Mercy Dench was moving at a good clip. All those she encountered in the corridors, secretaries and junior executives alike, moved aside instantly to let her pass. Everyone who worked in the La Roque Tower learned to recognize Mercy's moods, for such knowledge could mean the difference between a positive performance evaluation and finding oneself "volunteered" to participate in a "Special Apparel Program".
Mercy was wearing one of her signature red power-suits. This one was rather titian in hue, with a short skirt and a matching jacket with lightly padded shoulders and wide lapels. A white silk blouse, a necklace of Spanish silver, dark hose, and black heels completed the ensemble. Her iPhone was clutched in her left hand.
She came to a door with a gold sign reading "L. La Roque". The door opened automatically, she breezed past the suite's secretary (who was wise enough not to question her intentions), and on through to the inner office.
Lizette was across the room, with her back to the door. Dressed in a salmon-pink suit, she was facing a huge, plasma HDTV on which could be seen the images of Gloria, Fiona, and four of Mercy's Minions. They were in the electrified, computer-controlled running track where Lizette had abandoned her playthings to a morning of "joint exercise". The catsuited amazons were releasing the captives' gags and unbuckling the straps that had been binding them face-to-face, breast-to-breast, and tummy-to-tummy. Still bound in tight single-sleeves of black leather, their skin glistening with sweat and their breasts heaving as they panted for breath, Gloria and Fiona collapsed to the floor as soon as their handlers finished their work.
Lizette was speaking into her bluetooth headset. "But they have another hour to go!" she exclaimed. "Who gave you the authority to—" She noticed the reflection of Mercy's glowering face in the screen, and turned to face her mother's principal assistant. "Never mind," she said, and pulled the phone bud from her ear. "Mercy," she said, her manner decidedly less authoritative, "why did you—"
"Strip!" Mercy barked.
"Mercy!" Lizette gasped.
"Now, you little idiot!" Mercy growled.
Lizette struck a petulant pose. "When did Mumsy tell you that you could—"
Mercy slapped Lizette's face.
Shocked (and afraid), Lizette's hand covered her red cheek. "Mercy!" she whined.
"If you make me repeat myself one more time..."
Lizette unbuttoned and removed her pink jacket, then unbuttoned, unzipped, and stepped out of the matching skirt.
"Faster!" Mercy barked.
Lizette's fingers made quick work of the buttons of her white silk blouse. She removed and tossed the garment aside, stepped out of her heels, then removed her pink bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings. Without prompting and working quickly, she gathered the clothing and shoes, bundled them in the jacket, and tossed the pink package onto a nearby sofa. She then faced Mercy, raised her hands and interlaced her fingers behind her head, pulled her elbows back, placed her feet about eighteen inches apart, and went up on her toes.
Mercy walked a slow circuit around the naked little blonde, then went to the sofa, gathered the clothing bundle, and walked to the office entrance. She opened the door and tossed the pink mass to the startled secretary. "See that this gets where it belongs," she ordered, and closed the door.
Lizette held her submissive pose until Mercy returned. She knew better than to speak or move; however, nothing said she couldn't try and influence her fate (whatever it might be) by more subtle means. She pursed her lips and affected her most pathetic and heart-wrenchingly pitiable pout.
Mercy was busy with her iPhone, ignoring Lizette completely.
Lizette watched Mercy's fingers tap and slide. She let her features relax, saving her strength. Finally, after several seconds, Mercy tapped the screen a final time and pocketed the device, and Lizette reasserted her pout.
"What did I tell you about juvenile theatrics?" Mercy warned, and Lizette's pout vanished. "When was Fiona's last full rest day?"
Lizette blinked in surprise. "That's what this is about? I told you I needed more time to synchronize schedules if you were going to make me take care of a second of Mumsy's 'Specials'."
"Following all Tower rules and guidelines, it would have taken you two days to synchronize their schedules," Mercy countered, "and all it would have taken was a little restraint, on your part."
"Restraint?" Lizette bit her lower lip and wrinkled her nose, again, consciously "turning up the cute", as she liked to think of it. "Oh, I used restraint."
Mercy was unmoved. "And I'm going to use restraint with you."
As if on cue, the office door opened and two female figures entered.
The first was tall, athletic, and dressed in a skintight catsuit of royal-blue spandex. It had a full hood and gloves, a yoke of white stars decorated the collar region, and bands of gold and red ringed the hood's face and throat. A single red star was emblazoned high on her forehead, atop the gold bands. Red knee boots with narrow white stripes at the top and down the front were on her feet, a gold metal corset-belt was around her waist, and gold metal bracers decorated with one red star each were on her wrists. A neat coil of golden cord was clipped to the side of the corset-belt. Finally, its edges tucked under the hood, she was wearing a full-face mask of chrome steel sculpted in the form of a beautiful female face.
The second figure was much shorter—as short as Lizette, in fact—with a lithe but well-rounded figure. She was clad in a spandex catsuit of deep, dark purple. Her boots were a golden yellow, as were her gloves and belt, and the shape of a stylized bat, also in golden yellow, was emblazoned across her chest. A purple cape draped her shoulders, and a hooded cowl covered her head and upper face. It had a pair of points that suggested animal ears, and the long waves of her red curls (or a wig) flowed from under the back of the cowl and cascaded down her back.
Mercy looked at the newcomers and shook her head, then produced her iPhone and began tapping the screen. "'Wonder Woman', 'Batgirl'," she said, "this masquerade is terminated. At the start of the workday, tomorrow, you may both return to your former assignments, with the promised promotions and bonuses."
"Mercy!" Lizette complained. "Diana has at least a month to go, and Babs just started! I've only tied her up three times!"
Mercy focused on Lizette. "Also, that little blonde secretary you have your eye on for 'Supergirl'? She won't be leaving her desk."
"Mercy," Lizette complained again, coming down off her toes and stomping her left foot (which caused her breasts to bob), "it isn't fair! Mumsy gets her Poison Ivy and Zatanna! It isn't fair!"
Mercy smiled. "Poison Ivy and...? Oh, you mean her fox and calico kitty. 'Mumsy' isn't being punished, because Mumsy has a firm grasp of the concept of empathy... which you do not."
"Mercy!" Lizette whined, reasserting her pout.
"You've been lectured by your mother, by me, and by my senior Minions," Mercy stated, "and you still don't get it. You have to respect the limits and follow the rules. You need a lesson, a serious lesson, and you're going to get it."
"I'll tell Mumsy!" Lizette responded.
Mercy shook her head. "Who do you think is ordering me to do this?"
Lizette's eyes popped wide. "Oh," she whispered.
Mercy turned back to the costumed employees. "She's to put in a full work day and attend all scheduled meetings with La Roque staff..." She consulted her iPhone. "...but not the three-o'clock. There will be outside partners in that one." She focused on Wonder Woman and Batgirl, again. "Also, she's to eat lunch in the executive dining room, as always. And not a stitch of clothing—not so much as a Kleenex or a paper towel from the washroom, the entire day."
"Mercy!" Lizette whined, again.
Mercy focused on the nude, blushing blonde. "Humility is a virtue. Humiliation, on the other hand, is a punishment. This will be a good way to communicate your temporary fall from grace throughout the Tower." She pocketed her iPhone and headed for the office door. "Tonight, I give you permission to indulge yourselves," she told the costumed pair, as she passed, "within established limits, of course. Tomorrow, turn her over to the Minion day watch."
The door closed, and Lizette, Wonder Woman, and Batgirl were alone.
Lizette focused on her former "playmates", and forced a smile. "Well... it was fun while it lasted, wasn't it?"
The "Princess of Themyscira" and the "Caped Coquette" exchanged a glance, then sauntered over to face their former mistress. Wonder Woman pointed towards Lizette's desk.
"Oh, yeah," the blushing blonde responded. "I have that report to finish... and that presentation to work on." She pattered to her desk and settled her naked rump into her chair, grimacing slightly as her buttocks made contact with the cool leather.
Lizette resumed reading the prospectus she'd been vetting before she'd noticed Fifi and Glowie's exercise being interrupted on the big screen. The screen in question was now showing the House of La Roque logo. Lizette watched, with stolen glances, as "Diana" removed her mask, threw back her hood, and settled into a sofa in the office's small conversation grouping. "Babs" had thrown back her cowl, as well, and was at the wet bar, pouring coffee from a carafe into a pair of cups. She carried over both cups, handed one to her costumed companion, and settled into an easy chair with the other.
Lizette focused on the page before her, squirming her naked butt and shuddering at the feel of the smooth, slightly clinging leather against her bare skin. "This is bad," she muttered under her breath. "This is really bad."
|-||THE AMAZING AMANDA!||—Chapter 10||-|
Around what Amanda supposed might be sundown, a pair of glamazons appeared, she was unchained from her "petbed", and was dragged out the door. Chessy remained behind, still in her Shibari suspension. In the course of the journey back to her cell, Amanda caught a glimpse through a distant window-wall of the rippling reflection of a low, orange sun against the mirrored face of a neighboring skyscraper, confirming her guess of the time. Her handlers hustled her into an elevator and down to the depressingly utilitarian concrete and tile of the "dungeon" levels.
Upon arrival in her cell, she found the usual evening meal, waiting on the usual low table; however, in a break from routine, her bed platform was already extended from the wall. The Project Gwendoline binder was waiting atop its smooth, cotton-clad surface. As her steel restraints were removed, a furtive glance confirmed that it was, indeed, the exact same binder. She carefully controlled her reaction, hiding her excitement at the sight of the ends of the several steel paper clips among the pages.
A shiver passed through Amanda's body as the anchoring hook of the cat costume's robotic tail was eased from her anus. The calico mask was also removed, and she was returned to her "normal" state—total nudity.
She consumed the meal under the watchful eyes of the her glamazon handlers. The food was... forgettable. It was adequate and even delicious, but Amanda's thoughts were focused on the immediate future. The last scrap consumed, the low table was removed, the glamazons departed, the mirror wall slid down, sealing the cell—and Amanda was alone.
Or was she?
For Amanda's plan to work, she needed complete privacy until morning; but... was she under video surveillance? There was no way to know, and the subject had never been broached by her captors. Maybe a spectacularly bored glamazon was watching her on a monitor, and would be through all the hours of the night. Maybe she was being watched only intermittently. And maybe her "escape" would be spectacularly short lived. In any case, she had to try.
Amanda performed a set of stretching exercises—then a short yoga session—then a set of cool-down stretches—then went to the wall opposite the mirror-wall, palmed the hand print, and waited for the section covering the bathroom alcove to lower into the floor. She splashed water on her face from the tiny sink, made quick use of the other facilities, then returned to the bed platform.
She sat cross-legged on the bed and leafed through the binder. For the next two hours she lounged on the bed in various poses, all the while flipping and reading. Like any magician—and at least on the stage, escapology was a form of magic—Amanda was skilled in the art of misdirection. It would take a vigilent and highly trained observer, indeed, to notice as she carefully slipped a pair of paper clips from the pages; slowly, using the binder and her body for cover; carefully unbent them into more-or-less straight lengths of stiff wire; then used the steel spine of the binder to put a tiny "L" bend in one of the wires. A yawn and stretch served to cover her actions as she slid the improvised picks into her hair, one above each ear.
All was in readiness... but Amanda waited. She read for several more minutes, yawned again, then "went to sleep", leaving the binder open at her side.
Minutes ticked by... and became an additional hour.
Finally, Amanda eased herself off the bed and padded to the bathroom alcove area. She palmed the hand print and the door lowered into the floor. She stepped into the alcove, reached out into main cell (a mild contortion, but no real challenge for The Amazing Amanda), and palmed the print, again. She quickly flattened against the mirrored wall, and watched as the door rose, sealing her into the narrow space.
|-||THE AMAZING AMANDA!||—Chapter 10||-|
|-||THE AMAZING AMANDA!||—Chapter 10||-|
Amanda plunged, with a churning splash, into a black, oily liquid! She kicked and struggled to the surface, realizing her mistake. What she had taken for a solid, albeit wet and filthy floor was actually a layer of scum floating on what was at least several feet of some sort of viscous fluid.
|-||THE AMAZING AMANDA!||—Chapter 10||-|
"Dammit!" Amanda shouted. "Not again!" There was a whirring noise, the rope snapped taut, and she found herself nearly up on her toes with her right arm fully extended. "Nooo!" The green light was gone. Had she blundered into a trap, or was there someone here, lurking in the dark? She managed to grab the rope with her left hand, above her captured right wrist, and pulled herself up. Dangling in midair, she used her lips and tongue to try and release the knot binding her wrist—only there was no knot. The noose was held tight by some sort of friction clamp, and it had no catch or stud to cause it to release, not one that she could find, anyway.
||THE AMAZING AMANDA!||—Chapter 10||-|
...and white lights, high overhead, began to glow. Amanda blinked as the light grew brighter, and shook her head to free her wet, tousled hair from her face. Her mental image of her surroundings was confirmed. She was in a large, circular room with vertical walls interrupted by a series of oval steel doors, all set flush, without hinges or handles. The walls and floor were wet concrete, but all she could see of the ceiling was the dazzle of the lights and some pipes and conduits. Amanda rolled her body... and her captor came into view.
She was female, standing with her hands on her hips in an appropriately dominant pose, and she was indeed dressed in full glamazon drag—although Amanda noted the suit and accessories were latex or rubber, rather than the usual leather. The outfit was dripping wet (like Amanda, and everything else in the room), and it was matte black.
The glamazon's helmet was also slightly different from standard issue. It was, for all practical purposes, a streamlined, close-fitting motorcycle helmet; but the reflective face shield was more like a pair of goggles with over-size lenses than the full-face ovals Amanda had seen before.
The glamazon released a catch at the side of the helmet, lifted it off her head, and tucked in under her right arm. Her head was still covered by a skintight, full rubber hood. An oval opening left only her face exposed, from chin to forehead, and that face belonged to—Petra La Roche!
Amanda growled through her gag and gave her bound body a frustrated shake. Petra looked like some kind of Space Pirate. All that was missing was a jet pack, oxygen bottles, and a ray-gun in a holster on her hip, all appropriately Retro in style, of course. Amanda growled again, and glared her defiance.
"Well," Petra said, with her usual infuriating, gloating smile, "our first night-vision hunt! Was it good for you, too, Amanda?"