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by Van ©2007---
Chapter 3_
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Skyscrapers loomed on all sides, like glassy cliffs.  Amanda squirmed and twisted her body, continuing to fight both her leather costume and the nylon belts strapping her to her seat.  Mercy Dench continued browsing files on her iPhone, ignoring Amanda and the passing city.  Midday traffic was heavy, both on the streets and on the wide sidewalks; but vehicles and pedestrians alike were moving with reasonable dispatch.  After a journey of several blocks and as many minutes, the La Roque limousine pulled onto a side street, then stopped at the entrance of a private garage.  The barrier arm lifted, and the limo rolled past the usual glass booth with its bored, uniformed attendant.

Continuing to struggle, Amanda watched as they sped past rows of parked automobiles, then climbed a spiral ramp to pass two more levels.  They pulled onto the fourth level and approached a heavy gate of horizontal steel slats.  Attached to the gate was a reflective sign bearing a single word: "PRIVATE".  The gate lifted, they drove forward into a cramped, concrete-walled space, and the gate rolled down behind.  A second gate rolled up in front and they drove forward again, this time into a large cage of closely-spaced, heavy steel bars.  The second gate closed, sealing them inside.  There was a security station built into the bars, on the driver's side; but if there was an attendant, Amanda couldn't tell.  The station's glass was as heavily silvered as the passenger windows of her mobile prison.

The front wall of the cage opened, a signal light changed from red to green, and they drove forward into yet another garage.  The limo eased past several parked vehicles, including a half-dozen town cars, two more limos, an ambulance, a hearse, and several vans; then into an empty space near a bank of elevators.

Amanda's door opened, and she was confronted with a squad of female figures in helmets and catsuits.  The suits were spandex and leather, with stiff panels and padding that suggested body armor.  The helmets had reflective face shields that completely hid their faces.  Add to that gloves and knee-length boots, and Amanda couldn't even tell the race of these "designer amazons".  Each outfit was a different color (saddle, rose, sage, oxblood, cyan, etc.); and while the outfits appeared to be completely functional, the overall effect was undeniably elegant, even sexy.  The women were equal parts soldier, riot policewoman, and costumed extra from some futuristic sci-fi movie.

The amazons released Amanda's ankle, lap, and shoulder belts, and lifted her twisting, squirming, leather-encased body from the backseat.  A gurney was waiting, and Amanda was plunked on the padded, wheeled table, and strapped down.  Mercy Dench strolled away, without giving Amanda a backwards glance.  Another group of amazons with a second gurney was clustered around the limo's opening trunk.  Amanda assumed they would be releasing Gloria from her secret compartment; but before she caught so much as a glimpse of her equally helpless friend, one of the amazons pinned her head back against the gurney, and another fitted a scuba-style breathing mask over her face.  The pair secured a series of straps to the rails of the gurney, and now the mask itself was pinning Amanda's head.  Her upper face had been the last portion of her anatomy exposed to the air, so she was now totally encased in spandex, rubber, leather, and glass.  She gazed up at her handlers through the thick, clear faceplate, but as their face plates were silvered, all she could see was a distorted reflection of her own desperate eyes.

Amanda became aware of a quiet, hissing sound; then a faint, slightly sweet odor.  It's some kind of gas! she realized, and fought her bonds; but it was hopeless... and she was helpless, ten kinds of helpless!  Curiously, her fear was subsiding, until she wasn't frightened at all... in fact... she was becoming somewhat... giddy.  Or maybe I'm only three kinds of helpless, she "reasoned".  No, five...  Yes, Amanda decided, five kinds of helpless.  Five is enough.  No need to get carried away.  She giggled through her gag.  'Carried away'... I am getting carried away!  That was a good one.  She made a mental note to tell the joke to Gloria... later... after they escaped.

Amanda tried to clear her thoughts... but the effort was as futile as her physical struggles.  She stared up at the dazzling, multicolored halos surrounding the overhead lights.  Pretty!  The glamazons were rolling her gurney towards the elevators.  Glamazons... yes, they're glamazons!  That particular designation not only fit her catsuited captors perfectly, but was incredibly funny, something else to tell Gloria.  Amanda wanted to laugh, but her gag made that inconvenient... so, instead... she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Amanda was very relaxed.  She was lying on her back on some sort of soft, pillowy surface; and she was naked, and not restrained in any way.  She stretched her arms and legs, yawned, and squirmed against the mattress, or padding, or whatever it was that was cradling her body.  She opened her eyes and beheld a uniform, blue-green glow.  It was a little bright... so she let her eyes fall closed.  Her bed was covered by a taut sheet of some sort of silky cloth... like luxury hotel-grade cotton.  She was neither too hot, nor too cold, but was... just... right; so, Amanda lay still, and savored the pleasant feeling.  One minute turned into two.  There was something she knew she should be doing, but whatever it was, it could wait.  She rested a few more minutes—then her eyes popped open and she sat up.

She'd remembered.  She had to escape!

Amanda was in a dimly lit, rectangular cell.  Her back was to one of the shorter walls and her feet projecting into the room.  The ceiling was high, about ten feet.  The shorter walls were each about fifteen feet in length, and the longer walls between twenty and thirty.  The floor, ceiling, and all but one of the walls were milky glass, and shone with a soft, blue-green, uniform glow, as if every surface of the entire chamber was a night-light.  The non-glowing wall, the long wall on Amanda's left, was a featureless mirror.  The overall effect was not just severely spartan, but vaguely futuristic; like the brig of an alien starship, rather than a prison cell or dungeon.

She examined her bed.  The mattress was a standard "full-size", and it was on a floating platform.  Amanda rolled off the bed and knelt on the floor, to look underneath.  The platform had no legs or any other means of support.  It was like a half-built bridge or a cantilevered deck extending from the wall, and even though that extension was along the mattress' long dimension, the platform was as solid as a steel beam.  The mattress was firmly attached, in some manner, as was the top sheet.  The sheet did appear to be high thread-count cotton, but Amanda could find no way to remove it, not even a place to grab an edge and try to rip it free.  The sheet would not be serving as a toga.  For the immediate future, Amanda would remain in her "birthday suit".

Amanda continued her examination of the cell.

The floor was set with one-inch glass tiles.  She could see narrow metal spacers between the small squares, alternating in polished silver and copper; and at every point where four corners of the tiles met, there was a tiny glass bead.

She looked up.  The ceiling was a grid of two-foot squares, relieved only by a pair of ventilation grills, one at each end of the room.  The seams between the tiles were razor-thin.  Amanda stood on the bed and jumped, pushing against one of the tiles at the peak of her trajectory.  It didn't move.  In fact, it was rock solid.  She surmised this was not a drop ceiling; not a system of loose tiles lying in metal tracks.

Amanda hopped down from the bed, padded to the center of the chamber and close to the mirror-wall, then began examining her reflection. The dim, monochromatic lighting was downright eerie.  Nothing in the cell cast a shadow—not the bed, and not Amanda.  It was almost as if she had been dipped in phosphorescent paint and was glowing.  She did a slow pirouette.  Despite the ghostly light, she could see that her skin was unmarked.  Also, her makeup was gone, and her hair was clean and tangle-free.  Obviously, while unconscious, she had been bathed and groomed.  She sniffed the inside of her right wrist, and recognized Lancôme's Téstor.  Her hair was silky, and carried the familiar floral and fruit scent of Tui, her favorite shampoo.  It would seem her captors had gone through her handbag and/or luggage and discovered her preferences in toiletries.

How very thoughtful, Amanda mused.  So, they cleaned me up.  What else did they do?

Her self-examination became more thorough.  She noticed her gums were tingling, like they felt after a teeth-cleaning.  Her fingertips and toes were tingling, as well.  She had received a complete manicure and pedicure.  Both sets of nails had been trimmed, filed, and polished.  Amanda frowned.  This was the loss of a professional tool, at least with respect to her fingernails.  She normally kept them slightly long, filed to a keen edge, and painted with several coats of clear epoxy, reinforcing their strength.  This make them perfect for picking apart troublesome knots and levering open the parts of awkwardly positioned buckles and clasps.  Now they were uselessly short.

And speaking of short... her pubic hair had been trimmed to a narrow, slightly elongated patch of dainty curls; and her legs, thighs, and bikini-region had been waxed.  A quick inspection of her armpits added them to the list.

Well, full points for thoroughness, Amanda mused—then set about the obvious, immediate task of finding a way out of her cell.

The non-mirrored walls weren't quite as featureless as she'd initially thought.

Centered on the wall opposite the bed, she found two wire-thin, hand-shaped outlines embedded in the glass.  They were five feet from the floor and about three feet apart.  She placed her right hand on the right outline, spacing her fingers and thumb to match its shape.  Nothing happened.  She pushed.  Still nothing.  She placed her left hand in the left outline and pushed.  Nothing.  She pushed with both hands.  Whatever purpose the "hands" served, it was a puzzle with no immediate solution.

The long wall opposite the mirror was guarding its own secret.  Amanda found a double door sized rectangle in the glass.  The seam, if it was a seam, was as close and razor-thin as the spacing between the ceiling tiles.  To the right of the "door", about four feet off the floor, was another hand outline.  Amanda placed her right hand on the outline, and this time three things happened in quick succession: (1) the inside of the hand flashed from blue-green to a bright, kelly-green; (2) there was a quiet, hydraulic hiss; (3) and the "door" revealed that it was a door by lowering itself into the floor.

The space beyond was more a shallow, semicircular alcove than a room.  It was lined with mirrored glass, and centered on the back wall was a stainless steel commode incorporating a bidet.  The only other amenity in the "powder room" was a stainless steel drinking fountain recessed into a niche to one side.  All of the controls were "hands-free", either infrared or motion-sensing technology.

Amanda gave both facilities a quick test.  The fountain water was cool and refreshing; and the lack of toilet paper was offset by the blood-warm water of the bidet and the warm, gently blowing air of a built-in dryer.

The ceiling was lower than in the main cell, and had its own ventilation grill.  It was the same size as the pair in the main cell, but unlike the others, it was a grid of closely spaced bars set in a solid steel frame.  Amanda could see a latch and a pair of hinges.  She stood on the commode for a closer look, and her hopes were dashed.  The pins of the hinges were protected by steel covers, and it was a good bet the release screws were recessed inside the rather substantial frame.  The latch incorporated a cylinder lock, and Amanda could tell at a glance she wouldn't be opening it without a set of picks.  She hopped down and returned to the main cell.  The powder room door rose behind her and sealed off the alcove.

Suddenly, the glow of the walls, ceiling and floor changed from its former soft, blue-green glow to the dazzling white of full day.  At the same time, the bed retracted into the wall.  A brightly glowing panel snapped into place, and its rectangular, hairline outline was the only evidence that the bed even existed.

What now? Amanda wondered.  As if in answer, the entire mirrored wall began sliding into the ceiling.

There was a second glass wall immediately beyond, separated from the sliding mirror wall by a fraction of an inch, and this one was transparent.  Beyond that was a dark room, roughly the size of Amanda's cell.  Its carpeting was black, as were the drapes covering the three non-glass walls.  Centered in the room and facing Amanda's cell was an oversize easy chair, in black leather; and seated in the chair was a middle-aged woman.

She was blonde, and very attractive, with strong cheekbones, even features, piercing blue eyes, and smooth, well-tanned skin.  Her hair was cut in a feathered bob almost short enough to qualify as a pixie.  Silver sandals graced her feet, and a white, strapless, formal gown accentuated her narrow waist and the long, well-sculpted muscles of her limbs.

Amanda suppressed a flash of embarrassment.  She considered and discarded the idea of using her arms and hands to try and protect her modesty.  There seemed to be little point.  She strode to the glass wall, faced the blonde newcomer, and stood, hands on hips, defiant, unashamed, and angry.  "And you would be Petra La Roque?" she demanded.

The blonde's smug, self-satisfied smile never wavered.   She licked her lips before answering.  "A strong will.  Excellent.  I prefer a challenge.  Whining nincompoops become tiresome very quickly..."  She paused to let her gaze wander over Amanda's body, doing nothing to disguise what Amanda could only interpret as a prurient interest.  "...no matter how beautiful.  And yes, I am Petra La Roque, your new employer."

"You mean my kidnapper," Amanda responded.  "I take it the mirror was one-way, and you've been leering at me, this whole time?"

"Of course," Petra confirmed.  "All new employees should expect an initial period of evaluation, shouldn't they?  Your evaluation has only just begun."

"Yeah, well, I quit!" Amanda growled.  "If you let me go right now—and Gloria too, of course—I won't press charges."

Petra laughed.  "How very reasonable, but no.  I'm afraid you and your assistant will remain in my employ until such time as I decide to release your contracts."

"Bull!" Amanda sneered.  "Open this cell, give me back my clothes, take me to Gloria, and—"

"La Roque Internationale has a strict employee dress code," Petra interrupted, ignoring Amanda's demands, "and your current 'costume' is the one prescribed for 'Special Apparel Consultants'.  Now, here's what I expect.  You shall—"

"I'm not interested in what you 'expect'!" Amanda barked.  "Let us go, right now!"

"You shall follow all my orders and instructions," Petra continued.  "When ordered to move, or to stand still, or to assume a certain position, you shall do so, without resistance, and to the best of your ability."

"In your dreams," Amanda scoffed.

Petra's smile became disturbingly sinister.  "I have means of compelling your obedience.  For example, I've found pain to be a powerful persuader; although I confess I don't particularly enjoy its application.  Don't get me wrong.  The occasional half-dozen smacks with a crop or flogger can be a pleasant diversion; but the restructuring of an employee's attitude... that's something I leave to others.  Mercy has minions who actually enjoy that sort of thing.  They have an extensive bag of tricks, none of which permanently mark the skin or damage the anatomy."

Amanda's heart was racing.  She suppressed a nervous swallow and tightened her hands into fists.  "You don't scare me," she growled.

Petra laughed.  "Liar.  Of course I scare you.  Only a dimwit wouldn't be scared in your position, and 'The Amazing Amanda' is no dimwit... unless my research department needs a serious lesson in due diligence."

"I'm not your employee," Amanda continued, "I'm not going to obey you, and I'm not scared."

"Yes, pain is a powerful persuader," Petra mused.  She reached down to the space between her right thigh and the chair's overstuffed arm, and produced an iPhone.  "Your first lesson," she announced, and tapped the screen.

The tiny beads set between the floor tiles all flashed bright red and Amanda received a painful shock!  She yelped and danced on her bare feet.  "Ow!"

"The entire floor can be electrified," Petra explained.  "I can vary the strength and duration of the current, and we've developed several very entertaining programs that deliver modulated 'persuasion'.  Some are random in timing and intensity; and some follow set patterns.  Both approaches have their place."  She tapped the screen.

Amanda flinched, but no shock was delivered.

Petra continued tapping and sliding her finger, apparently browsing through files.  "Tell me, Amanda, which variety of suspense do you think would be the most dreadful?  That generated by random punishment... or the kind that comes with slow, predictable countdowns?"

"I'm not scared," Amanda reiterated, but her voice sounded less assured, even to herself.

Petra gazed at her 'employee' with chilling amusement.  "There is another form of persuasion that I've found to be even more persuasive," she said, "the indirect kind."  She tapped the iPhone and a very large, flat screen TV lowered from the ceiling on her side of the glass wall.  It was set at an angle so both could view the display.  The glowing screen morphed from a static depiction of the Donjon logo... to high-definition video.

"No!" Amanda gasped, in a strangled moan.  She lunged forward and pressed her hands against the glass.

The image of Gloria Santoval filled the screen.

Gloria was getting seriously tired of being manhandled.  Not tired enough to stop fighting, of course, but tired.  The designer color, Aeon Flux wannabes had lifted her leather-encased form out of the limo's secret compartment, strapped her to a gurney, and wheeled her down an endless series of corridors to an elevator.  This led to more corridors, and finally, to what looked like some sort of medical facility.

A blonde, young woman was waiting.  She was in her early twenties, but had the sort of overly cute looks that would let her pass for a college coed or even a high school student, in the proper setting.  Dimples; button nose; baby oil tan; brown, Bambi eyes—cold, calculating, evil, brown, Bambi eyes... Gloria hated her already.  She was short, maybe five-two or five-three; not that Gloria was what you would call statuesque.  In any case, standing among the small crowd of helmeted and catsuited designer she-goons, the little blonde was downright elfin; however, if she was an elf, she was a kinky elf.

The blonde was wearing a skintight catsuit, like the she-goons, but with more spandex and less leather; and she was showing some skin, in the way of no gloves, bare arms and most of her shoulders, and significant cleavage.  The entire costume was black, but the knee pads were thin, and her corset-belt was even more of a fashion statement than the she-goons' full-torso body-armor.

The blonde's disgustingly pretty face loomed over Gloria's glaring eyes.  "Hello, Gloria," she cooed.  Her voice was a girlish soprano, a perfect match for her 'evil cheerleader from hell' persona.  "Welcome to the Tower.  My name is Lizette La Roque.  You can call me Liz, or Mistress."  Her dimpled smile took a wry twist.  "Hmm... I suppose you better make it just Mistress.  Mumsy likes it when I assert myself."  She lifted her gaze to the nearest she-goon, and nodded.

A breathing mask appeared and was pressed over Gloria's face.  She squirmed and forced a well-muffled series of angry (and frightened) curses past her gag.  Lizette's smiling face loomed before her, clearly visible through the thick glass.

"Deep breaths, Gloria," the smug blonde ordered.  "Nice, even, deep breaths."

Gloria continued to struggle and mewl through her gag.  She was damned if she was going to do anything the little blonde told her.   She could hold her breath for nearly three minutes, and—

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Gloria opened her eyes.  She was in a white, featureless room, and she was no longer encased in leather and strapped down.  In fact, she was naked, but for the black plastic tape mummifying her fingers and hands, the white cotton rope binding her wrists and elbows (behind her back, of course), more of the same rope binding her ankles and knees, and the tape encircling her lower face.  Something was stuffed in her mouth, behind the layers of stretched plastic, possibly even the same foam ball the salesgirl Cynthia had forced past her lips back in the Donjon dressing room.

Gloria rolled on the floor and fought her bonds with all her strength and skill.  One minute turned into two... then five... and she finally surrendered to the inevitable.  They—Lizette, the she-goons, whoever—had her.  Nothing in her bag of escapologist's tricks was going to get her out of this particular combination of rope and tape.  Dammit!

Her former leather costume was nowhere to be seen; and now that she was "free" to think about it (and not preoccupied with trying to wiggle out of said costume, and was no longer scared out of her frakkin' mind in the limo's claustrophobic secret compartment), Gloria reflected on the discrepancies in what Mercy Dench had told Amanda, back in the showroom.

Okay, Gloria had fought with Cynthia, back in the dressing room, over the issue of surrendering her underwear; Cynthia had summoned a squad of four more salesgirls, and with their help had managed to lace and buckle Gloria into the costume, despite her enthusiastic resistance; but Mercy's description of the interior of Gloria's version of the costume had been a lie.  The leather had been smooth and lined with some sort of silky fabric.  There had been a crotch strap, but no dildo or butt-plug.  The ensemble had been about as comfortable as a skintight sheath and harness of leather could be, and certainly not sadistic.

Gloria shuddered in her bonds, looked down at her breasts, then over her shoulder at what she could see of her butt-cheeks, surprised to find her skin unmarked.  The needle-lined foam pads Mercy described had been real enough, but had only caused discomfort when Cynthia whacked her on the butt and boobs—the little slut!  Amanda had been lied to, to intimidate her.  Mercy Dench, you bitch-on-ice!  Their captors were playing head games; and Gloria very much hoped that Amanda knew what was going on... whatever was going on.

Suddenly, a door opened and Lizette and another pair of the anonymous she-goons entered.  The petite blonde was wearing the same black catsuit.  The right goon's outfit was a rusty pumpkin orange, and the left goon was a dark jade.

"You're awake," Lizette observed.  "Good.  Mumsy has ordered me to do something mean to you, I'm afraid."  She knelt, placed her right hand on Gloria's hip, and gave it a friendly pat.

Gloria growled through her gag and tried to roll away, but her captors would have none of her "resistance".  The pumpkin goon grabbed Gloria's ankles in a vice-like grip, and held her feet rock-steady as Lizette used a length of thin, white cord to bind her big toes together.

Meanwhile, the jade goon had opened a hidden panel beside the door, revealing a set of pushbutton controls.  She pressed a button, and a steel cable with an attached ring lowered from the ceiling with a quiet hum.  She tapped the button again when the ring was about two feet off the floor, and it stopped.  She then passed a rope through the ring and tossed the ends to Lizette.

The grinning blonde shifted her attention to Gloria's wrists.  This time both she-goons held her still while Lizette threaded the rope through the ring, between her wrist bonds, and back through the ring, several times.  She tied a running hitch and a final knot, then stepped to the control panel.

The goons hauled Gloria to her bound feet, Lizette pressed and held a button, and the cable retracted, slowly hauling Gloria's arms up until she was bent forward at the waist, in the classic strappado position.  She groaned through her gag, lifted her head, and glared at Lizette.

The grinning blonde tapped the button, repeatedly.  With each tap, the cable retracted an additional fraction of an inch.  This process continued until Gloria's heels left the floor, then Lizette closed the panel and strolled towards the helpless Latina.

"Thank you," Lizette said, and the two she-goons left the room, closing the door behind them.  "I usually have to wait several days for my first chance to play with a new toy," Lizette said.  She cupped Gloria's breasts and gave them a gentle squeeze.  "This time Mumsy is being very nice.  She only made me wait 'til you had received your medical and dental exams and the groomers finished cleaning you up."

'Exams?'  'Groomers?'  How long was I out? Gloria wondered.  She moaned through her gag and fidgeted on the balls of her feet, her only contact with the floor.

Lizette reached into a small pocket on the right thigh of her catsuit and produced a small paper packet.  She tore it open, exposing a white square of sponge-like material, which she gently wiped over Gloria's breasts and nipples, first the left, and then the right.  "Alcohol," she explained, then leaned close to blow on the hanging, brown globes.

Gloria shivered in her bonds.  Cold!  Her nipples were now fully erect, and a sprinkling of goosebumps covered her breasts.

"I'm sorry, Gloria," Lizette said, her eyes locked with her victim, "but this is going to hurt."  She produced a pair of nipple clamps from another pocket.

Gloria tried to control her reaction, but knew her eyes had betrayed her fear.  The clamps were joined by a thin, silver chain and were of the "clover" variety, the kind that tightened when you pulled on the chain.  Amanda had a similar pair, and they'd both played with them, in giving and receiving roles, but this pair looked to be particularly nasty.  The leaf-spring, ratcheting mechanisms were more complicated, with tiny steel gears that looked more suited to an antique pocket watch than instruments of torture; but the worst features, by far, were the nipple pads.  Amanda's pair had tips dipped in latex, to grip the flesh.  This pair had oval-shaped pads lined with dozens of tiny needles!  Granted, they were about as short as they were wide; but they were definitely needles, and not just what you would call a pointy texture.

"Aren't they evil?" Lizette asked, holding the tips close so Gloria could inspect the tiny spikes in detail.  "They really hurt, at least, for the first few minutes.  Then they settle into a slow burn."  She pressed the sides of the leaf-springs and the tiny gears clicked and turned.  "You'd think they'd do damage.  They certainly feel like they're doing damage; but you can wear them for hours, with only a little irritation to your titty-tots."

Without further ado, Lizette attached the clamps to Gloria's nipples, first on the left, and then the right.  Gloria shivered and squirmed in her bonds.  She tried to suppress a piteously mournful whine, but failed.

Lizette shivered, herself.  "Oh, you're a lot of fun," she whispered.  "So brave... So pretty... So very vulnerable...  I can't wait to give Mumsy a big thank-you hug."

Gloria struggled to suppress additional squirming and moaning, this time with success... for now.  The clamps were worse than Amanda's, but, surprisingly, not by much.  It may have been just her current circumstances that were fueling her increased level of distress.

Lizette began running her hands over Gloria's stomach, thighs, and buttocks.  "We're going to have so much fun, playing dress-up with Mumsy's costumes, exploring all the delicious predicaments I have written down in my diaries and notebooks... so much fun."

This chica's several fries short of a happy-meal, Gloria decided.  She tried to ignore the gentle caress of her captor's gliding hands; then yelped when Lizette's fingers slid between her labia.

Lizette pouted in disappointment.  "Oh, you're hardly wet at all."  Her smile returned.  "It must be the fear.  Is it the fear, Gloria?"

Gloria locked eyes with the smug little blonde and glared in defiance.

"It must be the fear," Lizette decided, ignoring Gloria's angry stare.  "Well, after Mumsy's finished using you to bait her new toy, we'll go back to my room and I'll show you my collection of pussy persuaders.  Vibrators, dildoes and plugs, electrified ticklers, floggers and whips... you'll see things my way... eventually.  Oh, excuse me."  She reached into yet another pocket, produced a Bluetooth-type hands-free phone, and placed it in her right ear.  "Yes?  Oh, hello Mumsy."

Gloria couldn't hear the other side of the connection, not even a modulated buzz.  She hung in her bonds and tried to ignore the growing ache in her shoulders, feet, and calves, and the burning ache of her clamped nipples.

"I'm so happy, Mumsy!" Lizette continued, with girlish glee.  "She's so pretty, with such pretty brown nipples!  Can I pierce them tomorrow?  Please?"

Gloria's eyes popped wide.  Pierce my nipples??

Lizette frowned, and stamped one booted foot.  "Oh, please, Mumsy?  What?  I know you hate it when I whine; and I know you told me not to...  I'm sorry..."  Lizette stood perfectly still, and the color drained from her face.  "Not Mercy, Mumsy!" she exclaimed, in a horrified voice.  "She's mean, and she hardly ever lets me cum when she punishes me!"

Gloria blinked in surprise and dismay.  Was she a prisoner in a looneybin? ...with the inmates in charge?

Lizette's smile returned.  "Oh—one hour.  One hour's okay.  It'll be inspirational.  It'll help me think up ways to entertain Gloria and my other toy if it's only one hour."  Her hands resumed sliding over Gloria's body.  "Okay, Mumsy, I'll finish here in about a minute, then report to Mercy.  Thanks again for the new toy, Mumsy.  Love you!"

Lizette removed and re-pocketed the phone, then frowned.  "This is your fault," she huffed, and stopped her massage of Gloria's torso.  She reached into yet another pocket and produced a length of the same white cord binding Gloria's big toes.  It had a small clip at one end, which she snapped through the chain dangling between Gloria's nipple clamps.  She then knelt, threaded the other end between Gloria's toe bonds, and pulled in the slack.  She didn't stop until the chain stretched taut, the gears of the clamp's ratcheting mechanisms just began to engage, and Gloria winced in added pain.  She then tied an elegant knot.

The petulant blonde stood and stepped behind her victim.  "You seduced me," she accused, then gave Gloria's butt an openhanded slap.

Gloria's eyes crossed, her knees bent 'til her heels touched the floor, the nipples-to-toes chain and cord arrangement sagged, and her shoulders took her full weight.  Eyes wet with tears, she immediately went back on her toes, and the chain and cord returned to the shape of a taut "Y".

"If I had time," Lizette growled, "I'd go get one of my floggers and stripe your back, butt, thighs, and calves 'til you looked like a sunburned zebra."  She strolled to the door and paused in the threshold.  "The next time we play," she a said, "I won't be so nice."  Then, she was through the door and it closed with an angry slam.

So nice??  Gloria was incredulous.  So nice??  I've got to get out of this place!!

She heard a quiet hum, lifted her chin, and found that a panel in the wall had opened to reveal a small niche.  Centered in the niche was a camera lens, and beneath the lens was a glowing red light.

Oh great, Gloria mused.  It's time for the 'Let's Torture Gloria Show'.

"No!" Amanda wailed, again.  "Let her go!"

"I can have her released immediately," Petra purred.  "All you have to do is follow my instructions."  She tapped the iPhone screen, and a melodic chime sounded in Amanda's cell.  Simultaneously, the hand outlines Amanda had found in the wall opposite the bed began to glow a bright green.  Beneath the hand shapes, about three feet from the wall and three feet apart, two small squares outlined in green beads glowed on the floor.  "Hands and feet in the appropriate positions," Petra ordered.

"Let her go, you bitch!" Amanda screamed.

"Hands and feet, Ms. Pressfield."

"I'm not going to play your sick game!" Amanda shouted.  "Let her go!!"

Petra sighed, and tapped the iPhone.  "One hour," she announced.  "If you continue to disobey, your lovely assistant will remain en strappado for two hours."  She smiled at Amanda.  "Further resistance will mean poor Gloria remains as you see her until morning, and you will watch, and I'll trigger a program that will make sure you stay awake so you will watch."

"She hasn't done anything," Amanda said.  "Please."

Petra's finger was poised over the iPhone screen.  "Hands and feet."

Amanda stared at her "employer", angry tears in her eyes.  Petra's finger began to move.  "Wait!" Amanda cried, padded to the wall, and placed her hands in the outlines and her feet on the squares.  The resulting pose was identical to the position the police imposed on detainees before searching them for weapons or contraband.  It was humiliating and pointless—but Amanda realized humiliation was the point.

"Feet completely inside the outlines, Amanda," Petra chided.

"They're too small," Amanda huffed.  It was true.  The glowing squares were only slightly bigger than the width of her feet.

"Silly girl," Petra laughed.  "The solution is obvious."

Amanda glared at Petra's smugly smiling face, and went up on her toes.

"Good girl!  Now, don't move."  Petra stabbed the iPhone screen, and all of the beads in the entire floor began to glow red, with the exception of the tiny squares under the balls of Amanda's feet.  "There, unless you're as slow on the uptake as you were easy to recruit, you realize the floor is now electrified.  It's not strong enough to do any harm, of course, but more than enough to discourage you from wandering about."

"I hate you," Amanda said, in a miserable whisper.

"Oh, I quite imagine you do," Petra laughed, "but that's also part of the program.  Now, it's getting late and we both have a busy day tomorrow, so let's finish this initial interview with dispatch.  You're my prisoner, but not my slave.  I don't keep slaves.  Prisoners have a duty to escape, and I expect you to do your duty.  You will follow the orders of your handlers, myself and Mercy included.  You will come and go as directed, eat on command, sleep on command, shower and exercise on command; etc.  And, you will allow yourself to be restrained in rope, or leather, or cold steel, or in any other manner I deem fit; but, after you have been restrained, you will do your very best to escape.

Graceful as a swan and lithe and dangerous as a tigress, Petra rose from her chair and strode to the HDTV still showing Gloria's ordeal.  She put her hand on the edge of the monitor and turned it towards the cell, optimizing Amanda's viewing angle.

"As already discussed," Petra continued, "disobedience will be punished, and that punishment will be shared, and sometimes exclusively borne, by Ms. Santoval.  Obedience, on the other hand will be rewarded with the finer things of life, such as your current luxurious accommodations; regular, nutritious meals; full use of our exercise facilities... and the pleasure of my personal attention."

Petra walked to the glass wall and smiled at Amanda's sullen, frowning face.  "No one has ever escaped from my Tower.  No one has even come close, but I'm quite anxious to see how 'The Amazing Amanda' performs."  She tapped her iPhone and a drape parted on the far wall, on her side of the glass wall, of course.  Behind the drape was a steel door.  It slid to the side, revealing a dimly lit corridor.

Petra walked towards the door.  "Ms. Santoval's hour will commence when this door closes.  Afterwards, your bed will return, the lights will dim, and you are ordered to get some sleep."

"Wait!" Amanda called.

Petra paused in the doorway.  "You have a question, or just more frivolous histrionics?"

"That's what all this is about?" Amanda asked.  "You want me to... escape?"

Petra smiled.  "I have a highly developed appreciation of the female form struggling to regain its freedom."

"You're into bondage," Amanda muttered.

Petra laughed.  "An interest we share... from different perspectives.  Anyway, to use an analogy, I am a big game hunter, this is my private hunting preserve, and you are my prey."

"Wonderful," Amanda huffed.  "I'm your tame tiger."

"Oh, you had better not be tame," Petra answered, "or I'll be very disappointed.  And don't sell yourself short.  You aren't my tiger... you're my T. rex."  The door closed, Petra La Roque was gone, and Amanda was alone.

The drape rolled back across the doorway, and the lights on both sides of the glass dimmed.  The interview room was now completely black, except for the glow of the TV; and Amanda's cell had returned to its former blue-green "night-light" mode, with the exception of the glowing red beads still carpeting the floor and the green hand outlines glowing on the wall.

Amanda stared at Gloria's image.  Sorry, Glo, she thought.  I'll get us out of this... somehow.  She ignored the growing discomfort in her feet and calves, carefully suppressed her fear, her anger—her newfound burning hatred of Petra La Roque, Mercy Dench, and everyone else at La Roque Internationale, including all subsidiaries and partners—and began formulating a plan.

She had to:

1. Pretend to go along with her captors, but not make her feigned surrender too obvious;
2. Protect Gloria... somehow;
   
3. Entertain her "employer", to the best of her professional ability;
4. Gather intelligence and develop a real plan;
5. And finally, do precisely what Petra La Roque demanded of her—ESCAPE!