by Van ©2015
		Chapter 3

Time passed.  Frankie took a series of catnaps, punctuated by careful, detailed, meticulous efforts to escape the straitjacket.

She knew Harry Houdini used to escape from traditional straitjackets by dislocating a shoulder and squirming... somehow.  That strategy, if you could call it that, was useless to Frankie.  Her jacket—or more correctly, Quaking Aspen's jacket—might as well have been custom tailored to her body.  Squirming around inside the skintight canvas was a nonstarter.  Also, the well-placed leather straps effectively prevented her from lifting or shifting one or both arms.  The jacket-imposed self-hug was permanent.  Finally, the thigh-straps made shrugging the jacket over her head even more impossible.  As for her hands, the jacket's sleeves were narrow and taut and secured together behind her back.  Her canvas encased fingers could barely move.

Frankie wiggled, squirmed, writhed and rolled on the padded floor as she fought for her freedom.  It was pointless, but it was also something to do, and while she didn't succeed in escaping, she did work up a healthy sweat.  That was as much in response to the padded room's overheated air as her energetic struggles.

Frankie lay on the soft padding, panting through her flaring nostrils, strands of her tousled brown hair plastered to her shining face.  Her breasts heaved and were also shining.  Her thighs were also a little sweaty.  She willed herself to relax... and not think about a cold beer... or a cheeseburger... with bacon.

Additional time passed.  More catnaps.  More struggling.  More longing for beer and pub food... which was joined by a desire to visit the "Little Patient's Room."

Suddenly, the padded door set in the padded wall opened and Nurse Kim appeared.

"Mrrrk!"  Frankie's response was as much a whimpering plea as an angry complaint.

Nurse Kim's response was to bodily lift Frankie first to her knees, then to her hobbled feet, then to grab a handful of Frankie's hair and drag her from the padded cell.  Granted, "drag" might be a little strong, as Frankie didn't really resist and Kim's grip on Frankie's hair was businesslike but not painful, but it was abundantly clear who was in charge.

As she padded down the gray corridor, it occurred to Frankie that the nurses Kim and Clarke had, indeed, been businesslike in the way they'd handled her.  That is, they hadn't been sadistic, or even excessively mean, not yet, anyway.  Whatever was going on at Quaking Aspens, it was... complicated.

Frankie assumed she was still in the sub-basement, or at least the basement.  The decor, if you could call it that, was the same.

Their destination was a door distinguishable from the others only by its semi-cryptic sign.  "BB-3N-01W," Frankie read.  She assumed "BB" meant she was, indeed, in the sub-basement.  Kim unlocked and opened the door, then led Frankie across the threshold.  The room beyond was a bathroom, with tiled walls and floor, a shower stall, a small washbasin, and a commode.

Kim peeled the tape from Frankie's mouth.  "Fifteen minutes," she said as Frankie licked her lips.  Then, with a pleasant (gloating) smile, Nurse Kim left the room, closing the door behind her.

"W-what?" Frankie demanded.  She was alone in the bathroom.  "Come back!"  The only response was the sound of the key turning in the door's lock.  "Bitch!" Frankie muttered under her breath.  She noticed a stainless steel cart tucked in the corner opposite the commode.  The only things on the cart were a medical-green cloth spread like a place-mat and a stainless steel pet bowl.  In the bowl was a modest pile of... Kibble?  Dog food?  I'm not that hungry, Frankie decided, ignoring the rumble in her stomach.

Frankie stomped to the washbasin, or stomped as best she could with her bare, hobbled feet, and found it was a combination washbasin and drinking fountain.  She stepped on a foot-pedal and a stream of water arced into the bowl.  Dog food?  No.  Water?  Yes!  Frankie shook the hair from her face, then leaned forward and drank her fill.

Next stop was the commode.  Frankie padded over, sat, and emptied her bladder without any difficulty.  The thigh straps were well out of the way, as was the jacket's bottom hem.  That was all the business Frankie needed to conduct at the moment.  A foot-pedal flushed the bowl and a second, clearly labeled pedal operated a bidet function.  "Ahhh!"  Frankie couldn't dry herself afterwards, but she'd survive.

Frankie decided to see if there was anything in the room she could use to escape the straitjacket.  She had nothing else to do, other than wish the bowl of dog food would magically transform itself into the bacon-cheeseburger of her dreams.  Speaking of nothing, there were no loose objects—including razors, nail-clippers, or Bowie knives—nor did the cart, washbasin/fountain, or commode/bidet have any sharp corners or anything else she could exploit to attack a buckle or... whatever.

It was just as well.  Frankie knew she wouldn't be able to free herself from the jacket if she was standing in a tool store.

Minutes passed... fifteen, to be precise.  The door opened and Nurse Kim reappeared.  She gazed at the full bowl on the cart, then shifted her smile to Frankie.  "No appetite?"

Frankie glowered at the gloating nurse.  "I don't eat dog food," she huffed.

"Dog food?" Kim chuckled.  "That's what we call 'patient chow.'  It's highly nutritious, especially formulated for monkeys, apes, and human damsels."

Frankie stared at Kim for several seconds and she smiled in return.  "First chance I get," Frankie said finally, "I'm going to kick your butt."

"Well then," Kim chuckled.  "I'll have to make sure that you don't get that chance."  She reached into her uniform pocket and produced a ball-gag, a red rubber ball with a black leather strap.

"No!"  Frankie backed up as Kim advanced.  The smile never left the nurse's beautiful face.  "I said no!  Mrrrrpfh!"

Once again, Nurse Kim demonstrated her expertise in the handling of hobbled and straitjacketed patients.  Soon, the ball was filling Frankie's mouth, the strap was buckled tight at the nape of her neck, under her tousled hair, Kim's hand was once again clutching said hair, and Frankie was stumbling down the hallway.

"Mrrrmf!"

Frankie's complaint was ignored.  Ahead was a half-opened door, and painted on the outside in six-inch black letters was the designation "BB-1."  The next door down the hall was labelled "BB-3," and on the opposite side of the corridor were "BB-2" and "BB-4."  Obviously, BB-1 was Frankie's padded home-away-from-home.  She hadn't noticed the painted signs before as Kim had been leading her away from the doors on her trip to the bathroom.

After a nano-second's consideration, Frankie decided she did not want to return to BB-1.  She planted her feet in the linoleum—which, of course, is impossible—and did her best to resist further progress towards the rubber room.  Hobbled, strapped in the straitjacket, and with Nurse Kim's hand gripping her hair, Frankie's best wasn't good enough.  Despite her vigorous objections—"M'mmpfh!"—Frankie was thrust across the threshold and into the padded room.

Frankie nearly stumbled on her hobble, but managed to keep her feet.  She spun around to face the door, but it was already closed.

"Nrrrrrrrf!"

It was infuriating.  Really infuriating.  Frankie couldn't decide whether she should throw a conniption fit, have a good cry, or take another nap.  She stared at the door for several seconds, then settled to a sitting position, as gracefully as she could, and rolled onto her side.  Screwed, she thought.  I'm totally screwed.

Frankie closed her eyes, forced herself to relax, and waited for sleep to come.  It was the only available escape from her captive situation.

Time.  Catnaps.  Boredom.  No bacon-cheeseburgers.

Kim escorted Frankie to the bathroom three more times.  On each occasion, she removed Frankie's gag and left her alone for fifteen minutes.  After Frankie conducted her business, she would be gagged and led back to BB-1.  And the smiling, gloating nurse alternated gags.  That is, the ball-gag was removed at the start of the second visit and replaced with a tape-gag at the conclusion.  The third visit, the tape-gag was replaced with the ball-gag.

Also during the third visit, Frankie finally swallowed her pride and the contents of the pet-bowl.  She chewed the kibble first, of course, and found the brown nuggets to be surprisingly palatable.  She knew that was probably thanks to the sauce of hunger, but was past caring.  Besides, at some point she intended to write a sensational article about her ordeal at Quaking Aspens, and she owed it to her readers to document every detail.  Rationalization?  Of course, but Frankie was hungry!

Anyway, at the conclusion of the third visit—which was actually her fourth if Frankie counted her first visit—Kim stretched a strip of medical tape across Frankie's pouting lips and smoothed it with her hands, her smiling brown eyes locked with her "patient's" sad, angry, blue orbs.  Kim took a few seconds to comb Frankie's increasingly tousled, dirty, borderline greasy hair from her face, then led her through the doorway.  However, instead of taking Frankie back to BB-1, Kim led her charge in the opposite direction

Their destination was a few doors down, and behind yet another of the ubiquitous sub-basement doors Frankie found herself in another tiled room—"Mrrrk?"—but instead of another bathroom, her surroundings could only called an autopsy suite!  Centered under a bank of bright spotlights was a long, narrow, stainless steel table, at a convenient waist height.  "Nrrr!"  Frankie wanted nothing to do with the place.  She squirmed and tried to kick, but Kim's hand tightened in her hair and kept her under control.  Between her hobble and the straitjacket, resistance had been a lost cause to begin with.

This wasn't Frankie's first visit to a morgue.  She was an experienced reporter, after all.  This one had the usual amenities: a deep sink with a suspended hose reel system for washing bodies, rows of hatch-like steel doors set in one wall, no doubt for body storage, as well as stainless steel cabinets full of God-knows-what.

As Frankie continued struggling, Dr. Stanton and Nurse Clark entered the room.  Without preamble the two uniformed nurses lifted Frankie's squirming, struggling, mewling form, placed her on the steel table, and held her down.  Smiling a truly evil, gloating smile (from Frankie's perspective), Stanton reached into her lab coat pocket and produced a small foil packet and a loaded syringe with a safety cover over the needle!

"Nrrrrrf!"

Kim and Clark continued holding Frankie down and Stanton pinned her head to the table with her gagged-face turned and pressed against the cool, hard steel—then Frankie felt something cool and wet swab the side of her neck... followed by the prick of the needle.  The nurses continued holding Frankie on the table, but Stanton released her head.

"Mrrrpfh!"

Frankie shook the hair from her face and glared at the smiling doctor.  Stanton was replacing the cap on the syringe and putting it back in her pocket.  She then balled up what Frankie could now see was a disposable alcohol swab, and returned it and its wrapper to her pocket as well.  Frankie continued squirming and fighting, but then... she relaxed.  To be precise, Frankie didn't decide to relax, her body relaxed all on its own.  Her attempts to squirm from her captors' grip and roll off the table grew weaker and weaker, as did the curses and threats trying to force their way past the tape sealing her lips.  Finally—after only a few seconds, actually—Frankie found herself virtually paralyzed!  And then, she was paralyzed!

"You two can go change," Stanton addressed the nurses.  "I'll prepare Ms. Dekker."

"Yes, doctor," the smiling nurses responded, then left Frankie's now limited range of vision and, she presumed, the room.  Stanton remained, smiling down at her patient.

Frankie stared up at the doctor.  She found she could blink her eyes, even move her eyeballs... but that was it.

Stanton peeled the tape from Frankie's lips, then produced a small key and began unlocking the tabs and unbuckling the straps of the straitjacket.  She rolled Frankie's limp body as required, and slowly but surely, the jacket surrendered its tight grip.  In a surprisingly short time the jacket was gone, an unseen mass of canvas, leather and tinkling steel buckles that Stanton dropped to the floor.  Frankie's ankle-cuffs and hobbles were next, and, for the first time in... forever, Frankie was free—nude, sweaty, badly in need of a bath, paralyzed, and free.

Stanton rolled Frankie onto her back, arranged her limp arms at her sides and her unmoving legs together, then placed a padded block of some sort under her head.

Frankie could now see that a rectangular mirror was mounted directly overhead, surrounded by the array of spotlights.  Collectively, the lights were bright.  Individually, not so much.  Frankie could examine her reflection in the mirror without squinting, which was a very good thing, because while blinking and eye rolling were in, squinting was out.  The jacket had left a few marks, but nothing she could call bruises or...  Is 'strapmarks' a word? Frankie wondered.  Anyway, her breasts were ringed by red lines left by the straitjacket's "boob-windows"—which probably wasn't a word, either—and similar lines marked the former position of the jacket's lower hem.  Otherwise, her skin was unmarked.  Funky?  Yes.  Covered with lasting marks?  No.

There was one more thing.  A collar was around Frankie's neck.  It was plastic, possibly plastic-covered steel, with a stainless steel ring in the front.  Under the plastic, Frankie could see printed text and a bar code, but the distance was too great for her to read the text.  It was the same sort of collar she'd seen on Judge Bowden and the mysterious brunette patient the nurse-bitches had called "J."  I guess Stanon decided regular patient ID bracelets would get in the way of the bondage, Frankie mused.  Anyway, Frankie was nude, paralyzed, and tagged.

Stanton leaned close, smiled, and combed Frankie's tousled, dirty locks from her face.  "Why don't you relax until Nurse Kim and Nurse Clark return?" the doctor suggested.

Why don't you take a flying leap off the top of the mountain? Frankie thought.  Hey, wait!

Stanton had left Frankie's range of vision.  Seconds passed, then she heard the door close.

Frankie heaved a deep sigh—or would have, if she wasn't drugged and paralyzed—and closed her eyes.  She didn't need to rest, but the sight of her own naked body on what amounted to a steel autopsy table was simply too disturbing.

Tired or not, Frankie did manage to doze a little.  However, she came instantly awake when a gentle stream of cold water started spraying up and down her naked, paralyzed body!  She opened her eyes and realized Kim and Clark had returned.  They'd changed into jade-green scrubs and Kim was using the suspended hose to wet down Frankie's naked form.

Once Frankie was dripping wet from head to toe, Clark stepped forward and started scrubbing her body with a washcloth saturated with liquid soap.  The cloth was soft and Clark's hands were gentle, and the smiling nurse managed to raise quite a few suds.  The soap had a pleasant floral scent, with a medicinal undertone.  Clark did a very thorough job, making sure the soapy cloth caressed every square inch of her paralyzed patient's body.  Kim assisting by lifting and rolling Frankie as required.  Clark scrubbed between Frankie's toes, the soles of her feet, her legs, through her crotch—she was especially thorough with Frankie's crotch—her tummy, back, breasts, armpits, arms, hands, breasts, neck, ears, and face.  Thankfully, the soap was of the "no tears" variety, suitable for bathing babies and helpless damsels.

Frankie's hair was shampooed using the same soap.  Clark massaged her scalp and made sure her long locks were thoroughly soaped, then Kim made sure they were thoroughly rinsed.  Clark used a comb to gently, carefully remove all snarls and tangles, then began playing a blow-dryer up and down Frankie's hair.

Meanwhile, Kim slathered Frankie's legs with foamy white creme and shaved them with a multi-blade safety razor.  She started by carefully trimming the margins of Frankie's pubic thatch, leaving the generous triangular bush that was Frankie's preference, then continued, working her way down her patient's thighs and lower legs, slowly, meticulously, removing the creme and any trace of hair.  She then rinsed Frankie's legs with the hose and dried them with a towel.

Clark was still using the blow-dryer, as well as the comb and a brush, to restore Frankie's hair.

The final task was the shaving of Frankie's armpits, in which both nurses participated.  Clark lifted Frankie's arms, one at a time, and Kim used the shave-creme and razor.

Frankie was ready for what came next, and not to her great surprise, that was the careful, professional application of rope bondage.  The nurses used the same white, braided rope Frankie had seen used on the other patients.  I guess it's my turn, Frankie thought as the first loops of rope tightened.

This time Clark did the tying and Kim acted as her assistant.  In short order, a rope harness pinned Frankie's upper arms to her sides and yoked her shoulders.  Her wrists were crossed and raised behind her back and lashed to the back of the harness and against her spine.  Additional ropes lashed her ankles and knees together.

Kim went to one of the stainless steel cabinets and returned with a foil packet.  Lying on her back and her bound arms with her hair fanned out and free from her face, Frankie was able to watch as the nurse carefully peeled open the packet.  Then, after Clark turned her head to the side, Frankie felt Kim plaster what amounted to a large band aid against the side of her neck.

The nurses then lifted her naked, limp, and bound body from the table, deposited her in a wheelchair, then tightened nylon straps across her ankles, lap, waist, and arms and chest, above her breasts, keeping her in place.

Next, Clark held her head steady while Kim carefully plastered a wide strip of medical tape across Frankie's lips and lower face.  The rope-bound, strapped-down, and now tape-gagged captive squirmed weakly and mewled a pathetic, whining complaint through the tape sealing her lips—and realized she could move again!  Said movements were decidedly limited, but as Clark wheeled her from the "Morgue," Frankie found she was able to hold up her head, flutter her fingers, and wiggle her toes.  Also, she detected the taste of—oysters, of all things—on the back of her tongue.  The patch on my neck is counteracting the paralysis drug, Frankie thought.

Meanwhile, Clark continued pushing her down the corridor.  They passed door after door, made a left turn, and ahead Frankie could see the double doors of the elevator.  Apparently (hopefully), her time in the sub-basement was coming to an end.  She just hoped she wasn't headed for someplace worse.

Their destination was Dr. Stanton's office on the third floor.  Nurse Clark opened the door without knocking, pushed Frankie and her chair across the threshold, then continued forward to the doctor's desk, where she positioned Frankie between the visitor chairs.  The good doctor was nowhere to be seen.

Frankie continued complaining and squirming, glaring at Clark over her shoulder as the nurse turned and made her exit.  By this time the drug had finished counteracting Frankie's paralysis, as far as she could tell.  In any case, her pathetic whimpers and wiggling had become full-strength mewling and struggling—not that she was going to escape Clark's ropes or the chair's straps, of course.  Once the door closed and Frankie was alone, she stopped struggling.  It was pointless.  Not only was she not going to wiggle free, but she'd lost her audience.

Stanton's office was unchanged, as far as Frankie could tell, not that she'd made a great effort to memorize the details of the doctor's ‌tchotchke and book collection during her previous visit.  She still couldn't read the details of the many framed diplomas and certificates hanging on the walls, but decided to be suitably impressed... and pissed off.

Finally, the door opened and Dr. Stanton breezed into her office.  She was wearing the same lab coat as before, but a different expensive, stylish dress.  Her long red hair was loose about her shoulders, framing her beautiful, lightly freckled face, and the open lab coat fluttered and flapped as she walked to her desk.

"Mrrrrpfh!"

Stanton smiled her angelic (demonic) smile, but otherwise ignored Frankie's comment.  She settled into her throne-like chair.  "Ms. Dekker," she said.  "I have good news and bad news."

Frankie rolled her eyes.  Great, we're gonna play games.

"First, the good news," Stanton continued.  She picked up an iPad and started tapping and sliding her finger, scrolling through screens.  "We had no difficulty breaking your lease, and all your things have been packed up and placed in long term storage."  She lifted her smile from the iPad to Frankie.  "I'm sure you'll be glad to hear you got your cleaning deposit back."

Frankie stared daggers at the gloating doctor.  She's bluffing, Frankie thought.  She's trying to scare me.

"Also, we got a pretty good price for your car," Stanton purred.  "Your friends were very glad to hear about your wonderful new job in Europe.  A pity you had to leave right away, of course, without even a chance to say goodbye in person or tell anyone the details, but that's the way it goes.  All your friends replied to your messages and wish you the best."

Frankie continued staring... and realized her heart was hammering.

"As for the bad news..."  Stanton's smile faded.  "You have no idea the trouble you've caused, Ms. Dekker.  I've wasted hours in teleconferences, and we still haven't reached a final decision about what to do with you."

Who is this 'we?' Frankie wondered.

"So..."  Stanton set down the iPad.  "It looks like you'll be my guest for at least a few more days, and maybe more."  She pressed a button on her telephone console.  There was a brief pause... then a voice answered.

"Yes, doctor?"

Frankie recognized nurse Kim's dulcet tones.

"I need you to conduct a preliminary evaluation of patient 'F.'  How soon can you have Exam-1 ready?"

"I'm already in Exam-1, doctor," Kim replied.  "The machine is fully prepped."

Stanton's smile widened.  "You anticipated my order.  Excellent.  Patient 'F' is in my office."

"Yes, doctor," Kim replied.  "I'll be there right away."

Stanton pressed another button, breaking the connection, then smiled at Frankie.  "It's a pleasure having a well-trained staff," she purred.  "Now, if you'll excuse me."  Stanton picked up the iPad and resumed browsing through files.

Frankie continued glowering at her captor.  Evaluation? she wondered.  Evaluation of what?