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La Roque had been true to her word, as far as Amanda could tell.
Her cell didn't have a clock, of course, but after what felt like an hour, a pair of
the catsuited and helmeted "glamazons" appeared on the monitor,
Gloria from her strappado torment,
and eased her to the floor. They then removed the clamps from her
nipples, causing the still tightly bound and gagged Latina to flinch
and emit a gagged-scream, which the audio system delivered to Amanda's
cell with heart-wrenching fidelity.
As the still bound and tape-gagged Gloria was being lifted onto a
gurney and strapped down, the screen
morphed to the La Roque Donjon
logo and the mirror wall of Amanda's cell lowered from the ceiling,
concealing the "interview room". At the same time, a chime
sounded, the hand outlines on the
wall shifted to the same dim, blue-green glow as the rest of the
cell lighting; the red warning beads set between the floor tiles
to match; and the bed emerged from the wall behind Amanda's
Amanda pushed away from the wall, and groaned
as her heels touched the floor. Her feet and calves felt like
they were on fire, not to mention her back and shoulders.
Grimacing with pain, she slowly padded to the bed, then flopped onto
the soft, smooth surface and snuggled her body
soft mattress. Almost immediately, the pain began to fade to a
burning ache, a tribute to Amanda's excellent physical condition.
I'm not going to cry, she
decided. I need to be strong.
She was in
big trouble, Gloria as well. That was abundantly obvious. She was
comfortable, despite the
lack of top sheet or blanket, neither hot nor cold; however, she was very hungry. Hopefully,
there would be something good for
breakfast. Amanda sighed. Hopefully, there would be breakfast.
How the hell am I going to get us
this... out of here? She closed her eyes, but sleep
come. She couldn't stop thinking about what might be happening to
Gloria, at this very second.
Was she free of her bonds and locked in a cell of her own? Amanda
hoped so. It was the least Petra could do, to let Gloria get some
Amanda opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. The stainless
steel grill over the ventilation vent looked heavy and substantial; but
the spacing between the slats looked to be
too close for her fingers, even if she
could somehow get up to it. The ceiling was too high for a
from the floor, and it was too far from the bed for her to use
the platform as a launching pad. She yawned, and let her eyes
close. I have to get us out...
Amanda became aware of a very irritating, chiming noise, like hollow
metal tubes tuned to an exotic scale being struck in a complex
other circumstances, she might have considered the cacophony to be
a wake-up alarm is a wake-up alarm. The chimes continued, with
increasing volume and rapidity. "Okay, okay!" she muttered.
"I'm up!" The chiming stopped. Amanda opened her eyes
sat upright. The light was increasing in
brilliance, slowly shifting from "night light" to daytime
the bed platform began retracting into the wall. Amanda rolled
off the mattress
and watched the bed disappear behind its flush-mounted cover.
She heard a quiet hum and turned to find the door covering the powder
room alcove lowering into the floor. At the same time, a path
appeared, in the form of glowing green
beads, leading from Amanda's feet to the alcove. The tiny lights
to flash in sequence, as if urging her forward. Amanda stomped
into the powder room (stomping as best she could, with
bare feet) and took her morning tinkle. She then drank from the
fountain. Seconds later, what she now recognized
as the "up-against-the-wall" chime sounded, and the hand outlines
on the wall of the main cell. The green squares on the floor were
back as well,
but this time they were large enough to accommodate her
entire feet. Standing on her toes would not be required.
"How very kind," Amanda muttered under her breath.
She padded to the wall and "assumed the position". The powder
room door closed, and as soon as her hands were in the outlines and her
feet in the squares, the floor beads outside the green
squares began glowing red. Seconds passed... and turned into a
How long are they going to make me
wait? Amanda wondered. They
aren't going to make me stay here the whole day... are they?
eased her right foot to the edge of its green square, close to the
red beads... then closer still. Her foot brushed the metal
spacers between the closest red beads—and she received a mild electric
shock, not really what she could call painful, but it wasn't
pleasant. She moved her foot back to the center of the
square. And I suppose these
hand prints aren't just for show. She carefully lifted her
left palm from the wall. The outline flashed from green to red,
the interior of the square under her left foot also flashed to red, and she
received another shock.
This time the sensation was more intense, much less of an irritating
buzz and much more like
actual pain. "Yow!" She slapped her palm back down, the
lights returned to their previous colors, and the current stopped
flowing. She decided further experimentation would not be prudent.
More time passed... and Amanda's stomach growled. "Hey!" she
shouted to the empty
air. "How 'bout some breakfast? ...today??"
As if answering her demand, the mirror wall began sliding into the
ceiling; and this time the transparent wall beyond was opening as well.
Three figures were waiting in the interview room: two of the booted,
catsuited, armored, and helmeted "glamazons"—one in dark tan and the
other in a dusky shade of blue—and Mercy Dench.
"Good morning, Ms. Pressfield," Mercy purred. She was wearing
another red power suit, this time with a white silk top and a different
pair of black knee-boots; and she had added black leather
gloves to the ensemble. "I see you've learned to assume the
handling position on
command." She motioned to the glamazons, and they started
forward. "How very sensible."
Amanda noticed steel restraints, all linked by
chain, dangling from one of the glamazon's gloved
"If you're considering offering resistance," Mercy said, "be advised
that my minions are all highly trained in unarmed combat, although they
are, in fact, armed. Their
two settings: 'ow-that-really-hurts', and 'next Tuesday'. Also,
costumes are immune to the effects of the electrified floor, as is mine." She pointed the toe of
booted foot and held up her gloves, to emphasize her last point.
"This is all so cleverly thought out," Amanda muttered, "isn't it?"
Mercy nodded. "The result of many years of trial and error; generations, in fact.
The La Roque family have been, shall we
say, 'old school aristocrats' for a very long time. And they've
never allowed cultural or political fashion to interfere with
their ability to control all aspects of their servants' lives."
One of the minions had knelt and was locking heavy shackles around
Amanda's ankles. The other was standing a long pace back and to
the side, baton at the ready,
covering her fellow
handler. Mercy produced her iPhone, tapped the screen, and the
green hand prints flashed to white, matching the wall. Amanda's
hands were pulled behind her back, and joined manacles snapped around
her wrists. Next, a heavy
collar was locked around her throat. When the glamazon was
Amanda was still facing
the wall, but now her hands were crossed at the small
of her back. Her shackled feet were apart, and still within the
of the glowing green squares. A chain connected the back of
collar, the wrist cuffs, and the center ring of the chain hobbling her
Mercy tapped her iPhone, again, and the red and green
the floor winked out. Her glamazon minions grabbed Amanda by the
arms and turned her to face their boss. "Just to
satisfy your professional curiosity," Mercy said, "your restraints are
all sized to the detailed measurements my staff took during your
medical examination. You won't
be wiggling out of them. Also, the locking
mechanisms are a custom design, quite impossible to pick. A high
tension spring must be disengaged before the pins are free to slide and
cylinders can be turned. They open with a small, rather
actuator tool, rather than a traditional key."
"Amazing," Amanda said, perfectly deadpan.
"What do you think of the cross-cuffs?" Mercy inquired.
Amanda flexed her hands and tried to twist her wrists, testing the
in question. It was a rigid,
one-piece device that held her
wrists in a permanently crossed position. Matching Mercy's
boast, the cuff interiors were sized
to fit, following the curves and contours of her wrists as closely as
a pair of leather bracers. Short of breaking several bones, she
would not be extracting her
hands from their tight embrace, with or without lubrication. The
thick, heavy, and smooth, like the collar hugging her throat and
the shackles locked
around her ankles. "Equally amazing," Amanda stated.
"Titanium alloy," Mercy explained, with a smug smile. "Just
imagine how heavy they'd be if they were case-hardened steel."
"Amazingly heavy, no doubt," Amanda muttered.
Mercy's smile faded. "I don't think I like your attitude," she
said, quietly. "Congratulations, Ms. Pressfield. You've
succeeded in putting me in a bitchy mood." She focused on the
mirrored faceplate of one of her
minion's helmets and nodded. A ball-gag dropped over Amanda's
head and unerringly found its way into her mouth. One glamazon
held Amanda's hair (none too gently) while the other tightened the
strap until the prisoner's cheeks bulged against the black
leather. A padlock clicked, and the gag was on to stay.
"That's better," Mercy said, her smile returning. "Now, please
reverse her cuffs."
One of the minions produced what appeared to be a small pair of
pliers with an overly complicated business end. Amanda felt a
series of vibrations and heard a couple of ratcheting clicks, then her
cuffs came free from the collar
chain. Obviously, the pair of pliers was the "actuator tool" of
which Mercy was so proud. Another use of the tool freed her left
wrist, then her
arms were forced
double hammerlock. The cuff closed back around her wrist, there
another click, and she found her wrists crossed and chained roughly at
the level of her shoulder blades. It was almost a reverse-prayer,
one of her least favorite
bondage positions (unless she was doing it to
Gloria, rather than having it done to her). She gave her bonds a
tug. The new position left her just as helpless as before, but
was less comfortable. Thank
god for yoga class, Amanda mused.
"Brace her," Mercy ordered, and the glamazons each placed a boot over
Amanda's hobble chain, effectively pinning her shackled feet to the
floor. One grabbed a handful of Amanda's hair and pulled back,
up. The other grabbed the taut connecting chain, below her
"Baton," Mercy ordered, and held out her right hand.
Amanda's eyes popped wide as she watched the right glamazon hand Mercy
a black, plastic nightstick,
handle first. Mercy held
the baton for Amanda's inspection. A helix of tiny, silver
and copper studs encircled the shaft, from just above the handle to the
"I don't expect you to fawn and grovel..." Mercy said, slowly
turning the ebony stick in her gloved hand. She then gave it an
expert, spinning flip, and touched the tip to Amanda's sex.
Amanda flinched, then went
perfectly still, holding her breath.
Mercy lowered her elbow and slowly eased the tip of the baton past
Amanda's labia, giving it a gentle twist, to ease its passage.
stopped when a good inch of the baton was inside Amanda's
sex. "...but I do expect
you to show the proper
respect. Have we reached an understanding?"
Her eye's still wide, Amanda nodded her head, as much as the minion
still gripping her hair would allow.
"Good," Mercy cooed. She withdrew the baton and handed it back to
the glamazon. She then reached into her jacket pocket and
a long length of light steel chain. She clipped one end to the
dangling from the front of Amanda's collar, and the leather loop at the
other end went around her wrist. "Chin down, eyes on the
floor, and up on your toes. This is how you walk when
outside your cell, unless otherwise ordered. Understand?"
Amanda stared into Mercy's cold, blue eyes. Her breasts heaving,
she struggled to control her fear and reassert what remained of her
pride. Suddenly, the right minion tapped the tip of her baton to
Amanda convulsed in her
bonds and her captors' grips and screamed
through her gag. Her knees buckled, but the glamazons
kept her from falling.
The baton's touch had been like a wasp sting, but the effect had faded
"I asked you a question," Mercy stated. "Do you understand?"
"Good." Mercy spin on her heel and stepped away, towards the
The glamazons released their holds just as
the leash chain snapped taut. Amanda went up on her toes and
followed in Mercy's wake.
exit from the
interview room led to a series of concrete corridors. Mercy,
Amanda, and the two minions passed several
steel doors, then
came to a pair of elevators, one for passengers, and the other large
enough for cargo. As they rode the passenger elevator up, Amanda
noted that the controls were a telephone-style
keypad, rather than the traditional column of buttons. Mercy's
body blocked her view, but she seemed to have entered several numbers to make the car
Petra La Roque's "Tower" was hundreds
of stories tall, or operating the elevator required the use of
some sort of numeric code.
This place has more security than a
frakkin' missile silo, Amanda mused.
The elevator doors opened and Amanda was led out into yet another maze
of corridors, but this time the walls were either covered with fabric
or were mirrored glass. The general ambiance was modern and very upscale, and
Amanda could see what appeared to be actual daylight streaming from
some of the side
corridors. The carpet underfoot (or under-toe, in Amanda's case) was thick
They came to a set of double-doors, and the parade stopped. Mercy
pulled her iPhone from her jacket pocket and tapped the screen.
There was a wait of several seconds... and the doors opened.
The space beyond was large, with a high ceiling. Three of the
walls were mirrored glass, and the other was
a window, providing a view of the upper stories of several modern
buildings, some of which Amanda recognized. This
confirmed that she was still downtown, and hadn't been transported out
the city while unconscious. Apparently "The Tower"
was one of the business district's steel and glass skyscrapers,
and Petra La Roque occupied several stories; assuming she didn't own
the entire structure, of course.
Petra, herself, was waiting within; or, to be more precise, was lounging within. She was
dressed in a pale gray and silver exercise outfit: running shoes,
tights, and sleeveless leotard; and was seated at a table,
sipping coffee. There were three place settings of bone china,
in a modern design, as well as fine crystal, linen napkins, and elegant
silverware, also of a modern
Petra indicated the waiting chairs with a languid gesture. Mercy
pulled out a chair and sat. Getting Amanda situated took a little
more effort. Mercy's minions disconnected the connecting chains
of her bondage and plunked her in the third chair, then reattached the
chains, leaving Amanda seated with her wrists and arms behind the
chair's low back, still in the relaxed reverse-prayer. The
chain ran under the chair and once again linked her collar,
manacles, and shackles. The ball-gag remained in her mouth.
"I'll be mother," Petra announced, with a wry smile, and poured coffee
from an insulated carafe into Mercy's cup. She made eye contact
with Amanda. "Nothing for you? Well, maybe later, when the
Amanda tried to keep her expression neutral, but couldn't help but glare at her "hostess".
Petra's irritatingly smug gaze shifted to something over Amanda's
shoulder. "And speaking of food," she purred.
Amanda turned her head, as much as the heavy collar would allow.
A serving cart and two nearly naked women were entering the room.
The cart was laden with a
number of covered dishes, strongly
suggesting the arrival of Amanda's long-awaited breakfast. The
women were petite—something like five-foot-two, if
that—but both here definitely women,
rather than girls. They had trim, athletic figures with defined
muscles, flat stomachs, and full, firm breasts.
One might have been Asian. Amanda couldn't be sure, because the
porcelain-skinned beauty was wearing a mask. It covered her
entire face and was ivory-white, with the stylized features of a female
character of the traditional Noh theater. Her black, straight,
hair was piled atop her head in an elaborate coif that suggested it
would be very long, indeed, if allowed to flow free.
Her only clothing was a simple loincloth of white silk, pulled
tight enough to outline the details of her sex in graphic detail.
There was a steel collar around her throat, manacles around her wrists,
and shackles on her ankles. The restraints were joined by light
steel chain, including a central, connecting chain that ran from
collar, to manacles, to shackles.
The collar and cuffs were smooth,
thin-walled, and had no apparent locks, rivets, bolts, or any other
features that suggested how they might be applied or removed.
The prisoner's hands were in front and on the cart's handle, and the
chain allowed about a foot-and-a-half of "freedom". She was
barefoot and up
on her toes, taking tiny, mincing steps. The connecting chain
kept her hobble-chain off the floor.
The second prisoner was identically restrained, but her
hair was a riot of copper-red curls, restrained in a loose French
braid. Her skin was fair, and lightly sprinkled with countless
freckles, lending her complexion a peachy tone emphasized by the
uniformly pale skin of her companion. Her mask was polished gold,
and its classically sculpted features were realistic, with a somewhat
fierce, defiant expression. Her loincloth/thong was of a loosely
woven yarn that might have been wool. It was olive in color,
decorated with gold wire embroidered in a Celtic knot pattern.
"Excellent!" Petra remarked. "I've already had my morning run and
I'm quite hungry."
Amanda's stomach growled. She was well beyond "hungry".
"I see you've noticed my personal maids, Hime and Keira," Petra
said. "Hime is visiting the Tower from my estate in Northern
Honshu and Keira is from my castle near Cork. Mercy's staff
trained them together, and in the process... they fell in love.
Isn't that precious? Aren't they
The Celtic and Nipponese pair were lifting the covered plates from the
cart and deploying them to the table, placing one in front of each of
the diners. Amanda let her eyes wander over their short, perfect
bodies. To her professional eye, their bonds seemed quite
inescapable, but she couldn't be sure exactly how their masks were
Thin leather straps were involved, but their placement and
number was hidden by Keira's red curls and Hime's black tresses.
"Oh, I assure you their faces are as beautiful as their bodies," Petra
said, apparently mistaking Amanda's
inspection of the masks for curiosity about the maids'
"The masks are costume, and to keep them from chattering. Mercy,
"We take plaster life masks," Mercy said, "with the subject properly
gagged, of course, to capture the bulging cheeks and compressed
lips, then use the masks to mold latex foam linings for the decorative
masks. That way, after applying a special moisturizing ointment,
they adhere to the entire face without leaving marks, when they're
removed. 'Petra's Pair', as we call them, are thoroughly
using rubber wedges made from dental casts, and masses of
compressed foam; and the straps securing the masks are steel cables
sheathed with leather. I assure you, without the key or
of hand tools, those masks are on to stay." Mercy locked eyes
with Amanda and her smile turned even more evil. "Perhaps you'd
like a demonstration of the process?"
"An excellent idea," Petra laughed. "Add it to Ms. Pressfield's
agenda." She gazed at Amanda with amused concentration.
"Hmm... perhaps a clown mask? No, an animal. The face of a
spaniel or terrier, perhaps? We'll give the steel mask a latex
outer skin colored and textured to match her complexion, and insert
thousands of tiny hairs, to exactly mimic a canine visage. We can
put small reservoirs in the snout, to keep her 'nose' wet."
"I suggest you make her a raccoon," Mercy purred, regarding Amanda over
"A raccoon?" Petra frowned.
"In keeping with her cunning mind and busy hands," Mercy
explained. "A dark mask in the fur across the eyes? Add a
bushy, striped tail on the end of an anal plug, and she'll be quite a
Petra was unconvinced. "Hmm... perhaps. Maybe a cat... or a
monkey. I already have a fox."
Amanda's attention was on her plate. Scrambled eggs, fluffy and
light; thick-sliced, smoked bacon; diced red potatoes, lightly
in olive oil and butter, with a sprinkling of fresh
thyme; fried apples with brown sugar and cinnamon... it all looked and smelled delicious. Her
nostrils flared and the drool
oozing past her ball-gag doubled in volume.
Petra and Mercy had begun to eat, and were pointedly ignoring Amanda's
bound and gagged inability to join the meal. She willed herself
to sit perfectly still. She was very
hungry, but not enough to abandon her pride.
"I suppose I should see that my new employee keeps up her strength,"
Petra said, after several seconds.
The two glamazon goons started forward, then paused, when Mercy raised
Mercy locked eyes with Amanda. "Not one word, Ms.
Pressfield. You don't have the required seniority to engage in
executive table talk. Food will go in, but if so much as a single
syllable comes out... your next meal will be dinner, and it will
be in the form of a semi-liquid paste force-fed through a stomach
tube. Nod if you understand."
Amanda stared back... then nodded. Sometimes empty gestures of
defiance, however satisfying, could be prohibitively expensive.
Now was such a time.
The glamazons unlocked and removed Amanda's
ball-gag, then stepped back to resume their guard positions.
"Just look at those eyes," Petra said. "Such strength of
will. I'll answer one question, Ms. Pressfield, Mercy's warning
not withstanding. Ask it, and then keep silent."
Amanda licked her lips, glanced at Mercy, then locked eyes with
Petra. "What are you doing to Gloria? When are you going to
let her go?"
"That's two questions,"
Mercy observed. "Take her plate."
Petra raised her hand before the maids could move. "I'm in an
indulgent mood," she purred. "I'll interpret Ms. Pressfield's
remarks as a single, generalized question." Her eyes still locked
with Amanda's, she sipped her
coffee before continuing.
"Ms. Santoval is sleeping in, last I checked. Like you, she is
about to begin a day of employee orientation and training. As
to her ultimate fate..." She sipped her coffee, again.
"...her fate is very much tied to yours, Ms. Pressfield. If she's
a diligent employee—and if you're
a diligent employee—at some point, I may
allow you to buy her contract. Hime, Ms. Pressfield's eggs
are growing cold. Keira, coffee."
Petra held out her cup and the red-haired maid filled it.
Meanwhile, Hime had loaded a fork with eggs and delivered it to
Amanda's mouth. Amanda willed herself to chew and swallow in a
polite manner. The eggs were delicious,
but she knew some of that was the sauce of hunger. The eggs were
followed by fork-loads of potatoes, then bacon, then apples, then more
eggs. Keira filled Amanda's cup, and periodically held it to her
lips. Amanda focused on the glassy eyes of the each of the maid's
masks, smiled, and nodded her thanks. They gave no response.
Petra and Mercy were engaged in a discussion of a new line of
fragrances under development in La Roque's laboratory near
Saint-Étienne, and ignored Amanda and the maids. Keira
stepped close, shielding her actions from the
guards, and gave Amanda's right hand a gentle squeeze.
Amanda smiled, grateful for what she interpreted as the first act of
sympathy she'd experienced since her capture. Apparently, despite
Petra La Roque and Mercy Dench's best efforts, "The
Tower" was not a monolith of
soul-numbing despair devoid of all hope.
The maids continued feeding her, and she
continued to eat, but Amanda's mind remained focused on
concern: escape, escape for Gloria and herself—and now, possibly,
for others as well?
Breakfast ended with
Amanda's hunger assuaged, but her stomach still slightly less than
full. The maids produced a basin of water and a toothbrush loaded
with a pale green paste. Amanda focused on the brush, debating
voicing some sort of comment.
"The hard way..." Mercy said, between sips of coffee, "...is for my
minions to use a dental spreader. Your choice."
"One of the few choices I'm prepared to allow for you this morning,
Ms. Pressfield," Petra
Amanda's cheeks burned with anger, but she held her tongue. She
mouth and cooperated as the red-haired maid gave her teeth a thorough
but gentle brushing. At least
the toothpaste is pleasant, Amanda admitted to
herself. She spit, rinsed
her mouth with water from a cup held by the Japanese maid, then spit
again. The redhead patted
her frowning lips with a hand towel—then the glamazons
One grabbed a handful of hair and pulled Amanda's head back.
The other forced something in her mouth and buckled a strap at the nape
of her neck. It was a combination ball and bit gag, and unlike
anything Amanda had experienced before. The ball was
proportions, but was offset from the bit, forcing itself further
in her mouth than a typical ball-gag. Both the ball and bit were
covered with rubber or latex foam, but the foam was in layers of
different densities. The
outer layer packed her oral cavity and pressed against the corners of
mouth without causing a great deal of discomfort. The inner
layer was somewhat harder, and it seemed to mold itself to the shape of
her mouth as the strap tightened and she clenched her teeth.
The central chain of Amanda's bonds was disconnected from her shackles,
hauled to her feet, and the glamazons hustled her from the breakfast
room. She was
dragged down a corridor and into a large, luxurious, corner
office. The decor was modern, favoring
shades of beige and ivory. A glass-top
table/desk set against one wall dominated the space. To its left
was a large
glass conference table surrounded by chairs; and to the
right was a conversation pit, a horseshoe arrangement of sofas
and ottomans, in ivory leather, surrounding a low, glass coffee
The glamazons dragged Amanda towards the pit. As they
approached, she beheld dozens of neatly coiled hanks of thin, white
arranged in a neat row on the cushions of one of the sofas. Once
she was forced to lie on her stomach on the coffee
table. The goons shortened the connecting chain of her bonds,
putting her in a loose hogtie. While this was being done,
Amanda focused on the coils of
cord. They were of various lengths, but all appeared to be "550
cord". One-hundred percent
nylon, 550 was comprised of seven core
strands surrounded by a braided sheath, and was about 1/8-inch in
diameter. It was used for parachute shrouds, and by the military
as a general utility cord. It was one of Amanda's least favorite
materials, at least when she was on the receiving end. It
was unbreakable, and knots tied with the stuff were devilishly difficult to tease
apart. Worst of all, if it wasn't used properly, it could abrade,
even cut the skin.
Petra breezed in a few seconds later and smiled down at Amanda's
hog-chained form. "Our first playtime," she sighed, then selected
coil of cord. "Well, might as well get started." She made a
sweeping gesture and the glamazons unlocked and
removed all of Amanda's bonds, with the
exception of her gag, then stepped back.
Amanda rolled onto her side, bracing herself on one elbow and glaring
up at Petra's gloating, smiling face. Her free hand examined her
gag, and she found a small metal ring set at either end of
the bit. She reached behind her neck, and
encountered a flush-mounted flange of some sort protecting the
strap's buckle. There may have been a small keyhole, but she
"Oh, that's staying in, I'm afraid," Petra purred. "Now, back on
your stomach, please, and hands behind your back, palm-to-palm."
Amanda continued to stare. One of the glamazons handed her share
of Amanda's former restraints to the other, then pulled her shock baton
from her boot. Amanda took the hint, and rolled onto her stomach,
"Such a sensible girl," Petra chuckled, and leaned close.
Amanda sighed through her gag as a loop of cord tightened around her
"Palm-to-palm," Petra scolded, "like I told you; and stretch your
fingers, full-length. That way you can tense your wrist muscles
all you want, and my cords will still
Amanda sighed again. Obviously, Petra knew all the tricks.
Several seconds later, Amanda could tell that the smug blonde knew how
to tie someone's wrists, as well. The first loop was
followed by a dozen more, all carefully compacted and cinched between
her wrists. The final knot was something more than a simple square
knot. Of course, Amanda was hardly in a position to watch the
it being tied, but she could tell that whatever it was, it was
complicated, and in an unreachable position. She was going to
have a very difficult time
escaping from Petra's handiwork.
Her ankles were next. Petra used the same basic technique: a
dozen close, neat loops,
cinches between her ankles, and a complex, unreachable knot.
"I think I can handle things from here, ladies," Petra said.
Mercy's minions bowed and made their exit, taking the chains, cuffs,
and collar with them. Petra selected another coil of cord, a very
"This is going to take some time, Ms.
Pressfield. But then, a truly challenging tie can never be
in haste, don't you agree?"
In point of fact, it
was nearly an hour before Petra exhausted her supply of cord.
Amanda found herself in an incredibly
strict, incredibly tight hogtie.
heels were resting on her hands, and her hands were on her rump.
Multiple bands of cord bound her legs together, above and below the
knees. More neat bands bound her elbows together,
pinned her arms to her sides, and lashed her thighs to her
Additional cord linked everything together with horizontal, vertical,
and diagonal strands; and flat, rosette knots or elegant hitches
were tied wherever cord crossed
Next, Petra had used a brush and comb to pull Amanda's hair into a
single long, tight
braid, incorporating three lengths of cord in the pattern as she
plaited her raven tresses. She then passed the end of the braid
steel ring, and used the free end of one of the cords to bind the
doubled braid against itself with a series of neat, closely-spaced
The other two cords were passed through the rings at either end of
the bit of Amanda's
gag, looped under her chin, back through the bit-rings, then back to
the ring at the end of the braid. The pièce de résistance
was a final, additional cord linking Amanda's thumbs, big toes, and the
ring. Now, the uniform tension on her gag and hair immobilized
her head as
effectively as the rest of her bonds immobilized her limbs and torso.
Amanda could squirm a little and
rock her body forwards and back, but just barely. With
effort she thought she might be
her side, but what was the point? Any effort on her part caused
the cords to tighten and dimple her skin, or tug on her scalp, toes,
and thumbs. With professional detachment, she had tried to
follow the process of her body being rendered so totally, completely
helpless, and had already reached the conclusion that there were no
Petra's technique. Her captor's carefully compacted and arranged
of cord, secured with their clever hitches and complex knots, might as
well have been bands of steel,
secured with spot-welds. Yes,
Petra La Roque had planned and executed her predicament with the
precision and planning of a Bondage Master. If there was an
organization that certified such things, she would have their highest
rating. Amanda raised her eyes, and found Petra gazing down at
The blonde's expression was... disturbing. Her face was shining,
her features flushed, and
her gloating smile betrayed elements of lust and obsession.
"The greatest escape artist in the world..." she mused, "rendered
totally and completely helpless." She reached out and stroked
Amanda's gagged and cord-bridled face. "Your eyes are so
beautiful, Amanda... and your breasts." She rolled Amanda onto
her left side, sat on the table, and cupped the captive's right
breast. "Full, firm, perfect in shape and form... generous,
without being overly large..."
Her fingers toyed with the nipple,
which, to Amanda's chagrin, popped hard and sensitive in response.
"Sometime soon," Petra continued, "I'll have to bind these pretty
globes with twine, or leather thongs, or wire. With your fair
complexion, I'm sure they'll turn a delightfully
deep shade of red."
She leaned close and gave the nipple a delicate kiss.
Petra rolled Amanda back onto her stomach, and stood. Her hands
traveled from knot to knot, checking their tightness. "Breast binding will
short-term game, of course. I always like to start with a clean
canvas... no unsightly bruises or rope burns marring the subject's
skin." She stepped back into Amanda's field of vision, and once
again, captive and
captor locked eyes. "That's why games like this will only happen
about once a week... twice at most. I have other employees who require my
attention, and you'll need time to rest and recuperate. Don't
worry, my staff includes physical trainers, experts in massage and
exercise. They'll keep you in tiptop shape, ready for our next game, and the game after
that, and the game after that..."
The gloating aspect
of her smile intensified. "...assuming you don't escape at some point, of course."
Petra turned and stepped from Amanda's view. "I'm
going to take a shower and get back to work. When I return, I'll
be able to watch the progress of your escape
from my desk. And
don't be embarrassed as my senior staff come and go, throughout the
day. They're all used to the sight of my 'living
sculptures'. Most of them have been
one of my living sculptures, on more than one occasion."
Several seconds passed without further comment, and Amanda surmised
Petra had made her departure. So,
she thought, this is going to be a
day long 'game'?
She very much hoped that was an exaggeration. Petra's cords were
applied in a manner that spared her pressure points, and while they
were uniformly tight, the key word was uniform. Her circulation
should remain intact.
Of course, whenever Petra saw
fit to untie, or more likely, cut her
bonds, Amanda knew she'd be covered with rope marks. However,
any luck, she'd have few, if any, rope burns. Petra's cords were
that well-placed and tied.
Near total immobility
would be the worst part of the ordeal. She marshaled her strength
and concentrated on a plan of attack, on a way she could locate and
untie the key knots of her wrist bonds... although she knew she would never escape Petra's cords by her
efforts alone. At least the effort
would keep her mind on her own situation, and away from other things...
like what might be happening to Gloria.