Yours to Command

By DX

Copyrighted, 10/2024, all rights reserved.

 “I shouldn’t even be here.”  Walter mumbled to himself as he looked at the last two bullets in the magazine from his M-18, Sig Sauer 9MM pistol.  “Sgt Montgomery was supposed to be here,”  His hands shook as he re-inserted the magazine.  “not me.” 

 He was bleeding from his head.  A bullet had scraped him, leaving a groove in his skull and a bit of a concussion.  Listing his resources:  at hand he had a broken Kalashnikov, a multi-tool, a flashlight, a first aid kit, and a compass.  

 He was in a small outcropping of a cave, just a slight space.  Wedged in with him was Sheik Bahir.  An opulent man dressed in the finery of a tribal leader.  His regal robes were all ruined with blood stains from where a bullet had shattered his hip.  Slave Chanda was applying direct pressure to the Sheik’s wound.  Blood was oozing between her fingers.

 “I wasn’t supposed to be here.”  Walter whispered to himself.

 Forty eight hours ago Lance Corporal Walter Gains got up at precisely oh-dark-thirty, dressed, and headed over the motor pool.  It was cool, and he watched his steaming breath curl as he walked down the path, brightly lit by street lights.  At the motor pool he checked out an ULTV, a small but rugged vehicle, then drove to the SBEQ to pick up Staff Sergeant Montgomery.

 Staff was sick.

 “It’s your lucky day.”  He said through his mask as he climbed in.  “You’re single, right?  No girlfriend?”

 Walter didn’t really understand the question as it appeared out of context.  “Uh, what?”

 “Just drop me off at Sick-Bay, then head to the tarmac.  Tell them you’re there to meet Mr. Warner.”  He sneezed and blew a massive booger into his mask.  “Ah, fuck.”  He mumbled.

 Struggling with a fully loaded mask, Staff said nothing else until he arrived at sick-bay and climbed out.  “Remember!  Mr. Warner!”  He waved feebly and walked into the clinic.

 Confused, Walter drove to the flight deck.  At the gate, he told the Sergeant that Staff was sick.  “I guess someone should tell a Mr. Warner?”

 The Sergeant smiled.  “Must be your lucky day!  Single?  No girlfriend?”

 “What the hell does that mean?”

 “They didn’t tell you?  Well…”. He paused as he heard the roar of a C-130’s engines as it pulled from the hangar.  “They’ll explain it to you!  You’ll find Warner there!”  He handed him a small plastic sealed package containing ear plugs.  “Hurry up, Devil Dog!  Your transport awaits!”

 Walter shook his head.  “I don’t have orders to…”

 The Sergeant waved him on.  “Double-time!  Ooo-rah!”

 Walter drove where he was directed, until an airdale with a flashlight showed him were to park.  “I have a message for Mr. Warner?”  Walter said.

 “That way.”  He pointed to the C-130, now being loaded.

 Walter sighed, then put in the ear plugs the sergeant had given him.  He clambered out of the ULTV and headed to the back of the C-130.  

 The C-130’s engines made a horrible racket, and as Walter approached, someone pointed to the back of the plane.  There, lights from all the service vehicles flashed and created a myriad, maddening pattern, lighting up the plane.  Walter saw the back of the plane was open and cargo was being wheeled in.  

 On the ramp surveying the operation was a man dressed in a cross between a tan business suit and utilities, looking more like a British soldier from Queen Victoria’s army.  His well polished boots were bloused, his trousers pressed and starched, and his cargo pockets looked as if they’d been glued flat.  To add to his look, he wore a pith helmet with a green ribbon around its crown.  Clasped around his waist was a utility belt the same color as his helmet ribbon.  He had a holster and pistol, and two utility pouches.

 He wore no rank or any insignia.

 Not knowing if he should salute or not, Walter didn’t.  “Mr. Warner?”  Walter shouted over the din.  “Staff Sergeant Montgomery is sick and is at sick bay.” 

 Mr. Warner turned, and his glacier cool eyes regarded the young Lance Corporal.  Warner was excessively handsome, with a cleft chin that could smash ice, and cheek bones that could cut paper.  He had either just stepped off a movie production, or Walter had accidentally driven on set and was talking to the leading man.  

 Mr. Warner motioned to his ear, showing his ear plugs, then walked into the back of the plane, inviting Walter the follow.  From the wall, Mr. Warner pulled down two head sets, handing one to Walter, and plugged them in.

 Hearing the click, Walter adjusted the mic.  “Staff Sergeant Montgomery is sick.  I dropped him off at sick-bay.”

 A warm smile crawled across Mr. Warner’s face and he glanced at his watch.  “Must be your lucky day.”

 “Why does everyone keep saying that?”  Walter said, a little hotter than he intended.

 “Strap in.”

 Panic flashed across Walter’s face.  “What?  Uh, I have get back to motor-pool.”

 “Not any more.”  Mr. Warner said casually.

 “But I checked out a ULTV.”  Walter protested.  “I gotta bring that back.”

 Mr. Warner glanced at his distractedly.  “It’ll be taken care of.”

 Walter looked to head out of the back of the plane, but the back hatch started to close with a painful whine.  “What?  Wait!  Wait!  I’m not supposed to be here!”

 Warner held up his hand.  “Calm down Marine.”  He then took out his mobile.  “What’s your name?”

 “Lance Corporal Walter Gains, sir.”

 Mr. Warner tapped his phone, then reached up and turned a switch on the com.  “Hey, Skipper?  Can you step back here?”

 Stunned, Walter watched the pilot, a Lieutenant Colonel, climb down from the cockpit, walk over and plug into the com.  

 Mr. Warner pointed to Walter.  “This is Walter Gains.  Would you inform him he’s with me?”

 The Colonel looked at the young Marine and smiled.  “It’s your lucky day, War Dog.”  He pointed to Mr. Warner.  “He’s your new commanding officer.  His wish is your command.  He says, jump, you say, ‘how high’, while you’re on the way up.”  He then added.  “Don’t salute.”  He then looked at Mr. Warner.  “With your permission, we’re cleared to taxi.”

 Mr. Warner shrugged.  “It’s your plane, Skipper.”

 The Colonel nodded, unplugged, and disappeared up the ladderwell.

 Walter blinked as he realized that Mr. Warner had just commanded a light colonel, pulling him out of his cockpit.

 Mr. Warner, was in charge.

 Mr. Warner nudged him.  “Buckle up.”

 So commanded, Walter sat down in the web harness against the wall, and bucked up.

 As they taxied, Mr. Warner held out his phone and showed Walter his new orders.  Walter had been assigned to a command he had never heard of, and based in a place he had no idea existed.  Mr. Warner flashed to another page and pointed at the words, Non-Disclosure Agreement, then showed Walter where to sign with his finger.  He then slid to another document and signed out to Walter a web belt, holster, a 9mm pistol, thirty-one rounds of ammunition, a first-aid kit, compass, K-Bar, and sheath.  

 Walter signed.

 The engines roared and the C-130 rattled and ran, and slowly, desperately crawled its way into the sky.  

 When they reached cursing altitude, Mr. Warner clicked on the com.  “In the remote region of Somewherestan, in the mountains of Irrelevant, there is a band of tribesman called Urktus.  They have been their own kingdom before the building of the pyramids.  They live as if it was the third century, but they like their twenty-first century toys.  Well, in their mountains they are sitting on a massive vein of raridium.  We need it.  I can’t stress how important this stuff is.  More importantly, we need no one else to have it, especially the Kragiras, sworn enemy of the Urktus.  Sheik Bahir is friendly to our country and we are going to do everything to make sure it stays that way.”  He looked at Walter.  “Nod if you’re with me so far.”

 Walter nodded.

 “Good.”  He smiled.  “Part of their ethos is hospitality.  Any welcomed visitor will be offered to sample their hospitality.”  His cold eyes peered at Walter.  “These guys will jump off a cliff if they fail to please their guest.”

 “So no matter what,”  Walter offered.  “I’m happy.”

 Mr. Warner nodded slowly.  “and accept their hospitality.”

 “Oh, well that’s easy.”  Walter said, relaxing.

 “Your lucky day!”  Mr. Warner said triumphantly.  “Not every day you get to lay pipe as part of your job description, am I right?”  He leaned back into the harness as he thought.  “Yeah, guys like us, you know,”  He flashed his wedding ring.  “the wife isn’t too keen… so that’s why we bring a single guy like you to sample the hospitality.”  He grinned at Walter.  “Sacrificial lamb.”

 Walter looked confused.  “Lay pipe?”

 Mr. Warmer fanned his hands, back peddling.  “Okay, one more time.  We need to be their favorite guest.”

 “Yeah,”  Walter said not fully understanding it.

 Mr. Warner blinked.  “I’m surprised I have to explain this to a Marine.  To be clear, there will be a woman,”  He paused,  “or man, however you swing, to show you all of their hospitality.”

 “Yeah.”  Walter said, now understanding it.

 Mr. Warner shook his head.  “You don’t get it.  They will show you… everything.”

 “Yeah, everything.”

 “Sex, Marine.  She’s going to want you to sleep with her.”

 Walter’s face lost all expression.  “With me?”

 “Yes, you!”  Mr. Warner pointed to Walter.  “Besides, you’re a good looking guy!”  He smiled.  “I’m sure she would be happy to sleep with you.”

 “What if she doesn’t?”

 Mr. Warner tried to speak several times before finally finding words.  “She will.  I promise.  You just let it happen.”  He smiled.  “I will be giving the Sheik the latest high tech, while your job is to enjoy the hospitality.  Those are your orders.”  He snapped his fingers as he remembered something.  “Oh!  Take this.”  He pulled something with a lanyard and draped it over Walter’s neck.  “Whatever you do, don’t lose that!”  He slapped Walter on the back.  “You get to take one for the team!”

 Walter smiled weakly.  “Your wish is my command.”  He replied less enthusiastically as he looked at the object Mr. Warner had given him.  

 A gold, ornate, old timey key glinted in the dim light.  Walter slipped it under his blouse.

 Hours later they landed in a place that didn’t have a runway and met with the rest of their team which comprised of U.S. and U.K. civilians, all armed with holstered pistols.  They then drove by hummer to a place with no roads, then on horse back up into the craggy rocks where there was no trail, before arriving before two, massive iron doors nestled in a titanic crack in a mountain face, hidden from the world.

 When the doors slowly opened, Lance Corporal Walter Gains stepped back in time.

 It was a city carved from solid rock.  

 Dark, hooded and shadowy men dressed in flowing robes, strode out, rifles slung over their shoulders or casually in their hands.  Walter noted it was a mishmash of FNRLs, M-16s, SA80s, and one M1 Garand in sniper configuration.  Each man had a curved dagger tucked into their waist sash.

 Walter followed Mr. Warner’s lead and dismounted.  Unfamiliar with horse technology, Walter’s foot snagged in the stirrup.  Balanced precariously on one leg, he struggled not to face plant.  He could hear the laugher of the men around him as he desperately tried to keep his balance by hopping in a circle with one foot on the ground, and the other tangled in the stirrup.

 The horse, perhaps trying to be helpful, took a casual side-step, and inadvertently took away the last of Walter’s balance.  As Walter prepared for impact, he smelled the wonderful aroma of jasmine.

 Strong, lithe arms embraced him and held him up.  Then, with an easy sweep of her hand, slipped his boot free from the stirrup, and stood him up.

 Walter looked into the eyes of the jungle, and thought of rain rolling across a deep green leaf.  She had delicious, creamy skin, and vibrant, fiery red hair.  She was dressed in near invisible swaths of silk, showing clearly her curves that ran for days.

 Her dimples flashed as she gave him a warm, bemused smile.

 “Thank you.”  He managed to say.

 A moment of pride hinted on her face.  “You have my key, I am yours to command.”

 Lost in the music of her words, Walter had no idea what she was talking about.  He looked around for a bit of guidance and saw other women, draped in vibrant gossamer veils, were fawning over the party, while Mr. Warner shook hands with, based on his royal garb Sheik Bahir, while showing off the gift of new computer servers.

 The woman, still holding Walter’s arm, gently lead him to follow the rest of the party, and Walter, awestruck and bewildered, numbly followed.  Everyone was laughing and chittering like friends re-united.  Walter noticed everyone had a beautiful woman holding their arm.

 “What do I call you?”  He asked the woman holding his arm.

 “What ever you would like.”  She said, smily dubiously.

 Walter swallowed nervously.  “What does everyone else call you?”

 “Slave Chanda.”  She said proudly.

 “Can I just call you Chanda?”

 She smirked.  “In private.”  

 Slave Chanda ushered him to a bench along side the rest of his party outside a central building.  There she knelt before him and began to remove his boots.

 “Whoa, careful there.”  He warned.  “I’ve been percolating in those boots all day.”

 She pulled off his sock, then lifted his foot slightly, and put her nose to his toes.  “They smell of blossoms.”  She said happily.

 Walter was speechless.

 Slave Chanda gently washed, then dried his feet.  She then helped him up, and lead him into the great hall.

 It was a huge, arched, palatial room lit by hundreds of lanterns.  The steady lantern light illuminated the mosaic tiled walls and floor.  In the center was a massive fire pit where cooks worked the spitted lambs roasting in the flames.  Musicians played happily, and filled the air with the top ten hits from the year 800AD.

 Slave Chanda lead him to sit on some giant pillows, carefully arranging them so he was comfortable.  She then gave him a drink, cutting it with a little water, and fed him cheese and grapes.

 Walter checked on his party.  Mr. Warner and Sheik Bahir were laughing raucously.  The rest of the men each had a drink in one hand, and a slave in the other.

 “My orders are to be happy.”  He reminded himself.

 “What did you say?”  Slave Chanda pressed, her voice almost lost in the echoing sounds of the festival.

 “Oh, nothing.”  Walter replied.  “I’m good.”

 She nodded to his drink.  “Drink slowly.”  Her wonderful eyes regarded him.  “You don’t want to over do it… yet.”

 Walter nodded and sipped.  

 It was molten fire.

 Walter, a U.S. Marine, displayed no emotion as he swallowed the lava, but Slave Chanda sensed his distress.  

 “Is it not to your liking?”  She pressed.

 Walter glanced at the others, then held up his cup in a silent toast and sipped again.  As his lips went numb, he tasted on the one part of his tongue that had not been burned with acid, a flourish of liquorish.  “It’s lovely.”

 She added a splash more water.  “Pace yourself, we have all night.”

 Walter looked at her, and was trapped by the magical green glow of her lidded eyes and didn’t notice when the servers brought him dishes of couscous and lamb and spiced olives and flat bread and rice and more lamb, until Slave Chanda was stuffing his face with it.

 He also noticed as she refilled his glass, she cut it with even more water, giving him a sly wink.

 As dessert was brought around, the music grew louder and Slave Chanda got up and danced.  Through her thin, translucent veils he watched her shifting, swaying hips slide and jerk to the beat of the music.  He could see her silhouette through her veils and she had the curves of dunes, sweeping and heaving through the desert sands.  When she arched back, he saw her breasts were magnificent and bountiful, very, very bountiful.  As she turned, her eyes sought his and pulled him into her trance.  Although she danced for everyone’s entertainment, and she would dance for anyone who held her key, Walter couldn’t help think she danced for him alone.

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Copyrighted, 10/2024 all rights reserved.  

Bimbo!  Bimbo like me.

By DX

Shiloh is driven to make herself the ultimate sex doll.  Can she stop herself from becoming a cock sucking bimbo?

Copyrighted 6/2016, 9/2023 All rights reserved

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 Shiloh paused, and peered out the window to admire the beautiful girl standing there.  She had cascading golden hair that framed her perfect, sculpted face.  She had wide, summer sky blue eyes perched atop blushing cob apple cheeks.  Her tiny chin was nearly obscured by her soft, puffy, pointing lips, glistening like strawberry candies.  She had a long, regal neck that towered above her massive breasts that shifted beneath her tight sweater like two, water filled beach balls.

 A flash of jealousy tinged Shiloh face as she marveled at the woman’s bosom.  She cupped her own mounds, so big her arms couldn’t fully embrace them, just as the woman standing out side her window did, obviously sizing up Shiloh.

 She waved to the woman at the same moment the woman waved at her.

 Shiloh blushed, as did the woman in the mirror, embarrassed she was being so silly at her own reflection.  She checked her tight dress, sliding her hand down her curvy backside.  As she did, she noticed her hand.  It looked seemingly odd to her it was there.  She then remembered she had an appointment to have the Doctor remove her arms next week.  Arms were superfluous and distracting.  She didn’t need them or want them.

 But she did need feet, she thought, and she bent at the waist to see her shoes, but her breasts blocked the view.  She was sure she was wearing her high, ballerina toe shoes since the room felt much shorter.

 Taking her time going down the stairs, her massive breasts sliding about, she felt she was forgetting something.  Something important.

 Then she remembered when she saw him standing in the foyer.  He came everyday and let her suck his cock until his hot liquid shot across her tongue and down her throat.

 It was all she wanted.  It was all she ever wanted.  At least, it was all she could remember.  She had hazy dreams of when she was an Executive Vice President, when she had an MBA.  Images of affording a beautiful house, a sleek expensive car and a fat, well-funded stock portfolio, flittered just out of vision.  She could see a face she didn’t remember, her face, before her eyebrows were tatooed on, before she had her teeth extracted and her gums injected with silicone.  She could remember speaking and being articulate because her lips weren’t packed with implants making them squishy doughnuts.

 She watched him lay back on the couch and the fire between her legs began to build.  She had the Doctor remove her vagina and clitoris, leaving only a tiny pee hole.  It only gave men the option of fucking her ass, but she couldn’t risk not getting that savory cum in her mouth.  The operation to remove her sex was only cosmetic, so she was horny, outrageously so, but it was nothing compared to the driving hunger of sucking his cock.

 A hunger greater than her impassioned hatred for him.


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Copyrighted 6/2016, 9/2023 All rights reserved

The New Girl

By DX

Court ordered Bimbofication!  Crazed surgery!  Can Danielle’s defiant spirit save her?

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Copyrighted 02/02/03, 6/5/2023 All rights reserved.

When I acquired Danielle from the Prison she was a fiery, defiant spirit; but that didn't concern me as I simply drove her right over to Dr. Marcus' Clinique. 

We arrived just in time as the faint clunks from her thrashing around in the trunk became incessant and annoying.  When I watched her struggle in her bonds as my assistant and chauffeur lifted her from the boot of the car, I remained stoic, distracted, and a little bored, as if surgically modifying criminals into sex toys was an every day affair.

Her words of hate were blocked by the heavy leather muzzle tightly strapped to her face.  Her eyes flashed, and shot their arrows at me.

Despite my air of coolness, I couldn’t help but drink deep from the well of her gaze.  Those eyes! Beguiling, enchanting, captivating, struck like a cheap shot to the gut.  

As my assistant wrestled to latch on to those long powerful legs, bound together with Gaffer's tape, I studied their curve, their journey to lost, fantasy regions.

They finally grabbed ahold of the trashing, kicking girl and the two of them, along with Dr. Marcus' assistants, secured her to a gurney and wheeled her inside, her eyes of fury still seeking me out, only flickering to fear as they brought her into the operating theater.

It was only then, not jail, the court, the judge’s sentence, that she questioned her choice of volunteering for alternate sentencing.

Terror filled her as the gown clad staff entered the room.  The two doctors reviewed her procedure, and casually pointed to where the amputations would take place, her arms, her legs, the modifications to her face and throat, to her tender, quivering pussy.

"She doesn't look like a Hacker." Dr Marcus startled me with her sudden presence, standing at my elbow.

"She was a Social Hacker."  I explained, my eyes still locked on the display through the one way mirror.  "She flirted with corporate execs and tech staff to worm passwords or personal data from them, and then gave that information to her boyfriend who did the actual hacking and did billions in damage and destroyed the lives of a similar number."

She nodded.  "Well this will put an end to that."

I watched as they put her under.  She struggled to stay conscious, to fight to the last.

When she finally slipped into unconsciousness they removed the gag and for the first time I got a good look at her face.  Helen of Troy!  How men would rage war for her!  Captivating!  Lips full of passion, soft, succulent.

"I originally planned to do the whole procedure at once."  Dr Marcus began suddenly.  "But they're very evasive procedures."  Her eyes, sharp and crystal blue flashed up to me, reading my thoughts, my hesitation.  "That, increases risks.  Tell you what.  We'll do the basic stuff and you can bring her back in a few weeks for the rest.”

“Whatever you think is best, doctor.”  I replied.

In the recovery room, I watched Danielle's eyes flash open, searching in near panic until they found the mirror on the wall that the staff left for her.  I can not imagine the horror she must have felt when she realized her arms had been removed at the shoulders.   How helpless she must have felt at that moment.

Her mouth was filled with a glistening steel ball, a Pierce Gag.  A heavy gauge rod had been pushed through her cheeks and through the ball, keeping it in place.  Large locking lugs secured on each end where nestled in her darling dimples and welded shut.

It was only a start of the modifications that Dr Hugo Maxxe, Dr. Marcus’ colleague, who specializes in face and throat reconstructions had planned. 

For now, all he did was adjust her palate and tongue, making intelligible speech impossible.  She could only murmur and purr.  A few bones in her jaw and ear canal were adjusted so that they vibrated horribly if she made any noise above a soft mew.  A normal speaking tone would cause her extreme pain, like a hot brand across her temples, and a scream was surreal agony as she immediately discovered.  Soon she would be conditioned to her new levels of volume and simply incapable of anything more than sensual moans to communicate.

As I watched her, I watched her indomitable spirit drain, as I knew it would.  She broke, there in the recovery room.  Her head was a torrent of agony from her fresh and extensive operations compounded by her short lived screams.  It was all too much for her soul to bear.  All that arrogance!  Gone!  Like the snuffing of a candle flame.

She sobbed dry tears. 

Dr. Maxxe had re-routed her tear ducts, nipped a few nerves in her face and adjusted a few muscles.  The only expressions she was allowed were a delicate Mona Lisa smile or exuberance.  Happiness or agony displayed the same face of delight.  Watching herself in the mirror, terrified, wrapped in torment, she appeared overjoyed.

She had yet to see the worst of it.

Imprisoned  (Teaser)

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By DX

 

Copyrighted 2017,2023 all rights reserved.  May not be used without prior written permission.

 

 

            The sharp tick of her arch breaking high heels clicked sharply on the cement floor of the parking garage and the sound echoed madly in her foggy and heavily drugged brain.  She could see herself on the edge of a dream, her elegant dress flowing, and her fox fur draped across her shoulders.  She was tall, despite being only five foot four in her killer pumps, as if floating on her cloud of hubris.  She was sparkling in her hazy dream, diamonds winking in the flickering florescent light.  Her lipstick was a dark, venous blood red and her lips wore a perpetual arrogant smirk.

            She had much to be arrogant about.

            The feel of metal and cement grated on her face, as a low, throbbing pain racked through her body.  Why was she lying on the floor?  Where was the attendant?  Where was her phone?

            Watching her dream-self rummage around in her clutch purse she wanted to cry out, The phone!  It’s in the purse!  Call for help!  Now!  but all she could manage was a throaty moan her dream-self could not hear.  Instead of her phone she pulled out the key to her Lexus, all the while oblivious to the hulking shadow sweeping up behind her.

            Lightning, hot and sudden, and her world went vertical.  The greasy, oil stained cement floor ruined her dress, her hair.

            She lay on the floor.  It was wildly bright.  Walls rose about her, surrounding her completely.  Cement.  Cement walls, cement floor, cement ceiling.  Get up!  She shouted at her dream-self.  Run!  Just run away!  But he had her, picking her up and putting her into darkness.  The sound of a van door slamming shut.  

            There had been no fear, no realization, until the hollow tearing sound of duct tape being spooled off a roll filled her senses.

            She was in trouble.

            Then nothing.

            It jarred her fully awake.  She was in a cement room with light, brilliant white, beaming down from a three-inch hole in the ceiling.  As she stirred, sliding to sit up, she first noticed she was barefoot.

            Where are my shoes?  She looked around for them thinking about the cost of her designer footware before the flashing image of metal pulled her attention back.  Shiny metal shackles wrapped her ankles, connected by a metal cable.  They had no key, no lock.  It was as if someone had welded them on.

            Still struggling to sit up she tried to use her arms but found her hands were trapped in small, round cages, which had also been cuffed.  There was a short, three-inch cable attaching them to a metal belt, leaving her hands trapped to her waist.  Cables ran down the front of the belt to a metal shield, which pulled snuggly over her vagina.  The cables then ran from the bottom of the shield, under her buttocks then up over her hips to the belt.  Her eyes traveled up her body before stopping at the metal cups covering her breasts held tightly in place by welded cables.

            “What in the world?”  She croaked, feeling her voice rake as if she hadn’t used it in quite some time.  As she scooted on her butt to sit up properly she felt the weight of a cage around her head.  It appeared to be oval in shape with bars blooming up from a metal collar around her neck.  There were flat pieces welded on the inside of the cage that rested on the crown of her head, across the bridge of her nose and under the nape of the back of her head.  As her head turned, the cage turned with it.

            Almost breathless, she properly took in her surroundings.

            She was in a concrete box.

            It was about three feet wide, three feet high and three feet long.  The ceiling had a hole where light poured through.  In the corner there was a dimple in the floor about eight inches in diameter and four inches deep.  In the center of the depression there was a hole about an inch in diameter.

            She slowly shifted around and found the door.

            Framed by concrete, the door was two feet by two feet of the same shiny metal that her shackles were made from.  In its center was a three-inch diameter hole.  She shuffled closer, trying to peer out.  As she leaned towards it, she could see frame of the door showed the thickness of the concrete walls.  She guessed it was about eight inches.

            Was she in an asylum?  Locked away in a high-risk ward?

            “Hello?”  She called out, putting her eye up to the hole.  The metal of the door was an inch thick; beyond that was a heavy piece of glass, possibly ballistic.  “Can anybody hear me?”  She could see a small, cramped room.  The concrete walls were maybe six feet high and the room about six feet deep.  Against the back wall was a metal rung ladder.  Just at the end of her peripheral vision to her right, she could see blue plastic barrels stacked one on top another.  She could count four, but imagined there where more.  There was white PVC piping connecting them all together.

            “My name is Eliza Cooper!”  She shouted at the door.  “I am the Assistant States Attorney!”  She craned her head to try to see more in the room.  Light beamed down from a hole in the ceiling similar to the one in her concrete box.  “I demand to be released!”  Her voice shrilled.  “You must return my clothes at once!  You have no right to keep me here and I promise heads will roll for this!  I want a supervisor down here right now!”  She squinted, peering through the little hole.  There didn’t appear to be any video cameras in the room.

            She sat back almost aghast.   The concept began rolling through her head.  She wasn’t in prison or an insane asylum.  Images of her last memory flooded her senses.  She had been abducted.

            “They’re looking for me, you know that?”  She screamed.  “You’re only making it worse for yourself.  Release me now and we can talk plea bargain!”  As her voice’s echo faded out, she knew no one had heard her.

            She scanned the door, but there was no key.  It was smooth, without a slot for food or water.  She tried to maneuver her body so her hands could reach the door, but the hand cages prevented her from touching it.  She rotated carefully, swiveling on her butt on the concrete floor.  She scooted forward and then leaned back on her back so she could raise her feet to the door.  

            She tried pushing, and then sliding the door, but it didn’t budge.  She then kicked it repeatedly but it was so solid it barely made a noise.  Panting from her exertions she shifted to get back on her butt, but it was complicated in the tiny space.  With her hands cuffed and her feet shackled any movement became a carefully orchestrated exercise in human engineering.

            Sweat glistened on her brow as she almost cheered when she was sitting again.  “You will pay for this.”  She growled, catching her breath.  “Every bit of this, every indignity.”  She looked at the door unmoved by the threat.  “I know you hear me and I swear you will pay for this!”  She shifted forward and started banging her caged head against the door.  It made a good, sharp clang.

            “I DEMAND TO BE RELEASED!”  She hollered, her words punctuated with strikes against the door.  “Now!  Do you hear me!  I am the Assistant States Attorney!”  Sweat rolled down her face as she tried to catch her breath.  “I have rights…”  She tried to wipe the sweat from her face but cursed her hand cages.  “What the hell is this?”  She looked at her cable and shield underwear.  “A chastity belt?  Seriously?”

            She leaned back and rammed her head into the wall hoping to break either the wall or the head cage.  Neither happened.  She slipped her legs underneath her and got to her knees.  She tensed her body, aimed her head at the door, and with an Amazon’s battle cry launched forward into the door.

            Stars flashed across her vision as she bounced back.  Stunned, she glared at the door.  It was unblemished.  She geared up again and crashed her head as hard as she could.  Other than a sharp pain in her head, nothing had happened.

            She thought it was sweat dripping from her brow until she saw it was blood.

            “I’m bleeding!”  She shouted.  “I need medical attention!”  She shuffled as close to the door as she could.  “You cannot deny me medical attention!”

            There was no answer.

            Eliza Cooper, Assistant States Attorney sat back in stunned silence.  

            She shook her head, not believing, and began screaming and screaming and screaming.

            Hours?  She had lost track.  She was sticky in her own blood, although the cut to her head had clotted.  There was nothing left of her voice but she kept chanting her demand to be released until exhaustion took her and she slept.

            Sitting on the unyielding cement floor caused slow but insistent radiating pain, which stirred her.  Alarmed she was still in her concrete box, Eliza began shouting again, but her throat felt as if she had gargled with butterfly knives.

            Looking again she noted the room was dimmer.  She looked up into the hole in the ceiling.  Eight inches of cement led to a pipe, about three inches in diameter.  The pipe went straight up for at least ten feet.  She shouted up the hole with her feeble voice but nothing happened.  Peering again, she noted the light was in fact fading.

            And a sliver of rainbow.

            She pulled her eye from the hole with start, and then peered again.

            A prism!  She thought, sitting back.  It was directing sunlight from who knows where and now the sun was going down.  A flash of fear tickled her but she dismissed it.  They have some night operations.  She assured herself.  It also meant the evening shift would come by.  They had to feed her and provide her with medical attention.

            They would release her the moment they found out who she was.

            Something started ticking.

            She felt it more than heard it.  Mechanical clockworks came to life and she shifted her legs around, ready to leap out the moment they opened the door.

            Gravel spilled from a small hole in the wall into a dimple in the floor.  Beside it was a second basin that filled with water.

            Eliza looked at it curiously.  She hadn’t noticed the two bowls set into the floor by the door before and it surprised her that, locked in a three foot cube, she hadn’t properly taken in her environment, but then again she hadn’t thought she would still be there to worry about such things.

            The gravel appeared to be dry dog food.

            “You are kidding me.”  She hissed.  “You are…  fucking kidding me!”  She cursed.  She sat in the far corner, trying to put as much distance from the insult as possible.  She started screaming again, invoking the Geneva conventions and the Red Cross.  

            But the room only became darker, gloomier.

            Fear became an itch.

            She felt the walls closing in as the darkness grew.  She screamed more and more but still there was no response.  She knew there would have to be some light, probably from the peephole in the door.

            There wasn’t.

            The darkness was profound and absolute.

            And Eliza screamed and screamed.

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Imprisoned  (Teaser)

 

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