although the front and back panels were connected only by a 1/2" wide band of elastic, said elastic was still arched up over her hip bones. It gave her panties an unintentionally erotic "V" look in front, like that of a not-so-conservative bikini bottom. As with the pair she'd worn yesterday, not exactly 'Police Issue', but comfortable and decidedly feminine. When she'd gotten dressed this morning, the thought of being bound and stripped to her underwear AGAIN, had been the last thing on her mind.

Danielle watched the man, "Andy", bring up the wand once more, urging her to 'get on with it'. Holding his eyes with an icy glare of her own, she lowered her hands, dragging down the rear panel of her unmentionables. An involuntary chill ran up the detective's spine. The last thing she wanted to do was expose herself to these felons. Andy gestured, as if to say, "Good start, keep going".

The brunette swung her fettered hands to her side and worked the elastic down over her hip. The left side came next. The crown of her neatly cropped tuft of pubic hair, peeked over the front panel. Danielle looked up, hoping that her apparent compliance with their command would be enough. The looks she received made it clear that they wanted the 'Full Monty'.

So she continued, right side, back panel, left side, a little at a time. She made the difficult process appear even more so, in an effort to delay the outcome. Despite her stalling tactics, her briefs were soon rolled down to her upper thighs, where she could reach no further. Or so she thought.

"Andy," Rebecca said, with a sigh of impatience, "Perhaps the bitch could use another dose of persuasion."

The man moved to stab the detective once more. That was all the incentive Danielle needed. She bent at the knees and waist, fingers straining to roll the now innocuous clump of fabric farther down her legs. She could not get them beyond mid thigh, thus she was forced to shuffle her legs in a ridiculous wriggling fashion.

Finally, the garment passed her knees, rapidly falling down to her ankles. This was a terrible moment for Danielle, for as long as the elastic had clung to her flesh, there had been a sliver of hope that her modesty might still be protected. Pooled ineffectively around her ankles, left the her feeling more naked than she thought possible. The blonde antagonist held out her hand and Danielle, with no other choice, slipped her left foot out, then flung the discarded lingerie with her right. Rebecca caught it and put it in her pocket.

"Step over here, slave." Rebecca commanded authoritatively, pointing to a spot before her.

"SLAVE!" thought Danielle incredulously. "Let me get a little closer and I'll give you some 'slave' right up the ass!"

Once more, all it took was a slight gesture with the cattle prod to set the detective in motion. Danielle did not shuffle over to the blonde, but walked purposefully, with her head held high and eyes locked on the secretary. She was not going to give them the satisfaction of thinking they'd broken her will. Far from it. This round they may be winning, but this was a fight the detective was determined not to lose.

When she'd reached the designated spot, Rebecca stepped behind her, whilst Andy kept a watchful eye on their prisoner. Before Danielle had time to react, a rope noose was slipped over her head. A strangling tension immediately followed, forcing the partially disrobed brunette up on her toes. Rebecca knelt and lashed Danielle's knees together with a strap.

"Now let's unwrap the rest of our present." The blonde purred.

Rebecca removed a pair of surgical shears and slowly began slicing away at Danielle's t-shirt. Much faster than she would have liked, Danielle's top was transformed into a dusting rag. Everyone in the room knew what came next. Rebecca cut one, then the other shoulder strap of the policewoman's sports bra. Then, the svelte blonde slid the scissors into the cleft between the detectives bosom. Blue eyes of haughty superiority, locked with contemptuous eyes of brown. The jaws of the shears seemed to close with the speed of the changing seasons. Then, with surprising yet anticipated suddenness, the bra, now two halves, sprung open like a party favor, exposing Danielle's 35-C rack.

Rebecca yanked the ruined garment from where it had become trapped between Danielle's back and arms. The blonde took a step back, then began to circle the now naked brunette. Casually brushing the detectives long, straight hair away from her shackled arms, she commented to Andy,

"We might have to shear all this hair off, love. I can't see her bindings that well."

"Let's leave it alone for now." Andy replied. "There're ALL kinds of uses for long hair. Besides, I kinda like the way it brushes against her ass like that."

"Really!" Rebecca answered, jealousy tingeing her voice. "Ya hear that, 127? Well personally, I'd prefer to touch your ass with something else."

With that, the blonde brought an open palmed whack down on Danielle's exposed derriere. The sound was more startling than the impact (though that hurt as well). The brunette lurched forward, half from shock, half from the force of the blow. The noose checked her momentum and her torso swung back just in time to receive another blow to the opposite ass cheek. Rebecca knelt and traced the reddened outline of her palm on Danielle's paler skin with her fingernail. Danielle tried to twist away, but the secretary grasped her shackled arms and used them as a rudder to control her captive.

"Oh yes," cooed the treacherous personal secretary "We're going to have a LOT of fun with you."

"All right, 127," Rebecca continued, "Let's get you ready for your indoctrination. Then, we'll tend to that equally gorgeous little package..." the blonde paused for effect, "...and your LOVER, Detective August."

Danielle was caught so off guard by this statement, that she felt her eyes involuntarily widen with surprise. Then, to make matters worse, she began to mumble a little too vehemently to the contrary. She immediately cursed herself for being tripped up by a common interrogation tactic. Draw the suspect along on an unrelated subject line, then zap them with a full bore accusation. It was amazing how many perps fell prey to this pitfall. And now, Danielle could count herself among them.

"Oh yes," beamed the victorious blonde. "I first suspected you two had something going on, the very first morning we met. You remember, don't you? After I had been released from my "ordeal"? You both tried a little too hard to appear anything but professional."

"And then later, at my apartment, when your guard was down a bit, it was quite apparent that you two were 'partners' well beyond mere law enforcers. How nice. Bet you two really steam up the bedroom, don't ya?"

Danielle could feel her skin flush. Their carefully concealed relationship had been blown open under the worse possible circumstances. She could think of no way to put the genie back in the bottle. And then she realized, that was the least of her problems.


Part 34 (added: 11/09/2009)

Joanna August had always been a dog lover. That was until this day. Strapped immobile to the mattress-less cot, its mesh digging into her exposed skin, left her no choice but to await what was to happen next. With her arms still wrenched into the brutal reverse prayer position and most of her head encased within countless wraps of duct tape, she was unable to either shout nor shoo away her furry guests.

The curvaceous, short haired blonde hadn't actually seen the puppies being brought in, she'd been unable to crane her head around enough to look over her shoulder. But her ears still functioned reasonably well through the tape and she'd heard the enthusiastic yipping clear enough.

"What the hell?" the detective pondered. "Are they running a kennel, in addition to kidnapping women?"

The true import of what was happening didn't hit her until four little noses locked in on the delicious scent they'd detected. Joanna should have known, her recent encounter in the woods a prelude. The Golden Retrievers scampered over with a bumbling enthusiasm in which only puppies behave. Their wet noses explored the pink flesh exposed through the steel webbing. Naturally, they were drawn to the portion that was closest to them, Joanna's breasts, jutting through the grating.

The first, warm wet, abrasive tongue scraped against her nipple, causing the policewoman to screech in surprise. The puppies backed off momentarily, but the die had been cast. In spite of Joanna's furious hums of protest, she was just too good a treat to pass up. The puppies paired off, two attacking each breast. Detective August jerked and writhed as best she could, but could not escape the eager taste testers.

"Hhnnghh!" she squeaked, as one of them playfully nipped at her nipple.

The two larger canine's tracked an even stronger scent above them. On their second try, they were able to leap up on to the cot. Their pensiveness gone, they ignored the warm, writhing human and let their noses lead them to pay dirt. With paws slipping clumsily through the cot's mesh, they staggered purposefully deeper between Joanna's spread thighs. As the space narrowed, the two pups were forced to nuzzle ear to ear.

"NNMMMMGHHH!" the detective buzzed through the gag, as two sandpapery tongues flicked at her labia.

One puppy was quickly muscled out of position, but it merely sought out a different target. Climbing on to Joanna's back, it soon found a delectable treasure within the cleft of the immobile blonde's ass. Four tongues lashed at the tasty regions without pause.

Joanna, always prone to being ticklish, was now assailed in a fashion she'd never imagined. She fought against the sensation as best she could, but it was no use. Soon, peels of choked off laughter clotted behind the gag. Once started, it became a horrific snow ball effect. The detective began to hyperventilate, her vision growing fuzzy around the edges. Panic gripped her, making a precarious situation even worse. She tried to calm herself, but it was too late. She couldn't catch her breath. Her body oxygen starved, it began to shut down. Joanna thought of Danielle, wishing she'd had the chance to say goodbye, and then passed out.

As soon as they saw the officer's body go limp, Irene and Stanley re-entered the room. Irene checked to make sure their captive was still breathing (she was), then helped her partner gather up the pooches. The lesson of this exercise, was to demonstrate to their captive just how powerless she really was. She was helpless to ward off even something as benign as a puppy. In fact, she'd had no choice but to be a 'chew toy' for the playful little creatures. And whilst that thought was rattling around in her head, Joanna would be subjected to the whims and commands of her captors. Again, with no voice on her own behalf.

Stanley sprayed the tape encasing the detective's head liberally with a solution from a spray bottle. Within moments, the silver grey bands seemed to slough off Joanna's head. This was Andy's (the ex-trainer) own special concoction, one he'd devised to remove sports wrap from athlete's injuries. It was just as effective on trussed up damsels. After removing the sodden tape, the burly antagonist pried out the foam ball. In the mean time, Irene had removed most of the straps imprisoning their unconscious prize.

Working in tandem on their limp prisoner, they managed to expertly dress her in their garment of choice. The 'jacket' had sleeves, yet no openings through which the blonde's hands could emerge. Rather, they remained trapped in the tapered ends, thumbs folded uselessly in the palm of each hand. The jacket DID have openings elsewhere. Whilst Irene held the policewoman's limp arms out of the way, Stanley set about tightening the myriad of straps running up Joanna's spine. As he did, the blonde's breasts spilled out through the small, circular cutouts in front.

Stanley worked his way up, then down, then back up yet again, until he was sure he couldn't extract another notch out of any of the straps. The garment constricted the unconscious blonde's torso mercilessly. Irene dropped Joanna's arms to her side and began to manipulate as much of the blonde's C-cups through the openings as possible. When she'd finished clawing and coaxing the flesh out, Joanna looked as though she'd received a sixty second augmentation.

Irene was pleased with the effect thus far. The jacket, crafted out of sturdy canvas, had a layer of black, high gloss latex fused to its exterior. The waist was cut short, ending just above the wearer's navel. This left a good portion of Joanna's slender waist bare. The tight fit squeezed the cop's torso into an exaggerated (and very sexy) hourglass shape. Her pale breasts, now tumescent and exhibiting a faint blush, were showcased by the shimmering black background of the jacket. Up at the shoulders, the as yet unsecured portion of the garment, unfolded like petals of a black, extraterrestrial flower.

Stanley, his job finished for the moment, grasped the two shoulder straps of the jacket, thus keeping their unconscious 'fetish model' upright. Irene folded Joanna's limp arms across her chest, and guided the girl's canvas and polymer encased hands in opposite directions behind her back. They switched roles and while Irene held her upright, Stanley threaded a strap from one sleeve end, through the buckle on the fingertips of the other. Taking up the slack, he paused while Irene made sure their prey's forearms were properly aligned. Upon receiving confirmation, he began tightening the strap. Knowing the incredible strength of the garment's material, he used all of his impressive brawn in securing the strap. Indeed, by the time he'd finished, Joanna's fingertips were within a whisker of touching each other at her spine. And even though the officer's arms were inert across her chest, Irene still incorporated a wide strap riveted to the jacket around them. Joanna's arms had ceased to be limbs and were now nothing but a latex encased bustier, lifting and cradling her bared breasts.

Together, the two kidnappers lifted and carried their charge over to a set of chains dangling from the ceiling. A clasp on the end of each chain was hooked to the corresponding handle strap stitched into each shoulder. Releasing their deadweight, both were pleased (yet not surprised) to see that the jacket held its wearer quite securely, showing no sign of slippage. Irene knelt and buckled a leather cuff around each of the officer's ankles. Riveted to the cuffs was a steel rod. Loosening the thumbscrew centered on the rod, the kidnapper extended the adjustable bar until Joanna's weight was supported only by the ceiling chains. Irene re-tightened the screw, leaving the captive's legs spread almost four feet apart. Joanna would be able to touch the floor only with the straining tips of her toes. To insure that there would be no kicking, accidental or otherwise, Irene padlocked the center of the bar to a ring anchored in the floor. Standing, she looked into the soft, angelic face of their hostage.

"Poor baby's sleeping through this whole thing." She commented mockingly.

"Yeah," answered Stanley. "Let's wake her up so she doesn't miss out on any more fun."

Irene needed no encouragement. She started slapping Joanna's face, lightly at first, then with increasing intensity.

The detective came to groggily, a cyclone of memories swirling in her mind. It finally locked on the maddening sensation of a quartet of tireless tongues teasing her, until she could no longer catch her breath. Instinctively, she resumed her struggles in a vain effort to escape the lapping that was no longer there. As that fact slowly dawned on her, she also become cognizant that her situation had changed. Her eyes opened reluctantly and she saw Irene's leering face through half raised lids.

"Wha?...Who?" The short-haired blonde mouthed, still trying to clear the cobwebs.

Joanna barely noticed the woman's expression harden, as her face neared her own. Suddenly, there was a tremendous force battering against her teeth. The officer's first instinct was to throw up her arms to ward off the intrusion. She quickly discovered that they were folded tightly across her body. And that her hands were now molded and frozen into useless cones, somewhere behind her kidneys.

Thus distracted, the blonde's natural reaction was to open her mouth in order to alleviate the pressure. By the time her frazzled brain had deciphered the true portent of what was happening and commanded her mouth to close, it was too late. The mass was surging between her lax lips in a series of brutal shoves. Desperately, Joanna tried to halt the advance by pushing back with her tongue. As it caressed the notch on the bulbous tip, a long dormant memory resurfaced.

Having not always known of her propensity toward same sex relationships, Joanna had once been swayed into giving a boyfriend oral sex. The concept, let alone the physical act, had made Joanna queasy. But she had convinced herself that she loved him and didn't want to jeopardize the relationship. As the warm, hard, pulsing organ had entered her mouth, she had fought to keep down the bile she felt churning in her stomach.

Now, her tongue informed her of the physical similarities. The mushroom shaped 'head', was followed by a shaft criss-crossed with a road map of twisting veins and wrinkles. One blatant contrast to her previous encounter was size. The object being shoved in her mouth was enormous! The slightly flattened oval prod, was in fact a monstrous three inches in diameter. To Joanna, it felt four times as big.

"GGNNNPHH!!!" The officer shrieked, the cry rapidly dwindling as her lips involuntarily sealed around the shaft.

The other differences were just as disheartening. The musky taste of that first tryst, was replaced by a slightly sweet, yet foul tasting flavor of rubber. Rather than skin, the surface of this 'thing' was glassy and slick. It radiated no body heat as before, simply a dense, lifeless cold. The last contrast was by far the most alarming. This ersatz penis seemed to have no end.

In no time, the tip was nudging the back of Joanna's throat. The detective retched and her face darkened alarmingly. As if oblivious to her distress, Irene held her hand over Joanna's mouth, lodging the prod in place. She leaned in closer and growled into the blonde's ear.

"You'd better just relax and get used to your new gag, bitch. 'Cause choke or breath, it ain't coming out."

Joanna had no doubt that the woman meant what she said. She closed her eyes and willed herself to relax. Breathing through her mouth was now out of the question, so she focused on taking small gulps through her nose. Anything more and she'd suspire, guaranteeing an agonizing death. Slowly, very slowly, she managed to calm herself enough that her color returned to almost normal. She was by no means comfortable, but if she remained calm, she could keep the threat of asphyxiation at bay.

Seeing that her prisoner had come to a precarious peace with the giant prod gag, Irene set about buckling the connected strap around her head. As with everything else, it was buckled as tight as humanly possible. Joanna's mouth disappeared beneath a four inch wide swathe of thick, black cowhide. The added pressure threatened to launch the officer into another fit of choking, but she struggled to fight it back. Joanna would discover that this was to be a constant battle.

The detective tried to twist and break free, but soon realized by the pressure points, that she was suspended by the shoulders. That and her widely spread legs seemed to be anchored to the floor somehow. The glare she tried to launch at her captor failed miserably, a clear tint of fear shattering the illusion. Although her state had changed from that first horrid tie, she was still no less helpless. The cocky woman in front of her placed a finger to her chin, as if studying a piece of art.

"Hmm," she mused. "I just hate sloppy workmanship, don't you, Stanley?" She received a "harrumph" of agreement.

"Well then, let's adjust this ensemble into the manner in which it was meant to be worn."

Joanna did not know what the woman meant and she wasn't too anxious to find out. But of course, the enlightenment was something out of her control. Irene moved forward and grasped the edges of the petal-like flaps that were turned down from the neck area of the jacket. As she manipulated the flaps, it became evident that, although it shared the same glossy surface of the rest of the garment, it was made of much different material.

There were five panels in all, four of which were roughly the same size and slightly concave. The fifth and largest piece lay in wait, resting on Joanna's chest, just above her bared breasts. Irene went to this one first. She swung the panel up, the other four mimicking the action due to the fact that three miniature steel cables connected each piece. The large section ran up the front of the officer's throat, turned ninety degrees outward along her jaw, then turned ninety degrees once more, concealing the blonde's all ready banded mouth.

Wrapping her hands around her prisoner's throat, Irene aligned the panels until they overlapped each other slightly. The mystery was revealed, as it became apparent that this part of the jacket was a heavily reinforced collar and gag mask. Holding the panels in place, Stanley leisurely began tightening the small dial on the back of the collar. The cables within the panels began to shrink in diameter.

For Joanna, the effect was immediate, even before the cables were retracted. The unyielding reinforced collar muscled her chin up to a point where she was looking more at the ceiling than the floor (fact was, she couldn't see the floor any more, period). The collar's 'champagne glass' design cradled her head, locking it immobile. In fact, she could not even raise her gaze higher, this due to the back of the collar ending mid-way up her skull.

Only just now adjusting to the restrictive severity of the collar/gag, she wasn't prepared for the device's shrinking. It seemed to the attractive law enforcer that every square inch of the restraint constricted at once. To say the grip it held on her throat was worrisome, would be a monumental understatement. Joanna listened as her breaths wheezed in and out through a too narrow passage. But that wasn't the worst. The section eclipsing her lower face crushed down on the gag strap, ergo, her already flattened lips and heinously overstuffed mouth.

"hhnnnghh!" The blonde grunted nasally in panic. The prod was inching ever closer to the point of blocking her airway entirely.

Yet still the stiff, reinforced leather shrank. The upper edge of the glossy restraint sunk deeply into the distorted hollows of Joanna's cheeks. The flesh puffed out over the edge, like a child holding her breath during a temper tantrum. The strain caused her eyes to water, a single tear running down across her misshapen cheek. Just when the detective feared she was taking her last breath, she heard over the roar in her head,

"That's good for now, Stanley. We can always tweak it later on."

Joanna would have breathed a sigh of relief, but that task was so difficult as to be a luxury. She tried to twist her head, but it was as though her neck vertebrae had been fused. She noted too, that the collar had stretched her head upwards, giving every indication as to separating it from her body.

"Don't you look so deliciously helpless." Cooed Irene. "With your head held up so high and proud. What do you think, Stanley? Should we give little Miss Top Cop something to demonstrate her new purpose in life?"

"I'd say it's well past time to show this bitch what she's good for." Stanley hissed. "Nothing but three holes and a hairdo."

"Yes, well," Irene replied, rubbing her hand through Joanna's spiky blonde locks. "It is a cute cut, but her new owner may just decide to shave it all off. Some just don't want to be bothered with the upkeep."

Joanna's eyes grew as big as saucers.

"Owner? Shave it off? Christ, what the hell is going on!"

Her brain was still trying to get a handle on this tidbit of information, when her attention was drawn back to Irene. Rather, what she was now holding. Sprouting from her hand were two similar, yet vastly different cylindrical objects. The largest resembled a sex parlor vibrator, the smaller was shaped like a lava lamp. Both were black as the bottom of a well, yet glimmered in the overhead lighting. Joanna hoped she was mistaken in her identification. She wasn't.

"Do you like your new toys?" Irene asked playfully. "Well, you haven't seen the best part yet."

Holding the smaller one under her arm, the flicked a switch on the base of the other. The bullet headed cylinder was at least eight inches long and two inches in diameter. Joanna's eyes grew wide yet again and she sucked in her breath. The 'thing' began to vibrate violently, whilst it slowly undulated. The top third twisted in a circle, like a worm on the lookout for a robin. Then it stopped. Suddenly a ring almost an inch wide inflated near the base of the shaft, increasing its diameter by another 1-½". Then somehow, the ring began creep up the length of the shaft. It reached almost to the tip, the descended back to the base.

"Pretty nifty, huh?" Irene asked rhetorically. The disbelieving look on her captive was answer enough.

"And you haven't even seen the best one yet." Irene added, like an infomercial huckster. She turned off the black behemoth and tucked it under her free arm. Then she extracted the one shaped like a 60's icon. Just before she switched it on, she leaned in and spoke conspiratorially.

"I'm turning it to max speed. It'll be better for you to get the BIG picture." The woman chuckled to herself, as if enjoying an inside joke.

The lava lamp shaped object was perhaps six inches tall. From the trunk-like base, which was about 1½" it flared rapidly to a girth of almost three. The it tapered gradually to the blunt tip, which was perhaps ¾" wide. When switched on, it shuddered so much that the woman appeared to have trouble holding on to it. It began to react much like its namesake (the lava within the lamp). It swelled at the widest part (just above the more narrow 'trunk') to a breadth of almost four inches. The bulge snaked up beneath the latex skin toward the tip. When it reached the pinnacle, the device resembled a toadstool more than anything else. Then, as with the other, the distended mass dropped slowly back to the base. The woman stood there, holding the shuddering aberration, watching it closely. Without warning, this 'thing' expanded drastically, its shape taking on that of a large, spiny pine cone. The woman rubbed her fingers along the barbs, demonstrating that they still retained some pliancy. Then she switched it off and looked at her prisoner.

"Well, you get the gist of it". She said proudly.

"The gist of what?" Thought Joanna dazedly. All that had befallen her these past twenty four hours, hadn't allowed any time for much of this to sink in.

"They're powered by lithium batteries," the maniacal woman continued with her pitch, "good for up to eight hours. A cylinder of CO2 provides the articulation. Just the kind of boyfriends a lesbo slut like you needs."

That last statement set off an alarm in Joanna's head. She unconsciously tried to reach down, remembering that the male kidnapper had cut off her clothes. Her arms didn't budge from the involuntary bear hug the were held in. Danielle and she HAD used small vibrators during their love making, but that had been mainly for clitoral stimulation.

"They couldn't possibly think that the largest one was going to fit inside her!" Joanna thought dumbfounded. "And if they did, then where on earth was the other one supposed to go?"

The light went off, leaving the detective aghast. "Oh no, they couldn't possibly..."

The realization must have shown clearly on Joanna's face, for the woman's grin grew to lip splitting proportions.

"That's right, copper." she laughed gleefully. "The other one goes right up that tight little back door of yours. Don't worry, we'll save that one for last, so that you'll have time to relax your sphincter a little."

"grrnnfff! Hhmmnnnggg!" Joanna protested until the prod deep in her mouth triggered another spasm in her throat.

She threw herself at her bonds savagely. Yet all of her twisting and writhing merely resulted in a slight sway of her splayed legs and the tinkle of the padlock holding the spreader bar to the floor. She watched bug eyed, as the woman slowly dropped from her sight. Joanna continued to struggle, but she knew she was as helpless as a kitten. A very exposed, sex kitten.

In no time, she felt the cold tip caressing her vulva. Apparently, her struggles did have some success in denying insertion, for she heard the woman mutter a curse. Joanna's hopes rose briefly, thinking the kidnapper might give up. But she'd once again underestimated her assailant's resolve. For Irene, it was a simple matter of wrapping her arm around the detective's torso and drawing it forward. What little slack there had been in Joanna's stretched frame vanished, as her privates were thrust involuntarily forward. Any further struggles were ridiculously subdued.

Once again, Joanna felt the probe at her entrance. Implementing her last defense, she contracted her vaginal muscles. Irene felt the resistance through the dildo. Holding the bullet tip of the behemoth within the folds of her labia, she felt it chivalrous to give fair warning.

"You'd better deal with a few realities, slave." she spoke firmly. "This is OUR cunt now and we WILL do with it whatever we please! Your only choice is how much pain you want to subject yourself to. You have five seconds."

All instinct told Joanna to resist, but logic warned her of the cost. When her assaulter reached "5", the policewoman let out resigned bleat of acquiescence and slackened her desperate clench. The probe began to enter. It had looked large by sight, but now, as it slid incessantly inside her, it felt positively enormous. Joanna was no virgin, but this was beyond anything she'd ever experienced. She clamped down in desperation, but her muscles were no match for her attacker's. And then an even bigger shock hit.

Unseen behind her, Stanley had taken up position. As the vaginal probe had reached the halfway point, Irene had given him a silent nod. Lining up the lubricated plug, he gave it a firm, unsuspected shove. Joanna let out another freakishly muffled screech. The air caught in her lungs, her voice along with it. Her brain sent out a dozen commands at once, none of which she could enact. To her abject horror, she could do nothing, NOTHING, but hang there and submit to the satiation of her privates.

Joanna's anus screeched in protest (as did she) as the widest part of the probe entered. That grievance eased slightly, in correspondence to the ring collapsing down around the more narrow neck near the plug's base. Never had the blonde thought she would ever experience such a bloated sensation. Moments later, she felt the warm hand of the woman, as it shoved the last remaining inches of the dildo inside her. The impossible was now a reality.

Irene passed a strap anchored to the front of the straightjacket, between the detective's legs to her partner. Stanley fed it through the buckle in back and jerked on it, as if trying to rip it loose. The one inch wide belt held firm, sinking into the soft, unresisting flesh between their victim's legs. Distressed as Joanna was, it was impossible to ignore the way the strap rolled her shielded clitoris back toward the mechanical phallus. The strap continued to compress into the natural clefts of her womanhood. When it was finally buckled, the pressure remained constant, as if she were straddling a fence rail.

"ffmmmrrrghh!" the helpless blonde wheezed, as the bite of the strap added its cruelty to the mix.

Joanna's muscles involuntarily contracted, trying to expel the plugs. Of course, the dildoes did not cooperate. As the officer hung there, futilely trying to come to terms with her present condition, Irene set about adding a few finishing touches. Producing a ½" wide strap that split into a "Y", she inverted it and buckled the split ends to the front of gag/collar. Drawing it up over the blonde's head, two straps merged into one at the bridge of her nose. The single strap traveled over the crown of her head and was buckled to the extended edge of the collar in back.

"Not that it makes you any more quiet." she said to her watery eyed captive. "It just makes you LOOK more quiet."

So miserable was Joanna, that she hardly noticed the sleek, ankle high boots that were laced on to he airborne feet. The four inch pencil heels and roughly pebbled instep would manifest themselves soon enough. Irene adjusted her own Bluetooth headset and spoke into it cryptically.

"We're set here." She announced.

Apparently receiving a reply, she signed off. The grin that Joanna was rapidly beginning to hate flashed across the woman's face. The evil dominatrix moved in closer and began tracing a fingernail across Joanna's exposed areola.

"It seems your partner, or is LOVER more appropriate." she mocked. "Is busy getting her kicks over in the 'Honeymoon Suite'. I guess she's a little more Bi than you knew."

Hearing this, Joanna's eyes hardened. She had hoped that Danielle was still free and busy arranging a rescue. Still, the woman could be lying. Besides, there was no way that her lover would be unfaithful in their relationship. Seeing the disbelief on her face, Irene set about assuring her of what was in fact, a truth.

"Don't believe me, huh?" she queried. "Well, we'll give you a few minutes to get used to your new togs and then swing on by. That Andy is a real Casanova. I bet he's giving that partner of yours some lovin' you could never provide."

Joanna still didn't believe a word of it. Or did she? No, of course not! But as unlikely as it was, a seed of doubt had been planted.

Part 35 (added: 12/31/2009)

Whilst Joanna's tongue bath was just beginning, Rebecca Cranston and her partner Andy Stewart, led the near helpless and completely naked detective Danielle Frost away from the center of the room. Danielle saw that their destination appeared to be the wooden, high backed chair she'd noticed earlier. Rebecca spun the brunette around and shoved her none to gently into the seat. Danielle noted that the stout timber gave not a squeak when her weight hit it, nor did it budge. She glanced down and saw that thick metal brackets were bolted to the legs, as well as the floor.

"Guess they're not too keen on rearranging the furniture much." She thought, trying to keep her spirits up.

Her musings were interrupted when Andy grasped her shackled wrists and guided them between the horizontal slats of the chair back. The slat he'd chosen, sat just high enough to dig into Danielle's armpits when her limbs were drawn into position. The detective her some metallic jangling behind her. Moments later, she felt the bite of yet more handcuffs. When finished, cuffs gripped the brunette's arms at each bicep, as well as each wrist. Danielle had no doubt that the other ends were ratcheted around the chair.

During this process, blonde Rebecca Cranston stood a few paces away, grinning like a fool. She casually smacked her palm with the cattle prod as if it were some kind of Buck Rogers riding crop. Her caution was pointless, Danielle fumed, even before the first cuff linked her to the chair. With her knees still belted together, there was little hope that the detective could have delivered any kind of crippling blow. Their caution, the detective realized, was thorough and utterly frustrating.

When Andy finished, leaving the officer's back straight and pressing against the chair's frame, the lecherous Miss Cranston moved in. She snapped a cuff tightly (too tightly in Danielle's mind) around the officer's left ankle and dragged it toward the corresponding chair leg. Once anchored, the right ankle received the same treatment. This was done without first removing the strap about her knees, making it quite a strain to encircle the right support with the free end of the cuffs. But it was accomplished, leaving Danielle's lower legs splayed at almost forty five degrees.

The knee strap was then loosened, only to have her legs manhandled wide to the armrest supports and belted in place. At the same time, Andy passed a wide strap around the detective's waist and buckled it tightly. Danielle had now become one with the chair. She watched as Rebecca walked over to a small locker. The blonde quickly laid her hands on what she'd required and returned. Danielle had no clue as to the shimmering, ocean blue items draped over her arm.

Rebecca knelt in front of her hostage and gave her a cautioning look before unshackling her left ankle. Danielle almost rolled her eyes at the warning. Lashed to the chair as she was, the last thing she wanted to do was kick the woman, pissing her off. She'd play along, waiting for the chance to really inflict some damage.

Rebecca proceeded to roll up the 'stocking' until it was shaped like a ring. Danielle thought she caught a glint of metal as she did so. The blonde set about slipping the fabric around the brunette's foot like a sock. Sure enough, Danielle saw a silver ring, perhaps two inches round, stitched to the end of the sock. Rebecca continued the fitting, tugging often to smooth out any wrinkles. The stocking ended just below Danielle's bent knee, where a thin integrated strap was fastened snugly. A tiny padlock was passed through the buckle and snapped closed.

After her ankle was re-cuffed to the chair leg, Rebecca repeated the process with the other limb. Danielle wriggled her leg experimentally. The material was stronger than it appeared, though relatively flexile. It gripped the contours of her leg like a second skin. The officer noted that the tight fit continuously tried to curl her toes under. She sat docilely as the other leg was fitted. After her right ankle was shackled once more, Rebecca rose and retrieved her cattle prod.

Andy removed the cuffs joining the brunette's arms together. The recently added cuffs still anchored each arm to the chair at bicep and wrist. Unlocking those on her right arm, he bent it and brought it to the front. Danielle was tempted to take a swing at the gloating blonde before her, but thought that scenario through. Even if she could punch her lights out, that still left her manacled to the chair with another assailant ready to jump in. Danielle would have gnashed her teeth in frustration if they weren't currently locked around the ball gag and her socks.

She tolerated the fitting of the stocking over her arm, this one ending above her bicep, near the armpit. It too was strapped and padlocked. After her sheathed arm had been cuffed behind her as before, the detective tested its limitations. The fit around her hand was snug. She could fold her fingers, but the material did not stretch enough for her to curl them into a fist inside the stocking. Her thumb could wriggle some, but she doubted if she'd have the dexterity to pluck at knots with any success. She had noticed that the stocking also sported a silver ring at the end. Her other arm was soon sheathed without incident.

Rather than having the last arm re-cuffed, she felt her hands being drawn toward each other. She heard a metallic *snick* and tugged her arms. She didn't have to see, to know that the rings on the sleeve's fingertips had been padlocked together. The remaining cuffs on her arms were released, as was the belt around her waist. Andy grasped her under the arms and hoisted her to her feet. Her legs remained locked wide to the chair legs for the moment.

A strap passed around her arms near her elbows. Danielle hitched in a breath as the joints were drawn together by the shrinking band. A longer belt encircled her arms and waist and when buckled tightly, pinned her fused arms against her back. The detective glanced down and watched as one end of a shackle with a ten inch chain was locked around her right ankle. Her left leg was freed and positioned so the shackle's mate could be secured in place. After releasing her right leg, the same belt was used to pin her knees together.

"Now then, 127." announced the leering Miss Cranston. "Let's get you ready for some R & R."

A simple length of 3/8" clothesline was doubled and passed around Danielle's throat. When the ends were passed through the loop it formed and tightened, it made for a very effective leash. Rebecca gave it a tug and Danielle shuffled forward, without need of a spoken command. The trio exited the small room single file, Andy bringing up the rear. Danielle noted to soft clink of the rings at each of her toes, on the concrete floor.

Not knowing what to expect, Detective Frost had at least assumed that her journey would take some time. So she was surprised when the group stopped at the very first door they came to in the corridor. It appeared to be just another of the identical steel doors that occupied the hallway. But when Andy opened it, Danielle noted that this one was special.

First of all, the door was at least eight inches thick. When it opened, a white vapor spilled out at knee level and spread, staying close to the floor. When a few wisps rolled over Danielle's stocking clad feet, she could feel the drastic drop in temperature through the material. The detective added this to the list of the fabric's properties. Lightweight, yet apparently quite strong, moderately inflexible and practically zero insulating value.

They turned in the entrance and Danielle was confronted with an as of yet, unused cold storage locker. Empty shelves lined all four walls. A bare, sixty watt bulb hung from the ceiling, casting only enough light to make the room appear even more stark. Lying on the floor, was a large, oddly curved mass. Seeing the milky cloud locked within its transparent form, Danielle immediately recognized it as a huge, smoothly curved block of ice.

"This was Andy's idea." Rebecca announced proudly. "We filled a wheelbarrow with water and locked it in here until it froze. The we just flipped it over and 'Presto', instant posture trainer."

Danielle didn't like the sound of that, nor where this scenario was taking her. She felt the goose bumps spring out from her naked flesh. Her nipples hardened involuntarily from the sudden change in temperature. She was going to have to break loose somehow, if the chance presented itself. The chance never came.

Danielle was prodded over to a steel ring which looked to have been recently installed in the floor. She did not notice others like it spread out about her. Andy squatted and padlocked the to ring her left foot to the anchor. Then he stood and moved in front of their hostage, whilst Rebecca took up position behind. Danielle's feet felt the cold as if they wore nothing at all.

"I helped Andy with the positioning of the cleats." Danielle heard the blonde say over her shoulder. "Although I'm not 5'9" like you, I think we've added enough to the dimensions to stretch you out properly."

A cold, which had nothing to do with the room's temperature, lumped in Danielle's gut. Without warning, Andy grasped her shoulders and pulled her forward. Her still padlocked feet couldn't react in time and Danielle's body pitched forward. Andy kept his charge from crashing face first into the floor, by grasping the belt that encircled her torso. Holding her aloft in this fashion, he locked Danielle's head between his knees, adding to her feeling of helplessness.

The detective felt the strap at her knees fall free, then some fumbling at her feet. Hands grasped her right ankle firmly and started pulling her legs apart. Danielle tried to resist, but her awkward posture foiled her best attempt. Her legs continued to spread wider and wider. And wider yet. Andy accommodated the process by lowering her closer to the floor.

"C'mon, 127." grunted Rebecca. "Almost there."

With her ears pinned between Andy's knees, Danielle didn't hear the second padlock click home. She groaned into the gag as her legs were now stretched almost five feet apart. The strain tripled when Andy raised her back upright. The detective teetered on her precarious stance. She didn't have to worry about standing too long.

Andy grabbed Danielle around the waist and pulled her backward. There was no stopping her fall back. Detective Frost's back arched, as her bare bottom touched the block of ice. She tried to twist, though she didn't know what she would do if she broke free. Again, the problem was academic.

With Andy gripping her firmly around the upper arms, Rebecca removed the straps and unlocked her fingertips. Her arms free, Danielle tried to strike out from her awkward position. But with the blonde gripping her right arm, Andy could concentrate on her left. Each kidnapper stepped wide and above the detective's head, drawing her arms with them. Danielle craned her neck frantically, trying to watch what they were up to.

Nothing she tried, could prevent her arms from being maneuvered closer to the waiting steel cables laying on the floor. Each cable ended in a loop, an unsecured lock dangling from each.

"More padlocks!" thought Danielle exasperatedly. "Don't they know I couldn't even loosen a slip knot with these damn stockings on?"

Her frustration, was exactly the goal her captors were trying to convey. If one knot would do, use three. Four straps are always better than two. And if you're going to gag someone, don't do it to muffle them, do it to make them SILENT! All of these worked toward making a desperate situation seem utterly hopeless. Independence was now a myth, total reliance on her captors the reality.

When the cables were locked to the stocking's rings, the evil duo changed position. Danielle took the opportunity to yank against her bonds with all her strength. The properties of the stockings now became clear. Unlike conventional restraints (not that Danielle had that much experience with them before yesterday), these distributed the energy equally along the limb they ensnared. There was no one point where if it were to part, the entire binding would unravel. Danielle could now feel that even the rings at their tips, had reinforcing fibers that ran the length of the garment. The energy of her struggles were diffused throughout the entire stocking.

An electric whirring caused the law enforcer to look up once again. Each captor had triggered a stout looking electric winch, which was rapidly reeling in the slack on her arms.

"hrrggmmphh!" the brunette groaned, as her body stretched and arched tighter across the convex block of ice.

Any slack in her widely splayed legs rapidly vanished. Her joints soon threatened to pop out of their sockets. It seemed only moments before that actually happened, that the whirring stopped. Danielle found herself arched provocatively atop the block of ice, her chest, stomach and pelvis thrusting into the air, while her arms, legs and head quivered close to the floor. The detective's shudders were as much from the strain, as it was from the cold sapping her body heat. She wanted nothing but to cower into a ball, to try and stay warm. Rebecca stood and straddled the policewoman, a trigger bottle in her hand.

"Here's the deal, 127." she instructed. "In a sec I'm going to remove your gag. There's a purpose in this. You see, all this work has made my Andy, well, kind of randy, if you know what I mean."

The two kidnappers shared a laugh at this. Then the blonde continued.

"No doubt it's a little chilly lying down there and you'll be wanting a little something to keep you warm. That's where Andy comes in. When you're ready, you just give him a call. I'm sure that if you ask him real nice, he'll be more than happy to come in and screw that arresting twat of yours."

Danielle's strangled garbles made it clear that that wasn't going to happen. Not even if hell froze over. Ah, the irony. Rebecca smiled at that.

"I thought as much." she purred. "That's why we'll give you some time to think it over. Don't worry, there's no one that can hear you and interrupt your rumination."

With that, she knelt and sprayed the adhesive swathe covering the detective's face. The bandage peeled off like wet toilet paper. The ball gag came next and finally, the socks. Danielle sputtered and coughed.

"You fuckin' bastards!" she screamed. "You'll never get away with this. Right now, the entire force is out looking for us. And WHEN they find us, you'll be somebody's sex toy in prison for the next fifty years." Her tirade was interrupted as a shiver racked her tautly stretched body.

"Sorry, 127." Rebecca chided. "But the only sex toy around here is YOU! And before too long, you'll be begging for a nice warm body to come along and fuck your cop brains out."

As if to press her point home, Rebecca set about spraying the splayed detective with the contents of the spray bottle. The fine mist settled on Danielle's skin with all the subtlety of a million tiny daggers. If the detective had thought it not possible to feel colder, she was proved wrong.

"All right, you sick bastards!" She growled through clenched teeth. "Have your jollies and untie me!"

"Oh no, 127." Rebecca cooed. "Andy will come back, only when you beg him to. And when he does decide to part that lovely brown snatch of yours, you will encourage him to ride you like the slut that you are. If you don't make it sound like you're having the best sex you've ever had, he'll leave and you'll be the first badge-carrying popsicle in Memphis history."

With that, the two kidnappers turned to leave.

"Wait, WAIT!" screamed Danielle. "You can't leave me here like this!"

"Yes, pet." Rebecca leered at the doorway. "We can. We are. And you will do what you've been ordered to do. Who knows? It's been so long since you've had some cock, you might actually like it." And closed the door.

"What'ya think, Andy? Twenty minutes?" Rebecca asked, giving her lover a peck on the cheek.

The ex-team trainer opened a panel next to the door they'd just exited. Behind the cover, lay the controls for the refrigerated room. He checked the temperature gauge. It read a not-so-polar 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect. It wouldn't due to for their merchandise to develop freezer burn. Andy grinned, "the mind is a complicated thing," he thought.

He and Rebecca had arranged this charade before confronting the unconscious detective Danielle Frost. Oh, the inverted, wheel barrow shaped, block of ice was real enough, but everything else was merely a parlor trick. The wisps of 'super cold' condensate were courtesy of a hidden smoke machine. The floor was genuinely cold, thanks to leaving the thermostat at 28 degrees the previous night. The stark appearance of the room also helped conjure up the impression of it being a frigid, inhospitable place.

The dousing from the spray bottle would also add credence to her 'dire' circumstances. Of course, the detective would get cold. But not nearly as frozen as her mind was telling her. The detective's brain would convince itself that an icy death was imminent. She had no idea that true hypothermia would not be a reality for quite some time. Andy knew she was proud. But he also knew that she had no death wish. In order to survive, she'd do what they asked.

"Yeah," he said with a grin. "Twenty minutes ought to be about right."


Part 36 (added: 06/19/2010)

Bert Seagram was nearly crazed by indecision. Something had gone wrong, he just knew it. He should have heard from Detectives August or Frost by now, or at the very least, the kidnappers. Nerves already frayed, were taxed to their limit by the steady stream of calls from well-wishers, congratulating him on his team's inaugural victory. And for as often as his house phone rang, the cell phone provided by the kidnappers stayed maddeningly silent.

Bert could have won an Academy Award for his performance in front of the Hostage Rescue techs breaking down the equipment from the stakeout. He dispensed a liberal dose of handshakes and back slaps to all the law enforcers, a wide grin pasted on his face. He'd gone this far and was afraid to expose the subplot he and the female detectives were involved in. Finally, the last of the techs left and the phones stopped ringing. Although it was late, he felt not the least bit tired. He paced the floor, something nagging at his subconscious, as well as the absence of any communications. What was it that he couldn't place his finger on?

His mind reviewed the events of the past three days. Or was it four days? He couldn't remember. The rush to prepare for opening day, the break in, finding his secretary so thoroughly bound in the closet. All had been quite unsettling, but that was merely the beginning. Then he'd learned of the attack on his wife and detectives escorting her in the woods. Maggie's kidnapping had been shocking enough, but the video provided by the kidnappers left Bert wrought with despair.

It had appeared to him that the ransom payment was going off without a hitch (what little he knew about such procedures). The police thought they had the perp in custody, though Bert still had a difficult time believing that Odie was any kind of 'Mastermind'. And then, there was this nagging feeling that he'd seen something that had been out of place. It was frustrating, like not being able to put a name to a face.

Well, he knew one thing, if he puttered around the house any longer, he'd go mad. Grabbing his car keys, Bert checked to make sure he had both the kidnapper's cell phone and his own private line, for which the policewomen had the number. A drive might clear his head, he reasoned.

Danielle Frost was cold, or perhaps that was an understatement. She was FREEZING! And she wasn't even allowed the luxury of a shiver. Oh, her body trembled all right, but the shudders barely quivered the harp string tight cables that kept her spread-eagled. She fought her bonds savagely, at first in an attempt to break free, then merely to try and stay warm. Both efforts failed miserably. The 'stockings' encasing her arms and legs proved quite resilient, absorbing all of her strain with ease.

"Shit, shit, SHIT!" she muttered through clenched and chattering teeth.

She opened her mouth to call for the man called 'Andy', but closed it again. She'd be damned if she was going to beg anybody to rape her! Danielle continued to search for ANY kind of flaw in her restraints. She turned her head upward and inspected the shimmering blue fabric encasing her right arm. Within it, she could see her trapped fingers writhe lethargically, the squeeze of the stocking hampering their movement.

She switched her gaze down to her widely splayed left leg. In the process, she couldn't help but notice the raunchy state in which her body had been posed. Her 35C-cup breasts were flattened against her chest, due to her arched posture and the strain from the restraints. Her rose colored nipples were hard and distended from the cold. Below ribs that were clearly delineated from the overextension, her normally flat stomach was even more so. Although Danielle couldn't see the dark tangles of her pubic hair, she knew that her sex was thrust out haughtily in unsolicited invitation.

The sight of her stretched and naked torso only exacerbated feeling of helplessness, so she commanded herself to proceed with the examination of her leg. The astriction of the sheath had caused her foot to point accusingly at the anchor ring holding it firmly in place. Despite her struggles, that limb too, could only wriggle woodenly. A trickle of melting ice water ran down her spine and nuzzled between the cheeks of her ass.

"Fucking block of ice is showing more activity than I am." the officer thought with melancholy.

It was beginning to hurt to breathe. Numbness was setting in as well. Not enough though, to soften the daggers of cold that pierced her body. She took inventory of her limited options. Continue to fight with no hope of freeing herself. Remain silent and pray that the slide into hypothermia was painless. Or, acquiesce to their demands and live to fight another day. When she looked at it, there really weren't any options at all. In spite of this, she courageously held out for another twelve minutes. But then, she could take no more.

"andy." she called out in a soft whisper. In spite of herself, a tear trickled down her cheek.

"Andy." she said more firmly. Could you come here...Please?"

In spite of almost having his ear pressed against the door, Andy missed the first, soft call of his name. He waited a few moments and sure enough, the policewoman's voice called out once more, this time a little more firmly. He glanced at his watch.

"Thirty two minutes." he noted. "The bitch is tougher than I gave her credit for."

Still, he waited to unlatch the cell door. Better not to appear too anxious, thus giving her sense of empowerment. Let her think that there are a thousand and one things going on, and she was the least important of them all. A hundred and twenty seconds passed, in which time Andy heard his name called four times, each time a little more urgently. He activated his cell phone and spoke cryptically when the connection was made.

"We're a go here. Two minutes." he said and hung up. Then, he gripped the handle on the door.

Stanley and Irene had been occupying their time with Joanna, by making her march around the room. Of course it sounded simple, lest you were Joanna. The four inch, laser thin heels of the ankle boots alone, would have made navigating about a dicey undertaking. The fact that the detective couldn't see the floor, let alone her feet, thanks to the collar/gag mask, exacerbated the task. The cobbled inner sole of the footwear went beyond mere nuisance after the first few steps. Joanna believed it would have been more comfortable walking bare foot on a gravel driveway, than in these shoes. That, and her toes were crammed into the pointed toe of the boots like the proverbial sardines in a can. And of course, that wasn't all.

The enormous prods crammed up her feminine passageways, physically hindered her gait as well. They displaced so much space that the detective was forced to swing her legs out in a stiff, wooden stride. A task made all the more difficult by the hobble chain checking each step at precisely twelve inches.

She had no hope of using her arms for balance, as they were forced to bear hug her torso with a spleen shifting squeeze. In fact, the motion of the detective's upper and lower body were polar opposites. Her lower limbs stumbled along spasmodically, whilst her upper body was as rigid as a statue. The contrast was lost on the policewoman. Given her druthers, she'd have preferred to be anywhere but here.

Irene watched as their captive staggered about the room. She absently flicked the eight foot long buggy whip in the air. The slender shaft had already administered several stinging snaps against Joanna's exposed breasts and ass. Each time the captor sensed a dropping off of pace in their charge, she'd expertly crack another blow against a sensitive area. It didn't take long for the simple *whish-whish* of the lash to provide motivation for Joanna to maintain her gait.

In spite of the coolness of the room, detective August's body gleamed with perspiration. She drew ragged breaths through her nose, swearing that the enormous prod gag was growing larger. A portion of her concentration was always centered on keeping her airway relaxed, so as not to choke on the plug nudging her uvula. Her arms involuntarily compressing her diaphragm didn't help matters either.

The majority of her focus, however, was on clomping around the room in these 'Cole Haan Heels From Hell'. In spite of the leather boots' tight grip around her ankle joints, Joanna still feared a misstep, resulting in a nasty sprain or worse. Her squashed toes ached, as did the tender soles of her feet, which were continuously jabbed by the pebbled surface inside the shoes.

"Let's pick up the pace, 116." Irene commanded, a flick of her wrist landing the business end of the buggy whip on Joanna's bare thigh for emphasis.

Joanna hummed a suppressed screech, twisting her body and doing a half crouch, in an effort to protect the wounded area. The problem was, with her arms immobilized and clad in the short hemmed straight jacket, her defensive maneuver merely exposed other bare targets to the lash. This fact was affirmed, as Irene administered another strike, this time to the left cheek of the detective's vulnerable derriere.

"I said, 'Pick up the pace', 116. Not stop, you spike-haired cunt!" Irene growled.

The antagonist was just about to strike again, when Stanley cleared his throat. A look was exchanged and Irene's demeanor suddenly changed.

"That's enough for now, slave." she purred icily. "Time to move you to more practical accommodations."

"Who knows who we might bump in to on the way." she commented off-handedly, as she clipped a leash to the front of gag/collar.

Joanna was of two minds when she heard this thinly veiled reference. She was certain that the crazy bitch was referring to her partner, Danielle. The officer had hoped that her captors were just playing mind games, that Danielle was still free and searching frantically for her. Another part felt guiltily, that if detective Frost had indeed been caught, at least Joanna would have a modicum of comfort in knowing that they were in close proximity to one another. However, it didn't take much deliberation to acknowledge that if the second were true, no one in the outside world would be aware of the two detectives' circumstances.

Stanley took up the free end of the leash and gave it a none to chivalrous tug. Joanna stumbled forward, only recently becoming accustomed to the tether inhibiting her strides. As they reached the door, the trio stopped and Irene offered the restrained detective a disturbingly cheerful smile.

Joanna, unable to look down, lurched backward in shock, as the first alligator clip was snapped on to her right nipple. Stanley kept her retreat in check with a firm grip on the leash. The policewoman hadn't even caught her breath, when the second clip bit down on the other nipple. Through the haze of this newest agony, Joanna sensed that her tender buds were somehow subject to a greater gravitational pull. She looked tearfully through screwed up eyes, as her captor offered an explanation.

"Four ounce fishing weights," she said, as if describing a pair of earrings. "attached to springs. They might help keep your mind off of these."

The captor knelt and without warning, the two massive dildoes filling her came to life. And not just with a mere buzzing. They silently writhed and oscillated like a boa consuming a suckling. Joanna quickly determined that her captor was wrong. The nipple clamps didn't not distract her from the horrid violators strapped inside her, they merely added to her misery.

The door opened and Joanna was 'ushered' out by way of yet another tug on the leash. It was clear that, if she was to come to terms with her current state, she would have to do so on the move.

Danielle was becoming convinced that she'd been forgotten. She'd held her tongue until her condition had reached a point of survival, not just mere humility. When they'd first told her of the stipulation in which she would be released, she'd thought, 'Never in a million years!' Well, not nearly that much time had passed, however she came to realize that it was the only way to escape death.

Nothing in her life had ever been so hard or vile, as calling out her kidnapper's name that first time. But once the name slipped past her lips, the dye was cast. She'd waited several minutes, hating herself for being weak, but knowing she had no other options. When no one came, she called once again. Then again. And again. Each time, the name was spoken a little more easily, a little more desperately. Before she knew it, Danielle was calling out her kidnapper's name with a heartfelt necessity.

'I can't die," She thought. She had to save her partner and lover Joanna, as well as herself.

Danielle's mind was wracked with shame, at the gladness she felt when the door finally cracked open. That shame spurred her into one more rational attempt at remaining professional.

"Look," she said as calmly as possible whilst fighting to keep her teeth from chattering. "You don't have to do this. Just let me go, help me find my partner and I'll see that you get a fair shake from the DA."

Of course, while saying this, Danielle knew that she would be only too happy to throw the switch and fry this bastard. That pleasant thought evaporated when she saw the frown crease Andy's face.

"You know the deal." He stated simply and turned to leave.

"WAIT!" Danielle called out instinctively.

"Wait." She said again, trying to regain her composure.

"All right," she said in as level a voice as she could manage. "Have your jollies then cut me loose."

"No," Andy said, as if instructing a three year old on the proper way to ask for a piece of candy. "You're going to BEG me to fuck you, like the horny slut that you are. Think of it as the most important acting lesson of your life. Literally."

All of Danielle's principles begged her not to succumb. But fearing that her life hinged on what she said next, left her no option.

"Andy..." she said with quivering voice. "please....fuck me."

It was all she could do not to break down in sobs.

"You can do better than that." Andy said in a voice as cold as the room they were in.

Danielle steeled herself, then spoke again. "Andy, please fuck me." She paused, then added. "I need you inside me."

"Better," the ex-trainer said, "but I'm still not convinced."

Her will crumbling having come this far, in her desperation, the dam finally burst.

"ANDY! Please fuck me! Fuck me hard! Fuck me NOW!!!"

The kidnapper's face broke into a smile, yet still he did not move.

"That's pretty good, cunt." he praised. But I'm still not convinced."

Danielle was stunned. But before she could regain control of her emotions, she heard herself launch into a litany of sexual appeals. Phrases like, 'ride me hard' and 'give me what I need' burst from her lips. The disquiet she felt shrank under the need for self-preservation.

"That's better." Andy said, beginning to disrobe. "But if you slack off," he cautioned, "I'm outta here."

Detective Frost heard these words and took them to heart. As Andy stripped down, revealing he wore athlete's thermal underwear beneath, Danielle unleashed a torrent of sexual vocabulary she didn't know she possessed. Anything, ANYTHING, just to feel warm again.

Andy positioned himself between Danielle's widely splayed legs. As he neared, the detective could feel the man's warmth wash over her sex and stomach. Danielle had feared that penetration was going to be extraordinarily painful, for she knew that she was not the least bit aroused, thus her sex was desiccated.

The trainer had planned on this, thus liberally coated his stiff member with a generous supply of warming lubricant. As he slid inside her, Danielle felt the tingle of the topical ointment alight the supple walls of her vagina. The need for warmth became more essential than air itself. The policewoman began screaming like a harlot, all shame abandoned. Anything to garner the heat her body craved.

Joanna had nothing in her life to compare her current misery and helplessness to. Her body was no longer her own. These people controlled and manipulated it to their own whimsy. Her limbs and voice had been taken from her, her most private and sexual regions callously violated. She could do nothing, NOTHING, but shuffle along awkwardly behind the duo leading her.

The shafts in her sex and back passage refused to lie dormant, stretching and probing areas she hadn't known existed. Her breasts were two balls of fire, the ignition point, her heinously clamped nipples. The weights dangling from them too, did not remain static. They jounced and clacked against each other in an erratic ballet, tugging at the tender buds they hung from.

Joanna was so enshrouded in her suffering, that she bumped into Stanley, not realizing that her tormentors had stopped. The detective vaguely became aware of a voice not belonging to the company present.

"Sounds like someone is getting' their nasty on." Irene said brightly. She turned to Joanna and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

"What say we take a peek." The kidnapper suggested.

Not being the least bit interested, Joanna still had no choice but to be led over to a nearby door. Something tugged at her mind about that voice. When the observation panel of the door was slid to the side and the voice behind it poured out unfiltered, Joanna was dumbstruck by recognition. It wasn't so much the voice, as what was being said. This time, without encouragement from her captors, the officer moved closer to the portal and peered inside. The pain that struck her heart, was a hundred times greater than that of her breasts.

She gazed upon her partner and lover sprawled out beneath a man she did not recognize. Joanna took scant notice of the bonds that held Danielle spread wide, nor the cool air that spilled from the opening. Her mind was locked on the words that were being uttered by her soul mate.

"Oh god Andy, yes, YES!" Danielle implored. "FUCK ME! FUCK ME HARD! SHOVE YOUR COCK INTO ME! I NEED YOU NOW!!!!"

Joanna bleated a nasal cry of disbelief and staggered back in shock. Or at least tried to, but Stanley's large hand pushed firmly against her shoulders, keeping her pressed up against the door.

Through her mantra of sexual cajoling, Danielle heard the strangled noise coming from the door. She looked over, right into the restraint-obscured face of her lover. Although the leather and straps concealed a large portion of her partner's features, there was no mistaking the pained, devastated look of betrayal in her eyes. Danielle was momentarily stunned by the sudden turn of events. When she found her voice, she tried desperately to explain to her partner.

"Joanna, wait, WAIT!" she stammered. "It's not what you think!"

But Joanna's face suddenly disappeared as the portal was snapped closed. Frantically, Danielle cried out after.

"Joanna wait! They MADE me!" she shouted.

Andy's hand over her mouth garbled any further attempts to explain. The gravity of what had just transpired crushed down on the detective. She burst into tears, realizing that the most important person in the world to her, now thought her unfaithful. Her tears and silence did nothing to dissuade Andy from continuing his attack. If anything, he thrust harder, her despair fueling his lust.

He came with a loud groan, their pelvises grinding painfully together. After a few long moments, he withdrew and proceeded to get dressed. Danielle hardly noticed. Nor did she notice as he knelt, holding a three inch ball gag of the same ocean blue of her restraints. Her mind finally snapped back to the present as Andy shoved the semi-rigid sphere between her lax jaw.

"hmmghff!?!" She queried, not yet comprehending.

"Ya done real good, bitch!" Andy explained, giving the gag strap an extra tug for good measure.

"We couldn't have scripted it any better." He explained as he buckled the now crushingly tight strap in place. "A little bit of 'Divide and Conquer".

"Ironic isn't it?" he continued. "Right now your partner is thinking that the only person in the world she trusts, is sleeping with the enemy. That'll go a long way in breaking her spirit."

Finished dressing, he walked to the door, then turned.

"Of course," he said, "You could explain things to her. That is, if we ever decide to leave you un-gagged long enough."

"You chew on that tidbit." he announced. "I'll be back in half an hour. Then we'll begin YOUR training."

And with that, he left, leaving Danielle colder than ever.


Part 37 (added: 07/05/2010)

Joanna August shuffled down the corridor behind her captors, her mind and body reeling. 'What had she just witnessed?', she pondered. Try as she might to find a plausible explanation, she could not silence the fervent cries of her lover/partner as she partook in sexual commerce with an unknown MAN! The chill of the room and the unobtrusive bindings that had restrained Danielle, all had registered little on Joanna's observations. It was her partner's words that had cut her so deeply. Words that encouraged the stranger to ravage her. The shock had been so complete, that Joanna failed to notice that Danielle's words were laced with desperation, not passion.

"There has to be an explanation." Joanna thought once again. But no answer came to her.

Nor did the shock temper Joanna's own plight. Although she'd become moderately adept at walking in the high heeled ankle boots (complete with 12 inch hobble), it was a far cry from a casual stroll. She had to continuously concentrate on not listing too much in any one direction, lest she pitch awkwardly to the floor. The simple task of keeping pace with her abductors left her winded. The penis gag and crush of the straight jacket, foiled all attempts to breathe normally.

The plugs satiating her sex and rear undulated with a vigor that seemed more organic than mechanical. In addition, both prods vibrated with an intensity that sent quivers along the length of the crotch strap. Consequently, her clitoris was continuously hammered by the never ending tremors. It was a stimulus that flesh and nerves could not ignore.

Despite her desperate state, Joanna could feel the slick secretions of her sex coating the insides of her thighs. Although eye-poppingly tight, the crotch strap still managed to grind against the most tender region of her body with every step. Joanna felt her skin flush with a heat that was not entirely due to her restraints and exertions. Sweat burst from her pores beneath the straight jacket. Salty beads of liquid formed on her forehead, stinging her eyes and leaving a ticklish trail down her nose. Joanna tried to shake off the annoying droplets with little success. With the combination posture collar and gag, such an act required her to twist her entire upper body, something her clamped and weighted nipples would just as soon avoid.

Thus distracted, a misstep was inevitable. The detective failed to pick up her booted right foot cleanly, catching the toe on the concrete floor. Desperately, she double timed her step, the hobble fighting her every effort to regain balance. The spastic motion ground her sensitive clitoris against the strap like a match head to the striker. A flame of a different sort ignited.

Fate stepped in at that moment, when both prods swelled and vibrated at maximum intensity. The dual expansion pressed inward against the thin wall separating both violated passages, the shockwave reverberating throughout her abdomen. The hollow feeling of despair in Joanna's gut was shoved aside by the ever expanding sensation of involuntary stimulation.

The policewoman was in shock, never having been in a less arousing situation in her life. But as her mind grappled with the preposterousness of the concept, Joanna's body quaked and quivered harder. It became (more) difficult to walk with each step. It seemed that her body had stopped obeying her commands. Of its own accord, her pelvis began to thrust forward, mashing her clit against the strap to heighten the pain/pleasure stimulus.

Joanna tried desperately to rein in her lust (there was no better term for it). She thought of depressing images and of course, her current plight. None of that now mattered to her body. It became fixed on one goal. Joanna staggered again, the walls of the corridor seeming to undulate in her vision. One last time, she tried desperately to regain control. But that desperation, that overwhelming feeling of panic, turned out to be the catalyst for the explosion moments later.

"ghhrrmmnnnpphhh!!!" The detective screamed against the prod gag.

She lurched sideways, slamming her shoulder against the wall. The violent movement clapped the weights dangling from her nipples together, twisting the chains into one strand. As they spun apart, the agitation poured petrol on the inferno. Joanna forgot where she was. Her head pounded, ready to explode, as an immense sexual earthquake seemed to rattle every bone and fiber.

The complete opposite of an 'out of body experience', the officer's intimate regions had become the center of her universe. Breathing, moving, escape, all had become trivial matters of no importance. Her body had latched on to one goal and would forgo all else to achieve it. Joanna howled, as if seemingly of its own accord, she mashed her breasts against the cool, cinderblock wall. Moments later, her pelvis began to repeatedly slap against the block in a desperate measure to trigger release.

Her efforts paid off, as she was enveloped in a brilliant explosion of light and euphoria. She lost all touch with what was happening around her. Her temples pounded and her body felt ready to melt from the intense sexual heat. She let herself be swept up in the wave that crashed down upon her. She'd never, ever, felt anything so intense.

Ever so slowly, the crescendo subsided, allowing Joanna's brain to come back on line. As it took inventory, the news was not good. The detective's legs felt as though they could buckle any second. She was hyperventilating, her lungs trying urgently to replenish muscles starved for oxygen. Her breasts were now bruised and scraped, as well as still clamped at the nipples. Her hip bones too, ached from the violent contact with the wall. She was soaked everywhere, be it from sweat, or vaginal secretions.

With more effort than she thought would have been necessary, she rolled her face away from the wall, whilst still leaning against it for support. Her vision gradually cleared, noticing that the corridor had not been empty. Still standing there, were her male and female captors. Each of them sported a leer that spoke volumes.

Her cheeks, bulging over the top of the gag panel, flushed with humiliation. The heat of embarrassment that washed over her skin, contrasted with the chill of the corridor. If there had been a convenient hole nearby, Joanna would have gratefully, if awkwardly, crawled into it. She was tempted to succumb to the tears she felt welling inside. Yet somehow, she found an inner resolve not to let these bastards see her weep.

"Looks like somebody had a little party and didn't invite us." Irene commented to Stanley.

"That's goin' to cost you, bitch." the captor informed Joanna. "Slaves aren't allowed to cum without permission. And we NEVER grant permission."

Joanna managed a weak whine, as if to say: "It wasn't my idea!"

Her captors merely scoffed. Stanley jerked on the leash to get the procession moving again. The detective, not the least bit recovered from her exertions, had no alternative but to follow the tug. As she did, the nipple weights resumed their jouncing and the crotch strap ground against the chafed, exposed cleft it split. The fire, hotter and more painful than ever, burned with every mincing step.

The intense discomfort squelched any hint of arousal for a whole ten paces. But then, to Joanna's utter astonishment, her body began to transform this pain into a hunger for yet another release.

"How could her body continue to betray her?" she thought.

She was spared (momentarily) from another unwanted sexual vertex, as they reached their destination. Just before Stanley keyed in the code on the keypad, Irene slipped a padded blindfold over the detective's eyes. After it had been buckled tight enough to trigger stars in the officer's blackened sight and then padlocked, the code was entered.

"Time for you to meet some of the other guests." Irene whispered in Joanna's ear.

She was manhandled a few more paces into the room, then roughly forced to her knees. Unseen hands grabbed the handle straps at her shoulders and pulled her back. Joanna felt her leather encased spine contact with a rigid vertical object. She could not feel the fumbling near the back of her neck through the thick collar, but when she went to lean forward, found that her torso was held unyieldingly upright.

Her hobbled ankles were released, only to be dragged back behind her, scraping her knees on the rough floor in the process. Her ankles were raised and then crossed behind her. There, they were bound, focusing all of her weight on just her knees.

"It's some kind of post." Joanna deduced correctly.

She lurched against the fixture, but couldn't budge it. A strap was passed around her midsection and when buckled, further fused her to the post. She was almost grateful to be held immobile (thus not exacerbating the crotch strap and nipple weights). The dildoes, on the other hand, remained as energetic as ever.

Joanna strained to hear any kind of clue as to her current predicament. Restrained and muzzled sounds wafted back to her. It sounded like two, no wait, three, forcibly silenced females were in the room with her. It didn't take a law enforcer's intellect, to deduce that these were probably the three missing tryouts. And if they were unable to remove their own gags, they were certainly incapable of rendering any assistance to one tightly trussed police detective.

Joanna could do nothing but kneel there and listen to the garbled sounds of duress around her. Although, after a moments musing, two of them sounded oddly concupiscent. Their moans seemed more rhythmic than erratic. Little did the detective know, that the training program was beginning to take hold of Morgan and Tricia.

Both women had started out complying with the program's demands, as a way to ease their discomfort. However, this slippery slope had steered them down a fateful path. Any pleasure had been too fleeting, the punishments protracted. Increased pleasure was rewarded only with an exponential degree of submissiveness. It had taken a while, but both women were now willing to do almost anything to achieve the euphoria that would temporarily blot out the pain wracking their fettered bodies.

Watering, bloodshot eyes drank in the images playing before them. Or, perhaps they wept at not having been stronger, at not having battled to the very last breath to retain their identity. Regardless, who they had once been was becoming more and more of an illusion.

Of course, Joanna had no idea of the transformation taking place, nor that her time was rapidly approaching. As she tested her bonds yet again, and again finding them inescapable, she let her mind wander. A trio of garbled, helpless voices provided the backdrop. Inevitably, her thoughts settled on the last glimpse of her soul mate, Danielle. And what her partner had been doing.

"Why, Danielle? Why?" Joanna agonized.


Part 38 (added: 08/01/2010)

Danielle was tortured, on several different levels. Her body, still stretched wide and unmoving, shuddered yet harder from the cold. She'd given up calling out to her assailant, reminding him of their 'Deal' and demanding to be released. The huge ball gag smothered her voice, reducing it to a drool slathered whimper. The nerves of her sex still tingled, ceaselessly recounting her rape. Her psyche burned with the humiliation of succumbing to her captors' preconditions for release and at how she'd screamed so desperately in order to secure her freedom.

But by far, the thing that pained her the most, was the look of utter betrayment in Joanna's eyes. She did not know how long her lover had been peering through the portal in the cell door, but it had obviously been long enough to understand the gist of the exchange between herself and Andy.

"But it wasn't what it appeared to be!" Danielle thought for the hundredth time.

The detective knew that it would only take five minutes to clear up the matter, but first, she'd have to be in the same room with Joanna and of course, un-gagged. Those two conditions didn't appear to be on the agenda any time soon. Danielle started, when she heard the latch to the door click. A brief moment of hope was dashed, as Andy entered the room. He did not come empty handed.

Detective Frost didn't bother with any garbled pleas for release. Up until this point, they hadn't worked. Rather, she tried to fix the man with a steely gaze of defiance (and hatred). One that quickly crumbled when Andy guffawed at her brave, yet ineffective effort. Having been amused by his captive twice in less than a half hour (granted, the first time had been much more enjoyable) he knelt next to the officer. He dumped the burden in his arms to the floor.

Once again, Danielle's hopes of freedom were dashed, as it became apparent Andy was making no move to unlock her from the spread eagle.

Trying to get a glimpse into her immediate future (praying that one of those events involved getting off this freakin' ice block) Danielle watched as the ex-trainer sifted through the moderately sized pile of equipment he'd brought. The vast majority of it was high gloss white in color, liberally sprinkled with chrome fittings. She then caught a whiff of leather, wafting from the pile. The detective had no idea as to their function, but also no delusions as to their purpose. She was no doubt to be the recipient of the equipment.

Andy lifted an indefinable object shaped like a tube. Obviously rigid, by the way it retained its shape, it appeared to slightly taper toward one end. Five, evenly spaced, two inch straps were discernable along its length, held in place by means of belt loops. Danielle craned her neck up to watch, as Andy opened the tube along its length, like a clam shell. He slid the bottom half under the officer's sheathed right arm, then closed the top half, encasing the limb from wrist to armpit. Working from wrist upward, he buckled the integrated straps not once, but three times. The squeeze was uniform and constant. Her left arm was soon similarly sheathed.

Not too many minutes passed before larger versions clad each of the detective's legs. The one difference with these was, the top portion traveled down almost to her toes. From this, a two inch strap was cinched snuggly under her instep. Danielle tested their effectiveness with what limited motion she had. The feedback was not positive. It felt as though her limbs were now cast in plaster.

"Definitely not a step in the right direction." Danielle mused humorlessly.

Next came some sort of harness, gloss white, in keeping with the rest of the ensemble. As Andy crouched over her, Danielle noticed what looked like to bra 'half cups' centered amongst the tangle of straps. This turned out to be the case, as the trainer centered the contraption across his victim's chest. With some difficulty, he managed to work the two main straps around to her back and buckle them. Two additional straps were drawn up, one draped over each shoulder.

Another tangle of white straps was retrieved. Detective Frost would have been at a loss explain its purpose, save for two, obviously non-leather, objects. One had a dishearteningly familiar shape. It resembled a glossy white, male sex organ. A HUGE male sex organ. The other, also white, was a blunt-tipped conical shape. Unable to help herself, Danielle began a garbled protest into the ballgag, whilst shaking her head to the negative.

"This should thaw a frosty bitch like you quite nicely." Andy growled. He squeezed the contents of a tube along the length of each prod.

"It's also a spermicidal." He informed her. "We wouldn't want a bunch of little coppers running around now, would we?"

"I think we'll start with that cute little poop chute of yours." His comment was icily casual.

Well, Danielle was going to be damned to let that happen, so when the prod neared her helplessly exposed back passage, she clamped down tight. Andy paused, his grin growing even larger.

"Good." He said. "Fight it. It hurts a LOT more when you fight it."

Danielle held her ground, even as the tip began to nudge harder against her puckered brown ring. True enough, the pain began to escalate. Grasping at straws and finding none left in the jar, the officer realized she was out of options. Summoning up courage she didn't know she had, she willed her body to go lax. It helped...somewhat.

Her professionally trained eye for detail had told her the prod was perhaps six inches in length. Because of its odd shape, the dimensions varied. The ¾" tip swelled to its maximum girth of about two inches, which was almost at its base. From there, the circumference shrank dramatically, the final potion perhaps 1-¼" round, continuing to where it fused to the harness. In reality though, those dimensions didn't mean squat.

Danielle's grunts of discomfort rapidly swelled into howls of anguish. Visual size be damned, this thing was monstrous! Already it felt as though her virginal opening was about to split, and yet the girth of the prod kept growing. Just as the detective was certain she was going to pass out, Andy gave the prod a decisive shove. The mass slipped behind her sphincter, like an egg being swallowed by a baby anaconda. The base of the shaft though, kept her tight ring stretched beyond a point that would be considered anything like comfortable.

The officer couldn't believe how bloated she felt. Immediately, she contacted her abdominal muscles, trying to force out the intruder. She felt it budge slightly toward the exit, but with it came a lightening sharp pain. Regardless, she tried once more, the effort leaving her breathless. It became apparent that she could not expel the prod on her own, assistance would be required. To her dread, Danielle realized that it was going to hurt a lot more coming out, than it did going in. And it looked as though it was staying put for the foreseeable future.

No where near recovered from this development, Danielle had nonetheless forgotten about prod number two. Her memory was refreshed as the cold tip nuzzled against her labia. Her head shot up and she looked down her tautly stretched torso at her tormentor. The 'shit eatin' grin was still plastered across his face.

The uniform girth of the prod did nothing to dispel what her eyes had told her and to what her body actually felt. 'Massive' was a gross understatement. Her vagina expanded around the phallus, stretching to never before achieved dimensions. And it seemed to go on forever! All thoughts of ejecting the slippery prod were abandoned, as the muscles in the walls of her sex were taxed beyond limit.

"grnnnfff! Hrrnghh!" The officer grunted inconsolably.

Finally, but with no reprieve from her debasement, Danielle felt Andy's warm palm press against her sex. To the detective, it now felt as though the tip of the prod was located somewhere near her belly button. So aghast at recent events, she barely noticed the trainer tighten a two inch wide waist strap around her, just above her hip bones. From the front of this strap, hung three smaller straps. The outer two, were a half inch wide, anchored to the main belt at her hips. The center strap was a full one inch, secured at her navel. All three merged into one band, roughly 1-½" wide. Whilst lifting the momentarily dazed officer off the ice block with one arm, Andy was able to buckle this single strap to the back of the belt, near the base of her spine.

Still straddling his prize, Andy leaned over and came back with a small canvas satchel. He gave it a shake and Danielle noted the metallic rustling from within. Reaching in, he withdrew a handful of tiny, brass padlocks. With a very deliberate pace, he began to lock one through each of the hasps on the straps' buckles. Five on each arm and seven on each leg, for the straps at instep, ankle, mid-calf, below and above the knee, mid-thigh and the top, almost at her crotch.

Each *snick* of a padlock cast her further away from her longed for freedom. Both of them knew exactly what he was doing, yet for Danielle, it still had a devastating psychological affect. When the last lock clicked home, Andy made sure to give the bag another shake. The same sound, though lighter in tone, informed the detective that he was not yet finished with the contents. Finally, the moment Danielle had longed for arrived.

Andy keyed the lock holding the ring of her arm sleeve to the anchor in the floor. He turned and set about releasing her right arm. Danielle knew a chance when she saw one. With his back turned, she could launch a roundhouse punch to the back of his head. At worst, it would stun him. Best case scenario would be if he were knocked out cold. Either way, he'd be momentarily incapacitated, at which time the officer could strike a more debilitating blow.

Her hand had difficulty forming into a tightly closed fist, due to the snug squeeze of the sleeve's material. It would have to do. Tensing her body, she launched her arm to strike. Complications became immediately apparent. Early in her limbs arc, her elbow refused commands to bend. Rather, it was unable to comply. The white leather gauntlet held her arm as stiff as a flag pole. What had begun as a perfectly timed strike, rapidly turned into a clumsy clubbing of her assailant's shoulder. Andy hardly even flinched. Almost too casually, as if expecting the attack, he turned and faced the detective.

"That's gonna cost you, bitch." He menaced.

"I had planned to go easy on you," he confided, "but I guess you need to be taught a lesson."

Danielle didn't know what more he could do to her, but it was obvious that he'd already thought that out. In the mean time, her arm had dropped uselessly to her side. Any further attacks would be ill advised. From his pocket, Andy withdrew a long length of ½" manila rope. As he unraveled the loops, Danielle noted one end had been fashioned into a noose. Sure enough, this end slipped over her head and was snugged extremely tight around her throat. Though never really 'fun and games' before, the officer realized that the man would offer no compassion from now on. Too late, she understood the err of her ways.

Andy pulled on the free end of the rope, forcing Danielle to sit up unaided. Muscles stiff and frozen from the ice struggled to comply, lest her airway be closed off completely. The officer's torso rose, then pitched forward toward her feet. Danielle had no choice but to bend at the waist, her legs still locked wide and rigidly straight.

On a day when good news was a rarity, the officer made note of one minor blessing. The prods (the faux penis at least), seemed moderately flexible. She'd feared that they would be as unyielding as they'd appeared. Even so, each plug contorted her passages in ways that nature hadn't intended. A change in posture did nothing to alleviate the stuffed-beyond-limit state of her privates.

Andy knotted the end of the cord to an anchor in the floor between Danielle's outstretched feet. Before she could even think of swinging her buttressed arms up and grab hold of the tether to ease the strain, the trainer snatched them up and yanked them behind her. A padlock through the rings at her fingertips insured no further mischief. The officer couldn't believe it when her assailant started humming a tuneless ditty as he continued applying the restraints.

The chest harness was addressed first. The free ends of the shoulder straps were drawn down and buckled to the main straps in back. This lifted the half cups in front, scooping Danielle's breasts in the process. The detective noted that there must have been some kind of flaw in the craftsmanship, for the interior of the half-cups caused an unpleasant sensation on the undersides of her breasts. Andy continued tightening the multitude of buckles on the harness, the constriction increasing with each adjustment.

Apparently satisfied, he unlocked the officer's hands. Pressing an unseen catch near the elbow, Danielle miraculously found that that joint would now bend. And bend it did, as Andy wrenched her right arm up behind her back. He didn't stop until his victim's hand was pressed against her left shoulder blade. A padlock through the versatile fingertip ring was locked to a ring on the shoulder strap of the harness. Moments later, Danielle's left arm mirrored her right. The strain was not pleasant.

Satisfied that her arms were no longer a threat, Andy gathered up the beauty's long black hair in a ponytail. Oddly, he positioned it near the top of her head, not in back. A few winds from a spool of electrician's tape made certain that the straight tresses would remain in place. Danielle felt some gentle tugs on her mane, then something soft landed on her head.

"Now what?" she wondered miserably.

As if in answer to her question, something descended over her face, blinding her. The earthy scent of cowhide filled her nostrils. Her sight returned, as two oval cutouts moved into position at her eyes.

"It's some kind of mask." She deduced. But as the fitting continued, she determined it was something much more severe than just a mask.

The covering didn't stop at her face, but continued down to envelope her throat. Then there was some tugging at the back of her head and everything began to tighten. Upon reflection, Danielle decided "shrink" was a better description. Soon, no part of her face, head or neck escaped the relentless pressure. Well, perhaps one. There appeared to be some kind of shield bridging her nose, preventing her nostrils from collapsing, thus cutting off all air. Danielle recognized the rhythmic tugging as that of laces being tightened down the back of her head, from the crown to her spine. Several extra sharp tugs indicated that a very thorough knot had just been fashioned where her neck met her shoulders.

Clueless as to the appearance of the hood's exterior, Danielle could not anticipate one of its two integrated straps being tightened. The first originated at the top of her head. In it was a narrow hole through which her bundled hair had been fed. Positioning her locks so high up had removed any chance of it providing a cushion in back when the helmet was laced tight. The strap then passed down on either side of her head, through belt loops that insured no slippage. The ends met under her chin, where it was ruthlessly hitched tight. Danielle involuntarily clamped down on the ballgag. It flattened ever so slightly, but the pressure increased a hundredfold.

The second strap passed around her head, not-so-coincidentally at mouth level. If at all possible, Andy buckled this one even tighter. The crush was unbearable, flattening Danielle's lips to the point where she doubted even her drool could pass. She felt a minute pressure under her chin as well as on the back of her neck, accompanied by an all too common *snick*. Past experience told her that the helmet had just been locked on and if she didn't have a key, she was shit outta luck.

Danielle tried to shake her head free and was dumbfounded at how the helmet restricted her movement (not to mention making her as quiet as a mouse fart). Grappling to come to terms with her plight, she offered no resistance as a wide collar (still white) was positioned around her neck. She couldn't help but to pay note when it was buckled in place. Any movement she'd momentarily had, evaporated. And it got worse.

Tiny sub-straps were connected to the helmet, as well as the chest harness's shoulder straps. The officer could do nothing but peer where the collar dictated. And that was unwaveringly straight ahead, to a spot on the floor somewhere between her knees. Three more padlocks clicked home at the back of her head, indicating tri-buckle fasteners on the collar. Danielle was certain the padlock on the back of the helmet now lie under the collar. So in order to remove the helmet's padlock, she'd first have to unlock the three on the collar. Hopeless. It stunned Danielle to realize how often that word had crept into her vocabulary lately.

Finally, Andy cut the manila noose, yanking the hemp out from under the collar, leaving no small amount of rope burn in its place. The cry that leaked out from behind the hood could have been mistaken for a loud sigh. He unlocked the toe rings holding her legs wide and yanked her to her feet by the chest harness. A plethora of abbreviated grunts and squeals gurgled out of the restrained detective as she was stood up. Numerous 'subtleties' of her restraints were now coming to her attention.

First, were her breasts. What she'd dismissed earlier as poor quality, was in fact a very intentional addition. The insides of the leather bra half-cups, were lined with hundreds of short needles. Cropped together close enough to avoid actually puncturing the skin, this still didn't dampen their cumulative bite. Being dragged up by the harness had brought their menace to the forefront. Once standing, gravity provided all the pressure required to keep them in constant play. Walking, she would find out, exacerbated things greatly.

The second, was the biting, stabbing pain assailing both the top and bottom of each foot. Again, with the cruelest intention, the foot restraints had been designed for maximum discomfort. The stiff portion rolling over the top of her foot, was fashioned out of two pieces of thick hide, rather than one curved piece. The two halves were then heavily stitched together, the seam running lengthwise down the top of her foot. This seam dug painfully into her skin whenever she tried to set her heels down. And if that weren't reason enough, a sharp metal 'briar' was attached to the strap passing under her instep. Taken individually, Danielle might have been able to endure standing flat-footed for short periods. But in harmony, she had no choice but to remain up on her toes.

Danielle watched Andy hover into view through the helmet's eye holes, the leather hiding everything but her blinking lids. A chain link leash was attached to the collar, then a tug to walk forward. The detective very nearly crashed, unused to the stilt-like immobility of her legs. The trainer guided her not to the door, but to a hook anchored in the wall next to it. Removing all the slack from the leash, then giving it another tug for emphasis, Andy hooked the end to the anchor. Danielle could do nothing but stand there on her toes, her front pressing against the cold, concrete wall.

Then the trainer set about systematically tightening every last buckle and binding. The chest harness grew tighter. Once the locks were back in place, he released the fingertip ring on the detective's right arm. But instead of lowering the limb, he wrestled it up higher, to the waiting lock dangling from the back of the collar. He hooked it there, leaving the hasp open momentarily. The action was repeated with her left arm and finally, the padlock was snapped shut.

To Danielle, it was instantly, agonizingly unbearable. Her shoulders threatened to pop out of their sockets. The distorted posture thrust her chest out, right into the waiting embrace of the needles. And it was only the beginning. There was perhaps a three inch space between her doubled-up elbows. That gap vanished, when Andy shoved them roughly together, joining a ring at each pointed elbow with a lock. The he re-set the gauntlets' elbow joints, so that they were once again locked rigid.

As unbelievably horrid as this new position was, the worse came with her attire's final adjustment. He hitched the waist strap so tight that the detective wondered how she would be able to breath. Then, working on the outer straps first, Andy pulled the narrow straps desperately tight between Danielle's legs. They dug into the fleshy union of her legs, her sex puffing out between them. The final, center strap received particularly close attention. Using all the force he could muster, Andy tugged repeatedly, cajoling every last millimeter out of the strap. When he finally buckled it, adding the obligatory padlock, Danielle couldn't blink the tears away fast enough.

The detective felt the warmth of her antagonist's body, as he leaned in close. She couldn't feel the heat of his breathed words on her leather encased ears.

"Now, bitch" he said loud enough for her to hear. "A little payback for trying to cold cock me."

Andy unleashed the chain and spun Danielle around, pressing her back against the wall. Keeping one hand on the heavily boned collar, he reached into his pocket with the other. Out came a gleaming pair of nipple clamps, attached by a chain. The coolness of the room did the officer no justice, for it had kept her sensitive buds at a constant state of erection. It was child's play to snap the jaws down upon the little nerve bundles. Once in place, Andy gave the thumbscrews on each, several turns. Danielle's hushed howls increased in octaves and the tender flesh turned an alarming shade of crimson. But he wasn't finished yet.

He held up the detective's own police issue handcuffs. With deliberate slowness, he ratcheted them around the chain Danielle did not yet know existed. Her enlightenment was immediate, as her assailant gradually let the chain bear the weight of the cuffs. Danielle's nipples, already pulsing in agony, began drooping downward. Detective Frost was still working on drawing in a hitching breath, when Andy showed her the second pair of cuffs that had held her arms when she's first awakened. These joined the first, albeit with a little less flair. Not to be outdone, the trainer showed her the final pair that had captured her ankles. These too joined the crowd on the nipple chain.

Danielle had no air to scream, yet that is all she wanted to do. There was no way she could bear such torture. And if the rolling explosions coming from her nipples wasn't enough, the added weight pulled her breasts down deeper into the half-cups. Her chest might as well have been clamped in a vice of molten iron. It took three frantic tries to draw in some air. And even that worked against her. Her chest expanded, adding fuel to the fire.

She thought her hearing was playing tricks on her when he said:

"All right, 127. Let's go."

But it wasn't a mistake. Andy took up the leash and swung open the door. Stiff legs forced to pivot woodenly, Danielle had no choice but to follow, leaving her icy prison behind. If she had known what was to be her fate, she might have chosen to remain on the ice block.


Part 39 (added: 08/26/2010)

Bert Seagram snapped back to reality, totally shocked as he turned into the stadium parking lot.

"How the hell did I get here?" he actually said out loud, so complete was his surprise.

It dawned on him that he'd been driving around for the past hour in a complete daze, whilst images and events had swirled through his mind. He thanked the powers that be, that a pedestrian, or even worse a deer, hadn't stepped in front of his car during the drive (Bert was quite the nature lover).

Bert drove up to the guard shack, where a young man, probably still in his teens, maintained the nightly vigil. It was quite obvious that the guard had been expecting a quiet night, for when the Mercedes pulled up, he hastily dropped his reading material and tried to (as casually as possible) shove his johnson back into his trousers.

"Uh, hi there Mr. Seagram." he stammered.

Hey there...Ricky." Bert replied, after glancing at the boys name tag.

"Um, is this some kinda inspection?" the young man asked cautiously.

"No, nothing like that." Bert was surprised at how casual his voice sounded. It must have been the years of negotiating high level business deals.

"Couldn't sleep. Still a little keyed up I guess." he explained. "Thought I'd just walk around an re-live some of today's excitement."

The young man visibly relaxed and replied, "Sure, you go right on ahead (as if the team's owner needed his permission). Boy, we sure whooped 'em good, didn't we?"

"Yes we did. Well, goodnight Ricky." Bert said.

"Goodnight, sir. I'll let the chief of security know you're on the way in." the boy offered helpfully.

Bert was going to tell him not to bother, but then thought better of it. His instincts had always served him well in business and those same instincts had led him here tonight. Whatever it was that had been bothering him, might somehow be tied in with today's events. Maybe a walk around the stadium would jog something. He drove through the gate and headed toward his reserved parking spot, even though there were five thousand others available at this hour. Joanna's car was not to be seen, having been moved whilst the huge throng exited the stadium.

As he pulled up, the night shift head of security, Merv Patterson was waiting for him.

"Evening, sir." he said professionally.

"Hi, Merv." Bert responded. "Mind if I walk around a little bit?"

Merv scoffed saying, "Like the owner of this stadium needs MY permission? You go right ahead sir. If there's anything you need, I'll be in the security office."

"Thanks, Merv. Appreciate it."

As with his night time drive, Bert let his legs lead the way, allowing his mind to wander once again. He wound up at the spot where he'd last seen Detective Joanna August working her way through the crowd. He stood there, a frown on his face. He was definitely getting bad vibes here, but what was it? He looked up to the spot where he'd stood earlier in the day, gazing down on the attractive, short-haired blonde. His eye picked up one of the many surveillance cameras littered about the stadium. An idea popped into his head.

Minutes later, he was in the security room, having discretely ushered Merv out on a meaningless task. He sat down in front of the bank of video monitors an re-wound the tape from today's game. Not the game itself, actually, but the security tapes of the corridors. Knowing the exact time and location made his search a short one. He soon had his person of interest up on the screen.

Joanna was walking purposefully through the corridors. Occasionally, her lips would move ever so slightly, no doubt keeping in contact with the equally lovely Detective Danielle Frost. Bert recognized the area in which he'd last seen Joanna. He watched the screen with interest. When he saw the woman bump into Joanna, he dismissed it as heavy foot traffic. But then the blonde paused and appeared to be looking at something on her arm.

Bert was surprised when the detective turned immediately down a side corridor. He knew that the ransom drop was to be at the far end of the stadium. Unfortunately, being an access corridor, surveillance coverage was skimpy at best. No matter, Bert fast forwarded the tape, certain that he couldn't miss the platinum haired beauty as she returned to the main concourse.

Nothing happened for a while, then a couple of security ladies strode into view. One spoke into her microphone, then the two headed off for their posts. A few minutes later, a hot dog vendor appeared, and then nothing else. Bert watched the tape all the way to the end of the game. Still no sign of Joanna. Odd. Rather than resolving a few questions, it raised another. "What had made the detective deviate from the ransom instructions and why did she disappear?"

Rather than trying to ponder yet another conundrum, he switched tack. Bert brought up the tapes of the end zone elevators, the place of the ransom drop. He missed her the first time he watched, but on the second, he saw a well concealed Detective Frost behind a concession stand. After only a few minutes, an attractive and very familiar blonde walked up to the officer.

"What the hell is Rebecca Cranston doing there?" Bert brooded. "She told me she was still too upset after her ordeal, to attend the inaugural football game."

He watched as the two women spoke, then Rebecca led Danielle toward the private elevators. From this distance, Bert couldn't make out which direction they were headed, but he knew a way to find out. He replaced all of the video tapes and left the office. In no time, he was at the elevator banks. Using his own key card, he entered the one that the two women had used. Once inside, he pulled up the log for the lift, armed with the times provided by the surveillance tapes. Only one fit.

"Why on earth would they go down to the sub-basement level." Bert asked himself cluelessly.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Morgan Firestone was no more. 917, still the voluptuous redhead, might have ruminated briefly on the significance of the term 'Morgan Firestone'. But in the end, it would hold no more significance, than that of the forgotten definition of 'Deciduous' from her junior high science class. Hearing it might bother her momentarily, but when she'd be unable to make any connection, she would return to the duties and tasks at hand. And those duties were to be ever obedient, and provide pleasure to her Master (or Mistress). Her personal needs and desires were inconsequential.

Neither her captors, nor herself, could answer how this transformation took place. Was it as though a fuse to her previous life had blown? Or was the change gradual? The program she'd been subjected to, could not provide an answer either. It's task was one minded, pummeling the subject into submission, no matter how long it took. No doubt, Morgan's chemical dependency had already weakened a fragile perception of self-worth.

Morgan could still feel the restraints that held her practically motionless, straddling the beam, but their existence had become something almost trivial. They were a matter of fact, an integral part of her new life. She didn't just accept, but expected, to be restrained in some fashion for the rest of her life. The notion sat with her as comfortably as breathing. She drank in what the program was teaching her, ready for any task. A task that was coming sooner than she knew.

Tricia Koulikofski (622), still remembered her name, intermittently. She'd found that singing a long forgotten lullaby helped her to maintain focus. Even so, she would often jerk back to wakefulness, having drifted off into the world of the program, never knowing how long her lapse had been. Everything ached and it was becoming harder and harder not to embrace the pain, to give in to it and immerse herself in the pleasure that was promised.

The unpredictable program switched tack yet again, the prods vibrating in arrhythmic waves, whilst a cornucopia of pleasant sexual images flashed across the screen. The tingle in her loins swirled outward, helping to mask the aches throughout her body. There was no way for Tricia to gauge from past experiences, how long the stimulation would last. In most cases, the machine would bring her to the very precipice of orgasm, only to switch back to "Punishment" mode, leaving her body shuddering with unfulfilled release.

She had tried early on, to rock on her perch in order to trigger what her body desperately desired. The program seemed to sense this and responded with a barrage of shocks. The electronic castigation hammered down her arousal, but did nothing to alleviate her longing for release. That remained an un-scratchable itch in her psyche.

There were rare times though, that she would be manipulated into an orgasm so intense, she feared it might stop her heart. Her vision would ebb in and out, never completely obscuring the images before her. A collage of twosomes, threesomes, even foursomes all partaking in a variety of sexual acts, seemed to coax Tricia to come join them. In the throws of orgasm, she felt herself migrating toward the scenes, a place of never ending enjoyment.

But her climax would pass, her pain would return and the tears would flow once again, for which she would be punished. And the message never varied. Succumb to this new life and all will be well.

The stimulation cut off, as she feared it might, leaving Tricia feeling as though she were one giant nerve ending. She couldn't stifle the bleat of frustration. For this infraction too, there was punishment. She remained perched there, foot figuratively in the air, poised to make that step over the line.

Dana Greenwich (809) faired no better than her co-captives. She ached, hurt and was beyond exhaustion. Her strict bondage, as well as the forced orgasms, had left her so. For Dana, her lifeline during all this had been the Dickens. David Copperfield, A Tale of Two cities, Oliver Twist, she'd tried to recite excerpts from all of them. They'd offered solace for a while, their themes of the human spirit shining even in the darkest of times. But that mental respite didn't last. The more somber tones of these classics started to twist Dana's reasoning. They started to leave her cold and forlorn, as when reading E A Poe.

She couldn't help but wonder if her fascination with Dickens, had somehow been a sub-conscious preparation for this new life that was being demanded of her. A life of few pleasures and unimaginable arduousness. She'd tried often, to recall some happier literature (she'd read enough of it), but Dickens always came back to the forefront. Dark, despairing, hopeless. She tried feebly, once more, to break free of her restraints. But they gripped her tighter than ever, promising never to let go.

Joanna August (116) wasn't feeling much like a police officer at the moment. Her authority had been snatched from her, replaced by restraints and muzzles. Having been trained to take control of any situation, this feeling of complete helplessness was alien to her. She systematically attacked each of her bonds, searching for weakness. Yet each restraint seemed to be more secure than the last. Perhaps the blindfold was the worse. Not for its tight grip, but for its blotting out one of her key senses.

She'd lost the ability to analyze her environment and devise an appropriate plan of action. That, and it amplified her other senses. The aches, cramps and immobility brought on by the bondage were bad, having to listen to a trio of females in apparently the same fix, even worse. Her vision, unable to function as normal, resorted to replaying recent events over and over again. Danielle, sprawled on the ground, encouraging her defilement. This was the cruelest torture of all. She did not know that they were about to be reunited, at least in proximity.

For all Maggie Seagram knew, mankind had suddenly become extinct, leaving her the last living soul on earth. She'd tried everything to summon someone to release her. Screaming, crying, pleading and imperious grunts from behind the gag drew no response. She endured her misery in isolation.

Miraculously, the ache in her wrenched back shoulders, due to the arm sheath, had subsided some, no doubt the joints and sinew stretching over the prolonged period. That was the highlight. The rest of her was still in misery. The bastinado machine had stopped, but the fire in the soles of her feet burned hot as ever. She feared her back might never straighten again.

Then there were her nipples. The chain running under her thighs, forcing her to remain folded forward, remained a compassionless twist of cold steel. It continued its sole purpose of linking the nipple clamps, comprising the heinous voluntary/involuntary restraint. If Margaret chose to, she could sit upright, at the cost of the tender nubs perched on her breasts. She had experimented doing just that, each time the pain forcing her to hunch over once more.

Compounding everything, was her unwanted arousal. As with her bonds, the mechanical prods felt no remorse. They required no rest, nor took pity on their host. They performed admirably, the task for which they'd been designed. Although Maggie's body was fatigued beyond measure, the probes were still able to coax jolts from her overtaxed nerve endings. If there were any blessing at all, it was that her muscles were so exhausted, that she no longer thrashed about. She suffered the climaxes with near paralysis. Tactilely, the same could not be said. Would there be no 'White Knight' to save her from this ordeal?

Danielle's journey was nothing but anguish and humiliation. The huge probes violating her would have made walking a challenge in and of itself. But clad in the stiff leather gauntlets made the task near impossible. She knew not how she managed to keep pace. Finally, they stopped at one of the many doors in the corridor. Andy removed a key and unlocked the deadbolt. The door swung open and detective Frost tried to prepare herself for whatever came next.

The players were in place. The game was about to go into overtime.


Part 40 (added: 09/11/2010)

Danielle entered the room and if she'd been expecting some sort of reprieve, her heart sank. She saw at once, three diabolically bound females. Although their heads were currently encased in some fashion of box, strands of their hair escaped the confinement to identify them as a redhead, a blonde and a brunette. The detective figured that the odds were excellent that these were the three missing tryouts, Morgan Firestone, Dana Greenwich and Tricia Koulikofski.

All of them were cruelly, inescapably bound, thus rendering them incapable of rescuing themselves, let alone assisting Danielle out of her fix. Detective Frost noted the coaxial cables attached to the crates trapping each prisoner's head, but hadn't a clue as to their purpose. All three women were sheathed in sweat, their bodies quivering at the strain of their bonds. The officer noted with some horror, that the weight of each woman was in some fashion supported only by their crotch. The thought of all that mass focused on such a delicate area made her pity the poor souls.

Then Danielle caught sight of the inert form off to one side. Although her features were obscured by the severe black leather gag panel and blindfold, there was no mistaking her partner's short, platinum hairdo. Danielle hummed out a feeble grunt, trying to convey distress, remorse and encouragement all at once. She saw (or thought she saw) Joanna's kneeling form stiffen. Her partner answered with an equally suppressed response, though to Danielle's ear, it seemed to have had a decidedly cool tone to it.

Knowing the absurdity of it, Danielle nonetheless tried to mumble and squeak an explanation of what had exactly transpired back in that cold cell. Her attempts at clarification were cut off by a jerk on her leash. She had no choice but to follow the tug, walking like a stilted clown down a carnival midway. Her short trip ended at a round, steel support column.

Peering down her nose, she noted that a mat of plastic grass or, Astroturf, sat on the floor at the base of the pole. Andy spun her around and "assisted" her to a sitting position, her back against the pole and her naked ass squarely on the mat. The prickly plastic surface was instantly annoying to the sensitive skin.

A two inch wide belt circled her torso at the waist and was buckled behind the pole. Another passed above her breasts and was secured as well. A final, shorter one was placed across her forehead and when it was buckled, mashed the back of her skull against the unyielding steel pole. She watched as Andy clipped the end of a cable, to a ring near the ankle of each leg sheath.

She contemplated briefly on striking out with her leather clad legs, but recalled how that earlier attempt had misfired quite badly. She decided to docilely allow him to go through with his plans and wait for a better opportunity to strike. Had she known what was in store for her, she would have fought him with every ounce of her strength.

Stepping out of view, Danielle could do nothing but peer ahead, which happened to be straight at her kneeling, straight jacketed and silenced partner. The clicking of a winch immediately redirected her focus. The cables snaking from each ankle began to straighten. Then they began to draw off to the sides, dragging her unwilling limbs with them.

Danielle watched helplessly as her pointed feet split wider apart. A feeling of unease crept through her as she noted the angle at which the cables retracted. They did not hover close to the floor, rather, they ascended at better than a forty five degree angle.

When her legs reached a position of ten and two o'clock, the strain on her thigh muscles started sounding an alarm. Still, her limbs continued to spread. Shortly thereafter, her hip joints announced that they weren't built to rotate in such a fashion. Andy seemed to anticipate this, for he stopped cranking the winch.

He loosened the waist belt marginally. Then, with absolutely no remorse, he used the chastity belt as a luggage strap. He hoisted Danielle's derriere off the mat. Trying to ignore the triple strands of fire from the stiff leather of the crotch straps, Danielle frantically swiveled her pelvis, trying to settle her hip joints back into their sockets. Much to her (momentary) relief, she was able to do so.

However, realigning her carriage to avoid dislocation created another problem. Her trisected sex, already resembling an exaggerated camel's toe, was thrust downward even more against the unyielding grip of the crotch straps. This came as a mixed blessing. With her legs splayed so wide, the edges of the straps passing on either side of her mons, no longer dug into her skin.

The same could not be said about the central strap cleaving the lips of her vulva. This strap bulldozed deeper into the delicate cleft, pushing ahead of it, the prods. Though it was only a few centimeters, to Danielle, it felt as though some sort of rupture was imminent. It felt like her clitoris was being squished as flat as a dime. The edges of the strap tore into tissue that was meant for only the lightest of a lover's touch.

When Andy saw that his captive had stopped wriggling, he correctly assumed that Danielle had been able to re-position her carriage. He lowered her back down and tightened the straps holding her to the pole once more. He smirked at the strangled bleats coming from his hostage.

Danielle discovered that the mat of plastic grass, which had before probed at her butt cheeks annoyingly, now pricked the periphery of her sex like a pin cushion as well. What little wriggling she could do, only made matters worse. There was no escaping the evil, little green lancets, as they pricked her skin indiscriminately.

Andy callously gave the winch a few more turns. When he locked the gears in place, Danielle was held in a posture that most gymnasts would shy away from. Her legs shot out to the sides at almost 180 degrees. That would have been bad enough. But her immobilized limbs were also elevated off the floor. Each involuntarily pointed foot now hovered off the ground, at roughly the same height as her breasts, which bulged between the straps. And although the straps did an effective job of pinning her to the support pole, they did nothing to prevent her weight from settling down on the artificial grass mat.

Finding it useless to try and fight her bonds, Danielle clamped down on the ballgag and tried to come to some kind of armistice with her predicament. Or perhaps, 'endure' would have been a more apt description. She was unable to achieve either. Raped, defiled and restrained, the officer felt the tendrils of despair leeching into her brain.

Distraction came in the form of three people entering the room. None of them had any intention of easing the plight of the five captive women. Rebecca Cranston, Stanley and Irene looked upon their prizes, like youths wondering which Christmas present to open first. Rebecca walked over and gave Andy a peck on the cheek, then looked down at the contorted Detective Frost.

"Oh my, Andy." she beamed. "Aren't you a wicked little devil."

"I love where you've put the handcuffs. But so much jewelry makes her look gaudy."

Rebecca knelt and looked into Danielle's worried eyes. Holding her gaze, the blonde grasped the nipple clamps and levered their jaws open. The blood rushed back, re-inflating the flattened nubs. Danielle couldn't see this happening, but a nanosecond later, she felt the aftereffect.

"Gnnmmmmggfff!" the detective bellowed into the gag, as pain struck like a hammer blow.

She'd thought that her little brown buds had been tortured when the clamps had been applied. And although painful, that pain had leveled off at a point of just bearable. Now though, it felt as though her breasts had been hooked up to a pair of jumper cables. She shuddered and shook to the limits of her restraints, trying to slough off the pyre that was her wounded breasts.

The tears welling in her eyes, couldn't mask the hatred she cast upon Rebecca. Here was a woman, an apparent 'victim' of the kidnappers herself, showing absolutely no remorse in inflicting pain on another female. Gradually, the lightning bottled within Danielle's breasts eased to a level of mere excruciating. The officer tried to keep her breathing to shallow pants, that seemed the best way not to exacerbate matters.

Rebecca stood, relishing the look she was getting from the fettered policewoman. Here was a person, the very symbol of authority, trussed, helpless and humiliated at her feet. It was a most empowering feeling. The blonde felt her skin flush and her sex tingle with arousal. Yes, she definitely could get used to this.

Rebecca turned to see Irene carefully examining the LED monitors affixed to each of cheerleader wannabe's sensory input units. The fireplug of a woman paused at 917's (Morgan) unit, a smile slowly curling on her rugged face.

Rebecca figured it was good news, but didn't demand an explanation. She waited for the woman to announce it. Although technically in charge, Rebecca had found that Stanley and Irene weren't the type to be ordered around. Push too hard and there was a good chance that they would push right back. Harder.

"R.E.M. and voluntary muscle activity have almost flat lined." Irene announced finally. Her smile faded some, when she saw that this news sailed right over the head of the luscious blonde "in charge".

"It means," she explained with a patronizing tone. "That she's no longer fighting the program. She's soaking it up like a sponge."

Spoken in plain English, Rebecca beamed at the news.

"I'll be damned," the treacherous secretary thought. "It worked! Just like these two hirelings said it would."

Although Danielle and Joanna were also able to hear the report, they were clueless as to its significance. And though it sounded ominous, they had no idea that they were scheduled for the same treatment. Nor did they know that said treatment would be put on hold, until after what was to come next.


Part 41 (added: 10/11/2010)

The elevator slowed and after a few moments, the doors parted. Bert Seagram caught himself peering cautiously through the opening. This action surprised him and he chastised himself for it.

"Oh for Christ's sake." he muttered to himself. "I OWN the fucking building and here I am waiting for the boogeyman to jump out. These are just supplemental storage rooms down here, in case the team needs to expand."

His composure re-established, he stepped out into the corridor. Still, his feeling of unease did not vanish. In hindsight, he wished he had grabbed a nightstick, or at least a walkie-talkie, from the security command center. It would have been nice if he'd been able to summon Merv, the security chief, should the need arise.

However, already feeling foolish about his timidity, Bert would have felt downright humiliated if he doubled back now. Convincing himself that he had an over reactive imagination due to the stress of recent events, he decided on which way to turn.

The elevator had deposited him in the middle of the level, with an equal number of rooms to the left and right. A useless tidbit of information popped into his head. He'd read that a majority of shoppers entering a department store, instinctively turned to their right. Figuring this logic as good as any, he did the same.

Each steel door, having been outfitted with a numerical keypad, proved no obstacle to Bert. He swiped his authorization card through the slot, bypassing the entry code. The first room he entered was vacant, void of even boxes left over from the move into the complex. This fact did not surprise him at all. He actually expected all the rooms to be the same way, that is, empty. All the more puzzling why Rebecca Cranston and Detective Danielle Frost had come down here.

When he entered the second room, he was mildly surprised to see a piece of furniture sitting in the middle of it. There wasn't anything ominous about high backed wooden chair, save for its unusually sturdy construction. A rugged looking piece like that wouldn't have matched any of the décor in the complex and Bert idly wondered why anyone hadn't bothered to throw it out. In addition to the chair, was an odd sort of vaulting horse. Again, Bert could conjure up no explanation.

Figuring this to be a trivial mystery amongst all that had yet to be solved, he turned to leave the room. That's when he saw the ruined keypad, dangling from the wall by its wires, just inside the doorway.

"Great!" Bert thought perplexedly, "another fucking riddle. Why the hell would anyone gain access to the room, then risk becoming locked in, by messing with the keypad?"

Realizing that this mystery had more blanks in it than a starter's pistol, the owner had no choice but to press on. Sooner or later, he was going to find SOME clue as to what the hell was going on around here. Unfortunately, the next door only muddied the waters further.

The door of the next room was obviously different from all the others. It appeared heavier and had a built in portal through which to view the interior. Bert recognized it immediately as a cold storage unit. Not believing anyone to be inside, he never the less wasn't going to leave any stone unturned. Opening the small panel, he peered inside.

The empty metal shelves within the dim interior was exactly as he'd expected. He never dreamed of seeing, nor could he decipher a purpose for, the large, tortoise shell-shaped block of ice, slowly melting in the middle of the room. It was enough to make him want to pull his hair out. Nothing, not a goddamned thing, made any sense down here. He fought back the urge to scream, "I want some fuckin' ANSWERS". He did not know, that at the next door, he would get some answers. Though not the kind he'd ever imagined.

Swiping his card once more, he entered the fourth room. Instantly, he was struck by an intense sense of deja-vu. Which was ridiculous, for he'd never set foot on this level before. To one side of the room, sat a horizontal bar, supported at both ends by vertical pipes anchored into the floor. He'd seen this simple contraption before. It was the same piece of equipment that his gorgeous wife had been helplessly lashed to in the ransom video. Sure enough, as he looked left, there sat a video camera mounted on a tripod.

The revelation of this discovery, both thrilled and sickened the Mauler's owner. Here was the first concrete evidence of Maggie's capture. She HAD been in this very room. At the same time, Bert seethed with anger, that they had used this complex, MY COMPLEX, to defile his wife and extort money from him.

Bert knew he should contact the authorities with this information. But then what? This clue would merely put the police on the trail at square one. And in the time that lapsed before that happened, Maggie could be moved, hurt, or even...dead.

Bert wasn't going to let that happen. He decided right then and there, that he was going to find some tangible evidence of where the kidnappers had taken his wife, before contacting anyone. He was about to storm out of the room, when he glanced at the video camera.

"Maybe," he said in a silent prayer, "Just maybe."

He examined the camera, noting that the power was shut off. Peering through the small window, he saw that the unit still contained a digital video tape. He switched it on and opened the built in viewfinder. Then he hit 'play'. The small screen filled the grainy snow of blank tape. Bert rewound.

A few moments later, he saw images dancing across the screen. His heart jumped as he hit the 'play' button once more. And there was Maggie, still inescapably bound and cruelly gagged, struggling for all she was worth as a man hustled her out of the picture.

"Thank God she was still alive after the video was shot." Bert breathed a grateful sigh.

He determined that he'd have to rewind further, in the chance that there might be some information of Maggie's whereabouts. After doing so, he hit 'play' once again. He felt ill, as the images on the tiny screen told him he'd re-wound too much. There was Maggie, once again, being violated by her masked attacker.

It was the same scene he'd watched whilst sitting in his kitchen. Fearful that he would miss a vital clue if he fast forwarded the tape, Bert forced himself to watch his wife's anal rape once more. Thankfully, the scene only lasted another minute or two, then the 'action' appeared to come to an end.

Bert turned up the tiny volume control, fearful he might miss any kind of clue. "Dumbfounded" would have been the term best used to describe how he felt, when he saw his ex-equipment manager, Andy Stewart, remove his mask. However, that description paled, as he watched Rebecca Cranston walk into the picture. And as complete as his shock was, nothing could have prepared him for what he heard after Maggie's gag was removed.

Bert stood there, stunned. He had no idea how long, but when he came to his senses, the monochrome snow filled the camera's screen once more. One thought consumed his thoughts. Margaret, his 'loving' wife, had been a part of the extortion plot.

"Face it, schmuck." Bert told himself. "It had all been her idea."

All thoughts of contacting the authorities vanished. His primary goal, had now become an obsession. He had to find his wife. If only for the purpose to ask her, "Why"? Why would she cause so much hurt? Hadn't he given her everything she'd wanted? "Why?", it was a question for which he had to have an answer.


Part 42 (added: 10/30/2010)

Whilst Bert had begun his sleuthing in the security command post, things had been far from idle for the two detectives and their co-captives. Danielle hummed and grunted, trying to come to terms with her immobilized legs, locked in a tendon ripping split. She imagined herself a giant wishbone, just moments before snapping in two.

Nor could she forget the nettles of the Astroturf, probing her soft, intimate flesh. Heaped on to all of these lurid sensations, were the two dildos wedged inside her. 'Miserable' didn't even come close to describing her present state. Strapped tightly to the support column, she could do nothing but watch as Andy and his cohorts set about attending to the other helpless women in the room.

Two of the women in particular, were commanding the most attention. During their investigation, Danielle had become familiar with the physical descriptions of the three missing cheerleader applicants. Out of the corner of her eye (since she was unable to turn her head), she could see three women, all bound in not dissimilar fashion, whose bodies matched those descriptions perfectly. Their physiques, as well as the hair cascading out from under the strange boxes encasing their heads, made ID'ing each fairly simple.

For the moment, the petite frame and long, straight blonde tresses of Tricia Koulikofski went undisturbed. The same went for the robust body and straight, though not as long, black mane of Dana Greenwich. The voluptuous body with the bronze ringlets spilling out from beneath the box, was the focus of Stanley and Irene's attention. Danielle broke her gaze away from the two kidnappers, who were carefully releasing Morgan Firestone from her restraints, to peer straight ahead at the actions of Andy and Rebecca Cranston.

These two were in the process of freeing Danielle's partner, Joanna August. Well, perhaps 'freeing' was too extreme a term. It became apparent that they were merely releasing her from her current kneeling position. The incredibly tight fitting straight jacket remained in place, as did the mammoth gag and its matching blindfold.

Danielle watched as her fiery partner struggled valiantly, albeit armless, with her two assailants. The petite blonde huffed and grunted as she tried to wriggle out of Andy and Rebecca's grasp. This earned her a none-to-gentle slap on her bare bottom. Danielle had noticed that her partner's derriere was bare, but in a profoundly obscene manner. The strap cleaving her globes, gave her cheeks a most prominent appearance.

Joanna's struggles continued, but with less enthusiasm. While Andy held the platinum haired blonde in a kneeling position, by firmly grasping her shoulders (thus eliminating the risk of a lucky knee landing somewhere sensitive), Rebecca pushed over a crate made of roughly hewn wood.

The crate's crude construction was unfinished and sported a plethora of straps and rings anchored to it. It was positioned not more than four feet in front of the motionless Danielle. Grasping Joanna's neck in a choke hold, Andy held the still writhing detective upright. Danielle watched in awe, silently cheering her partner, as Joanna refused to be subdued. The elfin blonde continued her abbreviated struggles, her still-hobbled legs kicked out in hopes of doing SOME kind of damage.

Rebecca knelt in front of the officer and began releasing the clasp of the crotch strap. When it fell free, it left a vertical patch of blush, a testament to how severely taut it had been. Danielle herself blushed, at the sight of the dildo's base sprouting from her partner's pussy. It made Danielle all too aware of the plastic impalers crammed inside her. And as large as her violators were, the detective was aghast at the size of the gnarled device being extracted from Joanna. And since the behemoth had been turned off before removal, she was clueless as to the undulating properties beneath its latex skin.

Rebecca cast aside the dildo and helped Andy position the hapless blonde on to the crate. Danielle noted that the secretary intentionally used one of Joanna's bared breasts for a handhold, squeezing so tightly that the flesh bulged between her fingers. Despite her best efforts to be uncooperative, Joanna could not prevent her body from being maneuvered on to the crate. An able bodied male and female, against one fiendishly trussed female, the math didn't add up in favor of the good guys.

Rebecca Cranston used the crude, yet highly effective method, of straddling Joanna's torso and sitting on her chest, to stifle detective August's struggles. Joanna, already winded by her noncompliance, grew more desperate, as the attractive secretary's weight compressed her ribcage. So focused was she on drawing a breath, that she didn't even feel the broad strap cinching down across her flat stomach.

After it was buckled, Rebecca slid down the spike-haired blonde's torso, her weight settling almost on top of the strap. In the process, the kidnaptress's short skirt had ridden up almost to her waist, exposing the wide, elastic tops of her nylons. Andy paused to look at the long, sensual legs of his lover. Stanley too, cast a lingering, appreciative glance at the cheesecake-like pose.

For Joanna's part, she was glad just to be able to breathe again. But then, she felt something in addition to the warm flesh of Rebecca's legs pressing against the sides of her exposed waist. Yes, there was no mistaking the steamy dampness of arousal, soaking the panties of the lecherous secretary. The sheer, wispy fabric was positively drenched, as it pressed down on Joanna's bare midriff. The detective's blindfold was removed and she craned her head up, to see Rebecca leaning forward, bracing her hands against the officer's shoulders. Sure enough, strands of the woman's gold colored mane stuck to the fine sheen of sweat on her face. A face that was flush with arousal and grinning back at her like a cat hopped up on catnip.

"Christ!" thought Joanna. "This bitch gets OFF on this shit!"

In the mean time, Andy passed another strap across Joanna's chest, just above her jutting breasts. Breathing became an issue once again, though not as dire as before. A third strap crossed over her folded arms, immediately below her bared orbs. It felt as though the officer was self-administering a prolonged Heimlich maneuver. Just these three straps, effectively fused her to the crate.

During her struggles, Joanna hadn't taken note of the crate's dimensions. Now that she was secured to it, certain attributes became apparent. The first was, that it wasn't all that big. Her head hung out in space and if it weren't for the posture collar, she was sure that it would be a challenge to hold her head up for any length of time. Support for her torso ended at the base of her spine. At the moment, this wasn't a problem, for her high heel clad feet rested on the floor, supporting the weight of her levitating derriere.

That moment was all too brief. Confident that their prisoner wasn't going to stroll away, Rebecca and Andy tended to her legs. Each grasping an ankle, the hobble was removed. Wasting no time, each dragged a leg back, on either side of the crate. Joanna tried to resist, but with her captors maintaining a two fisted grip on both legs, she was outmatched. The officer's rebellious harrumphs, transformed into strained grunts, as her legs were doubled back, below her pinned torso.

When her stiletto clad feet were wrestled back to a point well beyond her tautly stretched navel, predetermined straps anchored to the crate were cinched around her ankles. Though Joanna strained with all the strength she could muster, her leather clad feet could only writhe and scrape sluggishly against the rough wooden sides of the crate. The width of the box was more than adequate enough to wedge her knees wide apart in this new pose. The exposed petals of her sex and golden pubic hair, still damp from the strenuous, arousing walk she'd recently finished, seemed to shudder from the chill.

Danielle had a front row seat for the exhibition. Her lover's sexual secrets were splayed wide before her, no more than eight feet from her nose. The detective longed to go to her lover and free her from such a lurid pose, restoring some degree of modesty. But lashed as she was, she might as well have been in another solar system. She could provide no rescue. Thankfully, Danielle was unable to see the destitute look on Joanna's face. The officer's head was on the opposite side of the chest, concealed by her torso.

As agonizing as the portrait was, movement to her left caused Danielle to swivel her gaze in that direction. The other two kidnappers, Stanley and Irene (Danielle did not yet know their names) had freed Morgan Firestone from her straddling perch. The woman moved woozily, Danielle attributing this to her heinous bondage.

"Lord knows I'd be stiff and sore too, straddling that monstrosity." the officer thought. "Not that the predicament I'm in, is any picnic."

But as the moments stretched into minutes, Danielle became baffled by the redhead's demeanor. As Stanley and Irene set about applying a new set of restraints at an almost leisurely pace, Morgan merely stood there. She simply offered no resistance, physical or verbal.

Detective Frost had seen plenty of cases of people in shock, yet the beautiful Miss Firestone's gaze was oddly different. Her doe-like eyes did not have that unfocused, far away look common to people suffering from trauma. Her irises glistened and appeared focused, locked on something Danielle could not see.

As for her bonds, Danielle would have traded a years salary to switch places with the redhead. A three inch wide, leather belt had been snuggly buckled around her waist. Two inch wide, chrome cuffs, attached by a one foot chain, were ratcheted on to her wrists. Identical cuffs with an equal amount of chain linking them, were locked about her ankles. A longer length of chain connected ankle and wrist hobbles, passing through a ring on the front of her waist belt. The chain was long enough so that if Morgan positioned her feet close together, her thumbs could just reach her bared nipples. Finally, a one inch wide chrome collar was padlocked around her neck.

That was it. No retch inducing gag or crushingly tight blindfold. No defiling probes shoved up her privates. Her limbs weren't contorted into some unnatural yoga pose. Morgan was simply restrained in what Danielle imagined to be a classic 'harem girl' manner. And although still fettered, the opportunity was there to strike out or make a run for it. Yet Morgan did none of these. She just stood there, as if waiting for something.

That 'something' came in the form of Stanley approaching Danielle's inert form. The only resistance the officer could offer, was a "drop-dead" glare. This brought a smile to Stanley's usually stoic face. He let his hands wander over Danielle's pinioned body, as if to say, "not today". Finally, after a considerable amount of squeezing and pinching, he unbuckled the strangulating crotch strap, letting it fall to the floor like a road kill rattlesnake.

Danielle sighed in relief, anticipating that the massive plastic penises would be removed next. But Stanley made no move to extricate them. Danielle hummed in dismay and tried to do it herself. She clenched her abdominal muscles, trying to purge her body of its vile intruders. The plug up her ass was going nowhere, a good portion of her weight guaranteeing that. The vaginal prod did budge slightly, perhaps an entire inch, before its base ground into the Astroturf.

The minute expulsion was quite disheartening. Though she couldn't see it, Danielle had no trouble picturing the mammoth, glistening cylinder, muscling apart the lips of her vulva for all to see. And worse yet, ninety nine percent of it still ballooned inside her. If she could only rotate her pelvis away from the pole she was lashed to, she had no doubt, she'd have been able to send it skittering across the floor. The inability to do this was as dispiriting as an extra restraint.

Of course, Stanley couldn't leave well enough alone and ran his calloused fingers around Danielle's silken folds. His thumb and forefinger latched on to the detective's cloaked clitoris and squeezed it, as though trying to squash a grape.

"hhgnnnmmnn!" the brunette squealed, her body shuddering against her bonds.

And although the pinch finally stopped, the pained nerve bundle continued to sing of its abuse. Stanley rose and re-joined Irene and the motionless Morgan. When he spoke, it was directed at the redhead.

"Slave." he started.

"Yes, Master?" came the flat, yet bizarrely eager response.

"Pleasure this cunt, using only your tongue. Stop only when you're commanded to." he ordered.

"Yes Master." was the only response.

With that, Morgan strode over unescorted and dropped to her knees in front of Danielle. The detective grunted and harrumphed, trying to get the redhead to snap out of it. Morgan seemed not to hear. She got down on all fours, and pointed her nose between Danielle's legs. Though she knew it was coming, it was still a jolt when the shackled girl's tongue flicked hotly against her sex. Hotly, and as it turned out, very, VERY adeptly.

It stunned the policewoman, as she felt her body flush in spite of itself. Ripples of pleasure radiated out from the focus of Morgan's attention. It was impossible, Danielle thought. No one can be kidnapped, deplorably violated, bound to joint popping intensity and yet still feel any type of stimulation. But no matter how unwilling a part she played in this drama, the facts contradicted her beliefs. Incredibly, she reached her first climax in a few short minutes.

When her vision cleared, she noted that the crate her partner Joanna was lashed to had been rotated. Danielle could no longer see her lover's vulgarly displayed privates, but rather her gleaming platinum hairdo. Danielle watched as Andy loosened the cables of the severe posture collar. Joanna tried valiantly to kept her head raised, but with no support, it soon became too much effort. The detective's neck muscles proved no match for gravity and her head began to lull toward the floor.

Rebecca Cranston, the lecherous secretary, provided some heartless assistance. Using a one inch wide strap secured to the crate, she passed it across Joanna's forehead. Feeding the tongue through the buckle. Drawing the restraint tight, Joanna's head was arched back excruciatingly. Impossible as it seemed, the secretary was able to bend the policewoman's neck enough, so that her head pressed against the knotty surface of the crate. Joanna's neck was stretched beyond limit, her adam's apple jutting out like a mountain peak. The poor girl couldn't even make a sound to convey the distress she was suffering.

Matters grew no better, as Andy stood between her parted legs and dropped his trousers. His flushed erection throbbed at rigid attention. Without preamble, he knelt and thrust into Joanna's exposed sex. The blonde choked out a strangled cry of anguish and squeezed her eyes shut. When she reopened them, they were wet with tears. That and something else.

Joanna's eyes were filled with hate, gazing back directly at Danielle. The accusing gaze locked on to Danielle's, never wavered. The message was all to clear.

"YOU got me into this. YOU had sex with this monster, like some tawdry slut. And now YOU get to watch as I'm being raped!"

Danielle wanted to explain to her lover that she was just as much a prisoner as she. She wanted break her eyes away from the damning gaze, but could not. Could not, that is, until the next orgasm swept over her.


Chapter 43 (added: 12/30/2010)

Bert Seagram was getting frustrated. Oh, he was finding things, finding a whole lot of nothing. Except for the one room with the weird pieces of furniture and the broken keypad, every other room he'd opened at this end of the corridor was empty. He was beginning to severely doubt his intuition, by the time he swiped his card through the keypad of the last room. Swinging the door open, he saw at first what he expected to see. Nothing. Then he heard a faint rustle to his left. He turned in that direction.

If it were possible for a human heart to do three things at once, Bert's pumper accomplished just that. There, lashed in an uncomfortable looking, quasi-seated position, was his wife Margaret. In spite of the numerous restraints obscuring a good portion of her body, there was no mistaking those magnificent breasts and the crimson ringlets of her hair. Bert's ticker soared with elation at having his suspicions confirmed. Then it sank, noting the beyond strenuous position in which his second wife's body was contorted. Then it turned cold, remembering the deceit and treachery he'd just uncovered.

Bert stood there, hardly breathing, trying to come to grips with his emotions. As he stood motionless, his eyes wandered over Maggie's bent form. Her skin glistened with sweat in the soft lighting. He could see no visible form of binding, that would keep her chest pressed so firmly against her thighs, yet she remained frozen in that position. She had no arms. Instead, a single limb, clad in light green leather, jutted away from her body toward the head post behind her, held this way by a length of chain.

Maggie's beautiful face was concealed beneath the wide bands of a blindfold and gag, the same color as the leather sheath that pinned her arms behind her. Even to a neophyte like Bert, the gag and blindfold looked severe beyond human tolerance. Seagram noted how his wife's jaw was abnormally distended, whilst her cheeks puffed out over the top edge. The cause, would have to be something massive crammed in her mouth. It would also explain why she remained so quiet, given her awkward pose.

Her head remained absolutely rock steady, no doubt due to the impossibly wide collar (also green) craning her neck. Bert noticed what looked like a microphone stand under the cot, a rod rising upward from it. Without realizing it, he crept silently closer. When he reached the foot of the cot, more details unfolded.

Maggie's legs had been lashed wide to the foot rail of the cot, ordinary packaging tape wound around each ankle. There was some kind of odd box between her feet, a fiberglass baton jutting from it. Bert examined his wife's feet more closely and saw that the were a patchwork of angry red stripes. The width of the stripes matched that of the baton precisely.

From this angle, he could peer between his wife's widely splayed legs. Nestled between her knees, Maggie's face was nearly invisible behind the gag and blindfold. Just her pert little nose and a tiny bit of forehead was visible. Bert saw that her breasts were wedged apart, resting on the outside of her thighs. He did in fact, notice the slender silver chain running under her knees, but failed to realize its significance.

What had captured his attention lie further down. A huge, flesh colored phallus had been anchored to the rod rising from the microphone stand. Said phallus was currently muscling apart his wife's vulva, the majority of it obviously rutting inside Maggie's sex. Only now did he notice the deep, oscillating sound of the dildo's vibrations. The small portion of base visible beneath Margaret's curly snatch glistened with her juices. The fact that she could be bound in such a way, yet still be aroused, astonished Bert.

Seagram had seen his wife in many a provocative outfit. The first time he'd seen her, she had been clad in a short, shimmering, backless dress and matching high heeled shoes, modeling at an auto show. He had been captivated immediately by her beauty. After their marriage, Maggie had continued to tantalize him with a steady stream of alluring clothes. Not to mention just the sight of her in her birthday suit. But now, it dawned on Bert that he'd never seen her look, so...so...HOT!

Just then, Maggie moaned. That was enough to snap Bert out of his trance. If his wife was here, that meant the kidnappers had to be close by. Seagram looked at his wife and made a courageous decision. He'd whisk Maggie away to some place safe, then deal with the kidnappers himself. He especially wanted to get his hands on that treacherous Rebecca Cranston.

Finding a utility blade nearby, he used it to slice away the tape around Margaret's ankles. Fortunately, neither the chain to her collar or arm binder was padlocked. Bert looked quickly to see if there were some way to lower the obscene shaft imbedded in her wife's sex, but could see none. Not wanting to waste time, he decided to just lift her off of it.

Grasping her around the waist, he attempted just that. He hadn't noticed that Maggie seemed unwilling to straighten from her folded up position. He began to lift, then let her waist go in shock when Maggie screeched hysterically.

"hhhmmnnnnggghhh!" The astoundingly smothered cry sounded raspy, as if she were suffering from laryngitis.

Bert examined his wife's bound body more closely to see if there were bonds he had missed. It was then that he saw the nipple clamps (and accompanying chain) grinding into her deep crimson buds. He thumbed the jaws apart, eliciting another incredibly muffled howl. Without thinking of the consequence, he removed the other clamp.

Finally, Maggie raised from her bent over position, leather encased hands resting on the cot's mesh for support. Bert watched slack jawed, as Margaret thrust herself from side to side, her immense bust swinging to and fro, in an effort to shake off the incredible burn in her nipples. Her struggles bounced her up and down on the dildo, but the fire in her chest dwarfed the sensation.

A long minute passed before Maggie started to grunt and mew desperately behind her gag. The message was clear, "Get me out of this stuff!" Bert knew he would not be able to accommodate her at the moment, for he had already noticed the padlocks dangling from the sheath, gag and blindfold. With an appearance by the kidnappers possible at any moment, he wasn't going to waste time looking for a key.

Once again, he grasped his wife and lifted her from the cot. He set her on her feet, at which point Maggie instantly crumpled. Whether it be from her prolonged restraint, or the pained soles of her feet, it was obvious that she was incapable of walking. Desperate, Bert hoisted her over his shoulder and made for the exit. Checking to see that the corridor was clear, he made a bee line for the elevator.


Chapter 44 (added: 12/30/2010)

Danielle Frost, Detective First Class, Memphis police force, had seen countless instances of mankind's cruelty to one another. But never could she have imagined a scene as surreal as the one she was locked in at the moment. Her partner and lover, Joanna August gazed back at her with brimming eyes. The look that Danielle had misinterpreted as hatred, would be more correctly described as despair.

Joanna's inverted features (what weren't obscured by the massive gag) pleaded with Danielle to free her from her debasement. Detective Frost wished nothing more than to do just that. But with arms and legs encased in the inflexible sheaths, her arms pulled up excruciatingly behind her back, she could provide no rescue.

To further drive home this point, Danielle was lashed to a support column. In order to administer aid, she'd first have to break free of something strong enough to hold up an entire building. Compounding everything else, her legs had been pulled out wide to the sides, like hands on a clock face pointing at ten and two o'clock. A more vulnerable circumstance she couldn't imagine.

And yet there was more. One of the kidnap victims, Morgan Firestone, was currently kneeling between her legs. She was obediently following directions given her by one of the kidnappers. That was, very skillfully providing oral stimulation to Danielle's sex. Already rocked by several titanic orgasms, the officer's head buzzed. Attempts at squelching the feelings of stimulation failed miserably. And with each orgasm, her petals and clitoris became even more sensitized.

And while this was going on, Joanna lay there bound immobile, whilst she was raped by Andy Stewart. The nightmare threatened never to end, but then Andy let out a deep grunt and buried himself inside Joanna. After a few moments, he went lax, then unsteadily got to his feet. Both women hoped that this was the end of their defilement. But it was not to be.

The other male kidnapper, Stanley, casually took position between Joanna's widely splayed knees. The officer could not see any of this, but unfortunately, Danielle had a front row seat. Danielle's eyes grew wide as the man dropped his trousers, exposing the most massive cock she'd ever seen. She mewed a feebly strangled cry, in part to dissuade the man from carrying out his intent, as well as warn Joanna of the imminent attack. The translation was incomprehensible to both parties.

Again, without preamble, Stanley thrust into Joanna's vulnerable orifice. The detective's shock was complete. She'd had no forewarning of the attack, nor idea of the man's massiveness. Her eyes flew wide, then screwed tightly shut in an effort to come to grips with the assault. It was a nightmare, past and present, come to life.

Unable to see her assaulter, unable as well, to ignore how his organ gorged inside her, Joanna's brain tried numbly to fit together puzzle pieces that weren't there. Suddenly, Joanna was back at her uncle's house, the big sweaty man closing in on her. Joanna tried to get away but couldn't move. Then, he was on her, his hard little dick pushing apart her petals. She tried to fight him, but her limbs wouldn't respond.

With each frenzied thrust, Stanley's member acted like a chisel, chipping away at the armor Joanna had spent so many years constructing. Armor that had given her a hard, professional exterior. One which had effectively rebuffed many a male suitor. But now that façade was crumbling, revealing the shy, insecure girl who'd always lurked inside.

By the time Stanley exploded inside her, Joanna August, Detective First Class of the Memphis Police, was no more. In her place, lie a wounded, introverted teen who wanted to extract her revenge on the world.

Bert Seagram moved cautiously down the corridor. Having left his wife, Maggie, somewhere no one could find her, he'd quickly returned to the sub-basement to renew his search. He was certain that he'd find either the kidnappers, or the missing detectives, most likely both.

Working the other half of the corridor he hadn't a chance to explore earlier, his discoveries came at a faster pace than before. Each room seemed to hold another freakish piece to the puzzle. Most of them had held weird pieces of equipment or furniture. Many embellished with lengths of chain and cord. It seemed as though this entire side of the basement had been dedicated to be some kind of dungeon or sex den.

In the third room, he made yet another startling discovery. A pile of clothing heaped in one corner, turned out to be the ridiculously brief outfit the blonde detective, Joanna August had been wearing for the ransom drop. Those clothes themselves would have made for a very small pile, however, mixed with them was a windbreaker and a pair of jeans. Bert did not realize that these were Danielle Frost's clothes, until a couple of items clunked to the floor.

Bert examined Danielle's detective shield and ID, then hefted her service automatic. Again, having watched a great many police shows on TV, he knew an officer would never relinquish her weapon unless powerless to prevent it. This surely meant that both policewomen were in trouble.

Bert turned the automatic over in his hand. Now, not exactly a member of the NRA, he still had a layman's idea of how the weapon worked.

"Chamber a round, then safety off" he thought. "Or was it, safety off, THEN chamber a round."

No matter. He knew how to line up the sights so that he'd hit what he was aiming at. Emboldened, he stepped back out into the corridor. It was then that he heard voices farther down.

Stanley rose after defiling the petite blonde policewoman. He smirked at having satisfied his lust (for the moment) and at the muffled bleats coming from the dark haired detective. It seemed that their redheaded captive Morgan, had just managed to coax another orgasm out of the exhausted copper.

"I think perhaps we should get ready for transport." announced Irene. Though she phrased it in a manner of suggestion, there was no mistaking the authority in her tone.

"Yes, I think you're right." concurred Rebecca Cranston, the lecherous secretary. "You men see to it."

Both men riled at that, but said nothing. It was too early to upset the apple cart. Seeing that the red haired Morgan Firestone was still obediently teasing the helpless brunette detective, Andy and Stanley set about freeing short, blonde Joanna. They knew they needn't worry about Dana Greenwich or Tricia Koulikofsy for the moment. Both women were still restrained brutally, in their re-programming gear.

After removing the straps that had held her to the crate, the two unbuckled the myriad of straps on Joanna's straight jacket. Detective August offered no resistance, her mind was momentarily locked somewhere in the past. As the restraint slid off her body, Joanna was free for the first time in almost twenty four hours. It was then that things deviated from the plan.

"Nobody Move!" Bert hollered from the open doorway. It dawned on him that his voice hadn't sounded nearly as authoritative as he had wanted it to be.

Still, it did the trick. That and the 9mm automatic he was pointing. Everyone in the room froze, the bound victims, already involuntarily complying. Bert swung the weapon back and forth, immediately noticing he was at a disadvantage.

Even though he had the gun, it was still one against four. And the four kidnappers were unevenly spaced about the room. He found that he couldn't focus on any one target for too long. Long moments passed, then Rebecca Cranston spoke up.

"Bert!" she cried, "Thank God you're here! These crazy people have kidnapped us!"

It would have seemed a lame attempt, even if Bert hadn't been privy to the whole content of the blackmail video. Rebecca stood there, in neatly pressed clothes, her hair immaculate. She wore no sign of restraint. Her ruse was as shallow as her loyalty.

"Shut up, Rebecca!" Bert growled. "Lord knows how I could have trusted you."

"But Bert..." the secretary said, taking a step closer.

Bert swung the gun in that direction and with his other hand, shoved Rebecca aside. The stunning blonde struck the wall and went down, momentarily dazed. That's when Stanley lunged. To late, Bert pivoted back. The big man swung his arm down, knocking the weapon loose. It clattered across the floor. The two men grappled, Bert immediately realizing he was outmatched.

Stanley raised his hand to deliver a debilitating blow, when the room exploded. Everyone flinched and turned. Everyone that is except Andy Stewart. His body jerked like a marionette, as bullets thudded into him.

Bert's eyes swiveled and he saw the calm, almost serene face of Joanna August pumping round after round into the groin of her primary rapist, the man whom she believed had taken her lover Danielle, from her.

Stanley and Irene were first to act. They bolted past Bert and out into the corridor. Rebecca still lay dazed on the floor and Andy only had moments left on this earth. Joanna stopped firing momentarily as the ex-trainer slumped to the floor. Then her eyes filled with tears and she turned toward Danielle. The restrained brunette saw the utter despair etched on her partner/lover's face. Then her eyes widened as Joanna raised the weapon and pointed it right at her. The gag cut off her cry, as Joanna finger tightened on the trigger.


Epilogue (added: 12/30/2010)

Two weeks Later.

Danielle left the Memphis Mauler's office complex, casting a wistful eye over her shoulder, unable to shake a feeling of loss. She'd stopped by, to give Bert Seagram an update on the search for his wife, Margaret, as well as the three fugitive kidnappers, Rebecca Cranston and the duo known only as "Stanley and Irene". Danielle had seen her ex-lover Joanna there, opening wounds that hadn't even started to heal.

Needless to say, the gun Joanna had pointed at Danielle that day in the complex's basement never went off. In her rage, Joanna had emptied the clip into the now very dead Andy Stewart. When she turned and pulled the trigger at Danielle, the hammer struck an empty chamber. Though the damage inflicted by this act was almost as great as a bullet itself. And both women knew it.

The police inquiry had been harsh, as it had been quick. Joanna had been found unfit for police duty, given the excessive amount of lethal force she'd used against Andy Stewart. At that point though, being a cop hadn't mattered that much to Joanna. Her life had changed too much. Bert had stepped in and offered her a job as his personal secretary (filling Rebecca Cranston's vacant post) and she seemed to take an instant liking to it. That much pleased Danielle, for she still cared deeply for the petite blonde.

Danielle herself had found someone new to care for in the meantime. She supposed that she just had some kind of internal need to mother and care for wounded soles. She'd found just that type of person in Morgan Firestone. The brainwashed cheerleader wannabe had a long road to recovery and detective Frost found that she wanted to be part of that process. As it turned out, Morgan had been equally drawn to Rebecca. A tentative relationship was beginning to blossom.

As Danielle walked to her car, her thoughts drifted back to that day when all hell had broken loose. She'd been lashed like a Christmas turkey to that pole, Morgan lapping away at her sex like a kitten does milk. Bound, raped and defiled, she could see no hope of rescue.

Then Bert had burst in. It had looked like salvation was at hand, then the struggle ensued. Bert losing the gun, then the recently freed Joanna picking it up. Danielle had silently cheered (of course, she WAS gagged at the time) as Joanna had pumped lead into their rapist. But then she had turned the gun on her. And actually PULLED THE TRIGGER! There had been prior moments when Danielle had actually prayed for death, but when the time came, she realized how much she wanted to live. The empty magazine gave her that opportunity.

There had been a brief silence, then Bert had grabbed the dazed Rebecca Cranston off the floor. He snatched a set of nearby handcuffs and manacled her hands behind her. Next, he'd grabbed a ball gag with a circumfrence of at least three inches and crammed it in the ex-secretary's mouth. He screamed something about finding his wife and pushed Rebecca out the door ahead of him.

Joanna had stood there for a few more moments and then her circuitry seemed to re-engage. She dropped the gun and rushed to Danielle, tears pouring down her face. She freed her partner and together, they released the hapless Tricia Koulikofski and Dana Greenwich. Both women were now currently in therapy, their physical injuries healing much faster than their mental ones, though both were expected to make full recoveries.

After Danielle and Joanna had contacted the authorities, they went in search of Bert and Maggie Seagram. They found Bert crumpled semi-conscious in one of the other rooms. Seagram told them of being kneed in the crotch by his treacherous ex-secretary, whom then escaped. Although cuffed and ball gagged, she somehow managed to slip away from the law's grasp. A nationwide dragnet for Stanley and Irene had also come up empty.

All in all, thought Danielle, things could have turned out much worse. She got in the car, certain that the events of those few days would live with her forever. But for now, she was off to the hospital to visit Morgan. A strange thrill rippled up her spine at the prospect of seeing the beautiful redhead again.

Joanna August watched her ex-lover drive away, the remorse she should have felt, never materializing. Though she hid it well, she now considered females to be just as lecherous and two-faced as she had males. Neither sex could be trusted. In fact, she now believed that all beautiful women were manipulators and should be punished. With that thought in mind, she turned to Bert Seagram and handed him a folder.

"Looks like at least twenty, fine prospects there, boss." Joanna said with a crooked smirk.

Bert scanned the contents of the folder carefully. In it, were the vital statistics of all the cheerleader tryouts for the season. New additions included hopefuls wishing to try out for next year's squad. Every file contained a glossy photograph of each candidate.

You see, while fumbling around in that basement corridor, Bert had stumbled upon Rebecca's laptop. Inside he had found the contacts of a great many purchasers around the world. Purchasers of beautiful women, who asked no questions of where the merchandise had come from.

Bert had been aghast at the dollar figures that had been bandied about. There was enough money changing hands here, to make his team solvent for years, without need for capacity crowds or winning seasons. An evil thought crossed his mind, firmly lodging in his brain. Here was the means to save his team and still make a handsome profit.

A few days after hiring Joanna, he carefully touched around the subject. He needn't have been so cautious. As it turned out, Joanna's new outlook on life had left her bitter and wishing to exact revenge on all beautiful women. She wanted nothing more than to subject women to the horrible rigors she'd been forced to endure. As it turned out, she was VERY good at her job. It had only taken a couple of days for the first candidate to disappear from the face of the earth.

"Oh, and boss?" Joanna added, "Rebecca Cranston's waiting for you in your office."

Bert thanked his new second-in-command and strode into his private office. Not a person was in sight as he walked around the desk. Before sitting, he unbuckled his trousers and worked his semi rigid cock out of the fly. He sat in his chair and peered under the desk. There, suspended under the desk was the ruthlessly bound, ex-secretary Rebecca Cranston.

Her arms were fused behind her back in a black leather arm sheath. The hopelessly trapped limbs were then welded to her spine, by the intricate web of leather straps, of a body harness. Except for her restraints, she was naked. The one strap of the harness that didn't pass around her body, dove down between her legs, anchoring an enormous butt plug and dildo. Both had been turned up to maximum vibration.

Her head was encased in a thickly padded leather helmet. Two small rubber tubes poked out where her nose should be, allowing just enough oxygen to keep her from passing out. Strange bulges at each ear contained high quality headphones, that blasted anything from 'white noise' to AC/DC.

Rebecca's legs had folded and belted in place so tightly, that her heels pressed dimples into her ass cheeks. Though no cord connected her wrists to her ankles, she couldn't have been more severely hogtied. Plus, she wasn't even allowed the comfort of making contact with the floor.

Joanna had suspended her under Bert's desktop. Using eyebolts and lengths of chain, the ex-detective had jammed Rebecca to the underside of the desk. The unforgiving links of chain dug into her tender flesh relentlessly, allowing no room for even the slightest wriggle.

You see, when Bert had ushered the handcuffed and ball gagged Rebecca out of the cell, he already knew that his wife, Maggie, was safe. His true intent was revenge, though he couldn't act on it in front of the two detectives. Once in the hallway out of sight, Bert had pulled a roll of 2" white medical tape from his pocket. In one continuous wrap, he wound it around Rebecca's head, first smothering the ball gag, then obliterating her eyes. With the final four turns, he passed it over the crown of her head and under her jaw. When he'd finished, Rebecca's head resembled a plaster bust, a few tufts of golden mane shooting out through the gaps and spilling out from the bands at the back of her head.

Bert then muscled her to the elevator then up to ground level. From there, it was a short trip to his car where he tumbled her into the trunk. An earlier pocketed set of handcuffs went around her ankles. A final pair, joined the short links between her wrists and feet, creating a much too strict hogtie. Closing the lid, he returned and waited in an empty cell, later to feign that Rebecca had gotten away.

Bert relived that moment, as he reached down and unsnapped the padded leather mouth brank. As he pulled it away, the huge latex penis attached, followed. The shaft was thick with saliva. Small retching sounds spilled from Rebecca's mouth, still held in a near perfect "O" by the ring gag lodged behind her teeth. Bert picked up a small microphone and spoke.

"All right, slave." he growled. "Let's see if you can do better than this morning. Hopefully, those thirty lashes you received for that poor performance have inspired you."

Then, as an afterthought he added.

"I think we'll listen to the Beach Boys while your working. I'm in a sunny mood today."

Out in the office, Joanna looked up from the file and smiled, as she heard "Good Vibrations" filtering through Bert's door. Turns out her boss had a wicked sense of humor as well.

Elsewhere...

Odie Davenport rose the sound of a great din outside his cabin. This, however did not put him in a foul mood. He knew that it wasn't stadium traffic, for today was Tuesday. He knew exactly what the racket was. Strolling to the door in his red long johns, he opened it and peered outside.

Sure enough, everything was abuzz in the lot next to him. Workmen were everywhere, busily constructing what was to be Odie's new home. Bert Seagram couldn't have been more contrite over Orville's false arrest. He'd insisted on building him this new house, complete with indoor plumbing. Odie, never being one to disagree with the boss, had gladly accepted Bert's offer. Odie stretched, his joints popping and his Johnson almost falling out of the long johns. Then he heard a sound that didn't quite fit all the construction clamor. He turned back inside, smiling and closed the door.

He gazed upon the back of what would have been a very shapely redhead, if she hadn't been folded like a pocket knife. She was bound in the same restraints she'd been in, that dark night almost two weeks ago. Her performance in bed last night had been sub-par, so Odie had decided a little discipline was in order.

After crushing her arms in the arm sheath and snuffing out all sound and sight with the gag and blindfold, he had made her stand, facing the cabin's central support post. Yards of ½" hemp had been wrapped around her waist and the post. An almost equal amount of hemp was used beneath the binder, up near her shoulder blades, making sure those magnificent breasts straddled the post.

More hemp cinched her ankles together. Without preamble, Odie's grabbed the ankle cinch and yanked the victim's feet out from under her. She'd sagged minutely against the rope, the action making everything that much tighter against the post. Holding her bound feet in place, Odie adeptly lashed her big toes together with twine. Then he folded her legs until her calves pressed against her thighs. Then, using the trailing end from the toe cinch, he tied it to a handful of that glorious, red tinged mane. When he let go of her ankles, her legs unfolded slightly, only to be held in check when her head could bend back no farther.

A broom stick, with a very real looking rubber penis on the end, was wedged against the floor, driving up deeply within her soft, blushing folds. The final touch was a pair of clips connected by a very short piece of elastic. A clip was snapped down on each nipple, the elastic passing around the post. Her nipples were stretched taut, bending toward each other at almost ninety degrees. She'd 'slept' like that all night.

As Odie walked around his silenced prize, his mind wandered back to that night of his release from jail. The apologies had been plentiful for his incarceration, but Odie had still been angry. That was until Mr. Seagram himself had shown up after dark and detailed the new house he'd wished to build for his groundskeeper. Still sore (literally) from his arrest, Odie wasn't sure. That's when Bert had walked around to the trunk of his car.

Opening it, Odie's mouth dropped open. Tightly bound in all that green leather, was none other than Mrs. Seagram herself. Bert explained that his wife had a decidedly kinky side to her and had always wanted to play the role of kidnap victim. Who was it for Bert to deny his wife's wishes.

He'd told Odie that he would play a major role in her fantasy. Striving for realism, Bert had cautioned that Margaret would do or say anything to convince Odie that she really was being held against her will. It was all part of the fantasy. Actually, the rougher she was handled and the more she was abused, the better she liked it.

"So," Bert had said. "She's yours for a month to do with whatever you like, no limitations. The only thing I ask is that you tell no one. Mrs. Seagram would die of embarrassment if her secret ever got out."

A firm handshake had sealed the deal. For Odie, it was a win/win situation. With two weeks still left, he hadn't even touched on all the things he'd dreamt of doing to Maggie Seagram's lithe body. He patted the underside of the conically stretched, wonderfully enhanced right breast.

"So, pet," He said, "how about some breakfast. You'll be dining on some Odie sausage as usual."

A defeated groan dribbled out from behind the gag.