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		DAMSELS UNDER GLASS: THE SERIES
		Jessie & Chelsea: THE  ADVENTURES  OF Shorty & the Cowgirl ———————————————————— by Van © 2004
		Chapter 8

Jessie tugged on her chains for what felt like the millionth time.  Her back, shoulders and neck ached and burned, threatening to knot and cramp.  She had woken to find herself in some sort of storeroom.  The floor and walls were concrete, the ceiling heavy timbers and corrugated metal.  The only door was featureless steel in a steel frame.  Her naked rump was against a vertical timber post and held there by a half dozen black leather straps tightly buckled around her legs from hips to ankles.  Her fingers, hands, and arms were in long, thick, rubber gloves.  Wide leather cuffs were buckled around her wrists and elbows, and steel spreader-bars clipped to the cuffs were keeping her arms spread behind her back.  A stiff collar was buckled around her throat.  Worst of all, chains clipped to the wrist cuffs and stretching to rings in the ceiling and between her collar and an eyebolt on the base of the far wall were enforcing a strict strappado position.  Finally, something was stuffed in her mouth (something large and silky), and her lower face was plastered with some sort of adhesive tape.

She'd been this way... for some time.  It felt like hours, but she couldn't be sure.  Her bonds and the pose they enforced were punishing, but were stringent enough to provide her with some degree of support.   This sucks! she thought, tugging on her chains yet again, not as bad as some of the things Aunt Victoria and Drake used to do to me... but it sucks!

A key rattled in the door, it opened on silent hinges, and a female figure was silhouetted against bright daylight.  Her hair was cut in a short bob.  She had a svelte figure and was wearing a catsuit of shining black latex.  She stepped inside the storeroom and pulled the door closed behind her.  Jessie blinked in surprise.  The female was Connie Wright, Chelsea's childhood friend!

"Well... I see we're finally awake," Connie sneered, an infuriatingly smug smile on her aristocratic features.  "I thought I was going to miss my big gloating scene completely... and I so love a good gloat."

Jessie blinked in confusion.  She remembered cool vibes when they met, back at Brightman Hall... but this (to put it mildly) was downright hostile!

"I was so looking forward to Chelsea returning from her Australia trip," Connie said evenly.  "I've been making new friends, you see... learning new skills... and was so looking forward to surprising Chelsea-Bear with my new, uh, expertise, shall we say?"

Jessie grimaced as she tried to find some comfort by stretching in her bonds.  Just great, she sighed.   'Chelsea-Bear's' childhood friend is a green-eyed monster.

"Imagine my reaction upon hearing she'd met a red-haired American slut, and was going to start school in Arizona!  Of all places... Arizona!"  Connie stepped forward and faced Jessie.  "Well... that's not going to happen.  Chelsea's going to Cambridge with me, and you're going away."  She reached out, cupped Jessie's chin, and locked eyes with her prisoner.  "A very rich, very powerful couple are hosting a party in London tonight.  Among the fun and games will be a charity raffle of slave girls.  Winning bids get to... 'play' with a slave girl for a week... then the slave is returned, supposedly none the worse for wear."  She slid her latex gloved hand to Jessie's right breast and continued.  "I volunteered a redhead.  I suspect they thought I meant myself... but instead they're going to get a tall, uncultured, American redhead."  She clutched Jessie's breast and gave it a gentle squeeze.  "That would be you, of course."

Connie released her grip and let her hand drop to Jessie's loins.  The captive shuddered and glared as Connie's index finger slid between her labia and into her sex.  "When you're delivered, I'll send along a note explaining that you're very much into the kidnap fantasy, and only agree to participate if nonstop role-playing is part of the program.  So..."  Connie began wriggling her finger.  "...during the party... after the party... during your week as a kidnap victim and sex slave... if you're ever ungagged, feel free to rant, rave, beg and explain that you're a real prisoner.  You'll just be ignored."  Connie withdrew her finger.  "When you're returned, after your week of fun-and-games... I've also arranged for you to visit a 'special school' for an additional week... several additional weeks, actually... as many weeks as it takes for Chelsea to forget you're alive.  The management has accepted you on speculation... so I have no idea what your ultimate fate will be."

Connie turned her back and sauntered towards the door.  She opened the steel portal, and once again all Jessie could see was her captor's silhouette.  "I'll be back in about two hours with some chloroform... to take you to the party."  

The door swung closed, locked, and once again Jessie was alone.  She stretched and grimaced, steeling herself for the wait.   Yep... this sucks! 

Lourdes strolled through the main entrance of Brightman Hall, smiling and waving off the servant who had rushed to greet her.  She climbed the stairs to the Family residence area, made her way to Chelsea's room, and knocked.  Chelsea's summoning phone call had been urgent, teary, and only semi-coherent.  Seconds passed, and Solange opened the door.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Lourdes," the French maid whispered, "is so sad."

Chelsea was curled up on her bed, a tissue in her hand, her eyes red.  "Sh-she got away... and she's g-g-gone!"  The blonde pixie began sobbing.  

Lourdes climbed on the bed, being careful not to soil the bedding with her boots.  Chelsea was in faded jeans and a white cotton blouse, Lourdes in boots, leather trousers, tank-top, and nylon jacket, and Solange in her usual maid's uniform.  Chelsea snuggled against Lourde's body and continued crying.  Lourdes smiled, held her close, and made soothing noises.  "There, there, Little One.  I assume you're talking about Jessie?"  Chelsea nodded.  "Tell me."

"I-w-we were playing in the lower dungeons," Chelsea explained.  "On the automatic rack?"  Lourdes nodded.  "And I left her and, and when I came back in the morning..."  Chelsea started crying again and Lourdes held her even closer; then shifted her eyes to Solange.

"Mademoiselle Jessie came to me before dawn," the maid said.  "She had packed her bags and demanded I take her to the station immédiatement.  She take the early train to London.  She say she going home to... Arizona?  Mademoiselle très fâché...  most angry."

Lourdes nodded.  "Who let her go?"

"She got away," Chelsea whispered.

"She say she escape," Solange confirmed, her eyes on the floor.

Lourdes stared at the maid for several seconds.  "From the lower dungeons?  From the servo-rack?  Escaped?"  Solange nodded.  Lourdes continued staring.  "No one 'escapes' from the Brightman Hall dungeons," she said finally.  "I know!"

Chelsea raised her head and stared at Lourdes, as did Solange.

Lourdes smiled coyly.  "Uh... long story.  TESSERACT training exercise, two years ago, while you were away at school, Little One.  Never mind."  Her eyes swiveled to Solange (who again dropped her gaze to the carpet).  "Now..." Lourdes demanded.  "Who let her go?"

Tears welled in the maid's doe eyes, and her lower lip began to tremble.  "She say she tell terrible things to Lady Brightman," Solange whispered.  "She say I get zhe sack and be sent away unless I help her!  I tell her Mademoiselle Jessie not like she say, but she no listen."

Chelsea lifted her head.  "Who?  Who are you talking about?  Come here."  The maid climbed onto the bed and snuggled against Chelsea's side.  "No one's sending you anywhere, you Silly Goose.  Now tell me everything."

Lourdes reached over and lifted Solange' chin.  "Tell us, mon petit."

Solange began crying in earnest.  "Oh Miss Chelsea, Miss Lourdes," she sobbed, "I am such imbécile!"

MID-AFTERNOON
THE WRIGHT ESTATE

---

Connie pulled the family Range Rover behind the stables, went to a storeroom and returned with a hand cart, then opened the back of the Rover and dragged out the now empty steamer trunk she had used to transport her redhaired American prisoner to her fate in London.  She shrugged out of the raincoat she had used to shield her catsuit from the "vanilla" populace, draped it over her left arm, and turned towards the main house.  The latex outfit might look great, but after a few hours it became something of a clammy, squishy, uncomfortable mess.  I need a nice long soak, Connie decided.

Connie smiled as she walked towards the house.  Lord and Lady Grinell had been most pleased with the "volunteer slave" she had just delivered.  The redhaired slut had slept through the introductions (including the intimate inspection the Grinells had made of Jessie's bound, gagged, and naked form), and the last Connie had seen of her victim, the drugged American was strapped to a trolley and on her way to the Grinell dungeons.

What to wear? Connie wondered as she entered the tunnel-like trail through the dense copse of shrubs shielding the main house from the stables.  She still hadn't made her mind up about the party.   Haute Fétiche or Haute Couture?  Life is so much easier when one is a slave, Connie reflected, when one's Master or Mistress is making all the important decisions.  Naked or clothed, latex or leather, rope or chains... yes, so much easier— "M'mmpfh!"

Someone had grabbed Connie from behind!  A gloved hand was clinched tightly over her mouth and something was pressing the sides of her throat, cutting off the blood to her brain!  She struggled weakly, then all went black.  She regained consciousness quickly, but something soft, pliable, and tasting like rubber was expanding to fill her mouth, tape was tautly stretched over her lips, her wrists were secured behind her back, and a black hood was being pulled over her head.  A broad strap at the base of the hood snapped around her throat as she writhed and struggled.  Straps or possibly plastic ties zipped around her ankles and legs and pinned her arms to her sides.

It was over in seconds.  Connie was striding down the trail, lost in thought—Connie was a bound, gagged, and hooded prisoner writhing in the dirt.  A feminine voice with an Australian or New Zealand accent whispered in her ear.  "Ever play the torture game, Ms. Wright?  Ever pretend you had information wanted by your kidnapper and she was gonna do all sorts of nasty things to you to get it?  Well... we're going to play that game, only it's not a game this time.  It's for real.  You're going to tell me what you've done with Jessie McQuade.  And you better hope she's all right... 'cause if she ain't... what I'm gonna do to you would give the devil nightmares."

Connie mewed through her gag and struggled for all she was worth, but was powerless to prevent her captor from picking her up, draping her over one shoulder, and carrying her away.

THAT EVENING

THE LONDON HOME OF LORD PERCY GRINELL
ST. JOHNS WOOD

---

There was a line of limousines waiting to disgorge partygoers.  The Grinell townhouse had a curving private drive with separate entrance and exit gates.  The Brightman Silver Cloud joined the queue.

Timothy the chauffeur glanced in his rearview mirror, then turned to face his passengers.  They were Chelsea Brightman and the mysterious (and stunningly attractive) "Lourdes".  Timothy frowned.  Miss Chelsea was dressed in a scandalously skintight catsuit of black patent leather with matching boots.  Her companion was in a Versace gown of black lace and deep red velvet silk and black sandal-toed heels.  She also had an elaborately engraved silver choker around her throat.  Snapped to a ring dangling from the choker's front was a simple chain lead, and the end of the lead was clutched in Miss Chelsea's hand.  Lourde's hands were behind her back.

"I still think I should accompany you, Miss," Timothy said, "or at the very least we should inform Lady Brightman of the situation."

Chelsea was nervous, but still in command of her most potent weapon for getting her way: the infamous Chelsea Brightman puppy-dog pout.  "Please, Timothy.  It will be all right.  We'll be in and out and—"

"Save it for the party," Lourdes interrupted, then turned to Timothy.  "If anything happens, or if we're not out in one hour, first call the Brightman Hall voice mail number and say 'Red Queen flash' two times.  That will trigger the house computer to dump a data block on TESSERACT Security.   Then call Her Ladyship.  I take full responsibility."

"Hang responsibility!" Timothy snapped.  "You think I give a damn about my job?  If anything happens to Miss Chelsea..."

Chelsea smiled, leaned forward, and planted a chaste kiss on the suddenly blushing chauffeur's lips.  "Please, Uncle Tim," she whispered.

Timothy laughed.  "'Uncle Tim'...  You haven't called me that since you were ten.  And I told you then to stop doing it!  It's not proper!"

"Mr. Boyce," Lourdes said (using Timothy's last name), "I know these people, or rather I know of them.  We will be in no danger to speak of, and you can best protect The Princess" (she nodded at Chelsea) "if you act as our discrete cover."

"'The Princess'..." Chelsea quoted.  "I like that.  Don't fancy Her Majesty as an in-law, though."

Timothy and Lourdes chuckled, shaking their heads.  The queue had been moving, and the Brightman limo was now next in line.  "All right then," Timothy sighed, "but if you need me, beep my number and I'll be there in a flash to sort things out."

Lourdes leaned forward and kissed Timothy's cheek.  "As long as you make those calls first," she whispered.  Timothy nodded and Lourdes leaned back.  Her action had revealed that her wrists were closely manacled behind her back by silver cuffs matching her collar.

The limo rolled forward.  "Good luck," Timothy muttered, and a doorman in 18th century livery opened the back door.

Connie Wright's invitation had gotten them past the cluster of greeters/bouncers at the front door, and the tiny "dominatrix" and her taller and elegantly dressed "slave" joined the party.  The Grinell "townhouse" was huge, and expensively decorated in a mix of styles.  The newcomers entered a crowded ballroom and exchanged a knowing (slightly pained) glance.  Everything they had seen so far was was over-decorated, uncomfortably hovering on the tasteful side of gauche.  Disco music blared from the room's sound system.  Their fellow partygoers were a mixed lot: young and old, kinky and "normal", casual and formal.

A serving girl tottered in their direction on ridiculously high heels.  She was dressed in a rather skimpy maid's costume.  Her arms were bound behind her back with a leather binder, she was gagged with a half-open-faced leather hood, and a semicircular tray loaded with champagne glasses was strapped to her waist and shoulders.  She was young (older than Chelsea but younger than Lourdes), and had a rather bored expression on what they could see of her pretty face.

"Someone's been reading their Stanton," Lourdes muttered while Chelsea helped herself to a flute of bubbly.

"Quiet, slave," Chelsea purred, took a sip, then held the glass for Lourdes to drink.

Lourdes swallowed and licked her lips.  "Yes, Mistress," she mumbled.  Unseen by Chelsea, she locked eyes with the serving girl, and they exchanged a rather amused sigh.

The servant wandered on, towards a neighboring knot of guests.  Chelsea had been busy playing detective.  "All the action seems to be in the side rooms," she whispered, then reached for the front zipper of her catsuit and zipped it open to her navel.  "Let's check it out."

"Look 'Nancy Drew'," Lourdes whispered in the blonde pixie's ear, "stop leering around and act casual.  And cover yourself."

"This makes me blend in," Chelsea objected, raising the zipper an inch or so, but no more.  "I'm kinky."

"Yes... of course you are," Lourdes answered, hiding a smile, "but if you pop out of that thing, remember, you were warned."

"Cheeky slave!" Chelsea scolded her companion, and led the way towards the first side room.  Halfway there, they were passed a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive suit and sporting a cravat.  He had two female companions.  The first was a svelte, athletic, stunning black woman, showing lots of dark, smooth skin and filling a black gown in just the manner the designer intended.  A steel collar (too functional to be jewelry) was locked around her throat, but her attitude was anything but subservient.  The other woman was white; with clear, fair skin, black hair; and was as beautiful as her dusky companion.  She was dressed in a body-hugging leopard-skin catsuit with matching boots.

"Our hosts," Lourdes whispered to Chelsea.  "Don't stare!" she admonished, "and walk around them.  No need to tempt fate.  We're here under false pretenses, remember.  The last thing we need is a chat."

"Really, Lourdes," the glowering pixie muttered.  "I'm not a complete idiot.  So... that's Lord Grinell.  Rather cheesy for a peer.  Who are his girlfriends?"

Lourdes directed their path behind a cluster of guests.  "The leopard is Lady Grinell.  French.  The African is their 'slave', Pampata."

"She's beautiful," Chelsea whispered.

"Which?"

"Both."

Lourdes laughed.  "Lady Grinell is a sadistic bitch of the first order, and Pampata runs the household.  She has a reputation for being cruel and inventive.  But I agree: they are beautiful."

Unseen by Chelsea or Lourdes, their hosts had noticed their passage.   As soon as the tiny blonde "top" and her beautiful "bottom" turned their backs and continued towards their goal, the Grinells (and Pampata) exchanged smiles and began slowly mingling in their wake.

An elderly couple was exiting the side room as they approached.  "She looks like quite the handful," the wife was telling her husband.  "Let's look for something a little more 'low maintenance'.  There's supposed to be a nice German model looking for a pony girl experience in one of the other rooms."

Next to the door was an elegantly printed card in a goldtone frame.  It read:

To benefit The Prince's Trust Item #1 "J"... An American Kidnap Victim Yours for Seven Days RESTRICTIONS:  The fantasy of kidnapping will be maintained at all times.  "J" will resist, attempt escape, and require constant restraint in a secure setting.  No piercing, tattooing, or other permanent marking.  No shaving of the head.  Tickling, penetration of all orifices, frustration torture, water sports, and extended punishment bondage are encouraged. OPENING BID: 7,000 €

"It's a blind auction," Lourdes observed, then her chain jerked and Chelsea pulled her into the room.  "Hey!"

Chelsea had gotten a look at what was waiting within.  Several women, most in catsuits and boots, were sipping champagne and leering at a bound and gagged redhead writhing on the floor.  The prisoner was naked, save a pair of pantyhose and an abundance of hemp rope tightly and elaborately binding her pale, contorted, struggling body.  The captive's head was caged by a leather harness and her face obscured by the tousled mass of her copper-red tresses.  She tossed her head and forced an angry alto growl past the ball strapped in her mouth, and now could be recognized as...

"Jessie!" Chelsea wailed, dropped Lourde's leash, rushed to her lover's side, and began fumbling with one of the complex knots securing Jessie's Shibari-inspired predicament.  "Darling, I'll have you free in half a mo', then—M'MMPFH!"

Things were happening quickly.  A rather large and muscular man had stepped from beside the door, grabbed Chelsea, pulled her away from Jessie before she could loosen a single rope, and was silencing her with a firm hand-gag.  Also, the Grinells had arrived.  At a nod from Pampata the watching catsuits filed out of the room and rejoined the party, muttering under their breaths and favoring Lourdes and Chelsea with resentful expressions as they sauntered past.

The door closed, leaving Chelsea and her captor, Lourdes, the Grinells (including Pampata), and Jessie.

Lady Grinell broke the ice, a rather sardonic smile on her face.  "So... party crashers and thieves."  She sauntered to Chelsea and her smile broadened.  Chelsea stared up at her with frightened eyes.  "Such a pretty thing," the French beauty purred, "like an elf or a little fée."  Her hand brushed Chelsea's bangs from her forehead, then slid down her throat, between her breasts, under her gaping catsuit, and gently cupped her left breast.  "Her little heart is hammering like a frightened sparrow's.  How very sweet."  She turned to Lourdes... and frowned.  She peered closely into her face and the New Zealander stared back, her expression carefully neutral.  "Your hair was longer," Lady Grinell whispered.

Lourdes nodded.  "And yours was shorter," she whispered back.

Lady Grinnel smiled and pulled Lourdes to the side, out of Chelsea and Jamie's hearing.  "Lourdes," she continued whispering.  "Again we meet, after all these years... and under such interesting circumstance."  She embraced the short-haired "slave", who pulled her hands from behind her back and returned the gesture.  (Lourde's cuffs had been joined by weak electromagnets.  She had only been pretending to be helpless.)  One arm around the now smiling Lourde's waist, Lady Grinell spoke to Pampata in her normal voice.  "Take the little one and the redhead below and make them... comfortable.  This one and I have much to discuss."  

"Dearest," Lord Grinell muttered, "care to explain?"

"Eventually," Lady Grinell responded, turning towards the door.

"The youngsters need to be ready to travel," Lourdes whispered.

Lady Grinell's smile became rather chilly.  "My dear..." she hissed, "are you giving me orders?"

Lourdes stifled a laugh and whispered in her hostess' ear.  "In your own house, surrounded by your servants, with your dungeons waiting below?  You think I'm daft?"

Lady Grinell's smile thawed.  "That charming Kiwi wit.  I had forgotten.  Come, we will... negotiate."  She nodded at Pampata.  "Make them ready for travel," she ordered, and Pampata nodded back.

"I don't understand," Lord Grinell protested.

Lady Grinell exited the room.  "Of course you don't, Dearest."  Her right arm was still around Lourde's waist, her left clutching the leash clipped to Lourde's collar.  Lord Grinell scurried after his wife, closing the door behind.

Chelsea didn't understand either.  She squirmed in her captor's grasp and forced a questioning whine past the large muscular hand clamped over her mouth.  What was all the whispering about?  Is Lourdes betraying us?  Unthinkable! ...but Lourdes was gone... and Jessie was still tied up... and Chelsea was captured!

Pampata turned and faced Chelsea, then lowered her gaze to Jessie.  A smile slowly curled her full lips, and that smile was disturbingly evil.