Abduction Company – Part 15: The Search for Mistress Stephanie

Frances Purley had attended his first “Pleasure Dresser" in 1996, on Hallowe'en. There had been eighteen guests in all. Fetish dress was mandatory and that meant something more exotic than blue jeans and a leather jacket. For years afterward, Frances had replayed that event in his memory, recalling every guest and every outfit they wore. The night had become a tantalizing promise for him: evidence there were others who loved bondage and submission, and purely sexual clothes. That there were others in his own city, who felt as he did; that the desires of Frances Purley need not only be a fantasy.

Later he came to recognize the guests as a community, as his community. The fear of further losses to the AIDS pandemic - that had relentlessly spread through the recently liberated gay communities - was gradually receding. Purley was always on his guard, yet the group that Mistress Destiny had gathered that night surprised him. He felt welcomed, as if he could trust them, and that they trusted him. By the end of the evening, it felt more like a neighbourhood barbeque than an orgy - that he was in a very crazy, but very safe space.

Prior to that night, Purley's only role in Mistress Destiny's life was as her stockbroker. She was a good client to have, easy to persuade, but not greedy about making profits. Though he knew how she made her living, she'd kept him at arms length. Then, one day over lunch, another woman joined them: her business partner, Mistress Stephanie. At the next "Pleasure Dresser" Purley was introduced to George Willoughsby and his wife Sandra, who were clients of Stephanie. George was an officer with the provincial police. The parties were successful, low key, and marginally profitable. Guests were vetted and admitted to the festivities, solely by recommendation. They would come from as far away as Windsor to hang out, dress up, bare their kinky souls, and have fun.

At the time, Frances was married but his wife was cold to notions of dominance and submission. And she didn't want to meet people simply because they had dressed in leather, or what she thought was even worse, rubber. A first, Frances told his wife he was only networking with potential clients. But his evasions caught up with him and by the end of the decade, they had divorced. They remained on friendly terms and Frances still manages her money. “You'll make much more if you let me look after it, than if you try to sue me for some of mine," he had said. Part of their separation agreement was for her to not try to sink his career at the bank.

Since then, Frances had travelled in kink circles as a single, mostly dom male. A few years after he met Stephanie, he learned she and Destiny were trying to separate too, by winding up their partnership in the House of III Repute line of BDSM studios and the III-Repute restaurants. [See Part Six.] He hoped they would be satisfied with the financial arrangements he drafted for them. Stephanie was. Destiny, not so much, as it turned out.

A missing person case is rarely pleasant work: pressure from families, pressure from regional and provincial bosses and politicians to solve the crime quickly. No two cases are ever alike. For the first time in his career, Willoughsby knew the missing woman. She was Stephanie Brock, the Head Mistress of Abduction Company.

The front entrance reminded Willoughsby of a casino. Hundreds of lights to dazzle visitors. The expensive burgundy carpet and the well-dressed valets and porters to help patrons enter the building or be on their way – much like a hotel or major theatre.

Purley had given him a list of names who were high priority to be interviewed, and the reasons why Purley suspected them. Frances had dressed in a pale blue suit. As the acting replacement for Stephanie, he was stopped several times by middle managers with questions or documents for him to review. They all referred to him as "Number Two." Getting across the foyer would be a challenge, Willoughsby thought.

Willoughsby was almost sixty years old. He'd worn a classic leatherman's outfit that drew no attention: black, loose-fitting leather pants; a white shirt with a black studded harness underneath that showed through rather seductively (so said Mrs. Willoughsby that morning, approvingly). His bald spot was concealed by a leather workingman's cap. A thin leather collar lined with pyramid-shaped stainless-steel studs, served to pull the look together. His police uniform was the last thing he would ever wear here. Don't frighten the public, he often advised junior officers.

Purley and Willoughsby finally arrived at the small kiosk to the left of the elevators. Electronic access keys for Willoughsby were ready. Purley clipped the ID card to his shirt pocket. Willoughsby also received a tracking bracelet. The woman behind the counter explained how it worked. Willoughsby accepted the terms of use for the bracelet and she activated it. [See Part Four, first appearance of message-and-monitor bracelets].

Once Willoughsby was signed in with access to all Security offices, Prisons, Employee Facilities, B-Level Managerial Suites, and Public Spaces - they were under way. Number Two slid an electronic card into a reader by the call buttons. An empty elevator arrived quickly; the panel showed B for basement, W for women's prison section on sub-basement one, and M for men's prison section on sub-basement two. As they descended, Number Two said, “You have access to Information Technology and Housekeeping departments too. You might be interviewing anywhere in the organization, so all doors will be open to you. Some of the data will still be off-limits - for example IT programming, data processing, and Payroll, but if you need something and you can't get it, call me."

The elevator doors swept open. They stepped out and headed right, towards the Men's Prison entrance. Number Two slid his card into the data reader on the heavy barred door. Willoughsby looked at his message-and-monitor bracelet. Number Two did not wear one. “The technology is creating more and more problems for us,” he told Willoughsby. “You don't have any of our software on your phone, do you?"

Willoughsby shook his head. "I left it at home. You warned me when you called. Is this bracelet o.k.?"

"Probably." Purley grimaced. “Contact me if it is not. It will track you, but it won't snoop. I mean it won't record any audio, it'll just let systems (and by extension, the IT department) know your whereabouts. You can call me on it, or anyone you add to the contact list. Any high-priority message will come to you on the bracelet. It's like mobile assistant. It talks to you and will do what you ask, within its parameters. Still, if you suspect anything about it, we can easily have it removed."

The foyer of the Men's Prison section was brightly lit. Willoughsby and Purley stepped around a naked man on all fours cleaning the painted concrete floor. He had a large shallow bucket beside him, full of soapy water. In his mouth was a brush strapped around the back of his head; it also served to gag him. They continued across the room to the main desk.

A mature, fit Black man stepped out of the office behind the long counter. "Robert Myers. I'm the Men's Warden. Can I help you sirs?" Myers recognized Purley as the new Head of the company. Corporate Communications had sent memos about Number Two's promotion and the departmental reorganization.

Purley smiled. "I'd like to introduce you to the new acting head of Security. This is George Willoughsby, a law enforcement professional who is beginning a brief contract with us. At least I hope it's a brief contact." Willoughsby smiled and shook Myers' hand.

"We're looking for Mr. Eddie Garwin."

"Right away, sir." The warden turned to his rack of keys on the wall. "I think he's in section L. Arrived this morning. Do you have his cell number?"

"I didn't know mobile phones worked down here," said Purley. "You've got a landline on your desk."

"Ha, ha yes. Very good sir. I meant prison cell number.” The warden searched his keys. “Here it is. Number Fifteen."

Suddenly, a voice cried out behind them. "No, not that! Oh, oh, ack! Stop!" They heard water splashing repeatedly and the bucket scraped on the floor. They turned and saw a muscular man, bare-chested but in shiny black pants and heavy patent-leather boots towering over the man on all fours. He grabbed the floor-washer by his hair and dunked his head repeatedly in the bucket. Willoughsby noted the submissive was now handcuffed. Hands behind his back, he could only support himself on his knees. His dom also wore elbow-length, glistening latex gloves. In his right hand was a thick, ominous cane. He tapped his victim's buttocks rapidly – as a prelude to harder strokes.

"Terrible job!" shouted the dom. "You're worthless as a janitor. I dare say you are worthless as a fuckboi too." He struck his victim hard across the back of one thigh. The sub was not caged in any kind of chastity; his balls swung freely. The dom caned him twice more, rapidly. The sub screamed.

The dom paused and pulled the sub back until he was forced to look up into his eyes. The brush jammed in his mouth touched his master's thighs. Dribbles of water ran down his form-fitting pants. The dom noticed Purley and Willoughsby. He slowly released his sub's hair, then pushed his head to one side. This caused the man to lose his balance and fall on his side on the floor. The dom straightened up; the bulge of his erection was visible under his trousers.

Warden Myers gave Purley the keys to cell fifteen. The dom flexed his fingers to smooth the wrinkles from his gloves. He knew his submissive liked to be given to strangers, without any prior consent or discussion. He called out, “Gentlemen, sorry to disturb you. Would either of you – or both of you -- like to take the cane to this one? You'd be doing me a favour. He's completely hopeless and in need of frequent correction.”

Purley didn't know either the floor-washer or his master. He held up the keys he'd just been given. “No, we're kind of busy. I'd really just like to see the floor cleaned and polished before we pass through here again. That's all.”

Eddie Garwin was a corporate lawyer who had been brought in yesterday for a week of rest and relaxation. For years, he and Purley had travelled in similar Toronto business circles, without really knowing each other. Eddie’s firm had done work for over twenty years at the bank where Purley consulted (and they had never worked on the same project). They would see each other’s name as donors to the same fund-raisers for theatres, or orchestras, or for the restoration of the same historic building. They both had seasons tickets to ground-level seats at Major League Baseball games and they rarely had time to attend much of the year. They knew each other but had never had a conversation of consequence.

As Purley worked the key in the lock of cell fifteen, he looked through the small glass window in the door. Garwin had been chained to a metal chair, facing away. Purley and Willoughsby entered. “Eddie Garwin, fancy meeting you here.”

Garwin muttered something. Willoughsby and Purley walked around the cell to face him.  His neck was encircled by two large cuffs. Whoever had chained him had attached one cuff to his neck, then run the connecting chain down his back to the top rail of his chair back, around the rail several times, then up again, so the second cuff could be placed on his neck above the first. Locking pins had been depressed so the cuffs would not over-tighten. He could turn his head left or right and up and down. He had about four inches of play in the chain to move his shoulders forward and back. He shifted on his chair. The connecting chains clattered.

Purley introduced himself as the temporary head of Abduction Company. “You’ll hear them call me Number Two.” He introduced Willoughsby as “acting Head of Security, which puts him in charge of the Prisons sections too.”

Garwin looked at the folder in Purley’s hand. “I hope that’s not for me. My mistress will be back in a minute.”

“Who is your mistress?” asked Purley.

“One of yours. Mistress Cybill.”

Willoughsby had intended to let Purley do the talking, but he interrupted. “Not the famous Cybill Troy?” Purley slapped him on the chest with the back of his hand. “No, George. She doesn’t freelance here. Though I’d love to hear her deliver an  Expert Lectures  presentation one day.”

To Garwin, Purley said. “Our Mistress Cybill is an Asian woman, isn’t she? Mid-thirties? Expert in mummification, breath-play, suspension? Just what I’ve heard. I’ve not met her. I don’t spend enough time here.”

“Great with cuffs too. Look at me. Been like this for an hour.” His wrists were fastened with police-issue cuffs so they faced each other. His forearms and upper arms were held by light-weight steel shackles behind his body, linked with short chain and locks. His arms dangled as one over the chair-back. Even though his arms were loosely pulled back, the grip of steel could be relentless over time, thought Willoughsby. The skin of Garwin’s arms was not discoloured. He wore grey ankle socks. Each ankle was cuffed and held by a chain to one of the front chair legs.

Garwin looked at Purley’s’ folder again. “Right now, I just need to stop being a lawyer. For at least a week. My doctor prescribed this as a vacation.”

“They prescribed BDSM for you, or just that you should take a week off?” Number Two tried to imagine what Garwin might have divulged to his doctor.

“No, I was snatched out of a stairwell by two guys and one of your mistresses. Right after work. Yesterday.”

“Abducted? Pleasant trip then?”

“Long trip. Tied in the back of a cube van. Stuffed in a box, elaborate bondage, that’s for sure. Your people don’t mess around. We left at four. Arrived after midnight. It’s maybe 700 kilometers from Montreal. I’m exhausted. Slept well in my room upstairs, but now I’m to be kept here.“ Garwin paused and looked at Willoughsby. “Are you a cop?”

“I am,” Willoughsby replied. “OPP. Head of Muskoka and Algonquin regions. I work out of the Breviston office.”

“I thought I recognized you. Never imagined a cop dressing like that. Leathers and a hat. You look like that guy in the Village People. Classic.”

“Thank-you.” Willoughsby felt perfectly complimented.

“Uncomfortable? Want to be released?” asked Purley.

“Naw. I’ve gone longer. Much longer sometimes.”

“Your wife didn’t come with you?”

“It wouldn’t be a full week of confinement if she came. She’s always letting me out long before I need it. Wants to go shopping. Wants to explore the countryside. You guys have this sweet prison set-up. We don’t have one at home, of course. Plus, my wife could only have spared one day in the next month. Busy with her business. She travels.”

“I hope you’ll mention our wonderful service on the customer feedback form,” Purley said with a broad smile. “Look, in all seriousness, I know you’re here to relax. But I just thought – given your expertise in corporate law in particular – you might be interested in knowing what’s going on here. Willoughsby and I are starting an investigation. It seems our Head Mistress has been abducted.”

Garwin let out a loud horse laugh. Purley smiled, “Yes it is ironic, I know. But all I was hoping for today, was that perhaps, just maybe, you could do us an enormous favour and read half a sheet of paper and tell me what you think. Nothing more. I promise.”

Despite himself, Garwin was curious. “You better be quick. Mistress Cybill will be back in a minute.”

“And here I am!” sang out a firm, pleasant voice behind him. Willoughsby and Purley straightened up. Mistress Cybill posed in the cell doorway with a tray in her hands. “I see you have guests, Eddie.” She wore a snow-white latex catsuit that zipped from the top of her buttocks, down through her legs, and up her front to her neck. A fine, jewel-studded black collar hid the tab on her catsuit. She walked up behind Eddie, glanced at his bound arms, then walked around to where he could see her. She showed Number Two and Willoughsby her tray, as if it held freshly made sandwiches. There were various steel torments, an open case of cock sounds of different thicknesses, chains and nipple clamps, a packet of needles, and other devices for the prisoner. She lowered the tray so Eddie could look over everything. He murmured his approval. Cybill turned to the wall and put the tray on a shelf under the clock. Eddie could not take his eyes off her.

“To what do we owe the honour of your visit, Number Two?”

Willoughsby thought she might be Korean. She was undeniably beautiful. Her bobbed black hair, black latex gloves, and patent leather ankle-boots made a delightful contrast to her all-white catsuit. Before Number Two could reply, she gestured at Eddie. “He’s been sentenced to seven days in jail with no hope of parole. Just what more lawyers should get – a taste of incarceration, a full helping of night-time intruders in his cell, hands on him, spreading him, penetrating him, hard and often.”

“Yes, well,” Number Two laughed. “Well-played, Mistress Cybill. You have the job. Speaking of jobs, let me introduce George Willoughsby, our new acting Head of Security.” They shook hands and Purley repeated Willoughsby’s background.

“Could you give me the keys to his cuffs? I just need him for a few minutes. Unfortunately, it is urgent and I need his brain to be working optimally, not half-hazy because he’s in sub-space or he’s got a raging erection or he’s not breathing entirely properly.”

Mistress Cybill said, “OK Eddie? Is this what you want? You must be tired after the drive yesterday.”

Eddie nodded. “Sure. I could use a break. And these guys seem to need some help. Won’t be long.”

Mistress Cybill took a small set of keys from a tiny pocket on her hip and unchained him. Purley and Willoughsby helped Eddie stand. Mistress Cybill handed him a bathrobe. He was encouraged to move around the cell for a few minutes, to restore the blood flow to his extremities. Cybill said she would take an early lunch. “Call me when you’re done.”

As she stepped out of the cell, a guard came in, pushing a dolly with three padded chairs. “Warden Myers told me to bring these.”  The guard unloaded the chairs and retreated with his dolly. Garwin, Purley and Willoughsby sat on opposite sides of a long table.

Purley began. “I’m sorry Eddie. I just don’t have the time to get to Toronto and assemble an investigative team. When I learned you were here, I was sure you could help, “ said Purley. “Finding Stephanie, without this place becoming a national media story is kind of important.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Eddie smiled. “I sometimes do pro bono. And my continuous imprisonment fantasy is never really continuous. Just being out of the city is relaxing. We’re all in this kinky life together.”

“I’m really grateful to you.”

The table between them was supposedly for interrogation. Its top surface was at waist-height. It was lined with cuffs, chains, turning wheels, and brackets and full cross-body clamps designed to inflict the precise and correct amount of pain desired.

“As you may have heard our Head Mistress Stephanie was abducted four days ago. Her full name is Stephanie Brock.” Number Two produced the ransom note, protected by a Mylar sleeve. [The full text appears in Part 13.] “This was found in her quarters. She went missing in the evening of March 31.”

Garwin read it quickly. “I presume this is the original.”

“It is.”

“OK. I won’t mark it up. Can you make a copy for me?”

“I have copies,” Purley pulled three additional pages from his folder. “Any thoughts about what it says?”

“Obviously, you’re being threatened with a unionizing drive, but the note doesn’t sound like a serious organizing effort is underway. Most unions prefer to get the employees to sign cards without management knowing. Easier to recruit if management isn’t making a counter argument against promises from the organizers. This sounds more like a challenge. No real organizer would tip off management in advance. And the tone is petulant, angry. Despite the bureaucratic talk.”

“Anything else?”

Garwin pointed to the original note in its sleeve. “Yeah. I’d have your IT guys evaluate the paper and ink. They might be able to identify what printer was used – it might be your own equipment. The paper is probably from your inventory. Depending on how your networks are configured you might even be able to identify the author, or the office from which is came, and if not that, perhaps the person who printed it and left it in Stephanie’s room.”

Willoughsby nodded. “Good. Yes, I was thinking something similar. It should also be examined for fingerprints.”

Garwin nodded. “It doesn’t add up to much. It’s intended to scare you into doing something. I’d check entrance and exit records for the facility. If Mistress Stephanie was removed from the premises there should be some record in your security logs. Those who took her also would have had to pass though some exit point. Unless she left by helicopter.”

Willoughsby and Purley looked at each other, considering the idea.

“What about the threats?” asked Willoughsby. He pointed to the paragraph that claimed those holding Mistress Stephanie would act within 72 hours. “It says, . . .  will result in all clients being notified via texts of our organizational turmoil and poor security of personal data. Are they serious?”

Eddie looked at Number Two. “Have they sent any kind of company-wide message? Seventy-two hours passed yesterday.”

“Stephanie is still missing, but there’s been no message,” said Number Two. “I need to know who we’re dealing with.”

“I’d venture that those who took Stephanie are not those trying to unionize. Those are two contradictory goals. The kidnappers know the pro-union forces (let’s call them) but if you discover an employee with a union card in his pocket, it won’t mean you are any closer to Stephanie.”

“This note claims to speak for the employees, but that’s not possible,” said Number Two. “We have paid employees and we also have clients who freelance for us because they enjoy service and a humiliating experience. Punishment can be a form of vacation from one’s other identity.”

“Like me?” Eddie laughed.

“No, not like you. Usually they end up working in Housekeeping. It’s our biggest department by far, and they are less likely to get in trouble doing menial things under close supervision.” Number Two checked his phone. He stood up, left the cell, and went to the Security office to confer with Myers.

While Willoughsby and Garwin waited there was a scuffle in the hall. A female guard in uniform was leading two naked women on chain tethers. Each prisoner walked barefoot. The older one wore a three-inch wide heavy leather collar with a steel O-ring on a hasp under her chin. Double locks secured the collar’s smaller hasps in slots behind her head. The younger one wore an elegant stainless-steel collar, with an attachment ring in front and an integrated lock in the back. Their wrists were securely roped behind them. The guard held the chain leashes in one hand, and a long, heavy riding crop in the other. Willoughsby heard the younger one mutter and swear. Then she cursed the guard in a loud voice and then shouted that she wasn’t “going in there.”

Eddie glanced at Willoughsby. “You might want to lend a hand.” Willoughsby was tempted. He got up, went to the cell door, and looked into the hallway. “Ma’am? This is the men’s section. What are these two doing here?”

The guard glanced at the word SECURITY on the Willoughsby’s ID badge. He also wore a monitoring bracelet, like hers. She’d never seen him before. He was not wearing a guard’s uniform, but Facilities was often slow to outfit new employees. She had been on the job three weeks before she got her first full set of work clothes.

“Amalgamation,” she replied. “We’ve been ordered to reduce the number of prisoners. Shift half the women over here. Close the women’s section all together.” The guard continued, “Give me a hand with these two? They are to go in cells seventeen and nineteen.”

Willoughsby could see she was stressed, perhaps overworked. She shouldn’t be handing off a prisoner to someone she didn’t know. Then he realized this was an opportunity to witness how the place functioned, without the guard knowing who he was. The guard was a sturdy athletic type with red hair and black lipstick. She handed Willoughsby one of the chain leashes; now he had control of the younger, less-tame prisoner, who had mud on her right leg and dirt splattered across the front of her hips too.

“What were these two doing?” he asked.

“We use slaves in our farm fields,” said the guard.

“Fucker! You little cock-sucking bitch!” the younger one shouted. Willoughsby gently pulled her sideways with the chain. Nonetheless, she spat at the female guard. The guard kicked the prisoner between her legs. The prisoner doubled over in pain. The guard hustled the more docile woman into cell seventeen. There was the sound of a chain dragged across the floor, then the click of locks as if the woman had been tethered to a wall, or to the floor.

The guard emerged. She glared at the slave who had spat on her. She took the chain from Willoughsby, gripped it high up, near the slave’s neck, forced the younger woman into cell nineteen. It was a larger cell than either seventeen or Garwin’s. It contained a suspension frame made of steel pipe. The guard pulled down a hook from the ceiling and worked it into the layers of rope that held the prisoner’s wrists behind her back. The guard went to the wall and began to crank the winch. To the sound of rattling chain, the prisoner’s wrists went up and her head went down, forcing her into a strappado. She groaned and twisted against the restraint.

The guard surveyed the restraints hanging on one wall, and other items on a shelf. “What we have here?”  She picked up a scrub brush, ran in under hot water at the sink, soaped the brush, and approached the prisoner. She lifted one of her feet and then the other, washing each bare foot thoroughly. Then she rinsed off the soap with a short spray-hose. The water ran into the drain where the slave stood. The guard towelled the girl’s feet and slipped cream-coloured ballet slippers on her. “Hold still!” she ordered twice, as she wound the ribbons around the girl’s calves. To Willoughsby, she said, “They wear work boots out in the fields, but of course those are stripped off at when they come in from outside. Shouldn’t have prisoners walking around the halls, or their cells, in bare feet. It’s not hygienic.”

Though it was large, the cell was laid out much like Garwin’s. The guard handed Willoughsby a familiar-looking red, rubber object with yellow medical tubing dangling from either side. It was a rubber dog toy. A hole had been drilled in either side and the medical tube had been threaded through.

“Please gag the slave next door with this. I’ll be in later to do her feet.”

Willoughsby stared at what he’d been given. “You use dog toys? This is a kong. I have one of these at home for my dog. I put treats inside and he amuses himself trying to get them out.”

“It’s a kong, you’re right. Let me show you how it works. Turn around and open your mouth.” Willoughsby raised the narrow end of the toy to his lips. “Open your mouth, wide as you can and put it in.” Willoughsby dropped his jaw, pushed in the kong, and tasted the foul rubber – for the first time ever (after all the times he’d given it to his dog). He’d just never considered how effective a gag it might be. The toy consisted of three successively larger bulbs joined together. He could take the first two (the smallest and the middle bulb) into his mouth by opening to the limit. The rubber tubing draped across his cheeks. His teeth fit into the indentation where the middle bulb met the largest bulb. The largest bulb protruded from his mouth. He struggled with the girth of it. His jaw ached. He couldn’t imagine anything larger, or longer. The guard, stood behind, took the ends of the tube, and tied them loosely behind his head. Willoughsby felt like he would retch and pushed back on the gag with his tongue. After a few seconds, the feeling subsided; he let the gag back in, to the point where the second bulb was behind his teeth again. His gag-reflex was ready to trigger. His breath made a whistling sound through the hollow toy. He breathed rapidly; he was excited. It seemed absurd, gross even, but he liked it.

The guard glanced at her prisoner, still bent over in a strappado, her wrists tethered to the chain behind her. “This one is in her early thirties. According to her profile on our system, she’s married, but her husband is not present at AbductCo. at this time. That’s odd. Rather rare to have an unaccompanied woman. And a married one at that, requesting a prison experience.”

She glanced back at Willoughsby. “You’re drooling.”

Willoughsby put his hand to his chin and caught his spittle. Along with being breathable, the gag functioned like a spout for the wearer’s drool. Humiliating. For an instant he wished she had tied the tube tighter. He removed the gag.

The guard looked him in the eye. “See how it works? Wash it in the sink and then take it over to the woman next door and gag her tightly with it. Tighter than how I tied it on you.”

“Yes.” Willoughsby stopped himself from using the words “ma’am” or “mistress,” which his wife preferred. The guard had only gagged him to teach him how to put it on someone else.

He washed the gag under warm water and undid the knot in the tubing. He went to the next cell. The other woman was on her knees on a square rubber mat, facing the door, which had been left open. She was naked, secured to a steel ring in the floor by a chain: short enough to keep her from standing. And long enough that she could kneel upright and not fall. Willoughsby supposed she could sit cross-legged too. He circled behind her, and saw her wrists were still crossed and tightly bound.

Her neck chain added weight and made kneeling more difficult. She moved her head left and right, trying to get comfortable with thick black leather collar. She felt a confining tug when she pulled back and the chain drew taut. Her eyes met his. She stopped fidgeting. He showed her the dog toy with the rubber tube. “Open wide.”

“Yes sir,” she said, in a faint, trembling voice.

He bent down and touched her nose with the tip of the gag. She raised her head. Despite her collar, she was able to drop her jaw wide enough to get two of the three bulbs behind her teeth.

“All right?” he asked. She nodded. “Bite down. Keep it in,” he ordered.

He put his hand behind her head, tilting her head down as far as it would go. He knotted the ends of the rubber tube behind her head, under the bun of her brown hair. He touched her chin gently; she raised her face. The rubber tube looked loose as it crossed her cheeks. She mumbled something.

“Tighter?” he asked.

“Yeth.” She dropped her head again. He undid the knot in the tube and pulled hard on both ends, stretching the rubber. He tied the knot tightly on the first pass, and then repeated the knot, looping the ends twice over. Now, when she raised her face, her lips were drawn tight around the gag. The rubber bands pressed into her cheeks and pulled back on the corners of her mouth.  The gag could not be pushed out, or the pressure lessened. “Ahhhh. Awww,” the woman groaned.

“All right?” She nodded. There was something seductive in her helplessness. Willoughsby was moved by her courage, her vulnerability. She’s trying to get me to stay. He felt his cock thicken a little.

“I’m sure your assigned dom will be here soon.” He glanced up at one of the security cameras in the cell and decided that despite the temptation, he would not touch himself, or run his hands across her breasts or do anything else with her. He stood back. Still kneeling before him, she pulled back on the chain between her neck and the floor. She looked up at him. He returned her gaze and felt rooted to the spot, unable to look away. He wanted to lean over and kiss her. Women in their forties can be so hot, he thought. So perfectly able to submit. Mature enough to know what they want.

He remembered he and Purley had come to get Garwin’s help. Summoning all his willpower, he left the cell. From down the hall, he heard the guard in cell nineteen instructing her prisoner. “Up! Get up the steps in the frame!”  Willoughsby approached the open cell door. The slave still wore only her steel collar and ballet slippers. And she was still bent over in a strappado. She twisted her wrists against the upward pressure behind her.

At the centre of the frame – a cube of interconnected steel pipes – was a customized black leather motorcycle seat. Through the seat’s centre was a sculpted rubber phallus: also black, moderately thick, and about six inches long. A steel pipe supported the seat and its center fixture from below. The guard deftly slit open a condom packet and rolled the latex over the rubber cock. She ordered the girl to mount the steps. “It will reduce the strain on your wrists.”

The prisoner glared at her, balking at the first step.

The guard noticed Willoughsby was back. “Just in time,” she said. “Go to the winch on the wall and let down her hands, not all the way, but almost.” Willoughsby did so. The guard stepped behind the prisoner and noosed her neck with a cable that protruded from a restraint pole. With the loop around her neck, the pole could be used to keep the girl at a six-foot distance. The two long ends of the cable ran through the centre of the pole. They emerged out of the other end. The guard looped them around her right hand. Now she could loosen or tighten the cable around the prisoner’s neck.

“Can you unhook her wrist rope?” she asked Willoughsby. He did so and stood back.

The guard’s left hand was halfway up the pole. Her right hand kept the cable snug, high on her neck, right under her jaw. The prisoner no longer struggled; she made only soft, croaking sounds. The guard forced her up the steps until she stood on the platform with the seat and probe between her legs. The guard handed the pole to Willoughsby. He held the pole as she had: his left hand at the mid-point of the pole, the cable curled around the fingers of his right hand.

The guard put on a disposable latex glove, took some lubricant from a shelf and smeared the probe enthusiastically. It twisted back and forth under her hand.

She released the rubber cock. “Sit!” The probe was perfectly erect, a few inches beneath the slave’s shaved vulva. Her legs trembled.

Gently, gradually, the prisoner squatted until the probe touched her clit. “Oh!” she cried, with surprise. “Cold lube!”

She adjusted her stance and descended again. The guard was ready to reach in and guide the probe into her, but her hand paused. On the second attempt, the slave’s aim was perfect and the cock head parted her vaginal lips. Willoughsby admired the dexterity of the slave and the efficiency and confidence of the guard.

Once the prisoner was seated, the guard picked up a pair of two-inch wide steel shackles from the platform under the seat and placed them on the slave’s ankles. Each included an integrated lock. Then she lifted a hinged bar from the left side of the frame and attached it to the slave’s left leg. She repeated the process with a hinged bar from the right side of the frame. Each leg was connected to its matching hinged bar with an oval screw link. Her legs were spread and secured. The prisoner began to wail. “If you stay still, you won’t fall,” admonished the guard.

Next she removed the rope from her prisoner’s wrists. There was only a moment to enjoy this freedom. Swiftly, a shackle like those on her ankles, was placed on each wrist and locked. Each wrist was then matched to a separate hinged bar that rose up towards her seat from the frame uprights behind her. She squirmed on the dildo as the bars were connected to her wrists. Her arms perpetually hovered now, several inches away from her back. The wrist bars steadied her on the seat. The guard made a few adjustments where the wrist and ankle bars joined the cage uprights. In particular she adjusted the ankle bars, to make sure her legs were not extended too harshly.

“Loosen her neck cable,” said the guard. Willoughsby let go of the cable with his right hand. The guard loosened it at her neck and lifted it over her head. The guard descended from the frame, took the pole from Willoughsby, and put it in a corner of the cell. From the shelf of bondage gear she took up a black ball gag on a leather strap.

“Housekeeping gave us the right shackles. It’s their responsibility to prepare a cell for a new occupant. Let’s see how this gag fits.”

Willoughsby surveyed the steel frame. The slave was quiet. The experience of the restraining pole seemed to have been a shock. The guard stepped up behind and reached over the hinged bars that held her hands back. “Open wide!” Surprisingly, given all temper she had previously displayed, the slave took the ball gag easily. The ball settled behind her teeth and her lips touched its smooth surface. The guard pulled back on both sides of her head. The leather strap was brand new and thick; it took a little work to fasten the buckle. The guard tightened the strap another notch. The prisoner’s cheeks had the caved-in look.

Next, the guard took a key from her uniform pocket and removed the elegant ring collar. She stepped down from the frame, put the ring collar on the shelf and returned with a two-inch wide, flat steel collar that matched the shackles on her wrists and ankles. She handed it to Willoughsby. It was heavy, like a shackle, with a rigid attachment point beside the clasp and embedded lock, where the two halves of the collar closed. Willoughsby knew this kind of restraint could send a submissive quickly into a state of perfect helplessness. He gave it back to the guard. The slave stretched her neck as much as she could, as if consenting to wear it. The guard fastened it, checked to ensure it was not pinching anywhere, then turned and withdrew the key, which she slipped in her breast pocket. The prisoner gasped at the cold certainty of the new collar. It would not be removed, until one of her handlers decided to release her. The guard carefully stepped down from the centre of the frame.

“May I?” asked Willoughsby. He mounted the stair behind the naked woman. He slipped his index finger between her neck and the steel. The woman tried to say something. “Thag-ooo fug bah ice muh,” rolled out from the back of her throat.

From the floor, the guard told Willoughsby to lift the final hinged bar – centred behind the prisoner and hanging from a vertical pipe in the frame.  He was to connect the free end (also hinged) to the rigid attachment point on the back of the girl’s collar. The guard handed him a padlock.

“So. To lock her up, I connect these?” asked Willoughsby. The guard smiled and nodded. He joined the collar to the hinged bar. He closed the lock, removed the key, and gave it to the guard. The prisoner gasped again. She was now inescapably locked in the frame: in a cell within a cell.

Willoughsby stepped down from the frame and watched the prisoner from behind. Her legs were secured in a spread-wide fashion. Her feet were delightfully shaped by her ballet slippers. Her weight was evenly balanced between left and right. Her torso was upright. The poles holding her wrists back moderately stressed her shoulders. They could not be twisted and helped keep her from leaning too far forward or back. The pole to her neck also kept her centered, upright and steady. Her buttocks and thighs quivered where she sat. The probe filling her pussy stressed her the most, producing an unrelievable stimulation. She was constantly flexing her thighs and shifting her torso, to find relief. She had been transformed into a horny, immobile slave, available to anyone entering her cell.

Willoughsby was impressed with frame design. Cage-side connections could be raised or lowered depending on the height of the prisoner. The five connecting bars – each being hinged at the cage and at the prisoner  -- also allowed considerable fine-tuning of the restraint.

The guard tossed her latex glove in a wastebasket and picked up her tablet from the shelf. “I’m going to input some data about the relocation of the two prisoners, to notify their doms, and to schedule their first security check-up.” The guard was no longer watching, engrossed in her data entry.

Willoughsby tiptoed back up the steps and again, stood close behind the prisoner. He stroked her arms and squeezed her fingers in his. She shifted on the probe and groaned. She arched her back as much as her collar allowed and tried to turn her head, to make eye contact. “Are you suffering?” he whispered.

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’s only what you deserve?” he continued.

“Uh-huh,” she repeated. She presented her breasts as best she could. He reached around, under her arms, to cup her breasts and rub her nipples. They were firm, almost flinty hard. His fingers were driving her over the edge. She was panting hard. She moaned loudly.

The guard looked up but said nothing about what Willoughsby was doing. She returned to her data entry.

Willoughsby wondered if the prisoner was about to come. He withdrew his fingers and slowly – and reluctantly – descended the platform. The woman cried out behind her gag. Saliva foamed out behind the glistening black ball and dribbled down her chin. He felt very cruel, denying her and orgasm when she was so close, when she was at the edge. She knew some kind of corporal punishment was coming, later in the day. She hoped it would be a caning. She tried to imagine how a caning would feel. But it was no good; she could not wrest a climax from her hips with her legs spread like this, with her hands locked behind her.

The guard and Willoughsby surveyed her. “All I’ve done with these two is what’s indicated by their prisoner profiles. Both were on a farming detail this morning. Both were acting up. This one was trying to escape. She was one ankle cuff away from fleeing, abandoning her chain gang.”

“And the other?” said Willoughsby, tilting his head in the direction of cell seventeen.

“Aiding and abetting. They’ll both be whipped or strapped later in the day. We have experienced hands to mete out the punishment. Though I must say, when I see a man or woman bound like this – when these frames are set up properly, and Housekeeping sends us the right stuff – this can be a very, ah, rewarding job.”

Willoughsby said, “I should introduce myself.” He extended his hand and the guard shook it, but when he gave his name and said he was an expert in policing, it seemed to make no impression.

“I’m Danya, from Siberia. Working here almost a year. My first job in Canada.”

“You know, Danya, there is a reorganization of the Security department in progress. Downsizing the prison. To have women and men housed in the same unit was an unavoidable consequence. You see, Head Mistress of the Abduction Company has gone missing. Perhaps you knew? Your former head, Mr. Baggly, has been re-assigned. I am taking his place. Running an investigation. Temporarily.”

“You’re my new supervisor? Oh, no!” cried Danya. She blushed deeply. “I’ve been ordering you around. Telling you what to do. I am sorry. Thank-you for helping. I wouldn’t normally try to move two women at once. But we have so much to do. Numerous prisoners to shift around.”

Willoughsby reassured her. “I’m happy to help, to see first-hand, how the work is going. We will not cut our ratio of guards to prisoners. Closing some cells in the women’s section is the only way we can reduce activity in the two prison sections. Monitoring must not lapse. Obviously, a safety issue.”

Danya said, “I have four more women to transfer today before my shift ends.”

Willoughsby looked at his watch. “Who are the doms for these two?”

Danya checked her tablet. “Mistress Cybill has your friend Mr. Garwin, cell fifteen. Master William has the older woman in seventeen. This tramp here – it says she’s unassigned. In these cases the warden for this section is responsible. I just sent a transfer order to his computer and to his phone. The system records all transfers from an assigned dom to a unit, like this one. Or if there is a transfer from unit responsibility to a dom. That means the cameras in her room will report to his devices with Level 1 priority. Highest possible.”

They were standing behind the prisoner they had just secured. She flexed her buttocks repeatedly and tried to pull her thighs closed, but there was almost no slack in the poles. Soon she would tire of squirming and begin to conserve her energy. The pressure of the seat and the weight of the five steel rods conveyed its own kind of pain, which could not be ignored.

Danya sensed his concern. “It is punishing, no doubt. But she is safe. She won’t fall or choke. The bondage is likely very intense, but I put some slack into the position of the bars. Duty Guards do rounds every fifteen minutes during the day. They will reduce her pain if necessary. You can go. I have to go to the one in cell seventeen and wash and dress her feet too. She will have some ballet slippers. All slaves have to wear some covering over the foot while in prison. You can go. I’ll be done here, soon enough.”

Willoughsby returned to cell fifteen. Purley and Garwin were done. They shook hands over the table. “Come along George, Mistress Cybill will be back soon, let’s at least lock the door for him.”

Eddie grinned. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. Now get lost.” He turned away and began examining the TV in the corner of his cell.

In the Men’s Prison foyer, the warden’s desk was vacant. The dom and the slave he had disciplined were gone. The floor shone. “I think it’s been waxed,” said Willoughsby.

Purley nodded. “I’m hungry. Let’s get lunch at the Ball and Chain.” The restaurant was almost deserted: the midday crowd long gone. “I’m worried about Stephanie. It’s unlikely she’s been killed, the note itself promises that – if we can believe it – and yet Eddie’s certain it’s a fake. He thinks it was produced to throw us, to throw your investigation, off-track.”

“She could just as easily still be on the premises as not,” he continued. “There are thousands of places in which to confine a person in this building alone. We used to have a reliable monitoring system, but less than fifty percent of guests and staff are on bracelets now. Our whole data environment appears to be corrupted, just when we need it most, to find Stephanie. You know her, George. What must she be going through?”

“I don’t know, Frances. It might be fun. Sorry, not pure fun. A kind of funishment.” He changed the topic. “I’ll need to bring in help to interview the list of names you gave me.”

Number Two agreed. “Stephanie may still be nearby. This property extends across more than a thousand acres of forest, farm-land, ravines, gullies, you-name-it. You’ll need help with the prisons too. We’ll promote Myers – who you met today, to help keep it functional. The Warden of the Women’s Prison section is available to help him. We’ll transfer her to his present position. She’ll bring some of her staff.”

“That might take weeks,” Willoughsby said. “I met one of them today, Danya, while you away from Eddie’s cell.”

Number Two’s mind was elsewhere. “I have to snuff out this unionizing thing. And I have to get the change of ownership deal done with our private investors and Qualificent hedge fund. But first, I have to speak to Ben in IT about possibly identifying a printer by its output.”

“I’ll bring one of my constables -- Junior Dan – to help us. He’ll research the idea about the printer paper. And once I get the interviews going, he’ll take the lead on them too. He’s very good. You’ll see.”

Before the day was over, Willoughsby's name had appeared on the corporate employee list as Acting Director of Security. And former men's warden, Robert Myers had been promoted to Manager, Downsizing and Transition. Female prisoners continued to transfer to the male section. No new male prisoners would begin new sentences. Guards from the female section were either coming to the men's prison to work, or they were going to Housekeeping, as were a large number of male guards. The only hard rule that remained was the one about not housing male and female prisoners in the same cells.

Sentences were shortened. Dommes were ordered to rely less on security inspections and to be present in cells themselves. Or they had to find prisoners work assignments (such as Agriculture) - or indoor jobs, such as testing new products, or as serving slaves in either the restaurants, kitchens, or housekeeping. Those with construction skills were put to work building the stands and shelters required for the upcoming Pony Racing Championships.

There was, of course, some resistance to these changes. Former supervisor Baggly was quick to complain. At a meeting with Number Two and Willoughsby, he fumed, "For Christ-sake, what is left now? The local police chief is in charge of my department and half my staff are demoted to making beds, sweeping floors, and emptying waste-baskets?"

"Thirty percent, Baggly - are being reassigned, while the number of prisoners to be monitored will fall by forty-eight percent." Number Two replied. "And none of this would be necessary if you had done even a half-assed job of determining where Head Mistress Stephanie is. We have to regain the confidence of our clients. Or we'll be out of business."