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by Van ©2008---
Chapter 8_
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PETRA LA ROQUE'S "SIRÈNES CAVERNE"

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Amanda sighed through her gag.  Her eyes were on her fellow captive, and Chessy was gazing back.  Ball-gagged—their arms folded behind their backs with their hands and forearms encased in rigid, neoprene-lined, plastic sheaths—their ankles locked together in plastic, neoprene-lined cuffs—heavy steel collars and chains linking them to steel staples embedded in the rock wall of their kidnapper's fantastic subterranean pool—gazing was about all either of them could accomplish, other than make the occasional squirming movements necessary to find some comfort on the hard, sand-textured concrete.

Amanda's skin and freshly combed hair were beginning to dry, but Chessy was a pathetic sight.  No longer flushed and sweaty from the steam room she'd shared with their captor, the redhead's toned, athletic body wasn't really a problem.  Her hair, however, normally copper-red and hanging in full-bodied waves, was a tangled, greasy, auburn mess.

Amanda continued gazing at Chessy.  She desperately wanted to learn how she'd been captured, how long she'd been Petra's prisoner, and whether she'd made any headway towards what she knew would be their common goal—escape!  What information had she managed to gather?  What plans had she made?  Had she made any escape attempts?  How close had she come... and how had she been punished?  Chessy's assistant—what was her name?  Fiona?  Was she also a prisoner?

Out in the pool there was a loud splash, and Petra's alto laughter echoed throughout the cavern.  The captives turned their heads and watched as their "employer" cavorted with two of the mermaids—the calico-colored Koi-maid and the blonde goldfish-maid.  A great deal of playful tickling and sensual caressing seemed to be involved, as well as the thrashing of arms, the kicking of Petra's feet, and the slapping of the surface by the mermaids' flukes.

After a couple of minutes, all three swam towards the spillway of the waterfall emanating from the cavern wall.  Petra entered the rushing stream and began a strong crawl, easily maintaining her position in the churning water.  Amanda realized the spillway was actually a cleverly camouflaged stationary lap pool, allowing Petra to swim against the current at full speed while maintaining her relative position.  The mermaids watched for several seconds, then dove beneath the surface and were gone.

Just then, two female figures emerged from the cave entrance between Amanda and Chessy.  Amanda recognized Keira and Hime, the petite maids known as "Petra's Pair"—or rather, she recognized the redhead's freckled body and vaguely Celtic golden mask, and her raven-haired, fair-skinned companion's traditional Japanese Noh mask.  Both were completely nude, but for steel chastity belts locked around their waists and through their loins, the cuff-like steel bands locked around their wrists and ankles, the collars around their throats, and the full masks covering their faces.  Cuffs, belts, and collars were all connected by light steel chains, but with enough slack to allow limited freedom for the maids' arms and legs.

Keira was carrying a folded towel and a thick, quilted, rolled mat, while Hime was carrying a silver tray laden with covered bowls, a silver carafe, and a single goblet of long-stemmed crystal.  Amanda and Chessy watched as Keira unrolled and deployed the mat, roughly halfway between the cave entrance and the steps leading into the pool.  Simultaneously, Hime set the tray on a low, flat rock.  The ease and grace with which the maids executed their tasks, despite the restrictions of their chains, bespoke long familiarity with such restrictions.

Amanda very much doubted the close proximity of the perfect place for Keira to position the mat and the perfect picnic table rock for reclined dining was a coincidence.  It was yet another example of the exquisite forethought that had gone into the design of Petra's "natural" subterranean aquatic playground.

Amanda noticed a change in the pattern of splashing sounds echoing through the cavern and turned her gaze back to the pool.  Petra was nowhere to be seen.  Seconds passed... then their blonde, tan captor rose from the depths, slowly climbing the steps to the "patio", water dripping from her perfect body and an irritatingly smug smile on her perfect face.

Keira stood ready with the large bath-sheet towel—but Petra waved her away.  Still smiling and dripping, she strolled towards Chessy, then stood and gazed down at the helpless redhead, hands on hips.

Chessy returned her gaze.  Amanda could see defiance in her friend's eyes, as well as a little fear, but mostly her expression was one of... resignation.  Amanda found this profoundly disturbing.  In her considered opinion, Chessy Golden was as tough as they came.  If her spirit was even beginning to break... what chance did Amanda have?  Despair knotted Amanda's stomach.  She tried to remember the last time she'd seen anything in the trades or entertainment news about Chessy.  Nothing for... weeks?  Several weeks, at least.  How long has she been a prisoner?  A shiver went up Amanda's spine.  Does anyone even know she's gone?  Does anyone know I'm gone?

Petra leaned close and unlocked Chessy's collar.  With professional detachment, Amanda noticed this involved the use of the pinkie ring on Petra's right hand.  Magnetic lock, she surmised; but she couldn't follow the exact manipulations required to disengage the mechanism.  Petra's arm had been in the way.  Amanda twisted and tugged on her bonds.  In her bound condition, Petra could lay out detailed diagrams of the locks and present her with her own ring, for all the good it would do her.

Meanwhile, Petra had pulled Chessy to her bound feet, hefted her onto her shoulder in a fireman's carry, and was sauntering back towards the pool.  She climbed the rocks until she was up on the boulder from which she had executed her dive.  She turned and smiled at Amanda; then, with a shrugging heave, tossed Cheesy into the water!

Petra hopped off the rock and allowed the maids to start drying her with the bath sheet—but Amanda's eyes were on the pool.  Chessy hadn't surfaced!  She was still somewhere under the water!  The seconds ticked away... and became a minute.  Amanda tore her eyes from the pool's wavy surface, and focused on Petra.

Petra's eyes were on Amanda, and the maids were still busily rubbing her down with the oversized towel.  "Don't worry about my pretty fox," she said.  "My mermaids will take care of her... just like they took care of you."

Amanda looked back towards the water, and was relieved to see a yard-wide field of bubbles snapping and popping in the middle of the pool.  She surmised the mermaids had taken Chessy to the bottom and were treating her to the same bubble-massage they had given her.  She took it on faith they'd also swapped her ball-gag for the scuba-gag-mask Amanda had worn, or had some other means of supplying Chessy with air.  There was no way Petra would just drown her... not when there were still a near infinite number of inescapable costumes and humiliating, erotic tortures to inflict on her "pretty fox", to keep the blonde bitch entertained.

"Just look at those angry eyes," Petra remarked.  "Have you ever seen such resentment?"  Her gagged and masked maids didn't answer, of course.  Keira was busy refolding the bath sheet, and Hime was removing the covers from the bowls on the waiting tray.

Amanda shifted her gaze to the food.  It appeared to be Thai or Japanese.  A neatly arranged platter of several different varieties of sushi was definitely Japanese.

Petra had noticed her interest.  "Oh, not for you, my pouting pussy," she cooed, as she gracefully reclined on her side, and used a pair of chopsticks to pop a shrimp roll in her mouth.  She chewed with obvious enjoyment, taking her time.  "Yumm..." she mumbled, then swallowed.  "Pouting Pussy... yes, I like that."  She snapped her fingers, and Keira handed her an iPhone from the tray.  Petra tapped the screen several times, then handed the device back to the waiting maid.  "There, your costume is finalized and I've got myself a new pet.  I can hardly wait 'til morning."

Amanda's eyes were still on the food.

"Not for you, Pussy.  I told you," Petra said, waving her chopsticks.  "I don't share all my meals with my employees.  Your dinner is waiting in your cell.  You're simply here to add to the enjoyment of the meal... by which I mean my meal, of course."

Insufferable bitch! Amanda fumed, doing her best not to telegraph her feelings, but she knew it was pointless to even attempt such a deception.  Amanda knew that Petra La Roque was well aware of the infinite depth of her loathing and contempt.  She was far too intelligent to think otherwise.  She shifted her gaze back to the pool, and focused on the field of popping bubbles.

"And don't worry about Chessy's repast," Petra added, between bites of a seaweed and tuna roll.  "She'll be... dining with the fishes!"  She paused, waiting for a reaction, but Amanda simply continued to stare at the water.  Petra shrugged, but her smile never wavered.  "I thought it was funny," she chuckled, and selected a conger eel roll.

"Anyway," Petra continued, "Chessy will be my mermaids' dinner guest, and their entertainment for the evening.  They have a cave..."  She waved her chopsticks towards the far wall.  "...back there, somewhere.  Access is by an underwater tunnel, but the cave itself is quite dry.  Employees on mermaid rotation need someplace they can dry out.  Otherwise, they become waterlogged.  It's quite unattractive, and medically dangerous."

Petra paused, as Keira filled her wine glass from the carafe.  "Oh, still pouting, my pretty Pussy?"  She focused on the red-haired maid.  "Keira, darling, go and lighten Ms. Pressfield's mood, would you please?  Don't worry, Hime will take care of things over here."

Keira strolled to Amanda's side.

Amanda looked up at the petite maid's golden mask, then let her eyes wander down her freckled, toned body.  Mask aside, Amanda had to admit she was attractive, and the graceful manner with which she carried her chains and handled her captivity was... intriguing.  (And she was the one who had squeezed Amanda's hand at breakfast.)  Nevertheless, Amanda had her pride, and she wasn't about to be part of a sex show for Petra la Roque's entertainment.

Keira reclined against Amanda's side, draped one arm behind her shoulders, and used her other hand to cup her left breast.

Amanda tried to squirm away, then paused.  She stared into the glassy eyes of Keira's mask, but could see nothing through the dark, slightly reflective lenses.  Amanda willed herself to stop struggling.  No need to call Petra's wrath down on the little maid by spoiling the "fun"... or would failing to struggle spoil the show?  Amanda stole a glance at Petra, and found her concentrating, for the moment, on her meal.  She gazed back into the eyes of Keira's mask—and winked.

Keira gave Amanda's shoulder a gentle squeeze, then began running her right hand over her tummy.

"Oh, don't you start pouting, Hime-sureibu," Petra said, with a laugh.  She was addressing the Japanese maid.  "Just look at the pretty contrast between Keira's freckles and red curls and Ms. Pressfield's fair complexion and raven locks.  If I'd sent you in her place, it would have been too much of a good thing, don't you see?"

Hime was kneeling back on her heels, her hands resting on her thighs, and her masked face lowered.

Petra reached out, seized the maid's left nipple with her chopsticks, and gave it a playful tweak.  "You silly little thing," she purred, and returned to her dining.  "I can deny you nothing.  You may share my bed tonight.  And as for you..."  She shifted her gaze to Keira.  "Show a little more enthusiasm, or you'll spend the night in the cage behind the bedroom mirror, watching your precious Hime have all the fun."

Keira extended her caresses to include Amanda's hips and thighs.  Apparently, this satisfied Petra, because the smug blonde returned to consuming her meal, this time concentrating on a small bowl of some kind of noodles.

Amanda shivered under Keira's touch.  Poor kids, she thought.  This close to The Tower's throne, their lives had to be a living hell of uncertainty, never knowing when the La Roque bitch would condemn them to some horrific and/or erotic torture on a whim... unless the tiny prisoners were playing the game willingly.  Amanda shuddered, again, as Keira's hand slid between her thighs and brushed against her sex.  Even if the game had started with their consent, Amanda was sure their enslavement was real—as real as Amanda's kidnapping and captivity... or Chessy's... or Gloria's.

Amanda gazed out at the bubbles still rising to the surface of the pool.  How the hell are we going to get out of this?

LIZETTE LA ROQUE'S BEDROOM
THE NEXT MORNING

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Gloria became aware of arguing voices.  She would have performed her usual coming-awake rituals—stretching, yawning, blinking the sleep from her eyes—but her condition made this impossible.  Her bondage from the night before was unchanged.  Slightly elastic tape banded the soles of her pointing feet, her ankles, and her knees.  It also encased her fingers, hands, and forearms, keeping her arms folded behind her back.  More bands pressed against her lips and eyes, and encircled her head from chin to crown.  She sighed through the panties crammed in her mouth and squirmed, causing the chain linking her leather collar to the foot of Lizette's bed to clink and clatter.

The voices were Lizette's and Fiona's.

"It's supposed to be a rest day!"  That was unmistakably Fiona.

Lizette: "You know exercise is always a part of rest days.  Mercy's Employee Fitness Program?  Remember?"

Fiona:  "But not... together!  That's mean!"

Lizette:  "It's also inventive, and Mumsy likes it when I'm inventive."

Fiona:  "Oh, Liz.  You're never going to satisfy that bitch.  Can't you see that?  No—m'rmfh!"

Lizette:  "I've told you, don't you ever call Mumsy a bitch.  She is a bitch, but you don't get to call her a bitch.  You can bite ball-gag 'til breakfast—and for calling Mumsy names, that'll be plain oatmeal with mashed-up nutrition nuggets—for both of you!"

Gloria heard Fiona's chain rattling, then a frustrated growl from her fellow captive.  Several seconds later, she heard a shower running.

Gloria relaxed in her bonds, and waited.  And another fun day in The Tower begins, she mused.  ...and what did Fiona mean by 'together'?

Breakfast was, indeed, plain oatmeal with mashed nutrition nuggets.  Side-by-side, Gloria and Fiona were involuntarily fed this concoction by a "feeding machine".  Clear, thick-walled rubber tubes attached to funnels delivered motor-driven globs of the warm, gooey mess to their ring-gagged mouths at regular intervals.  With their heads clamped in pillories that enforced chins-up postures, and their arms still box-taped, they had no choice but to swallow the slugs of semi-liquid gorp as they dropped into their open mouths.

The "meal" was followed by enemas, showers (cold, of course), and a change of bondage to single-sleeve armbinders of black leather.  The binders pressed their elbows together and their hands palm-to-palm, and once they were laced up their entire length, broad, thick leather straps buckled over the sleeves and around their wrists and elbows, reinforcing their helplessness.  Single, much thinner straps passed under their armpits and behind their necks, yoking their shoulders and preventing the sleeves from slipping or being pulled down their arms.  It was overkill, of course.  The tightness of the sleeves and the wrist and elbow straps would have made pulling them down impossible, in any case.

Like all of the Special Apparel restraints Gloria had seen or worn thus far, the "apparel" fit their arms to perfection, with no unsightly stretch or strain in the leather, even at the attachment points of the straps.  Gloria sighed through the ring-gag still strapped in her mouth.  The binders were works of art—strong, without being masculine in proportions; pleasing to the eye; and surprisingly comfortable (in a mildly shoulder-wrenching kind of way).  She reasoned that they must have features that protected the pressure points of their arms—Gloria rolled her shoulders—not that she could feel special padding or anything, just uniformly tight leather.  Yes, the sleeve was beautiful, and a triumph of design, but Gloria wished she was admiring the thing on someone other than Fiona and herself... like Lizette, for example—but rather than the semi-matte, slightly pebbled black of their armbinders, Gloria decided she'd put the little blonde sadist in something dyed shocking pink.

All of this bodily maintenance and change of bondage had been accomplished by four of The Tower's latex-clad and helmeted drones, with Lizette nowhere in sight.  In addition, a pair of the leather armored, helmeted, and baton-armed she-goons stood watch.  Gloria took Fiona's lead, and neither prisoner gave the drones any trouble.  Gloria's spirit was far from broken, as was Fiona's, but any idiot could see that resistance was a waste of energy, and probably would have earned them additional punishment.

The final step was the rinsing of their ring-gagged mouths with warm water, and the forcing of what looked like black, latex-coated whiffle balls through their gags and into their mouths.  Special tools caused the balls to contract, so they could pass the rings, and then expand, once they were inside and firmly seated against their tongues.  Each ball had a pair of thick, elastic loops dangling from a short, central tube of stiff rubber, and the loops snapped over steel flanges on the straps of their ring-gags, further anchoring the balls.  Size alone would have made them impossible to expel with their tongues.  The loops made such a prospect doubly impossible.

Once the dresser-drones were finished, the she-goons dropped nooses of black rope over the captives' heads, pulled them taut around their throats, and led them out into the corridor.  Fiona and her handler were in the lead, followed by Gloria and her handler.  The parade of four took many turns, climbed a set of stairs, took more turns—then Gloria's eyes popped wide!

They were passing another parade of prisoners!  In the lead was a lone she-goon.  Her costume was a deep eggplant, with a purple-mirrored finish to the face shield of her helmet.  A chain was in one of her gloved hands, and attached to the chain was a coffle of no less than twelve female captives.

All were naked, except for their bonds.  Their hair varied in length and color, and those not sporting pixies or pageboys had their tresses pulled back into tight ponytails.  Their complexions ran the gamut of humanity: pale ivory, tan, brown, and black.  All were more-or-less average in height, although one of the two blondes was quite short, and a damsel of African heritage was rather tall.

They were restrained in leather, torso-hugging harnesses with integrated wrist and elbow cuffs that locked their hands behind their backs and pinned their arms to their sides.  They also wore ankle-cuffs with hobbling chains, and ball-gags were strapped in their mouths.  Leather collars linked by chains formed the coffle.

Gloria watched the bizarre procession pass, unconsciously slowing her pace.  In addition to their restraints, the prisoners had two other things in common: all were young (in their early to mid twenties), and all were very beautiful.  They ignored Gloria, apparently unsurprised and/or unimpressed by the sight of other captives.

Again, there were two exceptions:

(1) A fair-skinned, dark-haired, and big-boobed prisoner in the middle of the line focused on Gloria as they passed—and winked!

(2) The last prisoner in line was a short youngster with a healthy tan, a trim figure, pert boobs, and straight, honey-blonde hair in a Lu-lu bob.  Her striking blue eyes were brimming with tears.  She met Gloria's gaze—and just about broke the Latina's heart.  Poor kid!  She was cute as the proverbial button, and was obviously not a happy camper.

Gloria's leash snapped taut, and they were past.  She looked back over her shoulder to watch the tail end of the coffle, including the pathetic little blonde, disappear around a corner.  Who are they?  Where are they going?  What's gonna happen to them?  It was one more Mystery of The Tower to add to Gloria's ever-growing list.

It occurred to Gloria that the winking brunette might be a submissive playing at being a captive.  And was the sad little blonde a genuine kidnap victim, like Gloria, herself—or was she also a submissive volunteer, who had found herself in over her head?  This madhouse is even more complicated than I thought, she decided.

Gloria shook her head as she pattered after her handler.  Poor kid! she thought, again.  She then put the little blonde and her companions from her mind.  Gloria had herself (and Fiona, and Amanda, and Chessy Golden) to worry about.

They stopped at a steel door.  The lead she-goon entered a code in its cypher-lock keypad and it opened.  Lizette was waiting in the space beyond.  She was dressed in a business suit (jacket, blouse, and skirt), hose, and sensible pumps, all in tastefully matching shades of pale salmon-pink.  Gloria blinked in mild astonishment.  She was used to seeing the little hedonist-bitch in various states of undress and/or bondage, and while the choice of pink was hardly new, the easy poise with which she carried off the whole Ms. Junior Executive thing was something of a surprise.

"Ah, here you are," Lizette said with a bright smile.  She pointed to a stainless steel cart laden with what appeared to be thick, coiled, black leather belts, and the she-goons dragged the prisoners closer.

Gloria surveyed their surroundings.  The space was very long, narrow, and straight, more a corridor than a room.  The walls were covered, from ceiling to floor, in quilted, silver-gray padding, including the inside of the door.  The floor was textured rubber, with countless tiny silver and copper studs embedded in the pattern.  Track lighting in the high ceiling lit the entire length of the tunnel-like space.  They were at one end, very close to one of the padded walls.

"Fifi's been here before," Lizette said, "but I'll explain the routine for your benefit, Glowie."  She gestured towards a plate-sized disc mounted on the end wall.  It was a bright, metallic red, and protruded from the padded surface like a giant pushbutton.  "That's your lap counter."  She pointed at the opposite end of the room.  "And there's another down there."

Meanwhile, the she-goons had pushed Gloria and Fiona face-to-face and were strapping them together.  Their breasts were squashed together by a broad belt that encircled their upper torsos.  Then, a second, much narrower belt slid through loops in the elbow straps of their binders and the sides of the torso belt and was tightened, snugging the binders and the torso belt together.  An even broader belt was used to press their stomachs together, bellybutton-to-bellybutton.  Again, a second, narrower belt was passed through loops in the sleeves over their encased forearms, through loops in the waist belt, and buckled tight.

Gloria focused on Fiona's gagged (and beautiful) face, and sighed.  Isn't this cozy, she mused, then one of the goons produced a black plastic rod and pushed it into the short tube protruding from the whiffle-ball in Gloria's mouth.  It locked in place with an authoritative snap.  Next, with one goon holding Gloria's head and the other guiding Fiona's, the other end of the rod was forced into the tube in Fiona's gag.  There was another snap, and the captives found themselves linked face-to-face, with less than an inch between the tips of their noses.

"The idea, of course, is to make your way from button to button," Lizette continued to lecture, "before the timer—"  She pointed at a large flatscreen mounted over the button, close to the ceiling.  "—ticks down to zero.  The floor's electrified, you see, and if you don't make it to the button in time, you get a series of escalating shocks."

The she-goons pushed the cart from the room, and Lizette and the prisoners were alone.  Fiona voiced an angry, mewling complaint.

Gloria found the concomitant vibrations transmitted through their linked gags to be most unsettling.

Lizette laughed, stepped forward, and gave Fiona's rump a loud slap!  "Don't have kittens, Fifi," she purred, with a gloating smile.  "This won't be the running and periodic sprints you're used to.  This is a new program, designed to compensate for your... togetherness."  She embraced both captives, and began running her hands up and down the flanks of their pinioned bodies.  "It will be demanding, of course, and I imagine it'll be incredibly awkward 'til you find a way to move together."  She patted the prisoners thighs, gave them a final hug, and took a step back.  "And I imagine you'll both work up quite a sweat... especially with your tits and tummys squashed together like that.  And think about all the drooling you'll be doing down that double-décolletage.  Just be glad you didn't make me really angry.  If you had, you'd be wearing the dual-dildo, shared crotch-belt that completes the ensemble... even if this is a rest day, and not giving your pussies a break would violate Mercy's rules."

Lizette strolled to the button, smiled, and gave it a push.  There was a loud ping, the lights dimmed, and the flatscreen came to life.  A large, analog clock face was displayed.  It had no numbers, just the traditional pair of hands―and the big hand had begun to move.

"The little hand keeps track of finished laps," Lizette explained, "and the big hand shows how long you have 'til the floor starts pulsing."  The gloating little blonde heaved a rather theatrical sigh.  "And it isn't waiting for you to decide to start, ladies."

Fiona took a step towards the far wall, and Gloria followed suit (of course).  They settled into a sideways crab-walk; but, as promised, coordinating their efforts was an awkward challenge.  Gloria focused on the far wall, and saw a second flatscreen with a matching clock glowing above their target button.

"The clock will vary the time required to complete a lap," Lizette lectured, "so keep an eye on how quickly the lap-hand is moving.  Don't worry.  Like I said before, this program is designed to compensate for togetherness.  It'll start with several slow laps, to let you find your rhythm.  I suggest you try working out a few dance moves—'cause when the sprint laps start, that's probably the only way you're going to be able to move fast enough to avoid getting zapped."

Bitch! Gloria fumed, and Fiona grunted, in obvious agreement.

"Five minute water breaks every hour," Lizette added, "and tinkle breaks every three hours."

How many hours are we talkin' about?? Gloria wondered.  She heard a thud, switched her gaze to the rear, and found the door closed and Lizette gone.  She returned to concentrating on the placement of her feet as they shuffled towards their immediate goal, the button on the far wall.  They still had quite a way to go to complete their first half-lap, and the clock was ticking!

We should try waltzing, Gloria decided, if we can figure out how to start... and who gets to lead.  One thing was for sure: this form of "exercise" was going to get very old, very fast.

ELSEWHERE IN THE TOWER
THAT SAME MORNING

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Amanda was pissed, almost to the point she didn't care what Petra La BITCH did to her, as long as she got just one chance to kick the blonde witch between the legs, full force!  Not that that was going to happen, of course.

Upon being returned to her cell the previous night, she'd found a pleasant little Cobb salad and some nice wine waiting on a low table.  The bowl, goblet, and the single spork were all plastic—suitable for dining, but useless for any other purpose (like making an escape tool or attacking one of the guards).  It was moot, in any case, 'cause two of the glamazons watched her consume the meal, then departed with the table and tableware, including the paper napkin she'd used to wipe her lips.

She'd passed the remainder of the night alone, naked, and curled up on the bed platform.  Sleep had come quickly.

The next morning, she went through the automatic, humiliating routine of wakeup, morning toilet, and waiting, leaning against the wall, with her hands and feet in glowing green outlines to avoid electrical punishment.

After several minutes, a pair of glamazons appeared, one in lavender and the other in lime green.  Amanda's wrists were cuffed behind her back and attached to a steel belt they'd clamped around her waist, then her ankles were snapped in hobbling shackles.  They were the same custom-fitted, steel restraints she'd worn before, as far as she could tell.  A black ball-gag was strapped in her mouth and they left the cell, passing through the curtained "interview room" and out into the corridors.  After a gentle reminder, delivered by the lime glamazon via a couple of taps to the back of Amanda's calves (with the baton on its lowest setting, thank god), she went up on her toes and minced along in the "invisible high-heels mode" Petra had decreed would be her normal form of locomotion.

All of which was humiliating, of course, but it was not the cause of her anger.  She'd been taken to a room, and a latex-clad female drone had fitted her with a mask and a tail, and that was what had pissed her off!

 The half-mask was similar to Chessy's fox mask, but Amanda's mimicked the face of a calico cat.  It was covered with white, black, and golden tan fake fur, and had large eye openings, feline ears, and a pink nose. 

Amanda watched, in a full-length mirror, as the drone placed the mask against her face and tightened its attached harness of thin black straps behind her head.  Her hair was arranged to hide the straps, then a long shock of white hair was clipped in place, just under the top edge of the mask.  It matched her raven tresses in texture and length, and created the illusion that the slightly offset crest of white fur on the mask carried through her actual hair.

Okay, the mask was clever... and beautiful... and if Petra La Roque wanted to pretend she was a cat, Amanda could live with it.  She gazed at herself in the mirror.  Actually, the mask was very beautiful.  She'd have to see if she couldn't have one made for herself, after she escaped.  Professionally, Amanda was a traditionalist, with Chessy being the one who liked to get all Cirque du Soleil with her act... but the audience might like a change of pace.  Amanda turned her head to the side.  Hmm... a captive kitty escaping from Gloria, in the role of a spoiled, mean little girl.  Add a calico leotard, and a tail...  Still gazing in the mirror, Amanda noticed the drone approaching, and there was something in her hands.  And speaking of a tail...

The tail was at least a yard in length, covered in inch-long fur in the same calico colors and mottled patches as the mask, and attached to the end—Amanda's eyes popped wide and she took an involuntary step back—the end was a metal hook!  And it terminated in a rounded knob in the shape of a small egg!

All fear evaporated, and Amanda's eyes flashed!  She glared at the approaching drone.  You're not putting that thing in me!  She tried to kick the drone in the shins, but her shackles made this impossible.  Next, she tried a head butt, but the drone dodged the attack with graceful ease.

The glamazons were on her in an instant, and Amanda found herself face down, stretched over some sort of padded frame.  The lavender glamazon was holding down her upper body, and her lime partner had one boot planted over her hobble chain, controlling her legs.

Amanda flinched and growled through her gag as the drone placed one latex-gloved hand on her right butt cheek.  She struggled and continued her gagged complaints as a warm, wet cloth was used to clean between her butt crack.  Then—something hard, round, and cold touched her anus—and was slowly forced past her clenched sphincter!  The drone took her time, and some sort of lubrication eased the hook's passage.  Amanda screamed through her gag, her eyes wet with angry tears.  She wasn't in pain, but it was humiliating in the extreme to be treated in this manner!  There was a metallic click, near where her cuffs attached to her steel belt—then her handlers released her and stepped back.

Amanda stood and struggled against her bonds, continuing to growl.  The hook was a perfect fit, anchored inside her rear, cleaving her cheeks, and following her spine to the back of the belt.  The tail seemed to grow from the base of her spine—and to her utter amazement—it was moving!

The tail flexed and swung from side to side.  The white tip actually flicked!  The illusion that Amanda had sprouted the tail of an angry feline was nearly perfect.  She stared at the swishing appendage in the mirror for several seconds, then stamped her fettered feet and screamed through her gag.

Her handlers let her stomp and struggle for several seconds, then the lavender glamazon stepped forward, used the tip of her baton to lift Amanda's chin, and held a small remote in her left hand for Amanda's inspection.  It had a red button above a slide-bar.  The glamazon tapped the button—and Amanda flinched, her eyes popped wide, and she grunted through her gag!  The egg at the end of the hook had delivered a mild electric shock!  She watched as the glamazon slid her baton back into its boot holster, then slid the bar on the remote to its next highest setting.  She then shook a warning finger in Amanda's face.

Amanda took the hint and stood perfectly still, breasts heaving and panting through her gag—but she was still PISSED!!

The latex drone wasn't quite finished.  A cage-like apparatus was fitted over the lower portion of the mask and under Amanda's chin, then buckled at the nape of her neck.  It was a muzzle, and was totally unnecessary, even as a gag reinforcement.  Clearly, it was just one more humiliating detail of the masquerade.

The final touch was a collar (of course).  It was black leather, studded with what appeared to be genuine diamonds, and dangling from a ring on the front was a silver bell.  The lime glamazon snapped a leather leash to the ring, and led Amanda out into the corridor, with her lavender companion two paces behind.

Her masked, gagged, and muzzled head held high, her tail twitching from side to side, Amanda stomped in the lime glamazon's wake, her hobble chain rattling and bell tinkling.  The lavender glamazon tapped her calves with her baton.  Shuddering with repressed anger, Amanda went up on her toes.

Bitch! she fumed, eyes flashing as she minced along.  What now?