The last guard was kicking and flailing, struggling and flailing with her legs in pointless resistance. Tara held the guard in place while Valeria got to work finishing the bindings. Although the guard was quite a bit taller than either of the two, a mix of cooperation and dumb luck made sure that it was the rebels that were victorious , and the guards the ones wrapped in tape and rope.
“You’re unlucky the Directrix doesn’t do public executions. You’re going to be BEGGING formmmngggggh!”
Val shoved one of the guard’s thin leather gloves into the guard’s mouth, packing it full of leather before slipping a long strip of silver tape over it. The officer tried another kick before Valeria wrapped a little more tape around her ankles.
“Mmm… no, I don’t think I will,” said Val. “Do you think you’ll do any groveling? I won’t be doing any groveling.”
Tara shook her head. “Nope. No plans. But you look to me like you’re begging.”
The guard was furious. Veins grew in her forehead as she struggled, but Val and Tara kept her leather-clad body in place.
“Think we should give her some more tape?” asked Val.
“How mean are you feeling?” asked Tara, pinching the guard’s nose shut for a moment before her pleading wiggles forced her to let go.
“Well,” replied Val, “I say we make sure she can keep an eye on her troops.” The two women grinned at each other.
A few minutes later, every last guard in the detention center had been brought together; a dozen women , all tightly bound and gagged and half of them blindfolded. The sounds of their heavy leather military uniforms grinding and squirming was a gorgeous symphony, with an accompaniment of moaning, mewling grunts.
Its conductor was the detention center’s overseer, who was taken to another guard and had her head placed between her subordinate’s legs and taped in place. Val had a youthful exuberance for the task, and licked her lips as she worked. Tara took a few photos for later; they’d make for good propaganda against the Directrix. The two rebels ran from the prison, out into the street where a waiting vehicle idled. A dozen other recently-freed prisoners waited inside, cheering as the rebels fled the scene.
Tara turned to Val, suddenly realizing that her raven-haired companion had brought a guard with. “Wait… Val, what’s that?” she asked, pointing to the squirming, silver-taped hostage.
“Oh… just a little souvenir.”
Tires screeched loud enough to drown out the groaning coming from inside the vehicle.
The rebels’ warehouse was connected via road and pipeline to the city of Promise - the seat of power and unchallenged domain of Directrix Phantom. Unchallenged, of course, until now. Tara O’Connor and Valeria Hammond were star members of the burgeoning resistance, eager to strike a blow against the Supreme Directrix and her dictatorship. For too long, the people of Promise had been trapped under her cruel, militaristic rule, subject to arbitrary imprisonments and a growing sense of malice. Authoritarian regimes would always collapse, though, and the Resistance was working to hasten its fall.
Restoration 5, as the hideout was affectionately called, was in a disused Customs building. It meant that it was filled to the brim with storage spaces and hiding spots, contained plenty of leftover contraband, and was unlikely to ever be searched - after the Directrix closed off the ports, there was no international travel and no escape.
Air ducts and old light fixtures on the ceiling; big screens on the walls. Crates and computers and old peeling paint; the smell of red tape and the odor of man-hours all poured into bureaucratic tasks. A wide, long room formerly used as an office held only two people; one prisoner and her keeper.
The guard from the detention center had been sat down in an office chair and tied to it with an unforgivingly tight hand. Her fingers flexed, arms trapped behind her back. The guard’s legs were spread wide, with each leg taped over and over and over with silver duct tape, locking them against the legs of the chair.
“You know, they say silence is golden. Or silver. I can’t remember which one. But all that tape looks good on you. I’d say you look absolutely golden in it.”
The guard shook in her bonds, stretching against the silver tape. She was locked in; layers of tape made sure she could barely budge. It was very tight, stretching all over her leather-clad body. She couldn’t move more than a squirm or a shake. Val ran her han over the guard’s lips.
“Please,” she said. “I know you’re thinking about something crazy, but hear me out-”
“No, I don’t think I will,” said Val. She shoved a ball-gag between the guard’s lips, eliciting a nice squawking mewl. Then came a long strip of tape over her mouth then another over the bridge of her nose, allowing her to breathe but restraining her further.
“You look pretty hot like this. You’re sweating. But I’ve got a quick fix.”
Val grabbed a leather hood, showing it to the guard, letting her see it. She squinted, trying to struggle and turn away. Val grinned as she slipped it on over the guard’s head; it was a snug hood with a zipper on the rear, with small rings for her nose and small eyelets to give her vision, albeit slightly limited.
The guard was huffing now , her head bobbing up and down. “Pmmmff….” she grunted.
“Sorry,” said Val, “couldn’t hear you.”
The guard tried shaking her head left and right. “No, please… let me go…” but Val wasn’t interested. “Did you say something?”
“All right, if you insist…” Val chuckled as she wound a thick strip of tape over the guard’s nose. She squinted her eyes, trying - and failing - to get some air. Val loved seeing her eyes go wide, begging, pleading, her grunts slowly getting more and more urgent as her head went light.
Tara entered the room. “Val,” she started, “I’m going on a recon mission.”
“And?” said Val. “I’m a little busy.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know. It’s dangerous and all, and if I didn’t come back-”
“Yeah yeah,” said Val. “I know what you mean. But you will be back. I’ll see you after the mission, yeah?”
“Of course,” said Tara. “Let’s grab some fast food after I’m back. Burger and fries maybe.”
Val winked at Tara as she left the room. Finally, she took the tape off the guard’s nose as she slipped a blindfold over her hood. The guard breathed in deep, even as she lost any chance of seeing what was coming next.
“All right,” said Val, “now that Tara’s gone, we can have some REAL fun…”
Tara had left her civilian clothes back at the hideout. The last the she wanted was to get her outfit dirty while on a mission. After she was done, changing and showering was going to be a sweet, cleansing reward. For now, she wore a black spy-suit.
That reward would only come after success, of course - success in this case being the theft of a keycard from the highest-security space in Promise. The titanic palace of the Directrix stood, a cyclopean monolith that towered over the city; a stone and steel scar that rose like a mountain.
Even tall buildings seemed dwarfed by the palace. It was made of a series of colossal cubic structures, all of them taller than they were wide, that were linked together like a crystal formation. The tops were flat - for the landing or take-off of aircraft - or were capped off by Kandyan hip-and-garble roofs that evoked an ancient palace. The lower levels never seemed to have lights, but any poor soul on the street level could see the upper levels of the towers brimming with activity, lighting, always filling the sky with a warm glow as if there were a party just beneath the roof.
The solid, sheer walls were impossible to scale, so Tara took one of the many hundreds of entrances and exits. Goods were always being sent in - and out - of the governing complex. People, too. More people went in than out.
She grabbed a ride in one of many countless ground trucks bringing supplies - big boxes of iron and raw materials - inside. Hopping out, she realized exactly why the complex was so large.
It wasn’t just a large area for shipping and receiving; it clearly led into factories. This was clearly where the Directrix made her money; there were factory floors for processing of raw materials, for the building of micro-technology, for the construction of dangerous-looking machines that had been used to suppress the populace.
Tara had gone in hoping to only swipe a key-card to reprogram, but it was impossible not to explore deeper. The sheer scale alone made her tremble; the ‘room’ she was in must have been hundreds of feet tall, with walkways that seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see. She decided she would catalogue the main exports and products before reporting back to Restoration.
As she finished her investigation, she had a thorough understanding of the factory complexes, their imports, their exports, and exactly what the Resistance could do to disrupt it. Unfortunately, she was also getting cocky. Tara was busy fumbling with a camera in order to take a photo when she made her fatal mistake; the loud click of the camera, and the flash from her phone!
She clenched up, hoping that nobody would notice… but that was an empty hope. Guards below her had spotted the flash, and in her surprise, she fell off the rafter and into a pile of soft cardboard boxes. Tara was up and on her feet, but as she got up, she realized that she was surrounded by three guards.
“Um… I got lost. I’m a technician from the Directrix’s personal staff. You wouldn’t want to slow me down. Maybe just show me to the elevator and-”
The guards were already attacking by the time Tara started to move. They were equipped with cuffs, gear, rope, tape, and all the tools needed to subdue a captive in close-quarters combat. They deployed a hand-to-hand tape dispenser, grabbing her hands and forcing them behind her back. They wrapped a long strip of glowing blue tape above and below her breasts, keeping her biceps tight against her chest, then wrapping her forearms around the small of her back.
“So,” said Tara, “Which one of you wants to be the one to try and gag me? Just try it, you stupid leather-clad goons. Just try it. I dare you-”
One of the guards wrapped Tara’s legs in blue tape, three, four, then five times, up and down from her ankles to her knees. Tara blushed. “All right, well, maybe this was just a misunderstanding. See, I’m not actually a technician, I’m a tourist and I was-”
“No more talking,” said one of the guards. Each of them was menacing, in tight leather bodysuits of black, gold, and red, menacing gas masks, and militaristic caps. She couldn’t see their faces, but she could imagine them grinning as they grabbed Tara’s head and filled it with a handkerchief. She tried to spit out the stuffing, but they wrapped a long strip of bluetape over her lips, then another, messily sealing up her mouth and chin.
A second guard produced a piece of cloth, wrapping it around the lower half of her mouth and tying it with a cute bow. Tara shook her head, but the guard kept her in place long enough to wrap another piece of cloth over her face, this time going over the bridge of her nose. Tara grunted, unamused by their overkill, but they were just as interested in humiliating her as they were with keeping her quiet.
A thick strip of tape over her gagged mouth, wound around the back of her head. They were running low on cloth, but they had enough for just one more over-the-nose gag wrapped around her nose and face. Tara’s eyes gleamed at them, and they took it as an insult - wrapping a wide piece of cloth over her eyes as a blindfold and sealing it all up with extra tape.
Tara knew she had failed her mission. She squirmed, hoping that Val would do anything but try and come after her…
Val was busy drinking a bottle of water, idly flipping through photos on her phone. She was locked in a small metal crate loaded in an aircraft on its way to the top of the Governing Palace. She was extremely pleased with her plan - hang out in a big crate filled with sparkling water, wait until it arrived in the palace, and find Tara. She’d figure out the specifics later.
She heard the low k-chunk of the aircraft touching down, and the unusual sensation of her crate being lifted up and carried to a cargo cart. She popped the cap on a luxury bottle of vaguely pomegranate-tasting bubble water, celebrating her own genius. It was an ideal plan; they’d never be able to scan every single box, and who would suspect something as innocuous as provisions?
The only tiny, possible problem with the plan would be if someone noticed the discrepancy in weight - which they didn’t - or heard hear belching - which they did. At first, Val didn’t think they’d heard her emission. They were still moving the crate with the rest. But the knock-knock sound of someone’s fist on the outside of her crate sent a shiver down her spine. Val realized that she was found out but didn’t think it’d be any trouble.
She only realized there was trouble when a guard opened up the hatch and stared into the crate. She was one of The Directrix’s elite guards; red rubber, tall leather boots, long militaristic gloves, a terrifying gas mask, and cruel ,dark eyes peering from behind the glass panes.
Val offered the guard a bottle of sparkling water. “Care for a drink?” She realized that the box hadn’t been opened in a storeroom… but the padded walls of an asylum cell. She tried to lunge, knocking the guard out, but the entire room seemed to fill all at once with sleeping gas.
Her dark hair drooped over her eyes as she squirmed, gasping, before falling unconscious. The last thing she remembered was a pair of sexy, tall, powerful boots striding into the room…
All was dark. Val could feel the inky black void pushing against her, pressing at her from all sides. She felt weightless; without sight, she had no form. Her body didn’t respond to her mind’s commands. She was able to reflect on the connection between her body and her mind for a moment and their unity, waxing poetic to herself about the fine line between her conscious mind and her base instincts.
She could breathe, but she realized that she was wearing a tight corset around her waist. Val’s entire body was coated in a thick, skintight, advanced rubber catsuit. It was hot, thick, tight, and she could feel herself squirming, starting to get turned on. Tall boots were locked around her legs, and she could hear the jingling of chains across her body.
Val’s wrists were locked into thick rubber ball-mitts, each grabbing on to a cushion, locked in a spherical pad, then inflated to prevent any kind of escape. Metal shackles around her wrists were connected via a thick metal rod to a tall posture collar. And, for good measure, some nice chains connected her wrists to her corset, just in case she got any ideas about escaping.
Thunk. The sound of a heavy boot on metal.
Best, and worst, of all was a thick metal chastity belt. She squirmed, feeling the metal preventing any hope of sexual stimulation, keeping her from getting the release she was already starting to crave.
Thunk. Again. The heavy boot on metal flooring.
To make sure that she had no hope at all of doing more than squirm, she was also equipped with a gigantic, smooth hood; one that only had tiny openings for her nose. No sight, minimal sound, and the thick scent of rubber filling her nostrils at all times.
Thunk. Thunk. She couldn’t hear. But she could feel steps in her cell. Feel the firm, powerful hand of someone’s glove on her chin. She could feel her head grasped, caressed in its total rubber enclosure. Feel hands tracing up and down her coated flesh. She could feel dominance, power oozing from her every motion. The teasing touch of a villain without remorse, but with her own capricious desires.
The hood was removed. Waiting, glowering, grinning; The Directrix stood and stared in front of her. Dark lips, pale skin, a military side-cap on her head. She took Val’s head in her hands.
“Very cute, Val. You thought you’d save your friend. Well, I bet you’re curious what’s happened to her.”
The Directrix snapped her fingers, and a screen appeared. Tara took center-stage. Her long blonde hair cascaded down, past her shoulders and back. She chewed on a gigantic ball-gag and harness, mewling, moaning, drooling, squirming, grinding her thighs, begging, squeaking.
A thick, high-tech rubber prisoner suit. A red bolero straitjacket. A web of straps around her hips and thighs. All of it was tight, well-fitting, biting against her soft flesh. She struggled as Phantom approached her holding a small piece of paper, eyes blazing, drilling into Tara’s mind.
“Tara… I hereby sentence you to be squeaky,” said The Directrix with a smirk. “You are to be kept as a permanent plaything.” She adjudicated her sentence with the electro-hiss crackle of a riding crop. Even through the thick rubber, Tara could feel the stinging sensation of its electrical kiss. She chewed on the rubber of the gag, saliva running from the corners of her mouth.
Phantom ordered the screen wheeled away. Val’s brow was furrowed, her face scrunched. She was angry at seeing the way Tara was treated, furious at the way she was being treated, and growing increasingly aware that Phantom held all the keys to all the locks, both literal and metaphorical. The Directrix ran fingers over Val’s face, down to her neck. She touched the large metal padlock that kept her neck locked in place.
“No keyhole, by the way. It’s programmed only to unlock when the sound of my voice gives the command, and I have no desire to give the command. Let me guess… you’re curious how I’m going to sentence you?”
Val grunted, looking away.
“I’m not even going to tell you,” said the Directrix. “Tara might have maybe gotten away with a simple sentencing… but you? You made it quite deep into my lair. And I would rather not give away information about TWO infiltrations.”
She clipped a long leash to Val’s collar, tugging her to follow. They strode through the halls, Val painfully slow and The Directrix in a brisk militaristic gait.
“No… that won’t be allowed at all. Now, Tara I can show a little mercy. Maybe she’ll get paroled and used as a public pleasure toy, or sold off as a slave. You? I don’t think you get such a luxury.”
The halls of the asylum gave way to a wide hall, a black void lit only by artwork along the walls, lit by spotlights from above. It was lurid, expensive; paintings and sculptures… and people. Val didn’t realize it until the second or third, but The Directrix had decided to keep many of her former conquests and victims encased and alive under lock, key, and tight rubber vac-seals. Each of them had a small holographic display showing their face; their ‘former’ life, and the day on which The Directrix had defeated them. Emblazoned in gold was the date of their internment in the loving, warm embrace of Ma’am’s ebon embrace as objets d’art.
“Like what you see?” said The Directrix. Val wasn’t sure what to say. Phantom stopped the walk, turning back to her company and staring deeply. “I said… do you like what you see?”
Val wasn’t sure what to say. If she nodded ‘yes,’ would she end up like one? If she said ‘no,’ would that be an insult? She tried to split the difference, grinding her legs together and moaning in a pathetic sign of submission.
“I’ll take that as a yes. I knew that a foolish woman of loose morals like yourself would be amused,” stated the domina. “They are quite nice. Each one of them in a lovely state of stasis… unless I want them to wake up. For example, when guests are here, I sometimes give them a show; turning down the air to all of them at once, and replacing it with a thick aphrodisiac gas. It’s quite a show. But you’ve certainly heard that before.”
Val had, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. Rumors were one thing. Seeing the capricious sexual desires of the dictator was a new horror; a fresh wound.
“Some of them were too dangerous to let live, but I was merciful and gave them a second life as my trophies. I’m sure they’d be thankful if I ever let them speak. But… I don’t. Trophies don’t have opinions. Dolls don’t talk. You, however… you might provide some amount of information.”
They passed through another hall, into a smaller room, but similarly lit; dark, with a series of large spotlights cascading down from above. Wood floors, wooden walls, dim windows; it had the feeling of a theatrical stage. “No judge or jury for you, dear. Just a promise; comply, and I’ll make your new life very pleasant. Resist, and I’m afraid that you’ll dream of being something as glorious as a rubber slave.”
“NNGGGGGGGGGGGH!” Val couldn’t hold it in any further. She broke and squirmed, angrily falling to her knees and pulling at her metal bonds.
“Tsk. Pathetic,” said the dictator. She grabbed Val by the collar, hauling her up. She pressed her back against a wall, forcing air from her stomach as she moved fingers over Val’s cheeks and chin.
“Are you thinking of being resistant?”
“Are you thinking you’ll try to escape?”
“Tsk. There’s the real problem. You’re thinking. I don’t want you to think. I want you to obey.” Phantom whispered something, and the metal bonds released, leaving Tara still trapped in heavy rubber restraints but able to flail her arms and legs.
She pulled over an expensive wooden chair; real, authentic Spessart oak-lumber. It had served royalty and commoner and changed hands a dozen times. Now, it was just a prop for the villain’s ordeal. The Directrix sat down in its wide cushion-free seat, letting her red cape drape over the back. She spread her legs slightly.
“Over here, Val. Serve me.”
Val hesitated. The dictator’s brow furrowed slightly.
“I said… here. On your knees, like an animal; like the slave you are. Use your face, your tongue. Lick my boots.”
Val tried to mimic the dominant attitude of her captor. Phantom took to this poorly. Two guards grabbed her, forced her to her knees, bringing her closer, bringing her to Phantom’s groin and carefully removing her gag.
The Directrix took her head between her legs, shoving her close, tightening her, smothering her. In that void of little air and immense heat, Val could bask in the dominance, the utter hegemony she had over her body. She knew that here, between Phantom’s legs, she could feel a true and complete sense of helplessness. She extended her tongue, licking the inside of her leather-clad thigh.
Phantom took her by her hair, forcing her down. Val’s quivering tongue licked at her boots.
Tiny grunts from Val’s lips. The mewl of a pet. The Directrix grinned. “Rehearsal is done. Time for a show.”
Two men clad in tight black leather entered the personal chambers of Supreme Directrix Phantom. They had dark hair, olive skin, and wore gifts and honors bestowed on them by their mistress; chastity belts of silver, tight collars and rings of gold. They had pride of place over every other slave, and, even if they were still slaves, they were glorious. Even now, they hummed at the thought of the private, romantic evening Phantom surely had planned for them - after they finished their task.
One of them removed a previous toy from the ‘trophy rack,’ to be brought to the hall and vac-sealed with all the other toys. The other escorted in a prisoner to replace her.
Val wore thick rubber of black and orange; the domina reduced to a prisoner without a name. Her hands and feet both wore silver shackles over black boots and gloves, sealed up for the long, helpless encasement on the trophy rack; locked up, with her arms and legs in a large X-frame. Straps ran over her arms, locked, and tightened. A large metal chastity belt locked in toys and pads, to give her utter and total denial - or endless stimulation.
A heavy gag, a total hood with only small openings for the eyes, and a gas mask over that. All of this… and that was before The Directrix started teasing her new slave. The green-eyed devil entered, gently swishing her riding crop in her hands for an entire minute before viciously slashing her electric crop against the coated breasts.
The pleasant, painful, sting of electricity coursing through the edges of Val’s chest made her toes curl.
“Good morning,” said The Directrix. “As you can see, I have never, not once, bothered to interrogate you - despite my earlier hints to do so.”
“Do you have any guesses why that is?”
Val’s dagger-eyes struggled against the straps. She felt strength coursing through her veins, but she lacked the power to do anything with it. At best, she manage to curl her fingers, arch her back, rage against the unyielding rubber and steel that imprisoned her.
“Well, my silly little friend… it’s because I don’t want to know what the rebels are up to. I don’t want to find their hideout. They keep on delivering fun toys to me; toys that I get to see struggle and squirm.
Why, they send kinky ones, the kind that desperately want to dominate me , even though they never will. They send cute little things that I get to grab and torture and tease and coat and watch them squirm and moan in my bed, aching against a tight jacket and tighter hood.”
The Directrix came in close to Val’s head, and one final screen was displayed. This one showed Tara and Val, both bound and gagged as her trophies, and The Directrix delivering a grim reminder for all those who oppose her; show any disobedience and end up as a heavily bound slave. Game over.
She smile and pushed the screen away. “That was just for the cameras, though. Now, Val… this is just for us. I’m going to have some fun with your little Tara, and you get to watch.”
The Directrix let out a haughty laugh loud enough to cover up Val’s moans.