~ISLA PARAÍSO~ fiction by Van ©2005 art by Dea ©2005
			Chapter 6

To see the actresses I would cast in an ISLA PARAÍSO motion picture, follow the link below, and use your browser's "Back" feature to return.  (Please ignore characters who have not yet appeared.)

So, there I was, naked, in total darkness, clamped to a marble and steel table to the point that I could barely wiggle—gagged, the dildo of a "fucking machine" slowly sliding in and out of my well-lubricated hoo-haw...  Chrissy, that was one, uh, memorable couple of hours!  That's right, a couple of hours... more or less.

And no, I didn't manage to cum.  The damn machine would pump for a minute or so, then stop for several minutes, then pump again, etc.  It was enough to abrade my nerves, but not my nerve endings, if you get my meaning.  It kept me from dozing off, but it wouldn't bring me off.  It was too slow, too brief, too infrequent, and it was too bad, 'cause I really wanted to cum!

The combination of nearly total immobility, total helplessness, and the regularly irregular low-level stimulation was giving me a new appreciation of the concept of frustration, as in sexual frustration, as in OH-GOD-I-WANT-TO-CUM!!

Anyway, I lay there, listening for the almost inaudible metallic clicks and clacks that would herald the machine reactivating for the next round of pumping action... (Maybe this time!) ...when I heard, instead, the unmistakable sounds of the door being unlocked, unbolted, and opened.  I forced a mewling whine past my gag, then heard the sound of a pair of boots on the stone floor.

Boots?  The castle rule was bare feet only!  Why was Rosa breaking her own rules?  I forced another whine past my gag, this time with a questioning tone, and was ignored.

The chamber was still in total darkness, but I could hear Rosa moving around.  There were clicks and clacks from the region of my splayed legs, then the dildo slid from my sex.  Over the next few minutes I heard the boots trace and retrace a path to the side of the chamber as my clamp-restraints were removed and returned to their storage cabinet drawers.  My wrists and ankles remained locked to the table, but eventually everything but those clamps and the gag-mask were removed.

Next, the mask was released, and the foam ball pulled from my mouth.  I tried to speak—"Rosa!!"  Okay, I tried to whine; but before I could whine anything else, a different ball was popped in my mouth, its strap tightened and secured behind my head, and a padlock clicked through the buckle.  From that point on, I gave Rosa a more or less continuous piece of my mind, well-muffled and totally incomprehensible, of course.  The ball was semi-hard rubber and big, bigger than anything I'd worn before.

My ankles were released from the clamps and locked in heavy shackles separated by about two feet of chain.  The continuing absence of light was disconcerting, but Rosa's actions were quick and precise, not as if she was groping around and working by feel alone.  How could she see me, or the clamps, or the ball-gag?

And speaking of clamps, my wrists were released.  I was "helped" off the table and down to the floor.  I was pretty tuckered out from my ordeal, but I was also a little ticked off at Rosa for being so mean, so it was my duty to resist.  I squirmed a little, offering token resistance to uphold the honor of the Distressed Damsels' Club, but that was about it.

I heard straps and metal hardware rattling and tinkling, then my arms were pulled behind my back and zipped and buckled into a sheath.  It was one of those "single-sleeve" thingies, Chrissy.  I'd heard of them—U89 uses one on Gwendoline, you might recall—but I'd never actually seen one, much less worn one.  It encased my fingers, hands, wrists, forearms, elbows, and upper arms, nearly up to the pits!  My hands were pressed together, palm-to-palm, and my fingers scrunched into what amounted to a tight pocket.  Broad straps sewn to the outside of the sleeve buckled around my wrists and above my elbows, and narrow straps went under my pits, criss-crossed above my breasts in front, went over my shoulders, and buckled to the top of the sleeve in back.  Finally, I heard and felt Rosa fussing with the chain connecting my shackles and doing something at the tip of the sleeve's mitten.

I was helped to my feet and could tell immediately that she'd used a short chain to connect the sleeve to the shackle chain.  It kept the steel links from dragging on the floor, and transferred most of the weight to my arms.  Also, and this was decidedly non-trivial, the sleeve was pulling my shoulders back and making my tits stick out, more than usual, anyway (and keep your snide, jealous, Big-Boob-Lori remarks to yourself, Chrissy).  I could tell this thing was going to get old, although it was well-designed... the sleeve, I mean.  All my pressure points seemed to be protected and my arms weren't going to sleep... for now.  But it was going to get old.

Still in total darkness, and still mewling a tirade of protests and complaints past my gag, I was dragged from the chamber, out into the hall, and down the corridor.  Rosa had a finger crooked through the crossed straps of the sleeve and was pulling me along.

I stumbled along in darkness for some time.  We made several turns; paused while she unlocked, opened, and relocked what sounded like two sets of iron gates; then climbed a seemingly endless spiral staircase.  We paused again and I heard some sort of switch or lever being thrown.  There was a rumbling noise, the sound of stone scraping against stone, and I found myself blinking in an ever-increasing greenish glow.  A stone panel was lifting into the ceiling, and ahead was a long, narrow corridor that led directly to a low opening draped with vines.

I turned to Rosa and—it wasn't Rosa!

It was Lucia!

She was wearing combat boots, jungle green cargo shorts, a military brown tank-top, and a jungle green vest of nylon mesh with many pockets and attachment points.  A web belt was slung low around her waist, with a holstered automatic pistol rode her right hip.  She was removing a set of night vision goggles and tucking them into a pocket on the vest.  A very self-satisfied, very evil smile was on her angelic face, and her long, black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.

I was terrified, Chrissy!  What was Lucia up to?  Where was she taking me?  And where was my Rosa?

Lucia grabbed the crossed straps of my sleeve, again, pulled me close, and began straightening my hair with her free hand.  "Poor Lorelai," she cooed.  "I can tell you are frightened."  (Understatement of the week.)  Her hand dropped to my left breast and she held it in a gentle grip.  "Your heart is beating like a little bird."  She gave my breast a soft squeeze, then reached into one of her vest pockets and produced a long, thin, steel chain.  There was a clip at one end, and she attached this to the front of my ball-gag, between my lips.  Obviously, there was a steel ring or something in the front of the ball itself.  "Lucia take you on a little field trip, okay?"

Lucia take me on a little field trip NOT okay!  I twisted my shoulders and struggled against the tight confines of the sleeve, stamped my right foot, shook my head, and forced a negative noise past my gag.  All this accomplished was a little chain rattling and some boob shaking.  That, and Lucia's smile turned even more evil.

"Well," she gloated, "it does not really matter, does it?  You will follow, and do as Lucia says, or..."  She reached into another pocket and this time produced a pair of nipple clamps!  They were connected by a length of thin chain and were the scissor-clip type that tighten when you pull on them.  Lucia held one of the clips before my no doubt horrified face and squeezed it open.  The business end was a pair of oval pads with little teeth hovering somewhere between a pointy texture and a field of tiny needles!  "These can go on the nipples..."  Her gaze dropped to my crotch!  "Or other places.  I promise, if you make me use them, you will become very obedient.  Now, you will do as Lucia says, no?"

I nodded.  What else could I do?

"Good," Lucia purred, returned the clamps to their pocket, and stepped away down the corridor.  My gag-leash snapped taut and I stumbled forward in her wake.  The stone door slid closed behind us.

We made our way to the curtain of vines, forced our way through, and I found ourselves in a small jungle clearing.  The nearest wall of the castle loomed behind us, at least a hundred yards away.  The entrance to the corridor (make that tunnel) from which we had just emerged was camouflaged as a shallow grotto tucked into and under a jumble of several large boulders.  It was one of those secret entrance thingies.  Hardly surprising.  They're standard with all castles, right?

Anyway, I got dragged across the clearing and into the jungle proper.  There was a barely discernible trail, well-carpeted with decaying leaves, thankfully.  (Bare feet, remember?)  Lucia set a slow enough pace that I could avoid tripping on the occasional tree root or mossy rock.

It was getting really dark under the canopy.  I looked up, trying to gauge the angle of the sun, but all I could see was a mottled gray-green glow.  The leaves were shaking and the top branches swaying.  Seconds later, a pattering, rattling sound started.  We trudged along for a minute more, and then I felt the first BIG drop of tree-filtered rain.

More mega-drops began pelting the jungle floor, Lucia, and myself in what became a steady shower.  Soon, everything was soaked.  (Oh, that's why they call it a rainforest.)  The leaves of the understory plants were now glistening, the litter under my feet was soggy, and water was beading and dripping from my body.  Lucia had produced a jungle green boonie hat from another of her vest pockets, so the rain was out of her eyes, but otherwise she was as soaked as I was.

The rain was warm and under the canopy there was zero wind, so it was no serious hardship.  It was, however, wet.  My hair was a tangled, clinging mass of curls, and the trail was turning into a series of shallow puddles.  Lucia glided along like a green ghost, barely disturbing the undergrowth, virtually silent, at home in the jungle as if she was born on the island... which, of course, she was.

Anyway, after about a mile of splishing, splashing, and slithering through wet foliage, we came to another clearing.  It was much larger than the one at the castle's secret entrance, but still small enough to be more or less sheltered by the tree canopies.  Knee-high, tasseled grasses carpeted the roughly circular area, and parked in the center was a version of the all-terrain vehicle Lucia had used to deliver me to the castle.  This one was a little bigger.  It had six wheels, was painted a mossy green, and had a camouflaged canvas top stretched over tubular roll-bars.

We slogged to the vehicle.  I shook my head to try and straighten my sopping wet hair, then yelped in alarm when Lucia picked me up and plopped me in one of back seats.  I was strapped in, as before, and this time there were additional restraints across my knees and around my already chained ankles.  I glared at my captor, then flinched when she reached a hand towards my face.

Lucia chuckled softly.  Her gloating demeanor was still there, but I could tell she wasn't being cruel.  Mean?  Maybe, and I was still a little scared, but I was no longer terrified.  "Easy, Lorelai," she whispered, and combed my hair from my face with her fingers.  "I'm taking you to visit La Marquesa's resort."  My eyes popped wide and I shook my head.  "You don't want to see the resort?" she teased.  "Aren't you curious?"  She laughed again and climbed into the driver's seat.

Visit La Marquesa's super-secret resort?  The one supposedly full of vacationing celebs?  Well, yeah, but... Naked?  Bound?  Gagged?  Wet?  I'd just as soon stay at the castle, thank you.  But my embarrassed, helpless, dripping and bedraggled opinion was moot.

Lucia fastened her seat belt, started the engine, and we were off.

The first mile or so of trail was a wet, soggy, twisting, turning mess.  I can't call it a road, but the vehicle did manage to negotiate the semi-linear series of gaps in the vegetation without much difficulty.  We paused at a tall clump of ferns, then rolled forward and onto a true road of crushed gravel.  I looked back and could see no sign of the sidetrack from which we'd just emerged.  The road ahead was clear of traffic, what I could see of it.  Lucia smiled at me over her shoulder, then shifted gears and our journey continued.

We didn't pass any traffic, vehicular or pedestrian.  This was a good thing, I suppose.  No one got to ogle my naked, bound, gagged, and helpless self.  On the other hand, there were no witnesses to my abduction... or arrest... or whatever was happening.

The rain slackened and then stopped.  We purred along at a reasonable clip, and the jungle passed in a blur of dripping green foliage and wet tree trunks.  Sunlight began breaking through the clouds, sending yellow shafts through the trees and across the road.  The general ambiance changed from a wet gray-green to a damp green-blue.

The journey continued, I was shaken (but not stirred) for at least an hour.  My boobs bobbled with monotonous regularity, and my hair dried (sort of) into a wind-blown mare's nest of auburn tangles.  I began to notice a change in the surrounding jungle.  Things were opening up.  The spacing of the trees was more or less the same, but the undergrowth was getting sort of park-like—less jungle and more tropical garden.

The gravel road transitioned into cobbles, we made a turn, and an ornate rustic gate came into view.  It reminded me of the entrance to Jurassic Park.  Remember?  That sort of pseudo-primitive wood and bright tropical colors style?  Anyway, the sign over the gate read "Isla Paraíso Balneario".  (...which I learned later means "Spa".)

There was a double fence running into the trees from either side of the gate complex.  The outer fence was several strands of plain wire stretched from metal poles, about five feet tall.  It had a single electrified strand at the top.  The inner fence was much more formidable, a cyclone fence at least twelve feet tall with three electrified strands at the top and a loose spiral of ribbon wire.  The funny thing is, Chrissy, there were those angle bracket things supporting the nastiness at the top—and they all faced in ...as in into the resort!  {Gulp.}  In other words, the outer fence was a firm but polite reminder to the islanders and their livestock that the Marquesa would appreciate it if they wouldn't wander into the resort uninvited.  The inner fence, on the other hand, was a not so subtle reminder to anyone inside the resort that they needed a key, a key code, permission, or the help of the Impossible Missions Force to make an exit.

Anyway, the double gates opened, we rolled through, and the gates closed behind us.  The road continued to a large circular courtyard, a spiral of cobbles two or three dozen yards across.  Footpaths radiated from the courtyard towards clusters of buildings.  The closest was only a couple of dozen paces away, but most were pretty far.  All were "Primitive Chic", modern stucco and timber-framed buildings with thatched roofs, just the sort of thing you'd expect at an exclusive tropical resort.

Lucia unstrapped me from my seat and helped me out of the vehicle.  She then led me to the center of the courtyard, where I beheld an iron ring set into a depression in the center cobble.  The end of my gag-leash was threaded through the ring and snapped to itself.  It was just long enough to allow me to stand upright.  I glared at Lucia as she reached into a pocket of her vest and produced, of all things, a folding hairbrush.  She stepped behind me and began brushing my hair.  I sighed and stood still.

"A word of advice," she whispered as she gently unraveled my tangled tresses.  "Do everything you are told, immediately.  And learn quickly.  Let the first lesson be enough, for the second lesson will always be most unpleasant."

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, of course, but the concern in her voice was sincere... and that was scarier than her most evil smile.  I squirmed in my bonds and moaned through my gag—then yelped when she used the hairbrush to deliver a smack to my left butt-cheek.  The brush was pretty small and the blow more a surprise than a punishment, but I took the hint and stopped moving.

"Good girl," she purred, and continued brushing my hair.  Most of the tangles had been dealt with, so her strokes were now long and deep and my hair was rapidly returning to normal.  I was still scared, but it felt good to be pampered a little.  I closed my eyes, trying to decide if I should be rebellious, or maybe try a few tears, when suddenly, the brush was gone.  I opened my eyes and watched Lucia climb back into the vehicle.

"Later, Red-Hair," Lucia said as she started the engine.  She then winked, and sped away.

"Lucia!"   Okay, what came out was more like, "Ueeah!"  I watched the vehicle roll through the distant gates and disappear into the jungle.  The gates rolled closed with a hollow clang... and I was alone... naked, bound, gagged, chained to the ground, and alone!  Tears welled in my eyes, and I was feeling seriously sorry for myself.

I heard boots crunching the gravel of one of the paths behind me, shuffled in a circle to find the source—and my eyes popped wide!

Ulrika!  It was my first look at Ulrika!  What's an Ulrika, you ask?

Ulrika is a force of nature, Chrissy.  Six feet tall... (Maybe less.  It's hard to tell with the boots she always wears.) ...firm muscles and feminine curves... the figure of a goddess of war.  Smooth, fair skin; a beautiful round face with gorgeous, cold, blue eyes.  A force of nature.

She was dressed in a really kinky outfit: opera gloves, thigh boots, corset, this peekaboo, skintight, one-piece leotard thing, and a collar, with a padlock dangling from the front.  Everything was red or black, gleaming leather or glossy latex.  I don't know how she could wear all that tight rubber and leather in the heat, but there she was.  (I learned later that with minor variations this was her normal resort uniform, but I didn't know that at the time, of course.)

She looked my naked and helpless self up and down... like a tigress surveying a tethered goat.

I stared at her with what had to be terrified wonder.  She's gorgeous, Chrissy. Not like my Rosa, but dangerous-gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous you want to see in your rearview mirror.

Moving with automatic grace, she walked a slow circle around my shivering self, then struck a pose, hands on hips.

"So, you are the red-haired beauty who has seduced Rosa," she said.  Ulrika has this trace of a German accent, Chrissy, or maybe it's Austrian, Frisian... whatever.  Her English is perfect, but she does have that definite (and kinda sexy) accent.  It adds to the mystery.

"This is La Marquesa's resort," she explained.  (Like I didn't know already.)  "It exists for two purposes, to pamper and entertain La Marquesa's friends..."  She grabbed my tether chain and pulled me close until we were face-to-face.  "...and to train and discipline her employees."

Train??  Discipline??  "Eeep!"

Maintaining her grip on the gag-chain, Ulrika was using her other hand to explore my sex!  The slithery feel of her latex-covered fingers slipping and sliding around my most intimate person was most disconcerting.

"For instance," Ulrika continued, "suppose La Marquesa had a computer professional in her employ..."  She began a slow massage of my clit.  This was making it rather difficult to concentrate on our one-sided conversation, as you might imagine.  "...and suppose this employee spent her days playing the slavegirl with another, thus wasting the time of two employees."  The massage continued.  "What might be a good way to discipline such a troublemaker?"

Her fingers slid out of my sex and she rubbed them together, examining the film-covered latex with a critical eye.  "Hmm... you're a randy little thing, aren't you?  Quick to the rut.  Quick to drip musk."

I blushed bright crimson, and for the first time... got a little mad.  I glared at her and pulled back on my leash, but her hand was as rock solid as a steel post.

"A spirited little minx.  Excellent.  It's not nearly as much fun disciplining a cowering cow.  That is more drudgery than challenge, no?"

I had no idea how to respond to this Teutonic amazon, even if I wasn't tightly gagged.  I decided obedient discretion was the better part of defiant valor.  I let my gaze drop to the ground and affected a frightened shudder.  (No real acting was required, Chrissy, believe me!)

"In answer to my earlier question," Ulrika continued, "the best way to discipline an employee who plays the slavegirl on company time is the same way one disciplines a worker at a candy factory who steals chocolates."  She stooped and released my gag-chain from the iron ring, then stood and gave it a quick jerk.  I stutter-stepped forward, nearly tripping on my shackles, then regained my balance.  "You feed her chocolate until she can't look at the stuff."  She jerked my chain again, and shortened her grip until, again, we were face-to-face.  "You think being a slavegirl is fun, you spoiled little kitten?"  Her smile became truly evil.  "Ulrika is going to spoil you rotten."

That was my formal introduction.  Ulrika—force of nature.

She let my chain trail through her hand, caught the end, and stepped away towards the nearest building.  The chain snapped taut, and I followed.

I didn't get much of a chance to inspect the interior of the the resort, the parts Ulrika dragged me through, I mean.  She was setting a rapid pace, more rapid than Lucia, and I was concentrating on not tripping on my shackles and falling on my gagged face.  Let's just say there was lots of open space, hardwood floors, expensive rugs, plush furnishings, tropical fabrics, rattan, potted palms, etc., etc.

Ulrika dragged me through the one building, out into a garden of orchids and ferns, and into another building.  This one was more or less a greenhouse, but rather than a lot of plants, there was a row of stainless steel tables.  Motorized tracks criss-crossed overhead, and against the far wall was a row of steel tanks, one of which—YOW!!

I stared in amazement.  What were unmistakably a helmeted head and a pair of mittens were sticking out of a bubbling tank of brown goo.  The mittens were latex, and I could see fingers struggling, straining, and stretching the thick black material.  There were thick, wide cuffs around the wrists, also of latex, half in and half out of the goo.  The helmet was a cross between a motorcycle helmet and a gas mask, or maybe a space helmet.  It had a reflective faceplate, and a form-fitting section over the nose and mouth with two breathing hoses that trailed away and out of sight.  There was also a latex collar sealed to the bottom of the helmet.

A stainless steel frame was suspended by chains from a hoist overhead.  It was mostly submerged in the tank and taut wires stretched from the cuffs and collar to the frame.  I surmised the faceplate was a one-way mirror, 'cause the occupant of the apparatus seemed to be aware of our presence.  It was Ulrika causing the reaction, of course.

"This is one of the exfoliating rooms," Ulrika explained as she snapped the end of my leash through a steel rail running around the edge of one of the steel tables.  "Every spa has them, although few use the techniques used in this room."  She directed my attention (unnecessarily) to the goo tank and its occupant.  "One category of guest I failed to mention earlier is friends of the Marquesa who have made her angry in some way, or have lost a wager, or wish to experience the darker side of the resort for their own reasons."

She stepped to the tank and pointed to the helmet.  "If I were to remove this guest's helmet, you would probably recognize her immediately.  She was in the cast of two very successful television series in the United States, and has had minor roles in a few movies.  She's on hiatus from Hollywood at the moment, between projects, visiting La Marquesa's spa for exercise and general pampering; but the other day she made several remarks which made Ulrika angry... and now she is paying the price."

She turned to face the helmet.  "Are you sorry?" she asked.  The helmet nodded.  "Are you very sorry?"  The helmet nodded again.  Now she turned to face me.  "The mittens are to protect the guest's manicure," she explained.  "First she is painted with a bacterial growth medium which is allowed to develop in a steam room for a few hours..."  She pointed into the vat.  "And then she is suspended in the hyperoxygenated environment of the gastropod tank."

Gastropod tank?

Ulrika pressed a button on a control panel, and the motor over the tank hummed to life.  The chains rattled through the hoist, and the frame began to rise from the goo.

The frame was rectangular, and Ulrika's "guest" was suspended by her wrists, ankles, and collar by horizontal and lateral wires.  She was nude, if you don't count the layer of mocha-brown slime dripping from her body, that and the thousand or so thumb-sized snails slowly crawling on her skin.  And speaking of bodies... whoever she was, famous or not, she had a figure that wouldn't quit!  Big, firm breasts (nearly as big as mine), wasp-thin waist, muscular arms and legs, flat stomach... she was feminine perfection... whoever she was.  Her feet were bare, and her toes wiggled as the goo continued dripping back into the tank.

"It's a disgusting and unpleasant feeling to have snails crawl across your body, using their horny little mouth-parts to rasp the bacterial slime growing on your skin," Ulrika explained.  She hit another button, and the frame began to lower.  "She's only been in there two hours.  Our little molluscan feeding machines won't be finished for another hour."

The glistening, snail-covered body of the unfortunate "guest" struggled against her inescapable restraints, but could do nothing to prevent her slow descent back into the burbling goo.

"Don't be too dismayed," Ulrika told me.  "The medium is very close to the specific gravity of the human body, so she's much more comfortable submerged than she would be hanging in midair."  The descent ended and once again the woman's helmeted head and mitten-covered hands were the only things exposed.

Ulrika turned to me.  "Now, as for you, my randy little slavegirl..."

Just then a side door opened and four women entered the room.  They were all Asian, I can't get more specific than that, and were in their 30's or 40's.  They were also somewhat stocky and muscular.

"Perfect timing," Ulrika said with a smile, then spoke to the women in a language I'd never heard before.  It was guttural and sing-song and... like I said, I'd never heard it before.  She gestured at the woman in the tank, then at me—still babbling what I could tell were a series of commands.  She then favored me with a final, gloating look, spun on her heel, and left.

The Asian women swarmed close and manhandled me onto one of the tables.  I struggled, but they were very strong and apparently very well trained in the handling of reluctant "guests".  With well-coordinated and depressing ease my shackles and single sleeve were removed and I was strapped to the table.  My new restraints were nylon webbing, padded with dense rubber foam.

Chatting and gossiping in their unknown tongue, they broke into two teams and began slathering my skin with this green sludge that smelled like rotten seaweed, then wrapping me in wet linen bandages.  They started at my feet, loosening and retightening the straps as they worked, and continued up my legs to my crotch.  My fingers, hands, and arms were next, and then my torso.  Eventually, I was tightly wrapped from toes to fingers to throat in overlapping layers of cloth strips, and still strapped down.  Only my head was exposed to the humid air.  They didn't touch my gag, so my complaints were limited to whines, moans, and pathetic mewling sounds.

During this process, I was well-handled.  In fact, you could say I'd been thoroughly pawed and prodded by the time they were through; but it was clear that as far as the women were concerned, I was a job of work.  Oh, they were happy in their labors, and there was a little unnecessary pinching and caressing of my nipples, tits, and sex.  There were also a few amused remarks, again, in their unknown language, but no real leering or gloating.  They were professionals.

The two teams remerged, and the four worked in concert to unstrap my legs, hold them together, and wrap them in more bandages.  Then my arms were unstrapped and wrapped to my sides.  I was now a damp mummy from the neck down.  One of the women produced a coiled hose with a spray attachment.  She wet me down even more, with the others lifting and rolling me as required.

Transparent plastic was next, first in rolls of saran wrap that were stretched around my already covered form, then in the form of a loose sheath of something stiff and crinkly, like cellophane.  One of the women produced a helmet similar to the one on the guest/actress in the gastropod tank.  It closed over my head and sealed with a solid thunk.

I squirmed in my cocoon of linen and plastic as the straps were tightened once again, pinning me to the table.  I could see well enough, with only a slight loss of peripheral vision; however, the level of light passing through the faceplate was somewhat reduced.

I watched as one of the women produced a handheld lamp on a long extension cord, turned it on, and began playing it over my body.  I squirmed and wiggled as she did so.  I could feel the heat, even through all those bandages, and to my alarm the outer layer of plastic seemed to be shrinking!  Yes, it was definitely shrinking!  My breathing was becoming a little labored.  More than adequate air was coming down the tubes and into my helmet, but the plastic was getting tight!  By the time the woman restowed the light, my outer covering was a rigid shell.

I thought I couldn't be more helpless than I'd been that morning, clamped to that table in that dungeon buried under the castle.  I was wrong.

I lay on the table, by eyes the only thing that could move.  The women had shifted their attention to the snail tank.  The hoist was activated and the mysterious guest raised from the goo.  The women busied themselves plucking all the snails from the poor actress's body, one by one, and plunking them back into the tank.  They were quite thorough, running their hands over the suspended woman's helpless form, making very sure none of the snails had crawled inside her, if you catch my drift.

My fellow prisoner was hosed off, and now that all the brown goo was gone, I could see she had a healthy tan, although her exfoliation-by-snail had left her rather pink.  Like I said earlier, she had quite a figure.  The women maneuvered her frame over the table next to mine, and lowered her onto the hard steel surface.  As this was done, I think I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the small of her back, right above her butt-crack.  It was a star, or maybe a sunburst.  The viewing angle was poor and the lights were in my eyes.  I can't be certain.

Over the next several minutes, the women did to the guest what they'd done to me.  I couldn't see all of it, my field of view being a little restricted, but I could tell they were using the same green sludge, linen bandages, and two kinds of plastic.  I got the distinct impression the guest was giving them even less resistance than I had attempted.  I guess a few hours playing with the snails takes the fight out of you.  (And who knows what else Ulrika had done to her before... whoever she was.)

Anyway, she was cocooned, the light used to stiffen her up, and the straps secured.  The Asian women left, one of them pausing to test the tightness of my straps.  The overhead lights went out, a door slammed, and we were alone.

The place wasn't exactly dark.  It was more or less a greenhouse, like I said before, and it wasn't yet sunset.  I lay on the hard table, inside my hard shell, and took slow, even breaths.  Each time, my breasts pressed against the plastic as my chest tried to expand.

I was no longer terrified.  Scared, yes, but not terrified.  I looked up and noted that now that the lights were out, and my eyes no longer dazzled, the reflector panels behind the tubes were, well, reflectors.  I could see myself and my celebrity companion, at least in part.

I would have given anything to know who she was, Chrissy.  Not that I had anything to give.  Truth be told, I was nothing.   Less than nothing.  I was... a slavegirl.  I lay there, feeling sorry for myself, and worrying about what was going to happen next.

What was going to happen?  When would Ulrika return?  And where was my Rosa?