Chapter 3: Adara Burke
The silence of the Central London Precinct House hung like smoke in the early morning hours, as quiet as conspiracy, as pungent as corruption...
Adara Burke shook her head in muffled frustration. Her editor at the Sun would not accept such hackneyed phasing. Still, it was hard to think clearly, suspended in isolation by her heels as she was.
She had no idea of the time. The Bobbies had broken into her flat in the middle of the night, not giving her a chance to glance at the clock. The leather-skirted women had quickly stripped her of her nightie (not pertinent to the investigation, they'd laughed) and belted her into a transport bag, leaving her to sway from its top-hook as they drove across the dark capital. Once they got to the precinct house, Adara had been belted hand and foot in official restraints and hung by her heels in the prisoner racks. A thick strap-harness muted her indignant protests. And so she had been left in this empty judicial processing center, to hang in shapely pink nudity until morning and the hearing.
Oh, she'd take them to task, all right. You couldn't lock up a member of the press without cause. Well, unless she wanted to be locked up (and, like every woman of London, occasionally she did).
She was a short yet fiery brunette, her green west-coast eyes unforgiving of dross and misdirection, her tiny fingertips always ready to rap out a typewritten exposé. She had generous hips and apple-like breasts, the latter hanging most uncomfortably in her inversion. The thought of how silly she looked inspired brief yet spirited struggling against her straps, earning little but an appreciative creek and a gentle sway. She hrumped angrily into her wide gag.
Were they planning on keeping her strung up like this all night?
Then, in the silences of the room and the rasp of her labored breathing, she heard a slow clack of heels. Damn it if she wasn't facing the wrong way. With frustrated grunts, she tossed her shoulders into it, slowly rotating herself around.
Chief Officer Constance Drummand sat on a nearby desk, the smile gracing her sharp and birdlike features, her hair a ruddy red in the subdued lighting. Her strong booted legs where cocked across each other, her arms folded under her bloused breasts. She reached down and picked up a folder, idly thumbing through it.
"Well, Miss Burke, you've certainly done your homework. Quite a little piece you were working on."
Adara's sea-green eyes burned with furious phosphorescence. Those were her papers, nicked right off her desk by those arresting fascists!
"Yes, yes, yes. It's all here. Strange disappearances. Rumors of some huge subterranean complex sexually processing women. Even missing members of the press. You've certainly uncovered it all, Miss Burke."
Adara tried to free her arms, to claw (how positively pre-Gai of her) this gloating flatboot, but her wrists had been buckled across the small of her back far too tightly. She could only hang like a pissed-off pink stalactite, glaring her rage.
"It's like this, Miss Burke," Drummond continued, "The Knightsbridge Angel saw a lot of civil unrest. Needless panic, needless bondage, needless orgasms. If word got out that there was some vast machine beneath our streets, one that would sexually molest women to their breaking point and beyond, there would be chaos. Citizens would be prying up manhole covers and getting run over by tube trains. Maids would feed their bothersome mistresses to it. Those frightened by the threat of overstimulation would not dare leave their houses. London would shut down. Thus, we can't have this story," a shake of the papers, "see the light of day, can we?"
Adara blurted into her gag, things about freedom of the press, the public needed to know, all very good points. Constance let her finish her little gagged speech, set the papers down carefully and crossed to her. Standing at Adara's side, she placed a warm hand gently behind the reporter's taunt thigh.
If Adara Burke, reporter for the Sun, were ever to confess to a fantasy, this would be it. Strapped snug, humiliatingly naked, hung like ripe fruit. And to have a hard-case like Constance leering down at her, her fingers hot against her flesh, was danger at its spiciest. Adara felt her titties jut in excitement and her pussy grow steamy. She shook her head, muffled, helpless, her future whatever Drummond decided.
A reporter's perfect oppression fantasy.
"So you see our problem. We've got to get you out of circulation for a while. And there is only one place where that's sure to be true." With that, Constance placed her hands on Adara's buttocks and began pushing. Overhead, the track wheels rattled as she was borne along. The belted girl waved her fingertips, grunted indignantly. Then her green eyes widened.
She was being rolled to the corner, to the original entrance to the Pit.
"Mfff! MMMMPH! MMU! MMU!" Now her cries were less angry, more pleading. Unbidden, her excitement mounted, triggered by the danger. It made no difference to the officer.
"Sorry, dear. I've got my orders. Just think of it as on-site investigative reporting."
Now the Pit yawned like an open maw beneath her. Adara looked down with fear, her breath gasping through her button nose.
"Say hello to the rest of your reporter friends when you see them."
With a disinterested click of a switch, the line began to spool down, dropping Burke headfirst into the darkness. In desperation, she looked up past her silhouetted toes, to the round patch of lamplight where Constance watched with grim amusement.
Adara Burke was heating up, magma-hot. The more she didn't want this, the more frightened she grew, the hotter she got. The straps around her sweating body seemed even tighter, her bondage more restrictive. She knew somewhere below, calculating machines were preparing some belted cot, some spot on a conveyor belt, for her. Banks of ticklers and vibrator were being reserved for her. It was unspeakable, inevitable, and very, very erotic.
With a thump, the line stopped. A moment later, small metallic claws took her up in their pitiless embrace. The cable clicked free and whined up. And then she was borne off, passed along towards a fate she could scarcely dream of.
= < O >=
Once she'd flown like an angel through the skies. Then she'd been cast out, tumbling down into the underworld with its demonic pleasures. There followed her final ruination; a return to the surface of the world, back into the plodding realm of womankind.
The realm of womankind...
She inhabited it now. She lay straitjacketed on her back in the padded cell, her arms locked tightly beneath her breasts, her legs frogtied back. Her head was sheathed in a leather hood, further looped by a wide leather gag and blindfold. Beneath the coarse material of the jacket, her flesh prickled with sweat.
She moaned into her gag and tried to rise but could not find the leverage. Like a flipped turtle, she struggled, thrusting her hips. This accomplished nothing save the sawing of the wide belt through her crotch, an activity that brought her some pleasure.
She lay still for a bit, panting through the mask's nostril holes. Then she moaned, a desperate keening for attention, for the delights of the Pit. Within the cell of her sealed senses, within the core of her fantasies, she once again felt the conveyor belt beneath her back, bearing her strapped form along, a fleshy cargo. Once more came the ratcheting click of a dildo lining up on her wide-pinned legs. Once more, slender metal claws clamped with knowing familiarity upon her pulsing nipples.
Oh, she missed it. How she missed it! Her heart beat ever quicker, remembering the places to which she'd been carried and the things that had been inflicted on her.
She could hardly hear through the helmet but she sensed she was no longer alone. Then came a hand along the back of her helmet, fingers working a buckle. The leather blindfold fell away to reveal her small dark eyes, blinking in the subdued lighting of the padded cell.
The white-garbed, dark-bunned woman leaning over her had long, strong limbs and an oblong face. She was one of the psycho-eroticists, trained and tasked to take over where the machines below had left off, to slowly wean the victims off their continuous passions.
The treatments were pleasant, machine-like in that they occurred at all hours. At any time, a jacketed, hooded patent could find her nipple and muffin patches unfastened, granting access to clever fingers and flickering tongues. Belted, strapped, jacketed and gagged, the patents could only endure the various accesses performed on their bodies. And when it was all done, back on would go the patches and the blindfolds, locking the pantingly passionate woman into her canvas womb, to wait through the hours until the next passing molestation.
With such noble efforts, Pit-victims could break their sexual dependencies, to find again the natural urge to take pleasures, not just surrender them. The asylum had a very high success rate. One, unfortunately, that did not include her.
"Good morning, Sybil," the woman said, cradling her straightjacketted charge in her arms, looking down into the dark eyes. "I've some good news for you. Tomorrow morning you will be discharged by Royal Order. Not freed, I don't think, but still, a change of scenery, right? There is a job they need you for. Isn't that grand news?"
Sybil, the former Knightsbridge Angel sentenced to the Pit for her crimes, murphed into her gag, wishing nothing more than to stay. Here, she got three or more servings a day (and food as well). The bondage was snug, the padding soft, and the staff so very, very competent. They could do things the machines were simply unable to mimic. That deep-lick taste, for one.
"There, there," her analyst told her, stroking her leather-smooth head, "I'm sure you'll do fine with whatever task they are considering. And regardless of your discharge tomorrow, you are still in our keeping tonight. I've got a very nice treatment I simply can't wait to do to you." With that, the woman raised a belt-heavy strap-on into Sybil's limited view, so black and long and gleaming. Sybil looked up at it in wonder, feeling deliciously vulnerable inside her rough canvas cocoon.
"Now, then, let's get started, shall we?" the woman said, sliding her from her lap. Sybil could only watch helplessly as strong hands moved her about, settling her face down against the soft padding. She felt a spreader bar clip into her frog-tie straps, felt strong hands positioned her ass high, a backstop for the coming exercise. Then came the sensation of unbuckling, of a panel of canvas being removed, of cool air on her small round buttocks. With a heightened sense of smell, she caught the industrial scent of lubricating gel. Then strong hands took her shoulders, followed by the gentle nudge of the cool head against her anus.
"Here we go, sweetie," came the husky voice from somewhere behind...
= < O >=
The Night Mail paused at Salisbury, a scheduled five-minute stop. Forward, the express engine hissed against the darkness, steam whirling. A sharp knock rang out against the baggage car door. The stevadames who opened it found themselves looking down on four girls, their long black dresses blending against the darkness. On a cart behind them stood a personnel shipping box.
"One for London," their leader called, a lanky thing with strangely purple hair. With twin grunts, the baggage women lifted the cargo in, likely an errant maid or family manni bound to the metropolis for specialized training. Nothing special there. The girls smirked as the crate went aboard and departing, faint giggles hanging in the air.
Precisely on time, the Night Mail eased from the platform and accelerated into the night, eating up the miles. In the baggage car, one of the handlers noticed a strange thing.
"This container is padlocked."
"Nothing odd there. See, the shipping tag says it's going to Lady Petunia Goldwaith. She's one for high-grade toys. Not hemp-trussed flower girls you keep in your flat, Sally, but silk-strapped veal, spread-eagled across velvet sheets. No doubt she wants to keep her valuable goods safe from tampering by the likes of us. And given some of the gals I've seen at the end of Goldwaith's leash, I'd fancy a fondle, most certainly."
"But the locks are welded shut. They'll have to be cut off. And look, the whole thing's starting to come apart."
Sure enough, the crate's screws were loose, their threads exposed. It was almost as if they were slowly backing themselves out. Probably it was because of the swaying of the car. Or something.
One of the stevadames produced a screwdriver and tightened the screws back in. Before they got into Waterloo they had to tighten them twice more. It was like the case was coming apart as if by magic.
18.11.09
story continues in Gai Shift - Pit 4: Arrest & Capture
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