Chained and Chastened

When Kristin offered to interview Maria for her series, she was surprised at the mercurial latin woman's response. She refused, kindly but firmly; she hugged Kristin and said:

"No, Kristin. No! You are my dear sister, my gravel shoveling compadre. We won't forget that day, huh? I will always bless you for our escape! But, no. I want to be finished with all that wildness. At home everyone is emotional--but they always were. My brothers have sworn to kill Chuckie. Hell, I almost killed him, in that guard room. I had my finger on the trigger! I'm tired of this craziness! Basta! No more! I'm moving out! I need more peace and quiet, not this publicity shit! Have you seen Colette's dirty movie? Not for me!"

Maria was getting vehement. Kristin put a hand on her arm: "Maria! Of course. What ever you want, I see your point. No publicity from me." And there was none.

Strangely, in tne first two weeks of the volunteer course that turned out so badly, Maria had been drawn to the order and the discipline of the military life style, so different from her screaming, volatile family. A few weeks later she quietly enlisted in the regular army. In basic training, no one recognized her face or her name; she found just the anonymity she craved.

Elsie, too, surprised Kristin (now caught up in her own celebrity trip). Kristin was sure the trailor trash blonde would want the publicity and monetary rewards available to her; she pictured Emily in a biker magazine, leaning against a Harley, gun in hand, billed as 'the gal who gunned down her rapist!' But Emily, unaccountably shy, declined:

"Kristin, I'm obliged to you. For everything. I know you mean well, but I've got a good man now, and I've found Jesus. When I shot that raping sonof abitch, I had strayed from God's path; but boy, that motherfucker bled like a stuck pig, didn't he? Hoo boy! But now I'm putting that sinful violent life behind me. You understand, don't you?"

Kristin gulped and nodded: "Of course! I wish you all the best!" They hugged ; Kristin watched the newly demure blonde walk away; no trace of her old defiant swagger remained. 'Still looks like trailer trash though.' Kristin mused.

And then there was Kristin herself. After her front page scoop and shocking personal account of the prison camp, she was the nation's instant celebrity, the golden girl. The scandal, the initially feeble government response followed by a quick change in strategy when it became clear to all what a monumental scandal had occurred, was the story of the year (century, Ray said). All the escaped women who wished it had their day in the limelight in all the media, And Kristin, the resourceful heroine, was right in the middle of it; Ray Collins and the newspaper's PR staff tried to limit her exposure, to protect her, but to no avail. She found herself on all the Sunday morning news shows, PBS, even Jon Stewart, (she drew the line at Larry King and Bill O'Reilly) and, of course, Oprah.

Oprah. That was the world series of instant celebrity, of course. Colette, Alice and Janeesha shared that program with her. It was an over-the-top sentimental extravaganza, watched by most of the country's women, and a large share of the men, hoping for a little nudity and chains and whipping and stuff. They were not totally disappointed; the four abused victims were lovely. "I like that mamma with the big ass!" an investment banker in a sports bar said, and got into a spirited argument with the biker who wanted to fuck Colette. "Hell, I'd like to do them all!", said the computer salesman : "How do we sign up for that secret lady spy program?"

Kristin was giddy with the pace of events, the sudden fame; she had stayed in Van Diemen's penthouse after that first celebratory champagne evening, and most evenings thereafter, but scarcely had a chance to solidify their relationship. She was exhausted, totally excited, and just able to gather her thoughts or make any future plans. The Chinese made t shirts and action figures of her (naked, with tiny handcuffs and chains) sold out as soon as they hit the stores. She was overwhelmed, swallowed up by her celebrity.

In two or three weeks, things began to settle down. Her column, at first interviewing her fellow victims and describing her own ordeal, segued

into a column about women's issues: child and spousal abuse, work site harassment, lesbian rights, and all the usual feminine issues. It was wildly popular; she had a masthead photo which emphasized her thoughtful sensitive (and very lovely) side: * Despite her giddy life style, the celebratory glitter (and the affair with Walter; he was loving, gentle, sexually skilled and plying her with clothes and baubles beyond her wildest espectations), despite all this--or perhaps because of it--she felt a vague sense of of dissatisfaction, of something missing. This fifteen minutes of fame were wearing her out!

In the city room, she tried to be "just plain old Kristin" but it didn't

really work. No more informal order-in chinese lunches with the girls, no more shared shopping tips (she was wearing 800 dollar business suits and 450 dollar shoes now.) She wasn't Walter's first mistress of convenience. Almost from the start they seemed to have less and less time together. Three weeks later, after caviar, roast duck and expensive wine, he gently suggested she move back to her apartment (which he had lavishly redecorated). Kristin found that her heart was barely broken-"-more time for my work" she thought. They parted amicably.

Work, work, work! The twice a week column, all that e-mail to answer, continuing requests for interviews--it had been over a month since the big prison break--and her fame had hardly diminished. The Star had hired three assistants to screen the obscene letters and emails, the shower fixture company that wanted her to be their spokeswoman 'nude and chained to our product, if possible', the prison guards of America--the flood of attention never stopped. Once in a while she would do an interview that she would later regret; like the People magazine pictorial on medieval restraints.

The interview was nothing special, but they talked her into a photo session featuring chains, cuffs, and a chastity belt. "The irony is" the interviewer explained, " that you'll be completely covered, in a leotard, in a tasteful old world setting, maps, globe, like that. KInd of a humorous look at all this phony chains and bondage publicity you've been getting."

Kristin was tired, scarcely listening. "OK" she said; "But hurry up; I've got another appointment with the NOW board."

So she got into the leotard (long, black, scarcely sexy) and let the photographer lock her into the medieval devices, the light handcuffs, the ankle shackles. He took way too long assuring himself that the chastity belt was just right, intimately snug, tight, form fitting. But, in the leotard, provoctive, but not really sexy. she told herself. *

After the shoot she looked at the proofs over his shoulder. (somehow, he hadn't released the cuffs yet) "That's kind of cute, isn't it? A little bit, you know sexy. But OK for People magazine, I'm sure." She stretched against the cuffs, the shackles holding her highheeled ankles, squirmed a bit against the metal chastity belt that fit every contour of her sex intimately. She spoke almost without realizing it:

" I bet this might be a real turn on if one were into kinky stuff."

The photographer, stocky, bearded, tiny granny glasses, stopped packing up his cameras and gave her a long look. His eyes narrowed. "You--I understand you had a little, you know, hands on experience with cuffs and shackles at that camp, right? It sound weird, but I know some dudes that get turned on to that rusty iron stuff. And a few girls, too." He grinned, Kristin shuffled in her ankle restraints and blushed.

"I've got another set of chains, more severe, and a very special belt. If you'd like to consider..."

"I hardly think so, I'm so busy..." Kristin felt her heart pounding: why?

"Just take a minute" He held the heavier chains in both hands, approaching her, enticing. "First, let me get you out of those cuffs and that belt" He fumbled at the padlocks at her waist, her buttocks, her constricted pubic crease, finally releasing her. "Now let's try these!"

'As though I 've consented!' Kristin told herself, 'OH well...' The metal cinch and his manipulations were--this was ridiculous--turning her on. "OK. let's do it! But no pictures for the magazine; just maybe one for me. Promise?"

"Absolutely, Kristin--may I call you that? I'm Zach. Oh, this goes much better if you're nude, I'm told; the authentic medieval pain and pleasure sensation! Just slip out of that dumb leotard." Driven by some urge she didn't quite understand, she slid the black gament down and off, and stood, naked, blushing, but strangely excited.

Zach moved fast; in minutes he had locked on the ankle and thigh shackles and then the iron collar with connecting chains to her wrist cuffs. As Kristin stood, now cuffed and shackled, experiencing the cold metal trapping her bare flesh, almost in a trance, submissive, experiencing deja vu; he knelt behind her, locked the heavy waist band in place, tugged it tight and buckled it, then pulled the swiveled chastity belt between her ass cheeks, then up in front, flattening and partially penetrating her labia, and padlocked it tightly into place. She tottered; this belt was much more intimate, more demanding against--and almost into-- her private spaces, she realized. It was--she tried to reject the feeling--just like Gretl and the hell camp; perverse, but somehow thrilling!

Zach, grinning widely, now spread her legs and locked her ankle shackles to a spreader bar and gently pushed her back into a chair. As she sprawled she looked down and realized there was a midline slit in the chastity belt through which pouted a pink lip of her intimate flesh. "Hey!" she protested. but Zach was already crouched over his cameras. Click. Click. Kristin struggled briefly, wriggled against the invasive belt, found herself getting turned on, and slumped, giving in with a little grin of surrender, half mocking her own foolishness. 'What a nice mess you've got yourself into!' she scolded herself, echoing the immortal Oliver Hardy as she wriggled against the cold metal intruder. *

'Perfect! " Zach exulted. "Let me unchain you, Kristin; I know you're a busy lady."

"Not so fast, you sneaky bastard!" Kristin 's sexual reverie had disappeared in a second, she was now angry and a bit worried: "You've been taking pictures! Of my--my pussy! Without my permission! You promised! I want that negative!"

Zach stood behind her, fondling her breasts. "Of course you'll get the negatives but only if--guess what my price is?"

She squirmed, still chained. What was a girl to do? These photos must not reach the public, no matter what price she must pay. She sighed as he unchained her thighs and ankles (he left her collar and wrist cuffs on), removed the now moist chastity belt almost tenderly, and lay her back in the chair.

Fifty minutes later she walked out of his studio, a bit sore and unsteady; Zach's fucking technique was a bit crude, she reflected, but very very vigorous and sustained!. She had the negative and the only copy of the session (she hoped); somehow that image of herself struggling in the heavy metal restraints, nude and helpless was --just too sexy, in a weird way, to forego. Images of Gretl and her brutal incarceration began to resurface.

Outwardly, Kristin was the very poster girl of serene success. But inwardly, especially at night, things were going not quite so swimmingly. Gradually, so gradually that she didn't realize it, her columns were more and more concerned with gay and especialy lesbian issues, sexual freedom concerns and a more than casual interest in bondage and discipline. Ray called her attention to this worrisome trend:

"Kristin, you're getting a little kinky; those weird letters you answer! This is not a forum for perversity, you know. Go back to the safe stuff: equal wages, more women in politics, like that, and knock off all that lesbian shit!"

Kristin agreed, but didn't quite get it; she hadn't noticed how her nighttime fantasies and increasingly vivid, increasingly disturbing dreams were beginning to permeate her high paying day job.

Those dreams! Unaccountably uneasy at night, alone in her elegant apartment (somehow, her social life has tapered off to nearly nothing--'I'm too tired from work', she murmers, gently declining the many calls for dinner, the theater, weekends, etc. that she receives), she is restless, unfulfilled. She has everything, but something is missing; what? She drinks an extra glass of wine now before bedtime. She tosses in her satin sheets, increasingly lapsing into an elaborate fantasy just before falling asleep.

She dreams of two lovely women, one blonde (herself?) one brunette (who?). They are always half clad in exquisite lingerie , garters, hose and heels. Clearly they are lovers, but it is all so tasteful, so--romantic--that no one could take offence. Sometimes one is gently dominant, sometimes the other, dressed as a maid. Each night the imagining grows more elaborate, more detailed, now including sound (little moans) smells and touch (textures of fine silk, yielding warm skin). She wakes up troubled, hot.

*

And the dreams that follow! Sometimes she's back in Gretl's evil camp, more often than not in strict bondage, perhaps suspended in leather. One night she finds herself tied to the guard house bars in Colette's place, but a stern woman, not a guard, is whipping her. That dream startled her awake, screaming, bathed in sweat, almost feeling the harsh lash. And some nights it's herself, weirdly floating in featureless space. elaborately chained.

* * *

.*

Kristin was beginning to look a bit haggard, her smile too fixed, her elegant wardrobe slightly askew, her colleagues at work noticed. 'She's just working too hard!' one whispered to another. Well, not quite. In addition to the fantasies and the increasingly disturbing dreams. Kristin was beginning to assume a new nighttime persona.

She gradually found herself drawn to the lesbian scene. At first she convinced herself that she was just gathering data, like any self respecting journalist would, doing research for her column, or perhaps a book. That would require interviews, of course. In what she called her 'dyke' wardrobe--leather jacket and tight jeans, mostly--and a brunette wig, she began hanging out in gay bars. She has a few exploratory encounters, first at the bar, then one night back in her apartment. (There was a little bit of playful bondage with silk scarves; Kristin found (why was she surprised?) that she preferred being the 'bottom' rather than the 'top".

In a few weeks she had slipped into a darker cycle: pick ups almost at random, more intense bondage and submission, one or two gruff unlovely bull dykes, one of whom left her hogtied and gagged, sore from whipping and slapping and sexual abuse. *

Now she found herself going home to her 'date's' apartment, or, often, make believe dungeon. It was amazing haw many straps, ropes, chaIns, pulleys and elaborate wood devices existed in quiet Washington D.C.'s sedate apartments!

*

One morning, her bottom sore from a vigorous taste of her 'Mistress's" leather paddle. Ray found Kristin sitting uncomfortably at her desk, computer screen blank. He'd been watching her for weeks now, with increasing concern. He approached her, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She jumped, whirled around and, as she saw the worried look on his face, began to weep, hiding her face in her hands. He let her cry quietly for a few minutes, then led her to his private office. "Now Kristin. Honey. What's this all about?"

She knew she could trust Ray Collins. Haltingly, she muttered a partial confession: the vague feeling of incompleteness, her increasing fascination with--youi know, kinky stuff, her inability to forget Gretl and even Dashka, and--she didn't really want to tell him this--her beginning habit of--going to lesbian bars. She broke down again, unable to tell the whole sordid story.

Ray waited patiently. When she had dried her tears and blown her nose again, he said: "Believe it or not, I've heard this story before. You--You're just slightly confused, I think. Sudden fame, working too hard, all of that. You need to see someone; a professional."

Kristin looked at him, frowning: "Oh, Ray, it's not that bad!" (She knew it was) "Maybe a vacation, get out of town. Maybe some kind of tranquilizer..."

He shook his head. "No. You need real help. I know a therapist--well, I don't know her, but in a similar situation she helped a good friend of mine. She's unorthodox, I hear, but she gets results. I'm going to make an appointment for you. No arguments now. I can't afford to lose my best reporter! " She tried to return his smile, not very successfully.

In her apartment that night Kristin tried to minimize, to deny the state she was in. She wasn't going to see a shrink, no way! She drank nearly a whole bottle of wine. Suddenly not able to face her fantasy and awful dreams, she pulled on her jeans, motorcycle boots and leather jacket and half staggered down to The Pussycat. That evening she let herself be picked up by a tall poised greyhaired lady with a British accent. "My place, my dear. I insist!" She soon found herelf in an elegant library. 'Why, it's just like my fantasy place!' she told herself, half drunkenly.

Not quite. The British lady said: "I am your schoolmistress, and you have been a naughty schoolgirl. Is that correct?"

"I--I guess so."Kristin muttered.

"Excellent! Take off that wretched biker costume, and slip into this little red dress. Excellent. Now stand in the corner, you wretched thing, while I tie your hands. There! And now I'll change into my correctional costume."

She soon returned in a black bustier. garter belt, black hose, high black heels and an assortment of whips. She smiled grimly at Kristin. "Now, child." she said: "Now we begin!" The night was long and painful. *

At the newspaper the next morning, Kristin's whipped ass was so sore that she couldn't sit down. She bent over her desk to read her interoffice mail. The message from Ray simply said: Your appointment with Dr. Amanda Riggs-Johnson is at 4 this afternoon. Be there; no excuses." Throbbing with pain, disgusted with herself, she gave in. "I need to do something" she said to herself, gingerly touching her flaming bottom.

Six hours later her ass was still sore, much sorer, in fact. The session with Dr. Riggs-Johnson had been a disaster. She had had a bad feeling from the very start, when the doctor--angular, not particularly attractive--and black--curtly ushered Kristin into her office. After listening to her patient's somewhat abridged narrative (the part about Gretl was so hard to tell!} she said, gravely: "You are at a serious decision point, my dear. As you know, I specialize in perversions, all sorts. You are on a dangerous, and may I say, downhill path. I strongly recommend Aversive Reaction therapy, starting today! Right now!

"Aversive..what's that? I mean, what do I...?" Kirstin said.

"First I'm goiing to give you this injection. Bend over, pull down your panties, I'll use your hip. There! That will enable you to better experience and learn from your --therapy. And, incidentally, prevent any tendency you might have to resist me. NOW! Take off your clothes. All of them. Now, kneel on that table! Rump in the air!"

The quick acting psychedelic drug was already taking effect. Numbly, Kristin complied with the psychiatrist's bizarre request.

"By reliving and heightening the shameful experiences you keep acting out, we rid you of them. " She picked up a leather whip with multiple lashes. "That evil Colonel Schmertz that haunts you. You must will her begone!" Slash! The first whip stroke seared across Kristin's already tender buttocks.