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		T H E     B O N D A G E     I S     O U T    T H E R E	by Van ©2009
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		Chapter 6
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Gracie had been left up on her toes for most of an hour before the Bondarella Gang finally returned.  She watched as Betty wheeled the still unconscious, tape-gagged, and strapped down Megan out the door, taking her god-knew-where to do god-knew-what to her.
 
Meanwhile, Bondarella and Belladonna walked a slow circle around Gracie's helpless form.  She glared at the remaining kidnappers, and even though their features were hidden behind the same identical carnival masks they'd been wearing before, their gloating enjoyment of her well-roped, thoroughly gagged, and naked condition was manifest.

"She's a strong one," Belladonna purred.

"Strong," Bondarella agreed.  "At this stage, that French newsreader was a simpering wreck."

"Yes, I was so disappointed," Belladonna sighed.  "She was a rare beauty.  Gorgeous blue eyes, lithe, exquisite body, and clear, fair skin—and she marked so beautifully under the whip.  Her gagged, soprano moans and whimpers... heavenly music!  And I had to go easy on her, so she wouldn't break down completely.  She was such a disappointment."

"Well," Bondarella chuckled, "you won't have to spare the whip with this one.  I think it would take us days to break her spirit."

"Unless we were really trying, of course," Belladonna chuckled.

Gracie didn't even intensify her glare.  It was what they wanted.  They were trying to get her goat.  And besides, she was just too tired to make the effort.

Bondarella stepped behind Gracie and did something to the clip securing the ring tied in her hair.  The clip opened, and the prisoner was finally free of the overhead cable.

As soon as the pressure on her scalp abated, Gracie came down off her toes, but she had only a couple of seconds to savor the blessed relief of her aching feet and calves before Belladonna grabbed her and hefted her onto her shoulder.  Stomach down, feet to the front, and head to the rear, she was carried through the door and down a dimly lit hallway.  Gracie lifted her head and surveyed their surroundings, but all she could see was more of the same: cinder block walls, concrete floor, concrete ceiling, and industrial light fixtures.  Bondarella's elegant form sauntered in their wake.

They entered another room, and this time the walls, ceiling, and floor were covered with glazed tiles in a truly hideous shade of salmon-pink.  In the center, directly under a bank of bright lights, was a framework of vertical and horizontal stainless steel pipes.  Gears and articulated joints made it clear the apparatus was adjustable, but its actual purpose was unclear.  Steel cabinets and a hose reel were mounted on the surrounding walls.

Gracie was deposited face-down on the cool tiles, and Belladonna sat astride her waist.  She severed the cable-tie binding Gracie's thumbs, then started untying her rope bonds.  Meanwhile, Bondarella opened a cabinet, gathered several steel items in her arms, carried them over, and knelt beside Gracie's prone form.  Belladonna made short work of the key knots and began peeling the rope strands from Gracie's upper body—but as quickly as her wrists were released, broad, heavy steel cuffs snapped closed and they were locked together.  Gracie moaned with relief as her arms were finally allowed to relax from the reverse-prayer position, but her wrists were still bound behind her back.  As the ropes left her ankles, they were also replaced with steel cuffs, and a steel collar clicked closed around her throat.

The cuffs and collar were heavy and padded on their interior surfaces, but Gracie had only a few seconds for evaluation before she was lifted by her upper arms and dragged to the steel frame.  The back of her collar was clamped to a horizontal pipe, then her wrist cuffs were separated and clamped to the same pipe, to either side of her gagged head.  This left her standing upright with her arms raised and elbows bent.

Gracie had tried her best to resist the change of bondage, but her kidnappers were experts, and since she had never been completely free of her bonds during the entire process, the issue had never really been in doubt.

Gracie's ankle cuffs were separated and secured to another vertical pipe, leaving her bare feet about eighteen inches apart and on either side of the stainless steel grate of a large, circular drain.  At least I'm flat-footed this time, she thought, and not up on my toes.  The collar's padded embrace allowed her to turn her head a little, and she could examine her new restraints—the wrist cuffs, at least.  They were, indeed, stainless steel... heavy, thick, and wide... and now that they were clamped to the framework, they were also completely rigid, as were the collar and ankle cuffs.  For all practical purposes, Gracie was locked in an upright steel pillory and stocks.

"I know this will be extremely humiliating, Agent Hart," Bondarella purred, "but I'm sure you realize that humiliation is an important element of the program.  You realize you've been on camera from the moment of capture, don't you?  In fact, you're on camera right now."

Gracie glared at Bondarella's mask.  Of course it's humiliating to be a naked prisoner, she fumed, but what does the bitch mean by 'will be' humiliating?  What else is she gonna—"M'RRPFH!".  Belladonna had stepped behind and—was working something cold and slippery up her ass!! 

"Easy, Agent Hart," Bondarella cooed.  "Don't worry, it's lubricated.  Just relax."

"You'd think she'd never had a public enema while naked and in bondage before," Belladonna chuckled.

"That's an expandable probe," Bondarella explained.  "The portion Bella has just inserted past your sphincter will now expand, making a snug seal."

"Like this," Belladonna added.

"M'ffh!"  Gracie tugged on her implacable bonds and her eyes popped even wider.  The thing had expanded.  The feeling wasn't exactly painful, but it was very... strange.

"You'll be receiving two full quarts of warm saline," Bondarella continued.  "The system is on a timer, and the solution will arrive at some time in the next hour... as something of a surprise.  You'll be holding the solution for at least fifteen minutes, until we come back to help you with the purging process.  And don't worry about leakage.  This apparatus is very well-tested, believe me."

Meanwhile, Belladonna was untying the rope binding the steel ring in Gracie's hair.

Gracie tried to growl in protest, but what emerged was more on the order of a gagged, whimpering moan, although it was somewhat defiant.

"One more task," Bondarella said, as she took several steps back, "and then we'll leave you to enjoy the wait."

Gracie heard a rattling noise, followed by a hiss—and suddenly, a spray of cold water played over her body from behind!  The stream continued as Belladonna stepped to the side... and then to the front.  The nozzle of the hose was in her hand, and she doused Gracie from head to toe... then released the nozzle's handle and let it drop to the floor.

Gracie shivered in her bonds as the water dripped from her pinioned body.  Her hair was a bedraggled mess, with several loose strands plastered across her gagged face.  Belladonna stepped from sight, then returned with a sloshing steel bucket full of sudsy water.  She reached inside and pulled out a large sponge, then began rubbing it over Gracie's face and body.  She took her time, giving every inch of the captive Agent a thorough scrubbing, including the area between her splayed legs, of course.  Sponge bath complete, she carried the bucket away, to somewhere behind Gracie's back.  The captive was now covered with a slimy, glistening film of soap and bubbles, including her hair.

Bondarella stepped forward.  "Every minute or so, for a few seconds, a warm mist will spray from the overhead pipes," she explained.  "Eventually, it will rinse you nice and clean."

"Spanking clean," Belladonna added, joining her mistress to share in the gloating.

"One last enhancement," Bondarella purred, "for our patrons' enjoyment."  She reached into a pocket and pulled out a rolled white cloth.  It unrolled into a narrow strip and she held it so Gracie could read the letters "NEW JERSEY" neatly embroidered down its length.  It was a sash, exactly like the one Gracie had worn while undercover at that damned beauty pageant... the one that had made her "famous".  Bondarella draped it diagonally from Gracie's left shoulder, and engaged the rhinestone-studded clip over the captive's right hip.  "Hmm... not quite right.  Bella, be a dear and give it a quick wipe with the sponge, would you please?"

"My pleasure, " Belladonna said, and stepped away.

Seconds later, Gracie flinched as Belladonna held the base of the sash against her hip and dragged the dripping, soapy sponge down its length, plastering the cloth to her back.  Belladonna then stepped to the front, and the process was repeated.  The sopping and now semi-opaque sash clung to her soapy body.

"Excellent," Bondarella purred.  "Now, we'll let the mist do its work, and you can start enjoying the wait for your enema—and our patrons can enjoy your predicament.  Meanwhile, Bella and I are going to see if Betty needs any help preparing your partner for her first ordeal."

"Watching, anyway," Belladonna clarified.  "She's usually very jealous of her toys, and seldom needs any real help."

"Which perfectly describes you, as well, darling," Bondarella chuckled.  "Anyway," she continued, "When we return, you'll be fed and put to bed.  We want you to get a good night's sleep... for tomorrow."

The kidnappers spun on their heels and left the room.  The heavy steel door closed and its lock engaged, and Gracie was alone... not counting the unseen audience of "patrons" who had commissioned her kidnapping.

The soap was stinging her eyes, or that's what Gracie told herself.  Truth be told, her emotions were threatening to get the best of her will to remain strong.  I'm not going to give in, Gracie promised herself.  I'm not going to cry.

Suddenly, there was a gurgling, hissing sound, somewhere overhead, and a cloud of warm, wet mist drifted down over her body.  As promised, it only lasted a few seconds, and did little to wash the soap from her nude, helpless body.  Wonderful, Gracie fumed, and settled in to wait... her only option.  The pressure of the plug in her anus was a constant reminder of the ordeal to come, although it wasn't really painful.  'Two full quarts' sounds like a lot, she thought, maybe too much.  She very much hoped such would not be the case, but she didn't really know.

This would be Gracie's first enema—"public", "naked and in bondage", or otherwise.

When her tickling ordeal was finally over, Megan had been dragged to a tiled chamber, hosed down, soaped, and rinsed.  Next, she'd endured a humiliating enema, followed by a "supper" of puréed gorp poured through a rubber hose attached to a mouth-sealing gag.  Betty had assured her the slop was "highly nutritious", but it was also bland and disgusting.  All three of her catsuited and masked kidnappers had participated in her post-ordeal care and feeding; but, truth be told, Betty probably could have handled her on her own, with a few simple precautions.  Megan was simply too tired, physically and emotionally, to resist.  At least she was finally alone and could rest... after a fashion.

Megan had been "put to bed"... and that had been some time ago.

For the thousandth time, Megan squirmed in the canvas prison of the straitjacket embracing her upper body, only able to make the tiny, shifting comfort movements the tight-fitting garment allowed.  The jacket was more-or-less a standard, off-the-shelf model, although Megan had to admit she had little experience with such things—until now.  However, it hugged her torso as if it had been tailored to her exact size.  For all she knew, it had been.

Also, it was more enthusiastic with its various straps and buckles than similar devices she'd glimpsed during her visits to the Bellevue Psychiatric Ward to conduct interviews.  Her arms were crossed below her breasts in the traditional self-hug, with the straps at the end of the sleeves secured behind her back; however, additional straps sewn to the body of the jacket were buckled around her forearms, wrists, and upper arms, reinforcing her helplessness with what seemed to be ludicrous overkill.  Possibly the worst feature of all was the jacket's crotch strap.  Like the others, it was thick, tightly woven, natural cotton, and while it was too wide to cleave her sex, a wedge of natural rubber attached to the inside surface parted her labia and its upper end was firmly nestled against her clitoris.

Continuing the apparent theme of the evening... ludicrous overkill... Megan was locked inside a steel cage.  Its base was approximately three by four feet, and it was about three feet in height.  The closely spaced bars were powder-coated in a dull silver, and its door was secured with a large sliding bolt and a high-security padlock.  After her captors had left her alone, she'd shoved her shoulder against the portal, and it hadn't even rattled.  There was a thick pad covering the floor, similar in material and weight to the natural canvas of her straitjacket.  Megan had to admit she was more or less comfortable, although not being able to stretch her legs would probably get old... eventually.

Other unnecessary refinements to her helplessness were the wide, thick, leather cuffs buckled around her ankles.  They were butternut-tan "medical restraints", padded on the inside with natural canvas, and joined by an eighteen-inch hobbling strap.  Also, a wide strip of translucent medical tape was plastered across her lower face, covering her lips and tautly, smoothly stretched from ear to ear and from just under her nostrils to the point of her chin.

The final touch was an electrical cable Betty had plugged into a threaded steel socket in the front of the straitjacket's crotch-strap and secured with several turns of a small wrench.  It trailed away between the bars of the cage, across the floor, and up the leg of a steel table, where it was plugged into an electrical device the size of a clock radio or gaming console.  There was plenty of slack in the arrangement, more than enough to let Megan roll around inside the cage, but she could tell she'd be unable to unplug the connection or break the cable, even if she tried.  The attachment point at the strap was obviously hefty, strong, and up to the task, and the cable itself was secured to a bar of the cage and the leg of the table with multiple cable-ties.  The purpose of this strange tether remained a curious (but rather ominous) mystery.

There was also another of the large, flat-screen monitors mounted on the wall, and Megan could see images of her helpless self in three of the four windows painting its screen.  Two provided overall views of the cage and its occupant, one from the front, and one from above.  The third was a closeup of her gagged face.  Megan could see the way the deceptively delicate, translucent film sealing her lips conformed to her pursed lips, as well as her freckles, the lashes of her tired, green eyes, and even the tiny, countless hairs covering her skin.  The miracle of HDTV, she thought.  The fourth window appeared to be a readout of her respiration and heart rates.  I guess the cable links to medical sensors built into the jacket, she reasoned, and closed her eyes.

Betty's tickle-torture of Megan's helpless self had been the ordeal she'd feared it would be... but she'd made it through with her mind and body intact.  She sighed and willed herself to sleep, studiously ignoring the knot of despair in her stomach that threatened to overwhelm her spirit.

Minutes passed and Megan achieved her immediate goal.  Her breathing and heart rates slowed, and she dozed in her inescapable bondage.

Suddenly, a previously dark LED began flashing on the "medical monitor" device.  At the same time, the rubber wedge cleaving Megan's sex began to vibrate, throbbing with delicate energy, pulsing and shivering.  It wasn't enough to wake the helpless captive, but from the way she began slowly squirming and tugging on her straitjacket, it was making its presence felt.

Minutes passed and Megan continued to writhe and struggle.  In addition, the camera tracking her tape-gagged face captured her eyes rolling under their closed lids.  In the medical monitor window, the trace of her heart rate had accelerated.

Megan was in REM sleep, lost in her dreams, one aspect of her person her captors could not control... not completely, anyway.

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
THE TASK FORCE OFFICES IN CRYSTAL CITY

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"What exactly does 'work the list' mean?" Veronica huffed.

"We take the list of contacts the NSA gave us," Lindsay explained, "and start expanding the file on each business."

Veronica sighed.  "I'm okay," she complained.  "None the worse for wear, and I should be at the Hoover Building with Dana and Claudia.  I don't need to be coddled."

Lindsay sighed.  "Ronnie, she's protecting you, not coddling you."

Veronica bristled.  "I don't need protecting."

"At this stage in your career," Lindsay said, patiently, "the last thing you need is to be introduced to the top brass at the Bureau as Scully's wise-ass rookie who let herself get captured by her first perp."

Veronica took several seconds to digest her partner's words... then cracked a wry smile.  "Okay, I am a wise-ass, but it's not fair for Dana to take all the heat."

"Fair has nothing to do with it," Lindsay said, shaking her head.  "It goes with being in command.  When we catch those bitches, all will be forgiven."

"It's not fair," Veronica repeated.

Lindsay grinned.  "Yes, but speaking of not fair, why do you suppose she took Claudia with her?"

Veronica blinked in surprise.  "Huh?"

"The 'good ol' boys' will go easier on Dana with a foreign cop in the room," Lindsay explained.  "But the real reason... did you see the dress Claudia was wearing?"

Veronica blinked again, then smiled.  "Oh!  I get it.  I wish I could shake my rack and mesmerize a room full of top brass."

"Never underestimate the value of a dimpled smile," Lindsay chuckled, "and you're well-equipped in that regard."

"Takes one to know one," Veronica countered; then, her smile faded.  "What do you think Megan and Gracie are going through, right now?"

Lindsay shook her head.  "Don't go there, Ronnie.  They need you—they need us—to concentrate on our work."

Veronica sighed.  "How do you do it?" she whispered.

"You just do it," Lindsay muttered.  "If you can't learn to handle stuff like this, you need to find a different career."

Veronica nodded, and reached for the first file in the stack of contacts.  She opened the folder, then paused.  "Say... Lindsay...?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you have any European contacts?  Do you know anyone across the pond you can call?  Call professionally, I mean."

Lindsay gazed at her young partner.  "Not really.  What do you have in mind?"

"We should start working the list from both sides of the Atlantic," Veronica suggested.  "I know someone from when I was at Quantico.  She was over here for a symposium and we met in the gym.  Emily Sommers, from Scotland Yard."  She sighed and went back to scanning the folder.  "No, I should let Claudia make some calls when she gets back."

Lindsay smiled.  "I think working both sides is a good idea.  Make your call and I'll start things from this end."

"But should I call Scotland Yard without Dana's permission?  It probably violates some protocol."

Lindsay smiled.  "If you need permission, I'm the senior partner and I say make the call.  Dana can yell at me if she wants, but she won't.  It's a good idea."

Veronica smiled and reached for the phone.

MEANWHILE, BACK AT "BONDARELLA'S LAIR"...

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Gracie had surprised herself by actually getting some sleep.

After her enema—which she didn't want to think about—she had been "fed", as promised, which turned out to mean swallowing a healthy portion of some sort of thick, semi-fluid slop, delivered through a hose attached to a specialized, mouth-sealing gag.  Afterward, she'd been transferred to a gurney and strapped down on her back in what appeared to be standard, four-point hospital restraints.  The butternut leather cuffs on her ankles and wrists secured her arms at her sides and her legs straight, with her ankles about a foot apart.  Additional leather straps were buckled from side-rail to side-rail, across her chest, waist. and thighs.  The cuffs were buckled tight, but none of the tethering straps were especially stringent.

Gracie had to admit that she was more-or-less comfortable, with enough slack in her bonds to roll about, at least a little; however, all the buckles and attachment points were secured with locking tabs.  As always, as she had been from the moment she'd awakened to find herself Bondarella's prisoner, Gracie was helpless.

Her kidnappers wheeled her down the hallway and into a new concrete and cinder block chamber.  They locked the wheels of the gurney, then her gag was unbuckled and its rubber plug pulled from her mouth; but before Gracie could do more than lick her lips, once, and before she could even compose a pithy remark, a wide strip of translucent medical tape sealed her lips.

Belladonna leaned close and smoothed the tape with her gloved fingers.  "There... nice and comfy," she cooed.  "Nightie-night, Miss New Jersey."  She cupped Gracie's breasts and gave them a gentle squeeze, then her mask turned to her mistress.  "A strap-on vibrator, perhaps?  Entertainment for the long, dark, lonely night?"

Bondarella paused, considering her answer.  "No," she said, finally.  "I think we'll let Agent Hart rest.  Even subliminal 'entertainment' will interfere with the recharging of her batteries, and you want her at her best in the morning, don't you?"

Belladonna's answer was to give Gracie's breasts a final squeeze, then spin on her booted heel and leave the chamber.

Bondarella followed, closing and locking the door.  Seconds later, the lights clicked out and Gracie was alone... helpless and alone in the dark.

She thought of Megan, wondering what was happening to her.  Were they letting her sleep?  Normal sleep... without the drugs...  She hoped so.  She knew there was little chance her colleagues would find them before their kidnappers did more to them... but who knew?  They might catch a break.  It could happen.  Besides... the alternative to unfounded optimism was misery and despair.  Be strong, Megan! Gracie thought.  Help is on the way!

Eventually, she managed to fall asleep—

---

—then snapped awake when the lights clicked on and a key rattled in the door's lock.

The door opened and Belladonna sauntered into the chamber, pushing a steel cart.  Numerous things were on the cart, but whatever they were, they were hidden under a white cloth.  Belladonna left the cart to the side, even with the foot of the gurney, then stepped to the left side-rail and gazed down at Gracie.

Gracie gazed back.  She was trying for an angry glare, but fear was sapping her efforts.  Today is the day, she knew.  Today is the day she does things to me.

"Good morning," Belladonna purred.  "Let's get right to it, shall we?  I can have my breakfast a little later."  She unlocked the strap across Gracie's chest, then gave it a strong tug, tightening it to the point that it dimpled Gracie's skin and pressed her firmly into the soft padding.  Next, she tightened the waist strap, and then the straps of the wrist cuffs, locking Gracie's wrists hard against the side-rails.  Now, from the waist up, squirming her body and lifting her head were Gracie's only options.  Belladonna released and removed the strap across Gracie's thighs, then stepped to the head of the gurney.

Gracie heard a click and a whir, and Belladonna walked back down to the foot of the gurney; only now she had the end of a light steel cable in her hand.  She snapped its terminal clip through a ring on the side of Gracie's left ankle cuff, and released the cuff's strap from the side-rail.  The whir sounded, and the cable began to shorten.  Obviously, it was attached to some sort of electric winch.  Gracie's foot and leg were pulled towards her head.  She tried to resist, but the winch's motor easily overcame her efforts.  The cable didn't lock until her left ankle was past her shoulders.

Belladonna reattached the ankle cuff's strap to the side-rail at this new position, detached the cable and carried it to the right side of the gurney, and repeated the process with Gracie's right leg.  The captive was now flat on her back with both legs nearly straight and pulled up and to either side of her body.  It was something close to the full pike position of a competitive dive, but with her ankles spread the width of the gurney.  Her thighs formed a "V", with her naked sex at the point.  Belladonna tightened an additional strap around each of Gracie's knees and to their respective side-rails, and Gracie now found she could barely squirm any part of her body.

The catsuited criminal caressed Gracie's right thigh with her gloved hand.  "Delicious," she purred.  "Just look at that pretty pussy... all plump and pink... and on such prominent display."  She stepped to the foot of the gurney and stomped her foot on something near the floor.  There was a loud click, a hydraulic hiss, and the lower half of the gurney dropped away, folding from the horizontal to the vertical, with the hinge somewhere under Gracie's hips.

"And now that pussy's even more prominent," Belladonna continued, "and even more readily accessible."

Gracie lifted her head and gazed down her helpless body.  Her abs were locked in full crunch, of course, and her thigh and leg muscles were stretched pretty close to their limits, and felt as taut as the straps enforcing this punishing pose.

Belladonna folded back the cloth on the cart, then returned to the foot of the gurney.  In her right hand—Gracie's eyes popped wide—she held an electric razor!  She clicked it on, then began running its steel head through Gracie's pubic bush.

Gracie shivered, squirmed, and glared at her tormentor as her bush was rapidly reduced to a patch of dark bristles.

"I know that tickles like crazy," Belladonna purred, "the vibrating razor, I mean.  Dreadfully sorry."

Bitch! Gracie fumed, then her eyes widened, again.  Belladonna had returned the razor to the cart—and now she had a shaving mug and brush!  "I favor an ice-cold, mentholated lather.  Not for myself, of course.  I tried it once, and the feeling was simply dreadful.  I mean for when I'm defoliating someone else."

Gracie flinched as her crotch and pubic bush were slathered with a generous coating of cold, white foam.  She watched Belladonna take the mug back to the cart, and return with a hand towel and a narrow, stainless steel safety razor.

"Triple-blade, Swiss-made," she explained, spinning the razor in her gloved hand.  "Only the very best for our Beauty Queen.  The head is only a third as wide as a masculine face-razor, but I find it just the thing for maneuvering around all the delicate nooks, crannies, crinkles, and folds of a splayed pussy."  She proceeded to give Gracie's crotch a very thorough shave, using her fingers to stretch, pull, and manipulate the skin, as required.

Gracie closed her eyes and tried to ignore what was happening to her... the delicate scrape of the razor... the sharp, cool sting of the menthol foam... the abject humiliation.

Task accomplished, Belladonna used the towel to remove the remaining foam.  "There... slick and hairless, just like on your twelfth birthday," she remarked, as she returned the razor and towel to the cart.  Now, a small spray-bottle was in her gloved hand.  "Aftershave," she explained, and spritzed a generous cloud of mist over Gracie's crotch.

Gracie shivered, clenched her hands into fists, and curled her toes.  The "aftershave" burned... then went cold... and then was gone.  Her labia and the surrounding skin felt cool and... tingly.  She heard a loud slap, focused on her kidnapper—and again, her eyes popped wide!

Belladonna had a small leather flogger in her right hand, and was using it to slap the gloved palm of her left hand.  Whack!  It was black, with a braided handle.  Its twenty or so shoelace-thin tails were pliant, thin, and only about a foot in length.

"And now we can begin," Belladonna announced.

Gracie's heart was pounding.  She watched in helpless horror as Belladonna's right hand drew back... the leather tails hissed—and her masked and catsuited kidnapper delivered a stinging blow to her crotch!  Gracie bucked against the straps and screamed through her tape-sealed lips.  A second blow landed, this time on the inside of her left thigh, and she screamed again!  There was a pause.  Gracie panted through flaring nostrils and she watched Belladonna stroll to the head of the gurney.  There was another swish—and the sole of Gracie's right foot exploded in pain!

Another pause.  "I'm forgetting something," Belladonna purred.  "Oh... that's right... breakfast.  Silly me."  She returned the flogger to the cart, pulled the cloth cover back in place, then stepped to the left side-rail and gazed down at her captive.  To Gracie, her beautiful, lifeless mask had never seemed more sinister.  "You have an hour to think about what's to come, while I enjoy my meal.  Then... just wait 'til you see what else I have on my little cart."

Gracie watched as Belladonna strolled out the door and pulled it closed.  The lock rattled and the lights winked out—all but one, a single pin-spot focused on her now totally hairless sex.  Her heart was still hammering, and tears welled in her eyes.  She blinked and willed herself to relax.  Panic was futile and counterproductive, and it was not an escape.  There was no escape.  She knew she would have to endure what was to come... whatever it was... whatever else was waiting on Belladonna's "little cart", in addition to that hellish flogger.

Now would be a really good time for a miraculous break in the case, she prayed.  Let Dana and the others find something... find us!  Please?