Part One - The Red Cape
I am aware they are coming for me well before they appear. My small stethoscope is feeling the vibration through the concrete walls. Soon, I can hear heavy steps as two uniformed men approach.
I pretend to be still fast asleep, but I am peering under lowered eyelids at the burly men in black denim.
I never saw these two before.
“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, today is your great day. The Judge will be expecting you, honey.”
A whole wall of the posh room is left open, like a dollhouse, so everyone can see us, the dolls, at every time of the day or night. It could be the set of a reality show, except for the steel bars. But even these are elegant and posh, designed by an interior architect in revival Art-Nouveau style.
The larger guy stands just outside the stylish cage, as I fake waking up slowly – though I am fully alert. His smaller companion sketches a leering smile.
“Excuse my rude colleague, Doctor,” he says in a mockingly respectful tone. He actually says Docteur, affecting a French accent.
“Now, if you don’t mind, please prepare for the Court hearing. You know the dress code…”
I slowly stand up and make a couple of Yoga moves. The Sun Salutation in thirty seconds. Always useful to cool the mind. The big guy grins and echoes his smarter companion, continuing:
“…you know the dress code, Doctor. That means, naked. Now.”
They don’t open the door. They just stand outside the cage, leering at me.
The smaller man is leaning on the bars, a lecherous grin on his lips. The larger one reaches for his crotch and adjusts the bulge which is starting to show, in anticipation.
“You can’t do that, you dirty men…” I mutter, blushing, as I slowly start unclasping the red corset, under the gaze of the guards. All women are required to wear silk lingerie in bed, courtesy of the criminal organization ruling this place. Other prisoners in their cages, woken by the voices, are taking notice of what is happening.
My blush is not entirely fake – but it is also functional to assure them I am just another run-of-the-mill abducted girl. Making the opposition underestimate you is a golden rule in my line of business.
The men's smiles broaden as I quickly – but studiously - slide the skimpy panties down my legs, before opening up the corset and folding it carefully on the bed, bending over a bit while I try and assess the odd couple. The big, older one seems in charge, but he is clearly dumber than his younger companion.
“Very well honey… now these, please“ the larger guy passes through the bars a classy antique beauty box. The words ’The Secret Garden’ are finely engraved on the red leather. Inside the box, wrists restraints, silk stockings, and high heels. The dress code for female prisoners led to the Secret Garden.
I quickly brush my mound and slowly slide the silk stockings on, followed by the leather restraints. Made of deerskin and complete with silver rings, they seem more like sophisticated bracelets than restrictive implements. But they are perfectly functional. Tailor-made, they fit my thin wrists perfectly and comfortably. Finally, the high heels. They are classic stiletto sandals, black, with red soles. They slide on smoothly, like a dream. But the first time I adjusted the ankle straps I discovered I couldn’t reopen them. Like the bracelets, you can get them on, but not off. And the small silver ring is there for a reason. Classy high-heels doubling as ankle restraints.
We are always required to wear high heels. A brilliant concept. Notwithstanding my extensive training, I need a little adjustment just to walk, let alone run. Escaping prison in high heels would require superheroine powers.
Satisfied by my obedience, the man finally passes through the bars a smaller leather box, speaking in a mockingly respectful tone:
“Now wear these, please, Doctor. A special gift from your fancy boy, a Very Important Person, who will be waiting for you in the Secret Garden. We are honored to escort such a grand dame”.
My heart pounds as I open the box. I half-expected, half-hoped something like this. All the same, cannot stop a small expression of surprise as I open the box. It contains a pair of antique earrings. White gold, diamonds, and a green stone. Emerald. I wear them, and the effect is stunning. I smile inwardly. I already knew this is the path all those disappeared girls followed. But this is the first real confirmation that this is also the way that could lead to my colleague and friend Henrietta, the contemporary archeologist, and the mysterious ancient egg-shaped jewel. The style is definitely the same as the thing shown by the photographs we still have. The jewel was stolen when poor Henrietta was abducted. The size of a small egg, but slightly pointed at one end, and connected to its base through a thin short pedestal, like an antique egg coddler, golden egg included, it is too heavy for a pendant, and we have been unable to understand how the amazing jewel could be worn.
As I turn back I realize a few male prisoners are also leering at me from the nearest cage. That’s unusual because all ‘guests’ are young ladies here – me likely being the oldest. They are probably other guards temporarily jailed for being drunk on duty or something, put there on purpose, to embarrass me.
“Display please, Doctor” the younger guard likes to flaunt his superior culture – a weakness I am duly noting – and of course he is referring to the Gorean formalism – the Display position, hands clasped behind head, body slightly arched to show off tits, knees spread, but not too much. A position I have been trained to maintain perfectly.
Taking his time as their caged colleagues continue leering at me, pointing and sniggering ribald comments and guffawing scabrously, the big guy - the dumb one - slowly reaches for the key, and finally opens the cage door, addressing his companion in a loud and authoritarian tone.
“Lad, handcuff the grand dame!”
The smaller guy, Lad, is looking at me with interest. He approaches, observing my small tits. Then his gaze migrates to my Venus mound. But he isn’t just leering. He has noticed the two identical beauty moles, one on my right breast and another just beside the perfectly trimmed triangle, down there. He is observant and suspicious. And he is right, of course. The fake moles are miniaturized cameras. As he reaches for my breast and touches the nipple a dozen pictures of the two men are taken and sent towards the Agency headquarters. He seizes my wrist and moves behind me. If he notices the third identical mole on my butt I’m done. Shit! I need to think of something, and fast. The big guard, meanwhile, is taking his time, still leering at me, flexing his powerful biceps. A gesture I find oddly familiar. It gives me inspiration.
“You dirty serfs of the Humans…”
As I expected, the guy resents being called names. But I suspect he resents even more to be associated with his ostensibly dumber companion. My provocation works. Against the rules, he can’t resist answering.
“Look who is talking of servitude…” he sneers, as he grabs my other wrist and snaps the bracelets shut behind my back.
“There are different forms of servitude Sir… I guess you are proud of taking orders from that dumb, paunchy bastard” I sweetly tease, alluding to the big guy with a small jerk of my erect nipples. As I anticipated, the dumb man reacts.
Squinting, he grabs the thin vicious-looking cane they all carry in place of a truncheon and swishes it sharply across my exposed ass.
“You haughty bitch. This is for calling me paunchy!”
The cane lashes out again.
“And this is for bastard!”
I can’t stifle a yelp. But I am smiling inside. They are so gullible.
He can’t complete the sentence, because the smaller guy grabs his raised arm by the wrist. The cane falls to the ground.
“Knock it off Sarge… you know the rules… our colleagues are looking” he urgently whispers in a hushed voice.
But the big man grabs his companion’s arm and twists it, red-faced and angry. For a moment, he seems determined to break the wrist as he murmurs menacingly:
“Don’t you dare to touch me again Lad”
The younger man grimaces, and for an instant it looks as the two men are about to clash, but then, with an effort, the big guy whisks his companion’s arm away, breathing hard.
They are forbidden touching any woman since they are to be sold or leased as sex slaves. Any beating would ruin the precious merchandise. Rumor has it that a guard who slapped a girl in anger was fired on the spot. And fired in this criminal world may have a more literal meaning than just grabbing a cardboard box full of family portraits and other possessions and heading out through the door. At least, not on your feet.
During my training, I have seen that spanking and even a little caning is allowed, as long as it doesn’t leave visible signs. And I am sure the two stinging welts on my bum are pretty visible now. Just when a court hearing – whatever that could mean - is scheduled. I smile innocently at the two nonplussed guards. They are probably in trouble now.
Faking coolness, Sarge steps closer smiling a very white perfect smile. He is not paunchy at all, actually, just obsessed with his physique. He probably works out several hours a day, and the results are there – pecs, abs and all. I would consider him for a one-night stand in a different context. Over my bare shoulders, he drapes the long red cape prisoners wear when they are escorted out the building, lest they catch a cold. It is a luxurious item, quite comfortable and smooth, mohair probably. As he closes the cape at the neck, he slips his left arm behind it, grabbing my small tits from behind. Then he slides his right hand down and finds my pussy there, rather wet. Risk is a great aphrodisiac, not only for young men. In a deep, coarse voice, he whispers in my ear:
“Aha! Look at this… I know wat you need, you arrogant cunt… an’ you will get dat soon, I swear to you.”
His fingers skillfully circling my clit, he leans on me so I can feel his stony erection through the fabric. I can’t stop a sigh, but I try to react professionally. Keep them angry. A dangerous but effective strategy. Angry men make mistakes.
“You not gon’ do dat, big boy…” I answer, mocking his jargon, smiling sweetly, “nor your younger dumb companion who believes he is so smart. Isn’t that so, Garçon?”
My butt stings like hell, but the stinging is almost sweet. The younger man opens his mouth to answer, then he just smiles back. He has an impish grin, is lean and supple and moves like a leopard. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him on the cover of Glamour, and both guards could well walk the catwalk for a swimwear fashion show. It is almost a pity that I will be sending them to jail instead.
As the cell opens and the smaller man drags me - cautiously, lest I trip, ripping the silk stockings - I wonder how I came to accept this assignment – and what exactly a promising University Professor is doing here, naked under a red cape, hands pinioned behind her back, sashaying on high heels toward the unknown.
you may want to read the story from the very beginning (prequel: The Secret Garden, please find it at https://www.inkitt.com/stories/thriller/470812) before continuing.