passed. Frankie took a series of catnaps, punctuated by
careful, detailed, meticulous efforts to escape the
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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!
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.
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
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
Frankie closed her eyes, forced herself to relax, and waited for
sleep to come. It was the only available escape from her
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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
"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
Frankie continued staring... and realized her heart was
"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.
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?