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		DAMSELS UNDER GLASS: THE SERIES
		_ Kapturing Kiki by Van ©2007 _ Chapter 2: Kiki Kaptured! _

V I R T U A L   R E A L I T Y
AIR PIRATES! DEVELOPMENT VENUE
AOTEATOA (NEW ZEALAND)
NEW GALWAY

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Kiki Ohana paused at the side of the road, where a switchback allowed her to overlook the city of New Galway.  A wall of craggy, snow-capped peaks loomed in the distance.  On the seaward side, the ocean was a blue-gray mass divided from the cloudy sky by a line of dark squalls on the horizon.  It looked to be a stormy night, and Kiki was glad she had finally reached her destination.

New Galway could be described as quaint and picturesque—or seedy and shabby.  It surrounded a small harbor; and a fleet of fishing boats, a couple of tramp steamers, and a single Aoteatoan Coast Guard cutter rode at anchor or were tied to the docks. The buildings were in reasonable repair and there was some new construction; but the overall appearance was as if a rampaging giant had tossed an equal number of Maori and Hiberian timber-frame lodges into a random heap, and the residents had repaired the damage by joining together whatever structures happened to be in direct contact.

Unofficially, New Galway was an "open city".  Indonesian pirates, Han adventurers, Aztec-Hawaiian ex-patriots, Republican criminal-types, even Ashanti traders, in their maize and saffron robes, co-mingled in the streets below, jostling and conducting business, legitimate and otherwise.  Kiki was dressed to blend in: brown riding pants, boots, and a sleeveless cotton top.  Most would take her for a Republican soldier-of-fortune, despite her Polynesian features, and none would think she was an Aztec-Hawaiian Air-Armada officer and Agent of the Priest-Kings' Intelligence Service (PKIS), which was the general idea. 

Like Aoteatoa itself, New Galway was culturally divided and caught between political worlds.  The Maori population favored the Aztec-Hawaiians, but didn't trust the Empire's ruling Priest-Kings.  The European settlers, mostly Celts, favored the Grand Republic of Britannia, Hibernia, and Columbia; but none of them trusted the Republic's Grand Senate.

It was a mystery how and why the Celtic and Maori clans and tribes always rose above their constant state of near-civil war long enough to unite and defeat any outside threat, but they always did.  The balance of chaos and stability was mysterious, but it was also useful.  Both sides in the Aztec-Hawaiian/Grand Republic "Cold War" used Aoteatoa for their own purposes.  In fact, every espionage service on the planet had a few agents scattered about the islands, jockeying for advantage, spoiling each others' schemes, and keeping the back-channels open.

Kiki wasn't one of the regulars.  The local PKIS station chief didn't even know she was here.  She had been dropped in the mountains by an Air-Armada scout-blimp and had made her way to New Galway undetected (she hoped) and unassisted.

Her mission: The Grand Republic Air Service was rumored to be developing a new class of lighter-than-air super-carrier, one capable of unprecedented range and speed, and (supposedly) the plans were for sale.

It was a straightforward covert contact mission, but if the local PKIS apparatus became involved, so would the Republican spy network, as would agents of the Han Empress, the Great Pasha, the Caliph... not to mention the Asahtis, the Zulu, the Madagascars, etc., etc.  It would be a spy-versus-spy bloodbath, or, at the very least, so many sets of counterfeit plans would start circulating that no one would be sure which were genuine and which were fake.

It was best to keep things simple.  Kiki would sneak in, make contact, purchase the plans, and sneak out.  She was operating without back-up.  It was dangerous, but that couldn't be helped.

A horse-drawn cart laden with produce rumbled around the turn and continued down towards the city.  The driver ignored Kiki, concentrating on the vehicle's brake.  She took a last look at the vista below, then turned and followed in the cart's wake.

There was nothing even vaguely resembling a city gate, and there was certainly nothing like a customs or police checkpoint.  Just to be cautious, Kiki wandered the streets for more than an hour, pausing at various vendor's stalls, entering shops and exiting through their back doors.

The sky was growing dark and a light rain began to fall.  The streets were emptying, but Kiki couldn't drop her guard, not if she wanted her mission to succeed.

Finally satisfied that she hadn't acquired a tail, Kiki approached her contact point, a pub named "The Happy Sea Lord".  The sign above the door was a carving of a naked, red-haired wench riding the back of a Killer Whale.  She (the wench) was quite happy, with a foaming tankard in one hand and a laughing smile.  The Orca, the "Sea Lord" in question, was happy as well, with an anthropomorphic, toothy grin curling its normally expressionless face.

Kiki entered the pub and made her way to a table in the back, one from which she could watch the front door and the kitchen.  It was also a place from which she would have a decent chance of fighting her way out, should the need arise.  There were a scattering of patrons at other tables, all nursing tankards of beer, glasses of whiskey, or both.  Most were Celts, in the knee boots, rough-spun trousers, and open shirts of stevedores, and a few wore the stained leather aprons of fishermen.  There was one party of Maori, three men and a woman.  They were dressed like the Celts, but had heavily tattooed faces and arms.

Almost immediately, a serving wench approached Kiki's table.  She was a redhead, with clear, pale skin, and she was dressed in a long, flowing skirt, low-cut blouse, and tight bodice.  The style was out of date, by at least a century.  It could only be a costume, worn to add to the pub's "atmosphere".

"And what would you be havin'?" the redhead inquired.

"Stout," Kiki responded, "and do you serve food?"

The redhead laughed.  "Of course we serve food, and fine provender it is.  Roast boar, corned beef, venison, elk, with the usual taters and such."

"Seafood?"

"Fried and smoked oysters and fish.  If you'd be wantin' crabs, lobster, or something fresh and fancy from the deep blue, you should try closer to the docks."

Kiki smiled, and used her contact phrase.  "I like octopus in its own ink with my elk steak."

The redhead paused to wipe down the table.  "An adventure for the tongue..." (the correct counter-phrase) "...but our slow-roasted boar is something to savor.  The cook has a wine sauce that's to die for."

"That sounds good."  Kiki reached into her pouch and produced a scattering of small coins from a dozen nations.

"Roasted boar it is, then," the redhead said with a broad smile.  "I'll be right back with that porter."

Kiki watched the wench walk back to the bar.  Despite the long skirt, it was clear she had a firm, tight butt; and the bodice might be exaggerating her breasts, but it left nothing to the imagination with respect to the size of her waist.  Hmm... Kiki mused, when the gratuitous sex part of this scenario kicks in, I wonder if she'll be involved.  I could do worse.

A party of stevedores rose from their table and headed for the door.  One paused to whisper something in the Maori woman's ear.  She laughed, and said something in return.  The men at the table laughed, as did the stevedore.

The redhead had returned with a large tankard.  "Our local brew," she announced.  "I think it'll surprise you."

Kiki hefted the tankard and took a swig.  It was good.  There was a bit of a bitter aftertaste, but it was offset by the slight tang of what might have been Mandarin lime.  "It'll do.  How soon 'til the food arrives?"

"Very soon.  I'll be back."

Kiki took another drink.  The porter definitely had an aftertaste, but it was difficult to place.  It was more than bitter, almost... medicinal.  Her tongue was growing numb, and it felt... thick.  Kiki blinked.  Her vision was beginning to blur, and her hand was suddenly weak.  It took all her strength and concentration to set down the tankard without it falling from her fingers.  Drugs!

Kiki tried to rise... and found she couldn't.  She reached for her revolver—but found her holster empty!

The redhead had reappeared, as if by magic, and the revolver was in her hand.  She snapped open the breech and started emptying the cylinders, removing the rounds one-by-one.  "I told you you'd be surprised," she purred.

Kiki tried to answer... and found she couldn't speak.  She fumbled for the knife tucked in her left boot.  Her fingers found the end of the hilt, but were too weak to pull the blade free.

Then... all went black.

Kiki was naked... and a little too warm.  She was also standing, with her arms raised, and her wrists were locked in what felt like iron shackles.  You can only do this in VR, she reflected.  Kiki knew that in the real world she would have regained consciousness slumped over, hanging from her restraints, and probably in a great deal of pain.  Only in VR.

She opened her eyes.  Stone walls, guttering torches, doors of heavy timber with tiny, barred windows... a dungeon.  The wall was rough and hard against her back, butt, and calves.  The iron fetters were heavy and tight, but their edges were rounded and smooth.  Thank Madam Pele for small favors, she mused.

Kiki shifted attention to her VR status.  She (her actual body) was supposed to be in a Spherus-V machine with TIKLER interface, improved networking, and "E" (for Erotic) enhancements.  As far as she could determine, this was still the case.  Her pain/discomfort matrix was dialed back and locked at "self-empathy", standard operating procedure for R&D gaming venues.  She could "feel" what was "happening" to her, but with a sensory/emotional distance that gave the bad things a degree of detachment.  Her virtual ankles were in virtual shackles, with chains running to iron rings set in the wall, so she couldn't rub her thighs together.  Thigh rubbing wasn't a fool-proof method for determining if the "E" hardware and software package was still in place, but it often gave clues.  She's just have to wait and see.

Everything seemed "normal"—with two glaring exceptions:

(1)  This was not the scenario she was supposed to be testing.  Her contact with the redhead was supposed to lead to the successful purchase of the plans, an encounter with rival agents, a running fight back into the jungle, and her pick-up by an Aztec-Hawaiian submarine further up the coast, after a spectacular cliff-dive escape.  The point of the exercise was to test the integration of improvements in the environmental feedback channels.  The espionage plot was just a crutch to get her mind out of the sensorium and let suspension of disbelief take hold.

(2)  Something was blocking her ability to control her participation in the game!  She should be able to pause the action (not that there was any action to pause, at the moment), enter into "limbo-mode" to make adjustments and interact with the R&D team, reset or choose alternate paths for the main scenario, and terminate the game—but she could do none of these things!  This was a gross violation of VR game testing protocols.  Her only comfort was that so complex a malfunction couldn't be a malfunction.  The system would have crashed several times over before trapping her in a session.

So... someone's playing with me.  Only Margo Wells and a very few others at TESSERACT-Seattle had the juice to pull off something like this.  She knew that because she'd been involved in a "forbidden" game before; specifically, the time she'd helped Margo play a prank on her Air Pirates! arch-foe, "Veronica Allbright"—which meant playing a trick on Ronnie Allbriton, the actual person playing the character of her arch-foe.

Kiki was one of a handful of carefully selected R&D personnel who had been privileged to examine the technical records of Ronnie's "involuntary VR adventure" as a slave of the Kul'Dakar.  [Editor's note: See the story Trapped in Time.]  What had happened to Ronnie Allbright had been delicious, as well as a technical bonanza for the R&D techies struggling to optimize the bandwidth of the Spherus system; and once development on Air Pirates! started, Kiki had immediately recognized "Veronica" as "Neeka", the reluctant slave of the Kul'Dakar.  And later, when Margo asked her to help play her trick on Ronnie, it had been a no brainer!

So... someone's playing a trick on me, this time.  Margo?  Maybe, but why?  Kiki frowned.  The redhead?  I've seen her before... but where?  She tried to remember any encounter she'd had with the gorgeous (and treacherous) Celtic cutie, but finally gave up.

Kiki rattled her chains, sighed, and settled in to wait.  Some amount of languishing was to be expected in situations like this.  Eventually, the door would open, whoever was responsible for her situation would saunter in, and the Big Gloating Scene would commence... eventually.

Kiki sighed, again.  Okay, here I am... naked, hair hanging with just the right amount of artistic disarray, skin glowing, hanging in chains in a dank, dark, slightly overheated dungeon...  Can we just move it along, please?

As if in answer to her mental plea, a key rattled in a lock, a heavy bolt was thrown, and the door opened (accompanied by the obligatory shriek of oil-hungry hinges, of course).  A female figure was silhouetted against the light... and then she entered the cell.

It was the redhead.  No longer a serving wench, she was dressed in boots, full-length gloves, and a bustier/corset, all in black leather; as well as a long, flowing skirt of vertical panels of black lace and opaque silk.  A narrow black scarf was tied around her throat, and her long, red curls were loose about her shoulders and flowed down her back.

"Sub-Kahuna Kiki Ohana," she said, an infuriatingly self-satisfied smirk on her angelic face, "Air-Armada hero and PKIS agent extraordinaire...  It's a pleasure to have such a distinguished guest grace our dungeon wall."

Kiki tugged on her chains.  (She might as well play her part.)   "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

The redhead's smile turned appropriately sinister.  "A distinct disadvantage," she purred, then stepped forward and cupped Kiki's breasts, gently squeezing the firm flesh between her leather-clad fingers.  "I am Fiona, Paladin of the Order of the Black Lily, in the service of the Conclave of Reformed Druids."

"I recognize the tattoo," Kiki said, nodding at the stylized Celtic chain and flower encircling her captor's upper arm, above the flaring cuff of her glove.  "So... Fiona... why the double-cross?"

"Nothing personal, Sub-Kahuna," Fiona answered, continuing her slow, kneading massage.  "The Order has a client who would very much like to have a few words with you, and was willing to part with quite a hoard of silver for the privilege."

Kiki shuddered under her captor's touch.  Her nipples were now erect, and very sensitive.  "And I suppose a civilized chat over drinks would be out of the question?"

"I misspoke.  Our client has much more on her mind than words."

"Could we get on with it?" Kiki hissed, struggling to ignore what her captor was doing to her breasts.  "Whatever her intentions, whoever she is, and whatever the underlying game we're playing... I have plans for the rest of the day."

Fiona let her hands drop and took a step back.  "Why, Sub-Kahuna," she said, with a theatrical pout, "I do believe I'm somewhat offended by your lack of enthusiasm.  Haven't you ever heard that one should live in the moment?"  She examined her hands, flexing her fingers.  "I seem to have lost my touch."  Suddenly, with the metallic snick of steel-on-steel, gleaming, cat-like claws sprang from the tips of her gloves.  "Ah... that's better."  She lifted her gaze and locked eyes with Kiki.  "Are you sure you don't want to play for a while?"

Kiki kept prudently silent.

"Oh... very well," Fiona sighed.  "Since you're in such a hurry, I'll dispense with summoning my minions and having you dragged, kicking and screaming, to the torture... I mean interview chamber.  We'll simply wink at the audience, lower the curtain, swap sets, and continue."  She retracted her claws, removed her right glove, and snapped her fingers.

Kiki had time to blink her eyes, once—and things changed.

It was another dungeon.  The architecture and general ambiance were the same, but this chamber was substantially larger.  Also, Kiki's condition had been altered... for the worse.  She was bent forward at the waist, and her neck and wrists were locked in a pillory of heavy timbers.  In addition, her ankles were in some sort of stocks and a large cloth was crammed in her mouth.  A second, narrowly folded cloth cleaved her lips and was keeping the stuffing in place.

Her nudity had not been changed.

Another only-in-VR moment, Kiki mused, waking in another impossible 'sleeping' position.  Kiki looked around the chamber, noting its contents.  Not good, she decided.  Not good at all!

Within her somewhat limited field of view were:

• A traditional rack: a table with stocks at one end, a heavy windlass at the other, and a long, narrow "bed" of wooden planks between.



• An iron maiden: a standing cabinet in the general shape of the human female form.  It was standing open, revealing its heavy-walled construction and the short, blunt spikes lining its claustrophobic interior.  One small favor: it was clear this particular maiden was designed for unpleasant incarceration, rather than slow execution.



• A horse: a horizontal, triangular iron bar running between two vertical posts.  Iron rings set in the floor and a windlass with a rope running up to an overhead pulley completed the picture.  Kiki imaging herself straddling the bar, her feet off the floor with her ankles lashed to the rings.  Bent forward at the waist, her wrists bound behind her back and her arms stretched up towards the pulley, she would suffer the effects of the bar on her squashed sex and the agony of strappado.



• A "Willie-stand": a subdued version of the horse.  It was a vertical iron pole supporting an iron "saddle" that was little more than a heavy, dull, saw-toothed blade.  A small plate lined with sharp spikes was welded to the far end.  Straddling the saddle, the victim would be unable to move back, for fear of her bottom encountering the spiked plate; unable to move forward, as her wrists would be bound back to a ring set in the nearby wall; and up on her toes, else her full weight settle on the jagged steel between her legs.  It was "predicament bondage" at its best... or worst, depending on one's role in the melodrama.

There was also a low table cluttered with the usual: whips, floggers, nipple clamps, various steel instruments, etc., etc.

Kiki examined her bonds in more detail.  The neck and wrist openings of the pillory were deep and close-fitting, as were the ankle openings of the stocks.  She tested the strength of the device, first tentatively, then with all her strength.  The frame didn't even creak, and the halves of the pillory and stocks didn't even shake.  She forced a mewling scream past her gag and tried to work her jaw and push the packing with her tongue, but the stuffing was too large and the cleaving scarf too tightly bound between her teeth.  Her position was hopeless.

Suddenly, without warning, gloved hands touched her buttocks!

Kiki flinched in her bonds and yelped through her gag.  The hands slowly slid over her butt cheeks... the back of her thighs... and her back.  It was humiliating and infuriating.  Kiki couldn't see whoever was taking advantage of her helplessness.  Was it the red-haired Paladin, Fiona?  Was it the "Mystery Villainess" who had funded her capture?

"M'mm'rfh!!"  The hands were gliding over her sex, gentling caressing the labia and surrounding flesh.  This continued for more than a minute, then... finally... the fingers slid between the flushed, slippery folds and into her sex!  Kiki could tell that her attacker's gloves were actually half-gloves, covering her palms but not the fingers.   Her anonymous "lover" teased her clitoris, then settled into a slow rhythmic massage, varying the depth and pressure of her manipulations with consummate skill.

Kiki rolled her hips and tugged on her immovable, inescapable bonds, and continued attempting to voice complaints... but eventually, her protests became well-muffled grunts, in perfect sync with the hands... those horrible, wonderful hands.  Her hanging breasts bobbed, also matching the pace of the sliding fingers.  Kiki's body tensed—Here it comes!—she shuddered, went rigid, screamed for all she was worth, and shuddered again—Oh goddess!—and came!

The world slid back into focus.  Well... that answers the question about the erotic-enhancement package, she reflected, panting through her gag.

The hands disappeared, boots tapped on the stone flags, and Kiki's "torturer" stepped into view.

It was Ronnie/Veronica/Neeka!  Her nemesis was dressed in a slightly more tropical, decidedly more risqué variation of the "soldier-of-fortune" costume Kiki had worn before her capture.  Instead of jods, she was in a pair of skin-tight short-shorts.  Her top was a short-sleeved, midriff-baring blouse of fine-knit jersey.  Underneath, a bra or bandeau of silver silk and white lace cupped her breasts.  She was wearing knee-length, lace-up riding boots, and a harness of brown leather was strapped around her torso, waist, and thighs.  It supported a pair of holstered automatic pistols, one on each hip, as well as pouches and loops holding spare clips of ammo, a compact set of binoculars, a tiny electric torch, a couple of grenades, and who knew what else.

Kiki had to admit that "Squadron Leader Veronica Allbright" was... stunning.  She memorized the details of the harness and the placement of the various pieces of equipment.  I am definitely going to have to design something similar for myself, Kiki decided.  She stared at Veronica's long, dark hair.  It was similar to her own, but with more body.  Hmm... I think I prefer her in a short bob, as 'Neeka'.  Maybe next time the tables are turned, I'll give her a trim.  Kiki returned to concentrating on her righteous indignation.

Ronnie smiled at her prisoner, then made a show of sniffing the fingers of her right hand.

Kiki's cheeks burned with anger and shame at having been driven over the edge so quickly, so easily, and so completely—like a wide-eyed novice in her first erotic VR session.

"Well, Sub-Kahuna," Ronnie said, finally, "when last we met, I told you how much I'd like for our situations to be reversed, remember?"  Kiki growled through her gag.  It might have been an acknowledgment.  "I'd say we're even," Ronnie continued, "but as I also remember... when you had me in your quarters, bound to your rack, with that insidious Han device strapped between my legs... I came more times that I could count.  So, instead of even, let's just say... that's a start."

Ronnie walked over to the implement-laden table, made a show of examining its contents, then selected a steel wand with a rotating wheel of needle-sharp spikes.  "I've always wondered what you call this thing," she said, then turned to smile at Kiki, "but I've never wondered what you do with it."  She touched the spur-like wheel with her left index finger and flinched, pursing her lips in mock distress.  "Sharp!"  Ever so lightly, she ran the wheel over the exposed skin between her breasts, and shivered.  "Oh, that tingles!  It's like a hundred needles pricking your skin.  Terrible, even though it's totally harmless... assuming one doesn't press too hard, of course."  Her gloating smile turned appropriately evil.  "Imagine being naked and helpless, with someone running this thing over your back, your breasts, your thighs, your sex... over and over... again and again.  Wouldn't that be... terrible?"

Kiki locked eyes with Ronnie.  The prisoner's panting was gone, but her eyes were still burning with anger.

Ronnie tossed the instrument back on the table.  "Well, maybe later... after you've cum a few more times."  She picked up a pair of nipple clamps joined by a light chain.  "Oh, look!  I've never seen a pair of these before.  Each has a tiny, cylindrical cage with an open ring at the base, a pair of jaws that stretch the nipple itself, and a dozen tiny, spring-loaded points that press inwards when you pull on the chain.  How clever.  And look, there's a weight set to go with them."

Kiki felt a shiver of dread.  Granted, this was all in VR, and granted, she was sure Ronnie wouldn't do anything really torturous to her, it wasn't in her character... but this was pushing the Gloating Villainess and Feisty Damsel thing a bit far.  Anger, humiliation, nervousness (and, she had to admit, excitement)—Kiki was a roiling cauldron of emotions, and she was also completely helpless!  She shivered, again, and redoubled her angry growls and fierce stare.  It wouldn't do for her captor to misinterpret her reactions as fear.

Ronnie turned back to the table, and again, gasped with delight.  "Oh... a strap-on!"  She picked up a distressingly large, black rubber dildo with several dangling straps.  She pushed and pulled its ends together and apart, several times.  The glistening phallus twisted and wiggled like a black snake struggling to escape.  "How clever!  My end has a special saddle that vibrates against my sex, and your end has some sort of spring-loaded internal piston mechanism that makes it move.  Every time I thrust, it'll vibrate us both and squirm around inside you.  I wonder if this is based on some historical Naughty Victorian invention, or if it's original.  Well, no matter.  Let's see if it works, shall we?  You're certainly in the perfect position."

Suddenly, an echoing, clattering noise emanated from above, like something was rattling down a pipe.  Ronnie looked up.  Kiki tried to look up, but all she could do was roll her eyes.  Nonetheless, both could see a small opening in the stone ceiling, about six-inches across, and it appeared to be the source of the noise.  The racket increased in volume—and a small metal sphere fell from the hole, bounced, and rolled under Ronnie's feet. 

"What in the—?"  That was all Ronnie had time to say before the sphere exploded and she was enveloped in a cloud of white vapor.

Ronnie took a step forward, emerged from the cloud, and gazed at Kiki with a dazed, astonished expression.  She opened her mouth to speak... then her eyes rolled up in her head and she slowly crumpled to the floor, limp and unconscious.

Kiki watched as the cloud continued to expand.  She mewled through her gag and bucked and struggled against the stocks and pillory.  As the cloud grew ever closer, she became aware of a faint, sickly-sweet odor.  She held her breath, and the vapor swirled around her.  Seconds passed... and became a minute... then two!  The cloud was dissipating—but Kiki had to breathe!  She exhaled through her nose and her nostrils flared as she filled her burning lungs.  Again, she smelled the sweet odor, but it was much stronger this time.

Then, inevitably, for the second time in one scenario—all went black.