Part Two

Madame was well past caring or even thinking.  She as now just a pet,  an object to be used and then thrown off to the side.  She wondered how  many times she’d been raped since she and Fanni had parted those days  and centuries ago.  It didn’t seem to matter much, one way or the other.

The tortures had been awful.  Sometimes she was amazed she’d lived  through them.  The whippings and the horrible positions and the faces  screaming into hers and always the bland, almost mouse-like pallor and  composure of the little man who was the chief architect of tortures at  times subtle and then brutal almost in the blink of the eye, lived with  her continuously.

It was to this tiny man that she had been delivered, to this man the  old man had thundered, “Break her!” and he had.  Time after time.  She  would have told him anything, and did, even inventing something when his  ministrations had her screaming and screaming.  But always the dull  brown eyes seemed to stare into her and through her and he knew.  He  knew.

Always she was bound and always when she was not either screaming out  her pain or eating, she was gagged.  During the first days, and some of  the worst days, she was chained naked and sitting on the floor with her  wrists manacled to her ankles, her thumbs caught up in a dull steel  clamp.  A metal birdcage-like affair was snapped shut over her head, its  leather-covered steel pads pressed down on her eyes, blinding her.  The  chin of the brank was hinged on a small pin and could be swung out of  the way for eating or talking.  At the center of the hinged section was  an enormous hard-rubber plug around which she was forced to fit her  mouth before the section could be fully closed and padlocked.

At times she would be hung by the links at her hands and fee, at  others she would dangle from a chain around her waist for the whips and  the prods and the electrodes, but always she was, at first, in the same  cell and always in the same position.  Her life became continuous pain,  even when they left her alone.  And always the huge plug of rubber  invaded her mouth.  Once a day the thing would be pried out, she would  be spooned mouthfuls of some viscous slimy goo, and the gag would be put  back in.  and then the tortures would come and it would be taken out  some more and then replaced.

She was still in that position when they raped her the first of many  times.  They would merely roll her onto her side or all the way over  onto her face and knees and pound away at her.  And then the torturers  would return.  And then the rapists would come back.  And sometimes they  were both.  It became routine.  She discovered what it was to be truly a  slave to men, and to their whims.  And to their whips.  And she found  that the whips spoke to her in a language that, increasingly, existed  quite apart from the pain itself.

The footfalls coming down the hall this time were different from  those of the men: lighter, more nimble.  Even the smell was different.   They were women.  Two of them.  Madame picked up her head and  concentrated.  They came to the door of the cell and a key rattled in  the lock.  There was a tiny creak in the top hinge as the plate slowly  arched into the room and then silence.  Finally, a soft command, “Get  her out of the mask.”

Madame had definitely heard the voice before.  A guard continuously  stood without the door.  The keys on his belt-ring clinked like tiny  bells.  The gag was wrestled from her mouth and left to dangle on its  hinge.  The locks running along the rear seam of the steel harness  clinked open one after the other and finally, the thing was free.  The  guard grabbed both sides of the helmet and swung it open like a clam  shell.

Madame’s face was streaked with days-old makeup and sweat and tears  and the leather blindfold pads had left deep indentations on her  cheeks.  The lacework of the helmet had, too, left its own private marks  and looking as if Madame’s face had worn some odd fishnet for months.   She didn’t care.  She could blink her eyes and wiggle her jaw and see.   And See!

At first, she didn’t even recognize her, so great were the changes.   Alissa!  Here!  The chains and ropes and stripes she’d so cheerfully  worn at Madame’s were gone, covered with skin-tight leather pants and  top so black you could almost imagine yourself falling into it.  Her  hair, long and luxuriant, floated like a gold cloud about her head and  down around her cheeks.  And her eyes were cold as ice.  Madame meant to  gasp with relief but one look at the young woman standing over her  shocked her into silence.  This was not the Alissa of before, not the  elfin sprite she’d thrashed and loved at the house.  Alissa was back in  her true element: power.  Madame grasped it all in the instant they saw  one another.  No words were needed and none were spoken.

The tableau was ended by the emergence from behind Alissa of an  almost carbon copy of herself but for the newcomer’s dark hair.   Younger, equally as elfin, and wearing a suit visibly a mate for that  stretched over Alissa’s firm little hide; but beneath the smooth  blackness across her belly Madam could immediately see the subtle but  distinct ridge of a crotch-strap sinking into the child’s skin.  The  pink flushed features informed her that it probably anchored a friendly  little helper deeply within the slave, for that was obviously what she  was on further examination: the silvery collar gleamed softly in the  mean lighting of the cell and her wrists remained motionless behind her  back for reasons other than posture control.  Silver links adorned the  glistening black ankles.  They were unattached from one another, but  small snaps sprouted from the sides of the bands could be closed  together in an instant.

She stepped around Alissa to a level slightly behind her shoulder and  smirked down at Madame.  She nuzzled with her chin at the large black  ball tied around her neck and glanced first at the back of Alissa’s  hand, then down a Madame and said with a grin, “She’s fine if you like  them ancient, love.”

Alissa swung like a cat, her arm a dark blur in the mote-filled air  and the back of her hand hit the younger girl’s face with a meaty crack.

“Shut up!”

The girl staggered back from the blow, then caught herself from  falling and huddled back against the wall, shooting Madame a murderous  glance as if the blow were her fault.  Alissa stared at her and the girl  lowered her eyes, frightened, resentful, surprised.

Alissa spun back to madame and motioned to the guard.  The man had  watched the entire episode with his arms crossed, visibly bored but  attentive; one did not lightly irritate the boss’ daughter.  He dragged  the ring of keys back out from his pocket and stooped to one knee in  front of Madame and released the locks on the manacle.

Madame could hardly believe the evidence of her eyes.  She slumped  within the pile of steel.  To be able to stretch her body!  She could  hardly imagine it.  She began to raise her arms to lie back, but the  guard was upon her, hands rough under her arms as he pulled her to her  feet.  She gasped at the cracking of her joints and the pulling of  tissues cramped and knotted from being in one position for days on end.   Alissa’s hard stare never varied.

The guard pulled Madame’s hands behind her and snapped them together  with a pair of the slim manacles like the other slave-girl wore, then  snapped a similar collar about her throat.  A short chain hung from the  rear of the collar and the guard pulled Madam’s coupled wrists high up  her back and attached them to its end.  Madame grimaced at the pull in  her shoulders and at the collar’s bite around her neck.  He hobbled her  with the silver bands and an eight-inch-long light chain and stood  behind her.  The hood was heavy leather and thickly padded.  The man  buckled it under Madam’s chin first, the halves of the restraint  spilling out along Madame’s chest.  She locked eyes with Alissa as the  guard raised the lower face part of the device across Madame’s mouth and  she opened to receive the packing riveted in place like a huge  mushroom.

The one-sided eye combat ended quickly when the man tugged the rest  of the face portion of the hood over Madame’s forehead and eyes and  zipped the thing together down the center of her head and the nape of  her neck.  There were more tugging and pulling as the zipper was locked  and the broad external strap was tightened across her lower face,  crushing the gag further into place.  The nose opening was carefully  adjusted and a leash was attached to the front of the collar with a  distinct click that she couldn’t hear through all the padding inside the  hood.  Back to square one.  The leash gave a good jerk and they were  off.  Somewhere.

The car was big and smelled expensive, at least.  The thumps as the  doors were closed cam dimly through the hood.  Madame sat between Alissa  and her slave and one of them bent down and attached her ankles  together.  No kicking in the car.

As they moved off from the rest, Madame could vaguely hear what  sounded like a rather heated exchange trading sides back and forth  across her.  She felt like a fence between two feuding families.

The one on her right suddenly lunged across Madame’s thighs and  delivered what sounded like several solid belts to the other, one after  the other in quick, deliberate succession.  There was a pause then, and  then the one still across her legs seemed to do something to the other.   The weight of her was just as suddenly transferred back to its proper  place on the seat and the voyage continued on in silence.  The new slave  wore her gag tightly buckled and her cheeks burned a deep red under the  dears dropping into her lap.  School was still in session.

The ride ended, eventually, as all rides hopefully do.  They were  marched upstairs and downstairs and across floors and rugs and things  and finally stopped.

Madam’s hands were released form the collar but not the manacles.  An  astonishingly cold metal bar was pressed into her back lengthwise and  strapped into place.  One went about her waist.  Another, jutting from  the nether end of the pole, itself aligned with her crotch, was pulled  forward between her legs and up her bell y to join the waist strap.  The  ring at the back of the collar was fitted to its mate on the shaft and  her torso and the rod were as one.  Her wrists were quickly released and  reattached n the front and then pulled high over her head and fixed to  the very top of the pole.  Her elbows were pulled together, forcing her  head forward and down onto her chest with more of the manacles, and  those too were attached to the pole.

Another strap was attached to the bottom of the pole and was pulled  forward through her legs as she was forced to sit.  Her legs were bent  cross-legged and pulled back into her crotch.  The new strap snapped  onto her ankle bands and someone standing behind her pulled the strap  back under her until her feet dug into her groin.  Then and only then  were the fastening of the hood loosened.

“Do you like it?” Alissa quipped, the cold of

her eyes leaking into  her voice.  “Somebody put a lot of time and effort into this joint.”

Madame stared around her.  It was her mansion.  Or used to be, she thought ruefully.

“Daddy said I could run it after you… vacated… the premises.” She snickered openly at her own wit.

“Its really like a big doll house, you know,” she continued, sweeping  her hand around the expansive room.  “Even comes complete with the  cutest dolls,” she crooned, stepping close to Madame and cupping her  chin.  “There was ever such a beautiful selection of fluffs left down  there that I’d never seen.  You’d been holding out on me, naughty  slave.  Momma must punish.” Her voice lifted on the last words like a  solicitous but grimly determined mother explaining to her brat why the  beating was coming.

My God, Madame thought to herself, what the hell happened?  What had  she done so utterly, completely wrong with this one?  She would have  sworn that Alissa was perfect material, that she had donned the cloak of  slavery with complete abandon.  The change was incredible, impossible.

She glanced up at the girl still cupping her chin.  The eyes  glittered back at her like chunks of the south pole.  Had it been merely  a role, a shivery delicious experiment that, once experienced to the hilt, could be thrown away like a used rag?  A vicious, spoiled brat  with a spine of steel and an insatiable appetite for the bizarre?  She  was, after all, her father’s child, and a more murderously ruthless  sonofabitch Madame had never before met.

Madam’s eyes widened in genuine fear.  Alissa’s grin spread to show  her teeth.  She clicked the top of the pole into a hood jutting from the  wall and brought the nipple-whip back from the desk.  The screams went  on for a long time.

***

Mortimer Gans was a thoroughly terrified man.  His path down the  paneled and carpeted corridor to the oiled rosewood door was audibly  punctuated by the mumbles that became weaker and weaker the closer to  the door he got.  His business was with the machines and voices of  people coming out of the telephone, he told himself, but as head of  Bertram B.  Bertram’s business intelligence clearing office, his was the  final responsibility of carrying the information gleaned from the  network of spies and informants to the old man, not the Bright Young Man  scurrying around the office.  His.  Fifty-six years old and skinny as a  rail and with two solitary hairs left still atop his head.  And  shaking.

Mrs.  Washtinaw glanced up at him standing weak-kneed before her  desk, and then down at her papers.  Mrs.  Washtinaw thought Mortimer  Gans was a wimp, and didn’t mind showing it.  “Can I help you,  Mortimer?”

Mortimer fidgeted, but finally spoke up.  “is Mr.  Bertram in his office, Mrs.  Washtinaw?”

“Do you have an appointment, Mortimer?  Mr.  Bertram is a very busy man, just now.”

“I have a tape here,” Mortimer waved the small Sony in her face,  “that Mr.  Bertram will want to hear.  It’s very important, Mrs.   Washtinaw,” he pleaded.

“Oh,” with a sigh, “very well, Mortimer, I’ll see if Mr.  Bertram is free.” Mr.  Bertram himself flung open the door.

Five minutes later, the old man punched the STOP button on the tape  recorder and looked expectantly over at Mortimer standing by the door.

“We picked that up last night, sir.  The call was made to a…” he  glanced down at a small sheet of paper in her hand, “…Miss Alissa Black  at her apartment.  As you could hear, sir, the quality of the connection  from the caller to Miss Black wasn’t exactly… shall we say… the best,  but since specific mention was made of your name and of obtaining as  much information as possible about you, I thought…” Mortimer cocked his  head to the side and looked apologetic.

The old man waved his hand in dismissal.  “Think nothing of it, Mr.   Gans, think nothing of it at all.  I’m sure it’s nothing, but you ere  right in bringing it up.  Was that all on the tape?”

Mortimer nodded, some relief beginning to come into his face.

“In that case you’d better...’ he stretched over the desk toward  Mortimer with the Sone, “…resume your duties.  Anything more to this  Miss Black you receive should, of course, come straight here.” More  nodding from Mortimer.  “Oh, by the way, do you have the young woman’s  address there?”

“Oh, of course, sir,” Mortimer gasped out, rushing to the desk and  extending the slip of paper.  The old man took it and leaned back in his  chair, smiling up at Mortimer.  The meeting was clearly at an end and  Mortimer beat a hasty retreat to the door.  Mrs.  Washtinaw didn’t even  glance up as he left.

The old man punched a call button on the console and grand his  teeth.  It had been Hall’s voice on the other end of that line.  It had  indeed been a rotten connection, but the old man was sure of it.  Still  alive and kicking.  And dangerous.  The bitch was digging into his  business!  It had been tried before by some of the best and worst of  them.  Even the Feds, the bastards, hadn’t had any luck.  He wasn’t  particularly concerned on that end, but this Black bitch might lead him  to her.  After the assholes in the helicopter had lost him a brand-new  Gazelle and the broads AND Dawnelle, the old man’s rage had threatened  to expunge any living organism within arm’s reach.  Heads had rolled.   Literally.  The countryside at that end of the state swallowed the women  without a trace.  Only luck would ferret them out and the old man  wasn’t a strong believer in luck.  Until now.

Burnside came in and sat down without invitation.  Security with a  capital “S.” the goon-squad side of Mortimer’s intelligence network.   Burnside and the old man went back a long, long time together.  The old  man slid the piece of paper across the desk and Burnside picked it up.   Two minutes later, he walked out of the office and deliberately shut the  door.  Mrs.  Washtinaw watched him walk away down the corridor like a  lizard that’s jut been missed by the snake.

***

Alissa Black was almost as dark as her name.  she’d grown up skinny  and hungry and tough and had developed a deft skill with anything that  had an edge on it by the time she’d reached eleven years of age.  Her  ghetto toughness combined with an IQ of 148 and an ineluctable drive to  escape and never, never live the way she’d had to as a kid drove her, by  the time she was in her late twenties, to the pinnacle of a somewhat  dubious, but thoroughly useful, occupation of information-monger.  With  prices to match.  Her sources came from the meanest of streets and the  plushest of boardrooms and she played no favorites and took no sides.   Except when it came to the Feds; she had an ingrained loathing of  governments foreign and domestic.  Particularly domestic.

She and Fanni had met when they were both in their early twenties and  had instantly become attracted to one another.  Their business and  characters complemented each other.  That didn’t mean Fanni was going to  get a price reduction.

Alissa glanced again at the computer printouts and the scribbled  notes puddled around her on the desk.  She shook her head to herself.   Fanni, baby, she said, this is gonna be one expensive motherfucker.  She  did not like fucking with Bertram B.  Old Bert was one tough, shrew  son… of… a… bitch and Alissa had a bad feeling about what she’d gotten  herself into.  Especially, when she found out who some of Bert’s new  buddies were.  Nasty, nasty shit.

She glanced at the calendar and then at her watch.  After the normal  interminable waiting sand listening to the Muzak, she got through to  reservations and arranged a flight for the next morning.  Bright and  early.  She wanted this whole mess out of her hair.

***

Mortimer listened again to the tape that one of the faceless B.Y.M.s  had just brought him, made a note on a log pad and walked to the  communications room.  Burnside, in the car outside Alissa’s flat, picked  up the phone and listened.  When Mortimer was finished, Burnside set  the phone back into its cradle carefully and picked up a walkie-talkie  and got the standby car to replace him, then motioned to his driver to  start the car; he had a plane to catch.