artists & models
		by Van ©2011
		Chapter 1

The restaurant was doing good business, but it wasn't crowded.  This was a good thing, from Erin's point of view, because otherwise she'd have found herself relegated to the bar and spending half the evening fending off passes.  As it was, she was seated at one of the main dining room's least desirable tables, waaaaay back in the corner, nursing a drink, reading a book, and watching her friend and roommate, Madison, play the piano.

It was a monthly gig.  Madison spent a leisurely evening entertaining diners with Classical, New Age, and Jazz Fusion standards, as well as her own arrangements and original compositions.  Her compensation was the exposure, a complimentary gourmet meal, and a modest stipend, in that order.  And Erin got to tag along.

Erin smiled.  Madison had just started her extended arrangement of the In Noctem theme from Nicholas Hooper's Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince soundtrack.  Several diners paused in their meals and conversations to listen—to really listen.  The melody was sad, plaintive, and hauntingly beautiful.  There was a smattering of applause when the piece ended, and Madison stood and bowed in acknowledgment, her fiery red hair rippling in a wave.  She sat back down, took a sip of water, then began Claude Debussy's Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.

Erin's stomach grumbled and she glanced at her watch.  Madison's meal break was still a few minutes away.  She considered ordering another drink, but decided against it.  Best to wait for the food.  Whatever the "chef's special" turned out to be—and the restaurant always fed them the special—she knew it would be good.

Erin might have felt like a bit of a mooch, but Madison always insisted she come along, for "moral support" (as if Madison needed it), and they both treated these gigs as something of a lark.  Erin got to wear her best (her only) flashy dress and flirt with the waiters while Madison tickled the ivories and basked in the adulation of her fans.  Okay, adulation was a bit strong, but her music was much appreciated.

The brunette and redhead had been friends and roommates since college.  Madison had majored in music, of course, and Erin in graphic arts and photography.  Since graduation, they had pursued their respective careers with modest success, sharing the condo/townhouse Madison had inherited from her deceased parents.  Erin's "digital darkroom" was in the basement and the loft-like great room doubled as Madison's studio and practice room.  Erin's occasional sales of her photographs at outdoor fairs and minor galleries allowed her to pay sufficient "rent" to satisfy her pride, but it was a gesture and not a requirement.

You see, Madison was what they call "loaded."  A trust fund more than paid her (their) expenses, and in a few years, on her thirtieth birthday to be precise, she would gain full control of the trust, as well as an additional, very large block of stock in Fallon Limited, the family business.  At that point, she'd become really loaded.  In any case, Madison didn't need Erin's rent payments, but she accepted them anyway—and returned them as birthday and holiday gifts in the form of state-of-the-art photography equipment and other items (like the very pretty faux-diamond and cultured pearl necklace Erin was currently wearing).

Just then, Erin noticed Tom, the maitre d', leading a very attractive and expensively dressed woman in her direction—directly in her direction.  The woman was in her forties (or fifties, it was difficult to tell) with long, reddish brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

"Thank you, Tom," the woman purred, once they had arrived, then beamed at Erin.  "Erin Gillard, the photographer?"

Erin blinked in surprise, then nodded.  "Uh, that's right."

"Beverly Adair," the newcomer said.  "May I join you?"

"Of course!" Erin gushed, blushing and rising from her chair.  "By all means."  Beverly Adair owned one of the city's premiere galleries, the sort of place that Erin could only dream would one day show her work.

Tom pulled out a chair and helped Beverly sit, then smiled at Erin as she resumed her seat.  He then executed a modest bow and returned to the front desk.

"I admire your work," Beverly told Erin as they shook hands, "and have been hoping we would meet.  I hope you don't mind.  When Tom said you were here with your friend—"  She nodded towards Madison.  "—it was as if fate had intervened."

"I don't mind in the least," Erin responded.  "You've seen my photographs?"

"Yes," Beverly answered.  "I try to keep aware of all the up and coming young artists in the city."  She was gazing into Erin's eyes.  "Forgive me, but you have the most extraordinary eyes... as blue as glacial ice.  You simply must let me paint you."

"Paint me?"  Stop that, Erin scolded herself.  Act cool.  This could be your big chance, you idiot.  "I mean, I didn't know you painted."

Beverly nodded.  "Oils.  I never exhibit my own works, of course, but others have."  She turned and watched Madison play.  "She's quite good."

Erin nodded.  "She is."

Beverly turned back.  "I have a proposition for you, Erin.  I have a show opening tomorrow night, and I'd like you to photograph the event.  And please bring along a digital copy of your portfolio.  I think I may be able to arrange a show for you.  The gallery is booked for the next several months, but a slot may open up."

Erin's heart was pounding, and her mouth was suddenly dry.  "That would be wonderful."

"Excellent!" Beverly beamed.  She rose from her seat and Erin did, as well.  "Forgive my rudeness, but I simply must run."  She turned to gaze at Madison.  "I've just had a marvelous idea."  She turned back to Erin.  "Please ask your friend to come along and play.  I don't often have music at my openings, but in this case, I think it would fit quite nicely.  I'll pay, of course.  Both of you."  She produced a business card and pen from her bag, scribbled a note on the back, then handed the card to Erin.

"I don't know what to say," Erin gushed.  "I'll ask her.  I'm sure she'll say yes."

"That's all I can ask," Beverly responded.  "Until tomorrow."  She turned and left.

"Tomorrow!" Erin called after her, "and thank you!"  She sat back down and gulped the rest of her drink.  "This is my lucky day," she muttered under her breath.

"Your lucky day and I get dragged along, whether I want to go or not," Madison huffed.  It was her meal break and Erin had just finished telling her what had just happened.

"Pleeeease!" Erin whined, smiling and batting her eyes for effect.  "You'll get paid.  She promised."

Madison debated stringing out her show of reluctance, but she knew her roommate wasn't fooled.  "Like you could keep me away," she admitted.  "What does the note say?"

"We're to come early," Erin answered, waving the card, "seven PM.  Dress is formal."

"Whatever," Madison smiled.  "Erin's lucky day," she sighed, a teasing smile curling her lips.

"Could be," Erin smiled.  Maddie could tease all she wanted.  This was her lucky day, and she knew her friend was happy for her.  "The food's here," she noted, nodding towards the approaching waiter.

"About time," Madison grinned.

Beverly Adair unlocked the front door of her gallery, let the door close behind her, then rearmed the security system.  Stepping into the semi-darkness, she took the central corridor, the most direct route to the work areas in the back.  She passed exhibit space after exhibit space, all defined by movable, ceiling-to-floor partitions, and all lit only by long strings of LED ropes tacked to the baseboards.  All appeared to be ready for tomorrow.  The many sculptures, water colors, acrylics, oils, and prints were tastefully arranged and labeled, as per her specifications.  The pieces were by many artists, the most prominent being Maggie Kilborn, and the show had a single, unifying theme: the damsel-in-distress.

Beverly paused at one of the doorways.  Kilborn's latest bronze held place of honor on a low pedestal in the center of the room.  Its title was "Betrayal," and the larger-than-life figure was a nude woman—an exceedingly beautiful woman with full breasts and an athletic, toned figure.  She was kneeling, with her head lowered and hands in her lap.  A collar and fetters captured her throat, wrists, and ankles, and were joined by a heavy chain, the end of which was fixed to a ring embedded in the sculpture's stone base.  Like all of Kilborn's maidens, the captive was strikingly realistic.  One almost expected her to sigh, rattle her chains, lift her sad, bronze eyes, part her bronze lips, and plead for rescue.

I have got to meet her, Beverly sighed.  I have got to find a way to get Maggie Kilborn to come for a visit.  She continued towards the double doors that led to the work areas, entered a code in the cipher lock below the handle, and passed through.

As in the public areas, the overhead lights were off.  Only dim nightlights lit her way.  Crates were neatly stacked to one side, next to a small but powerful electric pallet-mover.  The doors to the smaller work spaces were all closed, but light was leaking under the farthest door, next to the loading dock.  The only other sign of life was Marta Hartleben, the gallery manager, working at her desk and clearly visible through the glass wall of her office.

Beverly strolled over to the open door and leaned against the frame.  "Anything I need to know about?"

Marta looked up and smiled.  "Just clearing my in-box so I can concentrate on last minute problems, tomorrow."  Marta was a brunette, dressed for business with her hair pulled back in a tight bun.  She was, perhaps, a few years younger than Beverly.  Marta removed her glasses and placed them on her desk.  "How did it go?"

Beverly smiled.  "It went.  I'll be very surprised if Ms. Gillard and Ms. Madison Fallon don't grace us with their presence."

Marta nodded.  "Remember, low and slow.  This is a seduction, not a kidnapping."

Beverly's smile turned slightly sinister.  "In point of fact, it's both, but I hear you.  In any case, it's not me you have to worry about.  It's the youngsters who might be a problem."

"I've spoken with Lyndal," Marta chuckled, "giving her my 'time and place for everything' lecture.  And as for Crystal..."

"Yes," Beverly purred, "at least for tomorrow, Crystal's attitude will be largely irrelevant."

"An understatement if there ever was one," Marta chuckled.

Beverly's smile faded.  "Did you follow my orders?"

Marta lowered her gaze to the desk.  "Yes, Mistress," she whispered.

"Come over here," Beverly ordered.

Marta rose from her chair, hurried to face the doorway, and stood, the four-inch heels of her black pumps two feet apart.  Her chin was lowered and eyes submissively on the floor, her arms raised, her hands atop her head, and her fingers interlaced.

Beverly reached under Marta's skirt and caressed the crotch of her panties.

Marta gasped and bit her lower lip, then slowly lifted her gaze and locked eyes with Beverly, a coy smile curling her lips.

Beverly gave her fingertips a delicate sniff.  "Humm... I believe you have.  Good girl."

"Thank you, Mistress," Marta purred.

"C'mon," Beverly chuckled, and the pair strolled towards the far work space, the one spilling light from under its closed door.

As Beverly and Marta approached, they heard the whirr of a power tool, probably a small drill or driver.  Beverly turned the handle, swung open the door, and they smiled.

The room was about twenty by twenty, lined on three sides with cabinets and mostly empty shelves.  Both Lyndal and Crystal, the "youngsters" in question, were in the center of the room and under a large, bright lighting fixture.

Lyndal was a twenty-something blonde, with blue eyes, tan skin, and an athletic (ripped, in fact) figure poured into skintight, designer jeans and a white tank top.

And as for Crystal—things were complicated.  Also twenty-something, her hair was black, or maybe a very dark brown, and was cropped in a pageboy bob.  Her eyes were a slightly lighter shade of brown, and the adjectives "sad" and "doe" also applied.  Her skin was very fair, almost Snow White ivory.  All present knew she was quite short—five-foot-one, in fact—but, at the moment, her height wasn't obvious.  One final detail: she had nice, firm boobs—which were fully exposed.

Crystal was in a hogtie-pose, bound in a harness of black leather, and suspended, head up and knees down, inside a half-closed encasement.

Her arms were behind her back and laced into a tight arm-binder of glove-soft leather, from fingertips to armpits.  Ancillary straps bound her wrists and elbows and linked to the harness gripping her torso.  Her legs were bent at the knee, with her calves pressed against the backs of their respective thighs, her heels touching their respective butt-cheeks, and were encased, separately, in leather sheaths similar to the arm-binder.  Also like the binder, straps encircled her upper thighs and, like garters, were linked to the torso harness.

Crystal's jaws were held open by a harness-gag anchoring a padded ring in her mouth.  Its narrow straps formed something of a cage and were secured to the posture-collar buckled around her throat and immobilizing her head.  A thick, heavy steel collar encircled the leather collar and was linked to it by several steel pins.  The vertical members of a steel framework also linked to the steel collar, and they followed but did not touch the curves of Crystal's helpless body, all the way down to a heavy steel base.  Rings sewn to the straps of Crystal's harness, leg-sheaths, and arm-binder were linked to eyelets in the frame by a web of taut bungee cords, elastic rubber sheathed in cloth.  It was clear that the hanging, hogtied captive was well supported, dangling from twenty or more points, and it was also clear that she could manage no more that a little weak wiggling or squirming.  Finally, hinged to the base were four panels of thick, white acrylic plastic framed with more steel.  They lay open like the drooping petals of some strange flower.

"Goodness me," Beverly chuckled.  "Full marks."

Lyndal grinned.  "Thank you, Mistress."

Beverly turned to Marta.  "Has our resident genius sculptor shared the full details of her latest work with you?"

Marta shook her head.  "Only in generalities."  She was staring at Crystal's incredibly helpless form, as well as her pleading eyes.

"I'll explain the less obvious details," Beverly continued, then smiled at Lyndal.  "You can correct any inaccuracies while you complete your work."

"Yes, Mistress," Lyndal answered, then picked up a small, battery-powered hand-driver and stepped behind Crystal's helpless body.

"You'll note the rubber thong," Beverly lectured, pointing to Crystal's crotch.  "It incorporates a rigid plastic funnel of the appropriate shape.  Copper clamps hold our little darling's labia open at six points, allowing her to empty her bladder at will, without muss or fuss."

Lyndal cleared her throat.  "Ahem."

Beverly smiled.  "Well, there is some fuss.  The funnel empties into a vertical tube lined with electrical contacts.  It has sufficient volume to hold a very generous tinkle; however, the exit port draining into the much larger reservoir below is quite restrictive.  In other words, the tube is quickly and easily filled, but is very slow to empty.  And for as long as it holds even a drop of urine, an electrical circuit remains closed."

Marta raised an eyebrow in question.

"The labia-clamps," Beverly explained, "as well as a butt-plug and several contacts taped to various strategic portions of her anatomy... are electrified."

"That's terrible!" Marta gasped, but the poorly suppressed smile curling her lips belied her distress.

"Don't have kittens," Beverly purred, smiling at Crystal.  "That will be her job.  In any case, the voltage is safe and will be randomly modulated with respect to location and intensity.  That makes it much more interesting than simply being zapped into next Tuesday, don't you think?"

"Yes, Mistress," Lyndal and Marta agreed, in unison.  Crystal's only answer was her pitiful, ring-gagged expression.

"Also," Beverly purred, "there's a vibrator pad over her lower tummy, just above her pussy, with a finger or tentacle that dips down and in and nudges her clitoris.  One might say the butt-plug and pads provide the spice, and the vibrator provides the sugar."

Meanwhile, starting at the back, Lyndal was lifting the acrylic panels, one by one, and snapping them into sockets in the collar.  Where the panels' steel frames met the interior frame there were other, similar sockets, and Lyndal used the driver to screw bolts with decorative "jeweled" heads into each opening, working her way around the collar and down the vertical seams.  Whirr-whirr-whirr...

Beverly smiled at Lyndal.  "You did give Sweetness her enema before inserting the butt-plug, I assume."

"Of course, Mistress," Lyndal responded, affecting a wounded pout.

Beverly turned back to Marta.  "There are microphones built into the base and the collar.  The base microphones activate the vibrator, and the collar microphones activate the butt-plug and pads."  She smiled at Crystal.  "In other words, ambient noise will provide entertainment and the collar will discourage vocalization.  One can only ask so much of a gag, however elaborate."  She pointed to a helmet-like object resting on a nearby worktable.  It was molded in one piece, from the same translucent acrylic as the side-panels, and its front was a very realistic sculpting of Crystal's angelic (and un-gagged) face.  Once in place, it was apparent the entire enclosure would be something like an over-sized, Egyptian canopic jar of milky glass blown inside a simple framework of polished steel decorated with bright jewels.  Bulges and curves suggested the feminine form, but in a streamlined, understated manner.

"Note the silver pupils of the mask's over-sized eyes," Beverly said, then smiled at Marta.  "One-way glass.  Mirrored on the outside, transparent from within."

"So she can see out, of course," Marta purred.

"Did you notice the spring-mounted electrical contacts lining the inside of the front panels' breast cups before Lyndal closed them?" Beverly asked.

"No, but I'll take your word that they're there, Mistress," Marta chuckled.

"Shall I complete the encasement, Mistress?" Lyndal inquired.

"Prepare to do so, then wait," Beverly ordered.

Lyndal lifted the helmet/headpiece and set it to the side, revealing a penis-gag, a black rubber phallus attached to a panel of natural rubber.  She carried the gag to Crystal, who stared at the black, glistening penis with sad resignation.  Then, Lyndal paused, as ordered.

"Marta, you're on," Beverly purred.

Marta smiled at Crystal, who gazed back with a puzzled expression, as did Lyndal.  The grinning gallery manager lifted her skirt and peeled off her panties, sliding them down her long, tan, stocking-clad legs, and over her black heels.  Dangling the panties from her right index finger, she stepped forward.  "On Mistress' orders, I've worn these all day yesterday, all of last night—masturbating before going to sleep, of course—and all of today, including my visit to the gym."  She gave them a delicate sniff, wrinkling her nose.  "I'm afraid they're quite ripe."

Crystal's eyes popped wide and she forced a gurgling protest through her ring-gag.  "Orh!"  It was the first sound she's made since Beverly and Marta's arrival.

"Hush," Beverly scolded.  "Take your medicine like a good girl."

Lyndal held the penis-gag steady as Marta slowly, carefully wrapped the panties around the black member.  Then, working in concert, they slid the plug and silky wad through the ring and into Crystal's mouth, carefully tucking and tamping the panties past the padded ring.  The panel cupped Crystal's chin and its many straps stretched and snapped through hook-fittings sewn into the head-harness.  A cutout exposed Crystal's flaring nostrils, but her lower face was compressed under the tight seal of the stretched membrane.  A shudder shook her helpless body as she wiggled and squirmed.

Lyndal went to the worktable and returned with the headpiece.  She reached inside and found the end of a thin, coiled length of transparent tubing.  She stretched the tubing and snapped the steel flange in its end into a socket in the front of the gag-panel, directly over the base of the penis, then lifted the headpiece over Crystal's head.

Crystal's sad, pleading eyes darted from face to gloating, watching face as the helmet was lowered... and then the helmet's base mated with interrupted screw flanges in the encasement's collar, Lyndal gave it a clockwise twist, and it locked into place.  Four more decorative bolts were driven home—Whirr, whirr, whirr, whirr—and the encasement was complete.

"What a horrible fate," Marta sighed, then turned to Beverly.  "Wait, how sensitive are those microphones, the ones that activate the vibrator?"

Beverly shrugged.  "Moderately."

"But the floor plan calls for placing her in room four, between the piano and the champagne fountain," Marta complained.  "She'll be buzzing all night."

"Oh, I hope so," Lyndal laughed.  She plugged a clear plastic tube into a small opening in the very top of the helmet, opened its attached regulator to a slow drip, then used a long hook to lift the attached, quart-size, plastic bag bulging with greenish-yellow liquid and hang it by from an eye-bolt screwed into one of the rafters.  "Gatorade," she explained, "to keep her hydrated... and to exercise her kidneys.  It would normally drip directly into her mouth through weep holes in the penis, but now, I suppose it will have to soak through your panties, first."

"Horrible!" Marta gasped.

"Horrible," Beverly agreed, "but necessary.  After all, it's many hours until the show."

"And even longer 'til after the show," Lyndal added.

"I assume that thing has ventilation," Marta huffed.

"I knew I was forgetting something," Lyndal laughed.  "Don't worry.  There are hidden breathing holes around the base of the collar, and a fan blowing up from the base."

Marta frowned.  "Won't the batteries drain during the night?"

Lyndal shook her head.  "She's on A/C power.  And after I unplug her, the power cells are good for twelve to fourteen hours of continuous use, by which I mean the fan and the 'entertainment' system."  She tied a string with an attached tag around the jewel setting of one of the decorative bolts.  The tag read:

●	A D A I R    G A L L E R Y
	Item:	CRYSTAL INSTALLATION #3
	Artist:	LYNDAL DOUGLAS
	Display:	ROOM 4, N7/FLOOR

Beverly watched the Gatorade drip-drip-drip past the regulator and slowly creep down the tube towards the top of Crystal's encasement.  She then walked to Lyndal, pulled her into a tight embrace, and kissed her lips.  "I'm proud of you, Lyn," she said.  "Are you done for the night?"

"Yes, Mistress," Lyndal answered.  A blush colored her smiling cheeks.

"How 'bout you," Beverly asked Marta.

"Nothing pressing, Mistress," Marta responded.

Beverly smiled.  "See to your toilettes, then meet me in my bedroom."  She was standing in front of Crystal's encasement, smiling at the mask's silver eyes.  "Marta, Lyndal has earned herself a reward.  Strip, bind, and gag her.  Your discretion, but make it tight and inescapable."

"Is there any other way, Mistress?" Marta purred, smiling at Lyndal.

"Don't get cocky," Beverly chuckled.  "When you're finished, I want you to strip, as well.  Then, wait.  I haven't yet decided how I'll be securing you for the evening, or which of you I'll be taking to bed.  Do a nice, creative job tying up Lyn and it very well might be both of you.  Go."

"Yes, Mistress," Marta and Lyndal said in unison, then left, closing the door behind them.

Beverly smiled at Crystal's image on the front of the headpiece (and the bound, gagged, and helpless Crystal within).  "I'm proud of you, too, my tiny Crystal.  Suffer well.  The plans we've discussed are in motion, and soon you'll have your reward."

Beverly turned and left, turning out the lights and locking the door.

Inside Crystal Installation #3, Crystal sighed through her gag, then hummed through her gag.  "Mfff."  Instantly, a jolt of electricity zapped the contacts taped to her buttocks, on either side of her pussy, nudging her breasts, and lining the butt-plug.  She flinched and quivered in her bonds, but successfully suppressed the urge to scream in response.  This might have triggered a positive feedback loop of more punishment followed by more screaming.  Lyndal had set the system to inflict pain, but nothing she knew Crystal couldn't handle.

So... thinking about the long, dark hours that lay ahead...  About whatever might be going on upstairs, in Beverly's luxurious apartment on the second floor...  About the coming torment when her bladder filled and she had no choice but to let it empty...  About the secret, titillating humiliation of the coming show...  Crystal settled in to wait.

After all, Mistress had promised—and their plans were in motion!