Countess Tarantula didn’t just have old objects or wealth. She haid heirlooms. Objects passed down through her family, objects stolen during wars, objects that she considered hers by birthright. There was a nuance to her greed and opulence; a kind of subtle, complicated sense of wealth and entitlement that could only come from many centuries of aristocratic breeding. That she should rule, that she should dominate; this was in her blood. And it was reinforced by her upbringing, and doubly reinforced by her environment. The walls had dark mahogany panels over old brick and stone, occasionally with filigree and wonderful inlay. Between a few panels were tall mirrors that reflected light throughout the room, reflecting on the dark, polished marble floor. Over the floor were exotic carpets, and at one end was a throne. Not her only throne. The Countess was the kind of wealthy that owned more than one throne.
Most wouldn’t notice the steel restraint points hidden along the wall, nor would they notice the chains that could be lowered from the ceiling. After all these were hidden by the glorious chandelier; dark iron rungs that looked like a spider’s web, with crystal and modern electric candles. Every crystal reflected back on the viewer if they looked close.
And, at the center of the room, with her arms restrained above her, was a woman in an orange suit. It was Phantom, and she was in the tender, unloving care of Countess Tarantula.
She struggled to breathe. After all, her mouth was quite full, and quite covered by a heavy panel gag. After being filled with sponge, she’d been harnessed and gagged with a kind of manhandling befitting the security forces of the Countess. Inhaling through the nose, she could only manage short, quick breaths, pressed on all sides by the overwhelming tightness of the suit wrapped around her. Orange latex clung to every inch of her body; smooth, suffocating, and unyielding. The executive’s limbs were bound quite nicely - she would have done the same - by buckling the suit together in front of her chest. Some very thick, heavy padded cuffs around her stomach and biceps, though… they allowed her to be easily moved around. The fact that she was in a latex straitjacket was suffocatingly tight, and the heavy metal cuffs? They were an outstandingly mean addition. She tugged at her chest, and felt a sudden pain.
ZZZAP.
A painful electric shock welled up, this one around her waist. Phantom’s eyes went wide. Her brain had been foggy, leaving her vulnerable. And now she was here. Immobilized. Trapped. And quite awake.
A figure approached, a silhouette bathed in harsh light, and Phantom felt her pulse quicken. She didn’t need to see her captor’s face to know who it was—Countess Tarantula. She had underestimated her, thinking herself beyond the Countess’s reach. Judging by her reflection - in the walls, in the floor, in the chandelier - she had been wrong.
“You’ve been quite a thorn in my side, Phantom,” the Countess’s voice dripped with disdain, her heels clicking against the cold floor as she drew near. “Interfering with my plans, ruining my little enterprises. And most of all, attempting regime change in Boundaria. This is a capital crime.”
“MMMNFF”!
But now, here you are. At my mercy.”
Phantom’s jaw clenched, her muffled breaths barely audible beneath the thick gag sealed between her lips. Her eyes, wild with defiance, locked onto the Countess as she came into view. Tarantula was dressed in her signature black latex, trimmed with decadent fur. The woman was a vision of power and dominance, her whip in hand as if it were a mere accessory to her authority. Though Phantom knew that Tarantula would use it at the drop of a hat. “You’ve been meddling in things you don’t understand,” Countess Tarantula growled. She was tracing a gloved finger along Phantom’s chin. “Did you think that your failed attempts at influencing Boundaria would have no consequences? Please, Phantom, you’re not invincible. You’ve always been a deliciously tempting target. I just needed an excuse. And now... I have you.”
Phantom shivered, feeling the weight of the Countess’s words. Her interference had not gone unnoticed, and now she was paying the price. She tried to pull her wrists free, but the restraints only tightened. The suit wasn’t just tight—it was constricting with every futile movement, an agonizing reminder that her freedom had been stripped away.
The Countess circled her, a wild cat playing with its food, taking her time, enjoying every moment of Phantom’s growing realization. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she leaned down, her breath hot against Phantom’s ear. “I designed this suit just for you. It senses your struggles, tightens the more you resist. You’ll never escape it. Never escape from Countess Tarantula.”
Phantom's mind raced, her body aching. She struggled, reflexively, and felt things constrict. Cuffs tightened, but worse, she felt something building up. Another charge. Was it the metal equipment? No, it was the lash.
Countess Tarantula’s whip snapped against Phantom’s side, not hard, but enough to draw a stifled groan from her. The Countess grinned. “Such spirit. You always were a stubborn one, weren’t you? But that will break soon enough.”
She pressed a button on her belt, and the latex suit responded instantly. The charging, and then the zap. It didn’t make much of a sound. But Phantom did. Phantom’s breath caught, her vision swimming as the pressure increased, squeezing her torso, her thighs, her chest. The electric shock between her legs was agonizing. It almost brought her to her knees. Good lord, the pain, the scintillating, uniquely pleasant pain! The shock between her legs had her panting for a moment, far too intense and conductive to be a lovely plaything. No, this was punishment. She exhaled, her head hanging down.
The Countess tilted Phantom’s head up, forcing her to meet her gaze. “You’re mine now. My prize. My pretty, perfect prisoner.” Her voice was laced with sadistic pleasure, a predator relishing in her catch. “No more interfering. No more games. From now on, you serve me.”
“HMMNFF?”
“You serve me by being an example, Prisoner 1998.” Phantom’s eyes flared with defiance, but her body was betraying her. The suit was too tight, too suffocating, the prison reflecting all around her. Her ability to think was being short-circuited. The Countess was too close, her power too overwhelming. She couldn’t fight it. She couldn’t fight her. The Countess laughed, a low, wicked sound that sent a chill down Phantom’s spine. She tugged at the chain connected to Phantom’s collar, pulling her even closer. “Welcome to your new life, my dear Phantom. I’ll make sure you never forget who owns you now.”
Countess Tarantula smiled, watching as Phantom slumped in her restraints, down to her knees. Quivering. Trying not to bring another shock. Plotting? Likely. But demure? ABsolutely.. She stood tall, savoring her victory. Phantom had been a nuisance for far too long, and now, she was nothing more than a trophy. A prize to be enjoyed, tormented, and paraded.
And Countess Tarantula would enjoy every moment of it.
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