tawny

"We could use local anesthesia, but–– three procedures––I think general anesthesic is best, Nitrous oxide. Yes? You won't feel a thing."

An hour later, Tawny found herself with solid steel rings perforating her breasts just under her nipples, another ring in her navel and a goodsized chrome ring piercing her inner labia, just below her clltoris. Groggy with pain medications, she let Barry drive her home, but was alert enough to decline his offer to do the warm compresses and massage she might need. That night, though, still a bit stoned from the pain pills, she wondered why her deep vagina and rectum were so sore; the doctor had not been there––or had he? Her nitrous oxide dreams––or possibly recollections–– of violation were lurid; evoked, perhaps, by her throbbing nipples and labia.

Still smarting and swollen the next morning, she surveyed her new baubles in her full length mirror. Outrageous, but––kind of a turn

on; especially––she spread her thighs and fingered her sensitive cunt––the labial ring. She was now committed to the project. The chainsmoking old Japanese tattoo artist who decorated her buttock was no problem; her multiple rings still throbbed.

THREE

The next day Tawny moved into Sylvia's estate; in the meantime there had been another threatening email full of specific threats, describing Sylvia's torment to come while she waited for her ransom, in obscene detail. Sylvia didn't share this call with Tawny or anyone else, but was more convinced than ever that she'd better stay in her fortress. She had hired two extra security guards, retired cops; that made four plus her bodyguard/chauffeur Rock Hammer. She'd have to introduce him to the bait--I mean Tawny––she thought, if he's going to be driving her.

Tawny settled in to her small but still luxurious room in the servant's quarters. She had brought her cell phone, her Ipod, her toothbrush and herbal remedies and a few clothes, especially lingerie; she was not sure of Sylvia's policy regarding underwear for employees. She had met Boris the gorgeous blonde butler and Miss Pritchard ––"Call me Patrricia––Pat–– I'm sure we'll get along smashingly!" and her driver and bodyguard, Rock Hammer.

He had appeared silently in her room while she was unpacking her bustiers, see through bras and thong panties and cleared his throat. She jumped.

"I'm your protector, Rock Hammer. The actor. Probably you've

seen my ouvre, but that was then and this is now. I'd lay down my life

for the Princess––that's what we call Sylvia–– and since you are going

to be her, I make you the same promise. I'm a hell of a driver, too."

Rock wasn't too tall, maybe five foot seven on his tiptoes; like Alan Ladd or Mickey Rooney, short but intense. Well built, Tawny thought, in his dark double breasted suit––so gloriously outdated that it was now retro, chic, and short tie. The squint, the dangling cigarette, the craggy features––was he trying to be Bogart or Edward G. Robinson, she wondered. And then he smiled; a sweet guileless smile, totally out of character for the tough shamus he was trying to project. A pussycat! she thought. Then: Can this actor really protect me?

"Your first gig is tonight; a bowling alley dedication." He registered Tawny's puzzled look. "Hey, it's part of the job; all the big stars do it. Let me tell you about Sylvia at the Girl Scout marshmallow roast sometime. Anyway, I'll pick you up at seven. Pritchard will bring you your costume."

"Wait a second! Rock, if I can call you that. I'm a hired hand, I know, but...I haven't seen Sylvia since I got here, I haven't seen a script, or what I'm supposed to do...."

"No problem, baby. I'll fill you in. These crapola appearances are all the same. Just stay away from the crowd. And smile and wiggle a lot. That's all there is to it. And be nice to the photographers. See you."

Tawny was still trying to process her feelings, no, her misgivings, about this whole weird role when Miss Pritchard came in. 'Does no one knock around here?' she wondered.

The secretary smiled, primly and lasciviously at the same time, if that is possible. 'Probably a British thing,' Tanya thought, as she noted how much more today's form-fitting pale gray suit clung to the secretary's supple body.

"Here's your outfit for tonight, ducks." Pritchard said, holding out a skimpy tee shirt and pink satin tap pants and pink and white

bowling shoes. "Would you like a bit of help dressing?"

"Uh, no thank you, I think I can manage. But this costume..."

"Not to worry; Sylvia's taste in these areas is impeccable. And no panties, no bra, remember?"

Half an hour later Tawny squirmed––but very carefully––on the leather seat of the limo. The satin pants were so tight! As was the nearly sheer tee shirt, with a Bimbo Bowl logo on the back and Strikes and Spares, one over each straining breast. Surely Sylvia couldn't wear this costume, she thought, and unloosened the white leather belt one notch. There! At least she could breathe!

Rock, at the wheel looked over at her. "Stage fright, huh? Stop fidgeting, you'll be great. Sylvia always knocks 'em dead, and"–– another sidelong glance–– "so will you! Oh yeah!"

At the bowling alley, spotlights stabbing into the night sky, neon

and tinsel streaming, Tanya wiggled into the lobby, flanked by

photographers and rabid fans, plus a goodly number of beer drinking bowlers. Hustled onto a low stage, Tanya was presented with a golden bowling pin by the sweating, grinning owner. He spoke:

"And now, fellow bowlers! The legendary, the fabulous, the very sexy Sylvia Slate will bowl the first ball!" She was steered to the lane; a sixteen pound ball was thrust into her hands. 'Well, what the hell, I've bowled before, The worst I can do is throw a gutter ball.' she told herself, balanced the ball, looked down at the pins and bent over.

Rrrrripp! For the record, she knocked down eight pins, leaving a 7 10 split, but no one was watching. As she delivered the ball, her skin tight tap pants split widely along the central seam, front to back. Her total perineum was exposed; the labial ring glinted in the bright lights. The crowd cheered, cameras clicked. She straightened up, blushing, trying to cover herself. Ouch! Her thumb was stuck in the goddamn bowling ball she had retrieved!

The crowd went wild. One tall longhaired bowler exhaling beer fumes lunged forward, shouting: "Sylvia! I want you!' Rock Hammer

was there to punch him in the stomach, but going down, the rabid fan clutched at Tanya's split shorts, tearing off one half of the skimpy garment. A souvenier frenzy ensued. In seconds the fans descended; Tanya was naked in less than half a minute as Rock and the two other security men hustled her out of the bowling alley and into the limo.

Tanya was embarrassed, furious and tearful simultaneously as Rock sped away. He had gallantly draped his jacket over her nudity as he lifted her into the car, strong hands cradling her bare bottom.

Tanya was silent, stunned. Rock didn't say a word for a full five minutes. They drove.

Finally she blurted: "What was that? I mean, what? Does this kind of shit happen all the time? What?"

"Fans. They're animals, Sylvia, I mean Tanya. You've got to keep your distance, don't rile them up, not too much. That split shorts, bare assed routine, now, that's like putting your head in the lion's mouth, so to speak. Not a good career move; or maybe it was. Lots of cameras ."

Tanya turned on him, furious. "You think I did––that–– on purpose? They ––Sylvia, that Pritchard dyke, I don't know––gave me shorts that were way too tight! I think someone set this up! This whole setup stinks! I quit!"

She sulked for another ten miles. Rock lit a cigarette and said carefully: "I see why you'd be a bit upset..."

"Not upset! Totally pissed off!"

"Uh, yeah, that too. Look: Sylvia's paying you a lot to sub for her; maybe she's paranoid, it's not my job to care. You kinda fucked up tonight, but I bet you're still on the payroll. Wait until morning to quit. Trust me on this one, OK?"

"Rock––what a phony name–– Rock, or whoever, don't sweet talk

me. Don't say any more! I'll––OK, i'll sleep on it. Just get me home!"

FOUR

Tawny didn't sleep too well. 'Have I totally fucked up? Is she going to fire me, tattoos, rings and all?' she asked herself as she tossed and turned. She woke early and had breakfast alone in the plush kitchen breaskfast nook. Consuela. the cook, was almost mute., but somehow seemed sympathetic. 'They all know about my bareassed last night' she thought. Tanya was not too surprised to receive a summons from Sylvia, relayed by the blonde butler--Boris was his name, she had learned; he was now eyeing her more openly.

"Heard you screwed the pup last night," he smiled. "Sensational pictures of your ass on the 24/7 cable channels. Hey, not to worry. Sylvia––and everyone else in this town––thinks there is no such thing as

bad publicity. Good luck."

Without giving it too much thought, Tawny had slipped on a tight pair of low riding jeans and a t shirt. Beckoned in by Ms, Pritchard, she again entered Sylvia's opulent bedroom––the star's stage, she realized. Sylvia wore yet another revealing robe; black lace this time, and highheeled sandals with laces up her calves. Silently she gestured grandly for Tawny to enter, llike a queen, an emporess.

'Sheesh!' Tanya thought: 'Is she always in character, the big enchilada?' And answered her own question. 'Absolutely; she's always on.' She stood uneasily, awaiting the royal wrath she expected.

"Tawny, darling!" Sylvia purred. "You––we––had a little unexpected exposure last night, didn't we? A bit extreme, but what the hell? And the tattoo televised really well. But––" Her false smile turned to a snarl. She took two threatening steps towards Tawny, she was in her face. "But––but! I don't think you understand my legend. I am not a comedienne, a klutz. When my garments, uh, fail, it is calculated.

And your clothes today, What's with that grungy look?"

Tawny, confused by this mercurial mood change. faltered: "Hey! it's early in the day! These ––this is what I wear!"

"Not any more. Not if you work for me. Understood?" Sylvia was imperious. Pat Pritchard, standing discreetly in the corner, smiled slightly. Sylvia continued: "I have an extensive wardrobe, including all of my film costumes. Use them, please. Not my personal wardrobe, of course. Try to become––part of the legend." She struck a pose.

'What a diva!' Tanya thought, not without admiration. 'Maybe if I stroke her giant ego.' She feigned swooning admiration. "Oh! if I could have the privilege to wear your––fabulous things. Satin shorts that really fit, for one." She shot a glance at Pritchard, who looked away. "And maybe, I could review your work, your films and TV series. I'd get a better feeling for the job, I'm sure!"

Sylvia beamed. "What a good idea, you gorgeous young thing! I have copies of all my artistry, of course. Why don't you spend the rest of the day immersing yourself in my––specialness. You may go, now. And please change your clothes."

Tanya allowed herself a little self congratulation as she left. Flattery, that wa the trick. If she could only keep her clothes on, she would sail through the next few weeks. She had almost forgotten about the kidnapping threat. On her way to plunder Sylvia"s sumptuous, if slightly glitzy wardrobe, she ran into Rock Hammer in the hallway dapper if dated. She touched his arm impulsively.

"Rock! Thank you for last night, when I––you know. You were a real gentleman; I appreciate it."

He seemed a bit nonplussed, squinted as he lit a cigarette. "Just doing my job, miss. I mean Tanya. We'll both be more careful next time. Keep the fans away." He bowed slightly and proceeded down the hall.

Tanya was used to automatic male approval, if not frank lust. What was with this Hammer guy? Gay? Just doing his job? Keeping his distance, at least. It made her a bit uneasy. Whatever. Now for those costumes!

Four hours later Tanya lolled in Sylvia's private movie theater, wearing the slinky satin nightgown from Sylvia Slate's film debut, Soiled Doves. To make her viewing ordeal less painful she was working on a pitcher of margueritas thoughtfully supplied by Consuela.

Four hours of her employer's ouvre was about all she could take: Sylvia's glorious body clearly trumped her acting ability. Tanya had to fight the thought, no, the certainty, that she could have done all those sexy roles better––and her body was, if anything, better. She turned off the projector; she needed some fresh air. She rummaged through the huge wardrobe of Sylvia Slate costumes, all a bit more garish, more suggestive than she would have chosen. Where was anything to wear for a stroll around the estate? No slacks, no jeans, no casual dresses; finally she found a short diaphanous sun dress.(She recalled the scene in Desperate Daughters where Sylvia, back lit so her dress was nearly transparent, bosom heaving, confronted her seducer.)

Tanya slipped off the nightgown and tugged on the gauzy little dress. It fit like a glove; a very tight glove. She looked at herself in one of the numerous full length mirrors ini Sylvia's mansion. Damn! I look great! she told herself. Exploring the estate and the adjoining woods called for sneakers, but none were at hand. She opted for high heeled silver sandals which matched her shimmering little dress, and walked down the hall into the pantry and snuck out the kitchen door into the vast landscaped back yard, teetering, just a wee bit drunk. The gardens were glorious, the day sunny with just the right breeze. As she wandered towards the edge of the property she couldn't subdue

her envy; how would it feel to live like this? She noted two men half hidden in the shrubbery; probably Sylvia's bodyguards. She walked on,

exploring, now fairly close to the tall trees that marked the state park

abutting the estate. Here was a rustic gate; on an impulse, she walked through it

One of the guards followed her through the gate. 'Just doing his job,' she thought. As he approached, a slim man in a tight fitting black suit, he pulled a rubber mask over his face. My God! It's my president! thought Tanya in a giddy moment. Smirking George W. Bush advanced toward her.

Suddenly afraid, Tanya retreated further into the woods, stumbling in her high heels. "Hey! Hey! What's going on? Who are.... "

From behind a hand on her mouth silenced her. A strong arm encircled her, pulling her backwards, off her feet. She turned her head to see George Bush again; another masked figure. She tried to struggle; already the first kidnapper had produced a coil of rope and tied her wrists behind her as the other assailant covered her nose and mouth with a sweet smelling cloth.

'Oh, come on! Not chloroform! That's so hokey...' she thought just before she lost consciousness. The two men hustled her into the park; one threw her limp figure over his shoulder, grinning beneath his mask at her gorgeous ass draped close to his face. He fondled her. 'Goddamn! Sylvia Slate!' Hidden behind a large tree was an ATV. They threw Tanya unceremoniously across the back cushion and climbed the steep rugged hill. Sylvia and her security forces had assumed that the forest was inpenetrable; it was not.

FIVE

Tawny came awake, groggy. Where was she? She half remembered being carried over the shoulder of one of the men, his hand on her ass. Then some kind of trip––on a motorcycle? And now...she tried to move her arms; she could not. Now nearly conscious, she found herself in what appeared to be a shabby trailer, tied to a kitchen chair. Her wrists were tied behind the chair back; several turns of rope under her breasts and around her waist bound her tightly to the wooden slats. Her ankles were tied to the chair legs, spreading her legs slightly. Her cotton frock had rucked up over her thighs, exposing her shaved pubes and the glinting labial ring. She could wriggle, but that was all. She looked up to see the two grinning George Bushes facing her.

George One (the skinny one who had grabbed her) spoke: "Sylvia Slate! What an honor! You are our guest. How long? Until your studio pays us a handsome ransom."

Tawny was now nearly alert. She struggled against the tight ropes. How to respond to these two grinning (at least their masks grinned, that patented little smirk.) kidnappers standing before her? She decided the truth was best.

"Hey, guys, whoever you are. This is a big mistake! I'm not Sylvia Slate! I'm––just hired help. Because I look like her. So––you kidnapped the wrong girl!" She tried a little smile. "So, no harm, no foul, like they say. Just turn me loose, and we'll forget the whole thing. Sylvia need never know!" She smiled broadly, her supermarket elf smile. Was is it going to work?

George One waited a second, then spoke: "Sylvia, Ooh, Sylvia. I didn't know you could act this well. An Academy Award performance. My congratulations, you gorgeous piece of ass. But I don't think we're buying it." He turned to the other masked man. "I'll be George, you'll be W, OK? No real names. Sylvia, my dear, you'll be our guest until the ramsom details are firm and the money in our hands. In the meantime I look forward to our closer acquaintance."

"You bet your big sweet ass! " W chortled.

"Shit!" Tanya thought: "I'm in real trouble here. That first guy––George––seems smart as hell. edgy. He reminds me of someone...; W is just a side kick, maybe a computer type; maybe I can get around him somehow. Let's try once more." No longer smiling, she said: "No! Listen to me! I'm not Sylvia! My name is Tanya Bush! I'm––I'm worthless! No ransom, understand?"

George's voice was assured, almost smug. The bastard is probably grinining behind that infuriating smirking mask, Tanya thought.

"Sylvia, stop the act! or maybe we'll gag you. We've done our

research. We know about your tattoo." He ripped aside her skirt, exposing her decorated haunch, "And your celebrated rings!" He tugged open her cotton dress; her pierced nippled breasts jutted between the encircling ropes.

"Check her out, W." George stepped back. His co-captor's hands were on her at once, cupping her, lifting, gently squeezing, then fiingering her nipples and the stout steel rings that perforated them. In seconds, to her embarrasment, Tanya's nipples were turgid. W backed away, as George stepped up and subjected her to a leisurely fondling. His hands strayed from her breasts to her shaven pubic area, first toying with her outer lips, then toying with, gently tugging the larger ring, then slipping two fingers into her moistening vagina, his hateful unchanging mask smirking all the while.

"I'm going to get fucked for sure, no matter what goes down." Tanya told herself, squirming as George fingered her. "The Tanya story, sweet and helpless, is not going to fly with these bastards. I'd better try something else."

She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders as much as the tight ropes allowed, and almost sneered, her voice dripping with scorn: "You miserable fuckers! Get your hand out of my pussy! Of course I'm Sylvia Slate. And you losers are in serious trouble! My studio will pay your ransom...if I'm unharmed. I mean not raped. got it? I'll help you, make a ransom film, whatever. But only if you give me the respect I deserve. I'm a star! A valuable star! " She glared at them. George had withdrawn his hand.

"Well, well, Sylvia. Your royal highness! In all your stuck up splendor! What makes you think we won't fuck a diva? Many times, when we want. I bet you give good blow jobs, too. How about it, W?"

"Well, Ba...I mean George. Sorry. Sure we'll fuck her. But no whipping, no torture, that kind of stuff you go for, OK? The sooner we