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by Van ©2007---
Chapter 2_
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Amanda was having a lot of fun.  The Donjon ensemble she was wearing was quite literally fantastic, a John Willie or Robert Bishop creation sprung to life from the page.  It was the stuff of her daydreams, and she was trying her best not to grin like a blissed-out idiot (but could do nothing to control the tiny, shivering thrills rippling through her sex).  She tightened her grip on her emotions.  This was business, after all, and she was a professional.

She was retracing her steps from the dressing room to the showroom, taking tiny, mincing steps, the only kind possible in her new costume.  Cynthia, the blonde salesgirl who had served as her dresser, walked a pace behind, ready to catch her if she lost her balance—and losing said balance was not beyond the realm of possibility.  Amanda was up on her tiptoes, thanks to the "ballet-boots" laced on her pointing feet.  She made her unsteady way to her former chair, carefully... slowly... settled into the cushioning seat, and smiled at Mercy Dench.

"Just a moment," Mercy said, without looking up.  She was busy with her iPhone, reading the tiny screen and opening and closing files.  She did pause long enough to point at Amanda's boots, then went back to her browsing.

Cynthia required no further instruction.  She knelt and closed the zipper running down the front of Amanda's hobble-skirt, and snapped the fob into a flush-mounted clip.  Amanda's skirt had been restrictive before, but now it was more-or-less skintight.  Cynthia next released a Velcro flap in the back of the skirt's lower hem and pulled the ends of a ribbon-thin leather strap from hidden pockets on either side.  She belted the strap around the insteps of Amanda's boots, and secured its buckle.  A second, much wider strap with a double-tongued buckle was pulled from another pocket, closed around Amanda's ankles, and secured as well.  Now, the skirt not only pressed Amanda's legs together from hips to ankles, but, with the strap hitched through her boot heels, it couldn't ride up when she bent her knees.

The rest of the costume was equally restrictive, and Amanda knew there was no way she would be getting out of this little ensemble on her own.

Back in the dressing room, Amanda had followed Cynthia's instructions and stripped to the skin.  She tried to engage the salesgirl in conversation, but while the petite blonde kept a friendly smile, she responded to all of Amanda's comments and questions in monosyllables.  Amanda finally stopped trying, and concentrated on her professional analysis of the costume.

First came a rather curious body-stocking.  It was a one-piece leotard, or perhaps an exceedingly thin wet suit, lined inside and out with black spandex.  Amanda slid her body into the garment with only a little difficulty.  After Cynthia closed the zippers at the wrists, ankles, and the back of the neck, only her hands, feet, and head were exposed.  The suit hugged her body like the proverbial second skin, and when she twisted her torso and stretched her arms she could feel the inner and outer layers moving independently.  After a little squirming and stretching, the fit became absolutely perfect.  The elasticity of the rubber pressed the inner fabric layer against her body, and there were no creases or folds, inside or out.

Next came a pair of gloves.  They were elbow-length, and similar in material and construction to the body-stocking; however, the inner layers of neoprene in the palms were light and spongy, and roughly the size and shape of large eggs.  The fingers and thumbs curled around each foamy mass, making the glove/mitts difficult to don, but Amanda accomplished the task with Cynthia's help.  The design "encouraged" her hands to form loose fists around the underlying rubber, but limited motion was still possible.  Cynthia slid booties/stockings of the same rubber/spandex material over Amanda's feet and up to her knees, and she was ready for the leather layers of the costume.

First came a pair of mitten-sleeves.  They encased Amanda's hands and arms from her now permanently closed fists to her armpits, and were laced tight down their entire length.  They incorporated stiff, wide cuffs which closed and buckled around her wrists and upper arms, but the design allowed her to bend her elbows a full ninety-degrees.  The mitten sections were stiff and close-fitting, and completed the task of rendering her hands and fingers completely useless.

A combination harness, bra, and corset-belt followed.  Broad leather loops surrounded her breasts, clutching and lifting like a support bra.  Straps yoked her shoulders and were buckled between her shoulder blades, and the corset-belt squeezed her waist from just beneath her breasts to the top of her hips.  Straps and buckles secured the sleeve's upper arm cuffs to the harness at her armpits and mid-torso.  Her arms were folded behind her back, and the wrist cuffs were secured to the harness at the small of her back.  Next, a wide flap was closed and buckled over her forearms, adding an additional layer of encasement.  Broad cuffs attached to the bottom of the corset-belt were buckled around Amanda's upper thighs, eliminating the ludicrous "possibility" of her somehow lifting the entire, tight, interconnected system over her head.

A shiver of delight rippled through Amanda's body as she reveled in the tight embrace of the harness and sleeves.  The leather bands hugged her rubber and spandex-clad body like a family of ribbon-thin, amorous pythons.  She looked down at her breasts and twisted her arms, watching the straps glide against the shining black outer fabric of the body-stocking here, and press into the underlying neoprene there.  She also noted the very prominent bumps that were her now fully-erect nipples, visible evidence of her arousal.  Amanda blushed, bit her lower lip, and glanced at Cynthia.

If the salesgirl noticed Amanda's excitement, she kept her reaction to herself.  She was busy unfolding the next element of the costume, a leather cape incorporating a stiff posture-collar.

It covered Amanda's shoulders and draped to the level of her waist.  There was a zipper down the front, and thin straps sewn into channels in the lower hem were pulled taut, passed through rings in the back of the corset-belt, crossed between her breasts, and buckled to the back of the collar.  This tucked the bottom of the cape under her elbows and leather-bound arms, causing it to tighten like a sack and encase her arms and upper body in yet another layer, over the harness.  Amanda knew the cape-binder alone would have been something of a challenge, especially if applied with her wrists expertly bound, or in cuffs.  Used over her existing bonds—Amanda suppressed another shiver of delight—it was ludicrous overkill.

The ballet-boots and hobble-skirt completed the costume.  The skirt's waist buckled to the corset-belt, zipped down the front, and buckled around her knees.  The underlying spandex and rubber body-stocking was now completely hidden.

Amanda knew her hands might as well have been cast in solid fiberglass, and no amount of squirming, twisting, stretching, and pulling would extract her arms from the harness.  None of the buckles were within range of her lips, teeth, and tongue; even without the addition of the cape's posture-collar.  The rubber/spandex stockings and ballet-boots rendered her toes useless; not that she was all that good at manipulating things with her toes, anyway.  All the straps were tight and nothing shifted any significant amount when she tried to move; however, she had to admit, she was more-or-less comfortable.

The last free end of the last strap was tucked into its retaining loop, Cynthia opened the dressing room door, and the long, stutter-stepping journey back to her seat in the showroom had begun... and here she was, the "World's Greatest Escape Artiste", totally helpless, squirming in her seat... and trying very hard not to become a little peeved at being ignored by Mercy Dench.

Finally, after about a minute, Mercy closed the interface on her iPhone, returned the device to her jacket pocket, and gave Amanda an appraising smile.

Amanda smiled back, successfully suppressing her irritation.  "I can tell right now that you can stamp 'Certified Inescapable by the Not-So-Amazing Amanda' on this costume," she said.

"Oh please," Mercy laughed, "don't give up so easily.  What are your observations?"

Amanda twisted and tugged against the skin-tight encasement.  The only result was a quiet chorus of leather-on-leather creaks.  "I'd say my first impressions are confirmed," she said.  "Every element of this outfit is exquisite in design, construction, and especially function."

"You truly believe it is inescapable?"

Amanda nodded, as much as her posture-collar would allow.  "Of course, with these mittens..."  She did a half-turn in the chair and twisted her right hand.  The taut, leather surface of the cape stretched a little, but that was it.  "...the rest of the costume could be tied with pretty pink bows and I'd still be unable to escape."  She settled back into the chair.  "Also, the harness, all by itself, defeats every trick I've ever learned for escaping from straitjacket-type bondage."

Mercy nodded.  "Our designers have a full understanding of the usual techniques.  What about aesthetics?"

"It's... beautiful," Amanda answered.  "The texture is very subtle, and I love the pebbling.  I have a pair of boots like this.  I especially love the way all the seams, junctions, and stress points are reinforced.  You can tell nothing is an afterthought.  There's no bunching or creasing, and the strain is uniform, throughout."  She nodded towards the many leather-restrained manikins lining the showroom walls.  "All of your ensembles are exquisite.  My compliments to your designers."

Mercy's smile became rather smug.  "I'll be sure and pass that along."

"One question," Amanda continued.  "Why the bodysuit?"

"The Darlex?"

"Is that what it's called?"

"Our version is somewhat thinner and more carefully cut to measure than similar commercial products, but the concept is the same," Mercy answered.  "The suit is for your protection, to prevent the straps from marking your skin."

Amanda squirmed in the tight, body-hugging encasement.  "I appreciate it.  Now, if you would be so kind as to let me out of all this, we can discuss the ad campaign."

"Ah, the campaign!"  Mercy retrieved her iPhone and opened a calendar file.  "Hmm... I think we'll continue with product evaluation, for the immediate future.  The selection of the photographer for the ad campaign has only just begun."  She closed the file and repocketed the iPhone.  "Is the compensation figure mentioned in my letter acceptable?"

Amanda flexed her arms, then lifted her booted feet from the carpet, twisted her encased legs, and let her feet drop.  "Compensation?  Yes, now, would you—"

"Oh, and Petra likes to get to know all her Special Apparel employees, so you'll be her guest for the immediate future."

Amanda blinked in surprise.  "Uh, I'm afraid that won't be possible.  Our evening flight, remember?  Gloria and I are returning to Montana, and—"

"You'll find our guest facilities to be quite a challenge," Mercy continued, "comfortable, even luxurious, of course, but a challenge.  Professionally challenging, I mean... like our costumes."

Amanda's eyes narrowed.  She was trying to keep things on a business level, but Mercy was playing with her.  "Look, Ms. Dench, with all due respect, I haven't even signed a contract, and where is Glo—Oww-Hey-N'nmm!"

While Amanda was preoccupied, Cynthia had been joined by a second salesgirl, a brunette with a pixie-cut.  The newcomer had grabbed a handful of Amanda's hair and was bracing her head against her sweater-clad body.  When Amanda opened her mouth to protest, Cynthia crammed a large foam ball in her mouth!  Then, working in concert, the pair applied several strips of wide, elastic medical tape over Amanda's lips.  A beanie or "Gwen" hood of subtle black leather followed, and was laced at the back of her head.  A leather headstall went on over the hood.  It had a broad panel which stretched across Amanda's stuffed, taped, and leather-covered mouth, and cupped her chin.  The buckles of the cape's posture-collar were released, and the turtleneck collar of the Darlex body-stocking was unfolded and stretched the full length of her neck.  The final grommets at the neck of the beanie hood were laced closed, and the posture-collar was buckled tight.

Amanda complained and struggled through the entire process, but could prevent nothing.  When the salesgirls stepped away, she was quite effectively gagged, and her head was now as completely encased as the rest of her body.  Only the features of her upper face—forehead, eyes, nose, and the top of her bulging cheeks—were exposed.  Her long, black hair trailed down her back in a tight ponytail, through a reinforced opening at the hood's crown.

Fire in her eyes, Amanda continued to squirm, twist, struggle, and mewl through her gag as a third salesgirl approached with a silver tray.  On it were a dozen or more small padlocks, all in the shape of a rook or castle chess piece.  She watched as, one-by-one, their hasps were threaded through tiny holes in the buckles of her costume and snapped shut.  The double-tongued buckles at her ankles and the front of the cape's collar received special, double-hasp locks, and even the buckle of the ribbon-thin strap binding her boots together at the insteps received an especially tiny castle padlock.  The locks matched the chrome finish of the rest of the costume's metal hardware, and thanks to clever flanges in each lock's base, when they were snapped into slots in the lower edge of their respective buckles, they didn't dangle or rattle as Amanda continued to twist and squirm.

Knowing it was useless, Amanda fought the costume with all her strength, testing the tight leather in earnest.  She closed her eyes and concentrated on flexing her arms, straining to slip an elbow under the harness, to somehow gain some slack.  She rolled her shoulders and arched her back, searching for some sort of purchase or angle she could exploit to regain her freedom—but it was a hopeless, futile effort—and finally, after what felt like an eternity, but was probably only something like two minutes—she surrendered to her bondage, and settled back into the chair.  Minutes before, her predicament had been arousing fun.  Now, the frissons of delight had been replaced by a gnawing fear.

The salesgirls had all taken a step back to watch the show.  Amanda met their gaze, one-by-one, and saw triumph, excitement, and a hint of pity in their young eyes.  Panting through flaring nostrils; her breasts heaving against the harness and cape; overheated in her tight, restrictive costume; Amanda focused on Mercy Dench, and glared.

Mercy met her gaze with a rather irritating, self-satisfied smile.  "There, now we can continue our... 'negotiations'," she purred.

Mercy pulled out her iPhone and pressed an icon.  "Now... regarding that contract you mentioned... for arrangements like this, La Roque Internationale considers a verbal agreement to be quite adequate.  We can formalize things in writing at a later date.  And as for Ms. Santoval..."  She lifted her eyes to the center of the showroom.  The curtains were opening and the lights over the catwalk and stage had doubled their luminance.  "Perfect timing."

Gloria Santoval emerged onto the catwalk, taking the same mincing steps Amanda had found necessary, and for exactly the same reason.  She was dressed in a leather costume identical to Amanda's—beanie-hood, headstall, cape, corset-belt, hobble-skirt, and ballet-boots.  Gloria's eyes were wide and staring, and even at this distance, with half of her face obscured by tight leather, Amanda could see that her best friend and assistant was angry and afraid.

When Gloria reached the center of the stage, Darcy, the salesgirl who had "helped" her dress, put a controlling hand on her shoulder.  Amanda noticed that the salesgirl's dark hair was mussed and her face shining.  Also, the right shoulder seam of her sweater was ripped and her stockings were laddered.

Mercy noticed Darcy's condition as well.  "I take it Ms. Santoval is a fighter?"

Darcy took a step back before answering.  "Yes, Ms. Dench.  I had to summon the standby team."

Mercy's amused gaze was on Gloria, and the helpless Latina was staring back.  "The costumes of the Donjon line are available with a range of... shall we say, comfort levels."  Mercy continued.  "You, Ms. Pressfield, are wearing the 'C', or captif version, designed to be inescapable, but nothing more.  Ms. Santoval, on the other hand, is wearing the full 'S' version.  That's 'S' for sadique, of course.  There is no Darlex undergarment, and the interior surface of the leather has been finished with a purposefully rough texture.  Also, her corset-belt has a crotch-strap, with attached anal and vaginal penetrators."

Amanda's eyes popped wide in horror, and she forced a mewling scream through her gag.

Mercy ignored Amanda's outburst.  "Finally, there are carefully positioned pads lining the breast area of the cape and the rump area of the skirt.  I suppose they're best described as hundreds of tiny steel tacks embedded in gel-foam.  The protruding points are mildly irritating when the wearer is standing still... as Ms. Santoval very prudently is, right now... and punishing if the body's weight is allowed to press against them."  She turned and smiled at Amanda.  "They discourage sitting and rolling on the floor, of course, and they're also useful in other ways."  Mercy focused of Darcy.  "You may express your displeasure with your fellow employee," she said.

The salesgirl walked a slow circle around Gloria, then reached out and gave her left buttock a smart slap!  Gloria's eyes crossed and she screamed through her gag.  "That's for ruining my stockings," Darcy announced.  She slapped Gloria's right buttock, eliciting another scream.  "And that's for my sweater."  She stepped to the front and delivered a series of slaps to Gloria's breasts.  "And that's..." Slap! "...for..." Slap! "...kneeing me..." Slap! " ...in the..." Slap! "...groin!"

Gloria squirmed and stutter-stepped, trying to evade Darcy's blows, but her ballet-boots gave her a severe disadvantage.  Her tormentor made sure she remained center stage, under the bright spotlights.  Gloria mewled through her gag and tears streamed from her tightly clinched eyes.

Amanda's eyes were wet, as well; and angry.  She struggled in her bonds and sent a steady stream of gagged invective toward Mercy Dench.

Mercy's lips curled with amusement, but her eyes were cold as ice.  "That's enough, Darcy," she purred.  "You've made your point... to both of your fellow-employees."

Amanda continued her admittedly hopeless tirade for several more seconds, then ceased her struggles and blinked back her tears.  All the while, Mercy watched, with the same joyless, predatory smile.

"All right, then," Mercy said, finally.  "Very soon, if you haven't already, you'll be asking yourself a series of questions.  The first will be something like: 'How could I be so stupid?'  Well... if it's any consolation, the Special Apparel section of La Roque Internationale has considerable experience in this sort of thing.  You're far from the first unsuspecting 'innocent' to be 'recruited' into our program.  We do our research, especially with prominent candidates, such as yourself, and we've learned how to select and bait the appropriate trap."  Mercy shifted her gaze to Darcy.  "Remove Ms. Santoval's butt-pads," she ordered, "then get her off her feet and fully secured."

Amanda couldn't see exactly what Darcy was doing, but after fumbling with a series of buckles and zippers in the back of Gloria's hobble-skirt, she produced two thin, oval-shaped, black pads, and tossed them behind her back and toward the catwalk curtains.  The back of the skirt was re-secured, she eased Gloria to the floor and onto her side, then secured the costume's instep and ankle straps.

"Your second question," Mercy continued, "is probably some variation on the familiar refrain: 'How do they think they can get away with this?'  Well..."  She pressed an icon on her iPhone.

The dressing room doors opened and two female figures emerged.  They were wearing Amanda and Gloria's clothing, and by their height, weight, complexion, hair, and features, they might as well have been Amanda and Gloria!

"With sufficient research and resources," Mercy explained, "it's quite simple to make someone disappear.  My minions have already sanitized your hotel room, and you were nice enough to pack before departing for this appointment.  So... Ms. Pressfield..."  The faux-Amanda smiled and nodded.  "...and Ms. Santoval..."  The faux-Gloria nodded, as well.  "...will return to their hotel, check-out at the reception desk, then accept delivery of a rented SUV.  Ms. Santoval has already called the airline on 'her' cell phone and converted 'their' tickets to open vouchers, to be used during The Amazing Amanda's next tour.  She explained to the clerk how they've decided to drive back to Montana, to enjoy the scenery.  They'll buy gas, food, and accommodations with Amanda's credit card, of course, and somewhere between here and the Rockies... the trail will stop, and the SUV and its occupants will... vanish.  When the authorities eventually become involved, it will very quickly become a 'cold case'.  No matter how diligent the investigation, the disappearances of Amanda Pressfield and her perky assistant will remain a complete mystery, with absolutely nothing linking them to La Roque Internationale."

Mercy smiled at the waiting decoys.  They bowed, again, and left by way of the elevator.  "There," Mercy continued, "now that Ms. Pressfield and Ms. Santoval are on their way, we might as well get Ms. Pressfield and Ms. Santoval on their way, as well."

A side door opened, and two more salesgirls entered the showroom, guiding powered wheelchairs.  Ignoring Amanda and Gloria's enthusiastic but totally pointless struggles, the now small crowd of salesgirls lifted the leather-clad prisoners, settled them into the chairs' form-fitting cushions, and secured them in place.  Wide, self-tensioning nylon belts were stretched across their ankles, knees, waists, and above and below their breasts; then snapped into flush-mounted brackets.  The spring-loaded mechanisms whirred and locked, and the captives were in the chairs to stay.

Amanda and Gloria locked eyes and shared a brief interlude of mutual commiseration.  Amanda stared into her friend's beautiful, brown, doe eyes.  She was sick with guilt at getting Gloria into their current situation... whatever it turned out to be.  Then the chairs spun around, and the parade of prisoners and salesgirls departed.

Briefly, Mercy remained behind.  "All right, ladies," she announced, "again, you all did very well.  You may move."  The leather-restrained "manikins" lining the showroom walls came to life, and began to twist and squirm in their costumes.  "Those of you on temporary assignment are relieved," Mercy continued, "as of the end of this shift."  Several well-muffled, mewling "cheers" were forced through several gags.  "Permanent manikins have all earned ten points towards reassignment."  More gagged cheers sounded.  "And you've all earned an afternoon of pleasure."

Mercy tapped an icon on her iPhone, then pocketed the device and left, following after the others.

The lights in the showroom dimmed, and the manikin-captives continued to squirm, struggle, and moan through their gags.  The creak of stretched and flexing leather and the tinkling clatter of dangling padlocks had been joined by the warbling hum of the powerful vibrators impaling the sex of each of the captives.

The corridor led to a freight elevator, which was taken to an underground garage.  The same limo that had brought Amanda and Gloria from their hotel to the store was waiting, as was the same blonde, uniformed driver.  She smiled, touched her cap to Mercy, and opened the limo's trunk.  A black nylon duffel was removed, then she folded back a flap of the trunk's carpet lining and lifted a hatch-cover.  The secret compartment revealed was a padded hollow, in the shape of a sideways "Z".

Amanda watched as the salesgirls released Gloria from her chair and lifted her into the trunk.  She fought like a wildcat—a leather-encased, totally helpless wildcat.  It was futile.  Her squirming, mewling form was tucked into the hollow and more self-tensioning nylon straps were secured.  The compartment lid closed with a solid thunk, cutting off Gloria's gagged-complaints as if someone had thrown an off-switch.  The carpet was restored, the duffel returned to its former position, and the trunk lid closed.

"Don't worry, Ms. Pressfield," Mercy said.  "I assure you the compartment is not only well-padded and soundproof, but adequately heated and ventilated.  Ms. Santoval is in for a somewhat uncomfortable ride, but will reach our destination none the worse for wear."

Amanda's wheelchair was moved to the limo's side, and she was installed in its spacious rear seat.  Lap, shoulder, and ankle belts were secured, then Mercy settled into an adjoining seat.  The limo's doors thudded closed, and the driver took her position in the front.

Amanda squirmed and forced a gagged-complaint through her gag.

"My, my," Mercy chuckled, "you certainly aren't one for the easy surrender, are you?"  She reached over and gave Amanda's leather-covered thigh a gentle pat.  "Not to worry, Petra enjoys a good fight."  She triggered the limo's intercom.  "The Tower," she said, and released the button.

The limo's engine purred to life.  A heavy steel door opened, and the limo rolled forward into the store's loading dock area.  Another door opened, and the limo eased out onto the metropolitan streets.

Its passenger windows heavily tinted, the limo was one of any number of similar vehicles transporting anonymous wealthy and/or important passengers about the city.  A few curious souls tried to peer into the back, as the limo passed, but they couldn't even tell if the black behemoth had occupants, much less see the occupants, much less witness the desperate, helpless captivity of one of its occupants.

Amanda squirmed in her bonds and watched the city pass... with all of its potential rescuers... with her safely hidden behind the limo's smoky, silvered glass.  She turned her head and found Mercy busy with her iPhone, again, exercising what was apparently an advanced browsing obsession.  Amanda turned back to the street, just in time to watch a police car roll past.

Her thoughts turned to Gloria, bound in a leather costume similar but much less comfortable than her own, crammed into that dark, close, padded space, a few feet behind Amanda's much more pleasant accommodations.  We are so screwed! she thought.