Chained and Chastened

* *

This time the furor was even greater; she had to change her phone number, email, and street address. And endure a fairly stern talk from the chief librarian, a warning, actually. But somehow, she didn't care. Somehow, she was revamping her quiet dutiful personality. It felt weird; it felt great. This time, she made the call to Playboy, talked to Marco the photographer, then an assistant editor.

"I have an crazy idea." she said. "It's just an idea, but maybe I could do a spread about a librarian. You know, we're supposed to be so prim and proper. We could shoot it in my library, and I'd be, well, kind of abandoned, sexy, you know. We could call it The Lusty Librarian. What do you think?"

He was more than enthusiastic, and set a date. Alice could hardly wait; in her apartment at night she stroked herself (something she had rarely done before), fantasizing. 'Little Alice, demure Alice--meet the lusty librarian! Yes! I've waited so long to be a little bit naughty!'

*

On a Sunday, when the library was closed, the whole camera crew set up, using the stacks as a backdrop. Alice enjoyed the whole scene: the hair stylists, the make up lady, the very expensive risque gown and dark stockings, the garter belt. And no panties! The photographer cautioned her:

"Look Alice, this is going to be steamy stuff. lusty, like you said. And nudity. You can do that, can't you?" She smiled sweetly and said ;

'I've done it before, haven't I? Why stop now? I'm in your capable hands."

'You better believe it, honey' Marco thought. He tried not to lick his lips. In the next two hours he filmed some of the best, the most salacious downright dirty work of his career. He was sweating as he posed Alice for the last shot, legs up, blond fringed labia winking at the camera. "Alice--this stuff is so hot that I'll need your OK before we publish it. Maybe you shouldn't..."

Alice was so totally swept up by the whole erotic atmosphere on the set that she brushed his suggestion aside.

'No need for that, Marco. I know you've captured the real me!" she almost giggled to herself. 'I'm talking like some drama queen!' she thought, then: 'Well what if I am? Maybe I'm going to be a star~'

Even so, she was overwhelmed when the issue finally came out. She was at once surprised and gleeful: Marco's photos would destroy the stodgy librarian image forever, she hoped. She was so hot, so provocative! 'I'm going to be the poster girl for literacy!' she thought, perhaps naively.

The next morning the stiff notice of dismissal sat in her mailbox. She was charged with unauthorized use of community facilties and failure to conform with the usual moral standards of the community. The outrage was clear just under the formal language.

Alice, now revelling in her new found randy devil-may-care persona, laughed and called Marco again. They had already been planning another Playboy series, a calendar, quite possibly a web site, "Browse with Alice."

Marco was more and more smitten with his unlikely new find: Client first, lover later, he hoped. 'God, these pictures are astoundiing!'

They were. *

*

*

And finally:

*

Alice's new life was well begun; she never looked back.

Unlike Alice, Colette had no personal second thoughts to contend with. From the very first days of her celebrity she planned every move. On the Oprah show she slyly depicted herself as the real heroine of the escape. Modestly, eyes demurely downturned, she described graphically her abuse at the hands of the guards she had so gallantly volunteered to distract. Her voice faltered she described her brutal search--"all four of them! It was... ..just..Oh I can't describe it!" But she did, under Oprah's sympathetic questioning. And she was just as graphic about how it had felt, tied to the jail bars as she was raped with the electric dildo, She quivered, very sexily, and sobbed. The audience, of course, took her to their collective heart; so did the 40 million viewers nationwide.

Colette had already hired an agent, a show biz type with a shady reputation, Mel Talwein. (She had gotten his name from her old madam.) Together they planned her campaign. He was enthusiastic:

"We gotta work fast! While your pussy's still tingling from that electrified schlong, so to speak. I'm talking to the San Fernando valley film makers, the porn guys. That's where the action and the big bucks are! If we act right now, we'll get you a six figure salary. maybe seven. And that's per picture!"

And that's how it turned out. Within weeks Colette was at work; the quickie film was titled The Perils of Blunder Broad. (The character was based on the adult--very adult--satire on the original Wonder Woman superheroine.) As in the graphic pictorial, Blunder Broad was repeatedly captured, tied or chained and violated in extreme bondage settings, only to escape, using unspecified escape artist expertise, and perhaps some semi magical powers. Her red white and blue costume appeared only fleetingly. Usually she had been stripped and ravished in the first five minutes of each encounter; she was blatantly bare assed'naked through the rest of her torments at the hands of aliens, Islamic terrorists, evil CEOs, dominating lesbian spies; It made little difference who the villain was, the savage complicated bondage and rape sequences were always nearly the same.

Colette was the ideal star for this kind of pornography, given the high profile her public record as cruelly abused national victim/heroine had

bestowed. Oprah one week, hard core porn three weeks later. The advertising campaign for the movies (there were to be three, ground out quickly, no rating) showed the just barely publishable scantily clad bound heroine. Within weeks the first movie hit multiple outlets: a few movie houses, but chiefly video tapes and DVDs (these frankly X or XXX rated.) Massive illegal downloading followed, of course.

On the set even the most seasoned porno stars were awed by Colette's professionalism, meaning that she looked forward to, eagerly embraced her brutal predicaments, her filmed degradation. Her secret was simple: she just loved to fuck. No one except her agent was aware of her prior career in prostitution; her specialty had been the kinky acts that she was now reprising, this time for a sensational salary, on the silver screen.

* *

It's Blunder Broad in the brief moments before she gets naked. In big trouble, of course. With decadent, delicious results. Here's Colette/Blunder Broad in a few outtakes from the three movies:

*

Painful--and delightful--ropes and ingenious bondage postures, of course. Confining shackles and chains. and much, much more--but see for yourself: * *

* *

Poor Blunder Broad! That tit roping really hurt! But Colette kept coming back for more. Here she is in a rare shot with her costume still intact--but not for long! Serious bondage is in store.

*

For instance: * That uniform didn't last long, did it? And then the clamps, the cuffs, the sadistic rope ties, the suspensions, the cage, the dildos-- Colette loved it all; every sadistic wildly inventive bout of painful bondage and the brutal intercourse and torture that followed. Just a few more outtakes. ....... *

*

And now the famous Hustler photograph that ensured Colette's lasting status as a porn star: cruelly roped and gagged, nipples erect. Her rabid fans kept watching and rewatching the three (and only) Blunder Broad films, so tacky that they achieved cult status, like the work of Russ Meyer. Colette was well on her way to being a very rich porn legend. *

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.