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		DAMSELS UNDER GLASS: THE SERIES
		Jessie & Chelsea: THE  ADVENTURES  OF Shorty & the Cowgirl ———————————————————— by Van © 2004
		Chapter 9

The huge male butler (or bouncer or whatever-the-hell-he-was) who had grabbed Chelsea before she could rescue Jessie dragged her from the room.  Her last glimpse of Jessie had been the nearly naked redhead straining against the countless bands of rope binding her body, and the African "slave" Pampata smiling down at her as if she was a yummy treat.  Then, Chelsea was through a door and into a dimly lit hallway.

Despite Chelsea's continuous and enthusiastic attempts to wiggle free, bite his hand (still clamped over her mouth), claw his face, and kick him with her high-heeled boots where it would do the most good, her captor controlled her easily.  She was frightened, but mostly angry.  They (the Grinells, Pampata, her current captor) had no right to treat her this way! ...to treat Jessie this way!  His hand still over her mouth, ignoring her struggles as if she were a clawless, toothless kitten, the man rummaged in a drawer and produced a ball-gag.  This was buckled in the sputtering, clawing pixie's mouth, then she was forced to the floor.  Her wrists were wrenched behind her back, crossed, and bound together with a length of stout cord.

Her handler lifted her to her booted feet, and Chelsea twisted free.  The reason had been the nearly un-zipped front of her catsuit, her attempt to show cleavage and appear the "kinky sex goddess" as she crashed the party.  The man had placed a hand on her shoulder, and Chelsea's twist and duck had made the glossy leather slide from under his open fingers.  Unfortunately, the maneuver had also caused the garment to slide off her left shoulder and expose her breast!  Gagged and bound, she scampered down the hallway, awkwardly turning to try each door with her bound hands as she came to them.  All were locked.  Her captor followed at a quick walk, apparently unconcerned by Chelsea's "escape".

Chelsea came to the last door in the hallway, half-turned, and rattled its knob as well.  Locked, like all the rest!  She turned to face her pursuer, her shoulders and bound hands against the solid portal, panting around her gag, her eyes wide and frightened, half from genuine fear, and half for the heart-melting effect she hoped it would have on her captor.

The man was nearly seven feet tall (or so he seemed in the darkened hallway), with broad shoulders and narrow waist accentuated by the cut of his suit.  Even in the half-light Chelsea could tell he was rather handsome.  He smiled down at the tiny captive, and his right hand slowly approached her exposed breast.  Chelsea pinched her eyes tightly closed and waited for his meaty, strong hand to close around her naked, vulnerable flesh... then opened them again and blinked in surprise.  He had gently tugged her suit back over her shoulder and zipped it closed, restoring her modesty.

He continued smiling down at her.  Chelsea was torn between the urge to smile back (he was taking a rather gallant approach to her abduction), and the desire to kick him between the legs.  Finally deciding polite discretion was the better part of futile mayhem, she waited docilely as the door was unlocked and she was shepherded through.

She preceded her captor down another hallway, this one equally dim but more sparsely appointed, then down a steep set of stairs to a solid steel door.  This was unlocked, and Chelsea found herself in a corridor with concrete walls and more steel doors, all with heavy bolts, business-like locks, and covered peep-slots at eye level (eye level for people taller than Chelsea, that is).  The fifth door on the right was unlocked, and Chelsea found herself at the threshold of a small, featureless cell, perhaps three meters by five, dimly lit by a single overhead bulb in an armored industrial fixture.  Her captor politely cleared his throat... and Chelsea sighed and stepped inside.  The door closed with a clang, the bolt slammed home, the lock turned... and the waiting began.

And the waiting continued.  At some point Chelsea heard a commotion in the hallway, and what might have been a gagged, angry tirade in the alto voice of her beloved Jessie, then a door clanged and she heard no more.  More waiting... Chelsea tested her bonds, but the cord was tight and well-cinched, the knots unreachable.  She sighed, walked to the back of the cell, and slid down the wall to rest on her leather-clad rump.

Finally, after many long minutes, she heard a key turn in the lock.  She debated scrambling to her feet and making a rush as the door opened, then discarded the idea.  Her captors seemed experienced in the handling of prisoners.  She'd probably only succeed in pissing off whoever was at the door.  The bolt slid back, the door opened, and 'whoever' was revealed to be Pampata.  The stunningly beautiful African was still dressed in designer gown and steel collar, but her formerly perfect hair was slightly mussed, and a sheen of sweat covered her perfect body.

"Your red-haired friend gave Pampata a great deal of trouble," she announced.  She had a husky alto voice with a lilting, sing-song accent.  "If you give Pampata trouble as well, I will cause you a great deal of pain.  Do you understand?"

Chelsea sighed... and nodded.  Her spirit was far from broken, but she recognized yet another losing proposition when it presented itself.  Pampata stepped back out into the hall and returned with a canvas duffle.  She dropped it to the cell floor and its contents rattled and tinkled, suggesting a great many leather straps and small buckles.  Chelsea sighed again.

First came a hood of black silk.  The fabric over the eye region was doubled, and it made a quite effective blindfold.  It also made Chelsea's breathing slightly labored, but she suspected this was more to discourage prolonged struggling rather than to cause real distress.  Next, her arms were bound with five separate pieces of leather tack: two wide cuffs that strapped around her upper arms, a pair of mittens that laced and buckled around her wrists and hands, and a tube-like sheath of leather with three buckles.  The sheath trapped her forearms against the small of her back, rings at the tips of each mitten snapped to the upper arm cuffs, and the cuffs snapped to the sheath.  Chelsea found herself with her arms trapped behind her back, forearm to forearm, her leather-shrouded palms cupping their opposite elbows, and everything tight and connected.  The arrangement was surprisingly comfortable... at least for now.

Pampata had taken no chances during the application of the new bondage, despite Chelsea's apparent surrender.  She forced the blonde captive down to the hard floor, rolled her onto her stomach, and sat on the squirming, mewing pixie's waist.  She applied the various parts of the system with practiced, deliberate care, not allowing the frustrated prisoner any opportunity to mount a meaningful resistance.

Next came a leather collar and body harness.  Straps tightened around Chelsea's neck, arms and torso, above and below her breasts; an extra-wide strap with three buckles tightened around her waist like a mini-corset; and more straps tightened around her thighs, above and below her knees, around her shins, and lastly, her ankles and the insteps of her boots.  Pampata then went back over each and every part of the harness, including, this time, the vertical straps interconnecting the horizontal.  All buckles were tightened at least one notch each, and tiny padlocks snapped through the staple holes in every buckle's tongue and hinge.  The buckles of the arm binding cuffs, mittens, and sheath were padlocked as well, and secured it to the harness with additional snaps and locks.

Before Chelsea could test her new bonds, the lower half of her silk hood was lifted and her ball-gag was unbuckled and removed.  She licked her lips to speak—and a distressingly large plug of soft foam around some sort of hard core was forced into her mouth.  A soft leather flap tightened over her lips, gripping her mouth as tightly and effectively as her male captor's earlier hand-gag.  A buckle was secured at the nape of her neck, a padlock snapped, and the hood was restored and secured with a tight double bow in its dangling strings.

Chelsea squirmed in her bonds.  The network of straps encircling her body felt more like a sheath than a harness.  She could do little more than buck slightly and twist her shoulders.  Any attempt to bend her joined legs caused the interconnected straps to tighten even further.  She made one last attempt to lift herself... but it was pointless.  She wasn't going anywhere, and she knew it.

"You were a very good girl," Pampata cooed, "unlike your friend.  She is quite a fighter, that one."

Chelsea could hear her captor stand and walk to the cell door.

"You rest, all nice and comfy," the African purred, her voice infuriatingly smug, "until Pampata come for you.  Your friend is not so comfy, I'm afraid.  She is up on her toes with her hair tied to a hook in the ceiling.  She is learning that when Pampata tells a slave to stop struggling... she stops struggling."

The door closed with a resounding clang, the bolt slammed, the lock turned, and Chelsea was alone.  She tested her bonds again.  The leather creaked slightly and the padlocks rattled, but she remained in the harness' relentless grip.  She forced a mewing wail past her gag, and tried not to surrender to the tears welling in her silk-blinded eyes.   Jessie!

Minutes later, someone did come for Chelsea, but it wasn't Pampata.  The hooded, gagged, and harnessed prisoner heard the lock turn, the bolt snick back, the door open, and footsteps approach.  Then a pair of big, strong hands picked her up and cradled her against a male chest.  She surmised it was her original captor, the Gallant Abductor...  at least whoever it was was wearing the same cologne.

Chelsea was carried through a series of doors, up a set of stairs, through more doors, and out into the open.  The air was cool and she could hear the sounds of London traffic.  A car door opened, and she was eased onto a car seat.  Someone was sitting next to her.  She could tell from their movement.  Then a very familiar voice spoke.

"Thank you."

Mumsy!  Chelsea blushed bright crimson under her hood and shrank back into the seat.  A tiny, pathetic whine escaped her gag.

"My pleasu—uh—I mean you're welcome, Your Ladyship," a deep male voice answered, and the car door closed.

"Pleasure indeed," Lady Brightman muttered in a disapproving tone.  "Home, Timothy."

There was an equally disapproving grunt from the front seat and the engine purred to life.

Mortified, abashed, chagrined—Chelsea found herself occupying a ring of Embarrassment Hell hitherto unsuspected.  She squirmed in her harness and whimpered through her gag.

"Oh, you poor dear," Lady Brightman cooed.  "Let me help you."

Chelsea shivered in her bonds, waiting for her hood to be removed.   I hope they gave her the keys, she thought.  She felt her mother move on the seat... but she was leaning away, towards the other side of the limo's spacious back seat.  She heard the slither of silk sliding against skin and hair, the rattle and creak of a collared and gagged head being tossed, then the sound of a padlock being unlocked, a buckle rattling... and finally, a husky gasp.

Her mother leaned forward and Chelsea heard her open the limo's bar.  Liquid splashed in a glass, and Lady Brightman leaned back.  "Here... careful now."

Chelsea sniffed the air leaking through her silk hood.   Napoleon Brandy.

Someone coughed.  "There, there, that will warm you up," Lady Brightman purred.  "Just what the doctor ordered."

Mumsy?  Chelsea was still mortified... but also slightly miffed she wasn't the one being mothered... by her mother.

"Thank you, ma'am," a familiar alto voice mumbled.

Jessie! Chelsea screamed through her gag.  The sound that actually emerged was, of course, completely unintelligable.  She squirmed and rocked in her seat, bobbing her collared, gagged, and hooded head.

"Hey there, Shorty!" Jessie answered, amusement in her voice.

"Hey there, indeed," Lady Brightman sniffed.  "Finish your brandy, dear."

"Um... {gulp} Thanks," Jessie purred.  "Good stuff."

"You're welcome, dear," Lady Brightman responded, returning the glass to the bar.

Chelsea stamped her bound, booted feet on the carpeted floor and screamed through her gag in frustration.  Then settled down when fingers started fumbling with the ties of her hood.

"Oh, stop fidgeting," Lady Brightman scolded and jerked the hood from her youngest daughter's head.

Chelsea shook her head and blinked.  Her flushed (blushing) face was momentarily cooled by the sweat now free to evaporate.  She was indeed in the back seat of the Brightman Rolls, seated on Mumsy's right, with Jessie (Jessie!) on Mumsy's left.  Her roommate (and lover) was naked and bound in a harness apparently identical to the harness locked around Chelsea; however, a blanket was draped over the smiling, happy redhead's shoulders as a concession to modesty.

"Hey!" Jessie greeted her blushing lover again, an infuriating grin on her freckled face.

Chelsea shifted her gaze to Mumsy... and froze.

Lady Brightman was smiling, but Chelsea knew she was not amused.  "There are times I think there are no brains in that thick skull of yours," she scolded.  "What were you thinking?   Not notifying me immediately when a guest is kidnapped from our home?  Mounting a 'rescue' without my knowledge or consent?  I don't recall dropping you on your head as an infant.  Perhaps one of the servants did so while I was otherwise occupied."

Jessie laughed, clearly enjoying Chelsea's predicament.  "She came to rescue me, huh?"  The grinning American squirmed in her harness and rolled her shoulders.  "Uh... can you get me out of this thing?" she pleaded.

Lady fussed with the blanket covering her guest's bound nudity.  "It's rather cramped back here.  Let's wait until we return to Brightman Hall, shall we?  You aren't too uncomfortable, are you?"

Jessie smiled, a charming blush coloring her cheeks.  "It ain't bad," she mumbled.  "I can wait."

Chelsea snorted in disgust.  'Rather cramped' indeed.  There was nearly enough room in the back of the Silver Cloud for a cricket pitch.  Mumsy was having a little fun at their expense.

"You're in enough trouble, Chatterbox," Lady Brightman muttered, turning to deliver a withering gaze at her wayward daughter.

Jessie's grin widened.  "Chatterbox," she quoted (causing Chelsea to simultaneously blush and glare).  She nodded towards her roommate and fellow captive.  "Uh... what about her gag?"

Lady Brightman regarded her helpless daughter with aristocratic disdain.  "Yes... highly functional.  The perfect answer to her constant babbling.  I quite agree."

Jessie laughed, enjoying Chelsea's total humiliation and embarrassment.  She shrugged and winked at the flustered, squirming little blonde.  Chelsea calmed herself in response, and Jessie smiled at the familiar twinkle that had returned to her captive lover's big blue eyes.  She turned her smile to Lady Brightman.  "How 'bout s'more brandy?" she suggested.

"I think you've had more than enough on an empty stomach," Lady Brightman responded, then settled the grinning, helpless, blanket-covered redhead against her right side.  "Why don't you take a nice nap.  When we reach Brightman Hall a nice hot meal, bath, massage, and warm bed await.  Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Oh yeah!" Jessie purred, snuggling against Lady Brightman's warm body.

Chelsea forced a piteous whine past her gag and batted her eyes.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes," Lady Brightman muttered, lifted her left arm, and allowed Chelsea to snuggle against her left side.  Lady Brightman draped her arms over both girl's shoulders and gave them a motherly hug.  She kissed Jessie's forehead.  "So brave."  She kissed Chelsea's forehead.  "Stupid... but brave."

"So... 'Chatterbox' tried to rescue me?" Jessie mumbled, her voice slurred and sleepy.

"Yes," Lady Brightman confirmed, squeezing Chelsea's shoulder, "together with Lourdes."

"Oh," Jessie sighed.  Seconds passed, then Jessie pulled away from Lady Brightman and frowned.  "Where is Lourdes?" she demanded.

At that very moment Lourdes was in the Grinell's dungeon, seven doors down from the cell in which Chelsea had been prepared for travel.  She was naked (of course) and her wrists were locked behind her back in a pair of very solid, very heavy steel manacles.  Along with her gown and shoes, all of her jewelry had been removed: choker, bracelets, rings, ankle bracelet.  Her hair and body were carefully inspected for escape aids.  Pampata had been the one doing all of this (of course), and Lourdes had cooperated.

"It is a pleasure to deal with an experienced subject," Pampata purred as she combed her fingers through Lourdes' short locks.  The gloating African pulled a thin, stiff length of wire from her prisoner's hair and examined it closely.  "Very nice," she said.  "An excellent pick... and the hook at the end makes it doubly useful."

Meanwhile, Lourdes had been examining the apparatus centered in the chamber: a somewhat close-fitting upright cage of metal bands.  Its purpose was obvious.  The vertical elements were bent into the outline of a standing human form, and the horizontal bands closed and locked with small padlocks.  Anyone standing in the gibbet-like device would be unable to move more than a few inches in any direction, and would find anything like sitting quite impossible.  

Further, the head region incorporated what looked like a nasty gag panel, with foam padding and a distressingly large plug.  Also, the cranial portion was much more close-fitting than the rest, and had several sliding plates and adjustable screws to make it snug and secure.

Finally, a vertical shaft ending in an unpadded, minimal saddle lifted on a piston from the base of the cage.  Attached to the saddle was a rather large dildo and a smaller anal plug, both in glistening black rubber.

Finished with her inspection of Lourdes' person, Pampata placed a surprisingly gentle hand on her prisoner's shoulder and guided her towards the waiting cage.  "Yes," she continued, "there is pleasure in the naive, pointless struggling of an untrained slave, especially the young, privileged little twits who come to Pampata to play and find more than they bargained for...  They are like champagne."  She turned Lourdes' unresisting body around and eased her inside the cage, then secured a single band around her waist to keep her there.  "But experienced slaves... slaves who know the kiss of the whip... the long hours of pain while roped into impossible positions... the endless days of languishing, chained in a dark cell... they are like the fine aged wine.  No?"

Lourdes knew the question was rhetorical.  In any case, she had been told not to speak, and wasn't about to give Pampata a "legal" excuse for punishment.

Pampata knelt and made adjustments to the vertical shaft.  Lourdes felt the dildo touch, then penetrate her sex.  The anal plug penetrated as well, and she relaxed to let it pass.  Whatever they were made of, they were quite slippery, and slid against her skin with surprising ease.  Final adjustments were made, and the saddle locked, flush with Lourdes' crotch and causing her to stand ever-so-slightly up on her toes for comfort.

One-by-one, the cage's bands closed and were padlocked around Lourdes' body: ankles, shins, knees, thighs, waist, below and above her breasts.  The cage was close enough to make her helpless (even if her wrists weren't manacled and she wasn't impaled on the dildo saddle), but nonetheless allowed sufficient room for its occupant to writhe and squirm.  Pampata locked Lourdes' head in place, but left the gag panel open.  She reached into the open front of her gown, smiled, and produced a pair of clips connected by a length of steel chain.  The clips were spring loaded and had half-moon shaped jaws lined with tiny, glistening points.

Lourdes stifled a sigh.  Nipple clamps.

Pampata began a gentle finger massage of Lourdes' nipples with her strong, dark fingers.  They responded immediately, flushing pink and standing erect.  "The points are diamonds," Pampata cooed, easing the first clip around the right nipple.  She released the clamp, and the diamonds sank into the soft flesh.

Lourdes suppressed a gasp, but couldn't prevent her lips from quivering.  The clip had a bite, that was certain; but it wasn't too bad.  I'll survive, she decided.  The remaining clip and the chain were threaded through a padeye in the front band of the cage, and the left clip closed.  Crikes!

Pampata's smile became even more evil.  "Yes... the experienced slave is a pleasure.  She already knows something of what awaits.  She can control her fear, after a fashion, so she savors the anticipation.  She already knows her mistress is without mercy, that she takes pleasure from her slave's suffering, and that she herself is totally helpless."  Pampata reached for the gag panel.  "Open."

Lourdes opened her jaws and allowed Pampata to swing the panel over her lower face and thrust the plug inside her mouth.  Various clamps and fittings were adjusted, and she found herself biting down on the foam plug.  The front panel pushed her back into the cranial cage, and the curved plate under her chin forced her head up and jaw closed.  Pampata smiled and reached for the steel wheel mounted on the front of the panel.  She gave it three slow turns, and Lourdes felt the plug in her mouth expand, and expand, and expand!

"Yessss," Pampata purred.  "Much pleasure.  I think we are going to keep you... for a very long time... perhaps forever."

"I'm afraid not, darling," a voice announced from the doorway.  It was Lady Grinell, still in her faux leopard skin catsuit and boots.  She sauntered into the chamber and smiled at Lourdes' caged, helpless form, drinking in every square inch of glistening, naked skin not obscured by the cage.  "I have just finished a long conversation with the famous Red Queen.  It would seem the party-crashing 'slave' of the Brightman brat is indeed her valued employee.  She has secured her ransom with a sizable contribution to The Prince's Trust.  Together with the contribution made by Lady Brightman, it has been a most successful evening."

Lady Grinell stepped even closer and traced the upper margin of the prisoner's clamped left nipple with the nail of her right index finger.  "Lourdes..." she whispered.  "You were so very brave to attempt such a rescue... and so very foolish.  One would almost think you wished for such an outcome?  For charity to benefit?  For the Brightman brat and her redhaired friend to be free but, how you say, in the doghouse with Lady Brightman?  For you yourself to be delivered into my tender mercies... for a while?"

Lady Grinell turned to Pampata.  "She is ours to play with... for a few days.  It is best to let her wonder how many days, no?"  Pampata nodded.  Lady Grinell's eyes turned back to Lourdes.  "Ms. Wells says to tell you she is most disappointed with you, and that when you return to Seattle, you will be... 'in the cat-house'?"  Lady Grinell shook her head.  "Most confusing.  I have never heard of Margo Wells running a brothel.  In any case, she said you would know the meaning."

A shiver of delicious dread coursed up Lourdes' spine.   She meant 'Kat-house'! the miserable captive realized.   I'm in for it, but good!

Lady Grinell turned and walked to the door and Pampata followed.  "Did you explain the working of our wonderful 'Gwendoline Cage'?" she asked.  Pampata shook her head.  Lady Grinell favored Lourdes with her most evil smile.  "The dildo and plug are electrified," she explained.   "Shocking, no?  They also vibrate, quiver, and move on little pistons, independently, of course.  The controls are computerized, and there is a highly tested program that demonstrates all of the mechanism's properties at random intervals, in all variations of combination and intensity.  It makes sleep quite impossible, of course... but knowing you are down here, helpless and suffering so... it will give us the most delightful dreams."

Lady Grinell and Pampata embraced and kissed, then turned their smiling faces towards their victim.  "Pampata will be down to begin your first true entertainment in the morning," Lady Grinell explained.

"It may be much later," Pampata said as she closed the door.  "I always sleep in after a party."

The door closed, the bolt slammed, and the key turned in the lock.  Seconds later the overhead light blinked out, plunging Lourdes into total darkness.  A few seconds after that, the dildo began to vibrate, just at the limit of the squirming captive's perception... and the tickling, teasing sensation was slowly building.  Then the dildo began to move as well, up and down, deeper and deeper into her sex, matching the vibration in timing and intensity.  Lourdes sighed around her gag and tried to ignore the machine's relentless assault.   Crikes!  It's gonna be a long night.

Solange was very sad.

Miss Chelsea had said she was forgiven, that she would not be sent away... but Miss Chelsea was going away herself, to America... and Miss Chelsea was not Lady Brightman.  The miserable maid sighed and hugged her knees with her left arm.  She would have used both arms, but her right wrist was locked to her left ankle with a pair of handcuffs.   I am such a fool, she scolded herself.

After confessing her crime, after telling every detail of her role in the abduction of Miss Jessie, the one called Lourdes had insisted she remove all of her clothes, then had marched her through the secret passages and locked her in one of the dungeon cells deep under Brightman Hall.  The cuffs were an awkward inconvenience, a superfluous punishment.  The cell itself was inescapable.  They had said nothing, but Solange knew the reason she had been made a prisoner.  She was not to be trusted.  She was a kidnapper and a traitor.  She deserved to be locked away... forever.  

The cell was dark, but a little light leaked in from the hallway under the thick, solid, ancient oak door.  Solange was cold, but not too cold.  There was straw on the floor, and she had managed to pull most of it together into a nest.  It gave her some protection from the rough stones of the dungeon floor.  There was no water or food.  She knew they would come back for her... eventually.  Failing all else, one of the other servants would release her... eventually.  But she no idea what would happen then.  

She twisted her wrist in the tight cuff and watched the chrome glitter and gleam in the dim light.  A tear rolled down her face and she wiped it away with her left hand.  I am such a fool.  Just then she heard footsteps tapping on the stone floor of the corridor.  A key turned in the cell door, the bolt was thrown back, the door opened on oil-thirsty hinges... and Lady Brightman entered the cell.

Solange couldn't hold back her tears any longer.  "Oh, madame," she sobbed, "I... I am so very sorry.  Please, please don't..."

Lady Brightman did the last thing Solange expected: she sat in the straw and pulled the naked, helpless maid into a motherly embrace.  "There, there," she cooed, rocking the weeping girl in her arms.

"Madame," Solange objected.  "You soil your pretty suit!"

"Never mind."  Lady Brightman produced a handkerchief and began wiping Solange's tear-stained face.  "So... you've been 'playing slavegirl' with Connie Wright on all of your days off for the past year?"

Solange slowly nodded, her wet cheeks blushing bright red.

"I've always known Connie was a manipulative little witch," Lady Brightman muttered, "but I never guessed she was so... Machiavellian.  She says she threatened to frame you for theft?  To have you dismissed and possibly put in jail unless you helped with her scheme?"  

Solange nodded again.  "Madame... I am such a fool," she whispered.

Lady Brightman smiled into her maid's sad, beautiful face.  "You are sharp as a tack," she responded, "and one of the most open, direct, kind souls I have ever known.  Connie Wright took advantage of you in the worst way, preying on your nature, on your needs."

Solange buried her face against her employer's breast.  "I am sorry," she sobbed.

"Connie Wright is a wicked girl," Lady Brightman growled, "and more a fool than you could be if you tried.  You had to know her idiotic scheme would never work, that you'd get caught."

"I tried to tell her," Solange whispered.

"She shall get what she deserves," Lady Brightman growled, "believe me."

Solange continued crying.  "I am so sorry."

Lady Brightman smiled.  "You silly girl," she scolded, giving the weeping maid a warm hug.  "Dry your eyes, and let's talk about how I'm going to punish you."

Solange lifted her face and stared at Lady Brightman.  "Punish?  I deserve to be punished."

"Yes," Lady Brightman purred, a teasing tone in her voice.  "I'm afraid a simple 'I'm sorry' is insufficient recompense for a kidnapping."

"No, madame."  Solange shook her head for emphasis, causing her pert bob to sway from side to side.  "I have been bad.  But you... you won't... send me away, will you?"

Lady Brightman picked straw from Solange's hair.  "Of course not.  Hmm... let's see...  Henceforth I forbid your playing slavegirl on your days off.  It's hard enough to get one's shopping done, run one's errands, etc. without being chained up in a dungeon someplace, don't you agree?  From now on you will play slavegirl while on duty."

"Madame!"  A smile trembled on Solange's lips.  "You tease Solange."

"Don't interrupt!" Lady Brightman barked, a smile softening the rebuke.  "Tomorrow... whenever someone gets around to releasing you from this cell... I want you to march to your room and make yourself presentable for work.  From now on your uniforms will be fully starched, and you are not to wear underwear unless given explicit instructions to do so.  Not a stitch!  Understand?"  Solange nodded.  "After dressing, you are to find Cook and tell her to clap you in irons."

"Madame!" Solange gasped.

Lady Brightman pressed her right index finger against the maid's lips.  "I told you, don't interrupt!  You will work in chains for one month, and I'll see that you are assigned all the high dusting and every other task that will make your day awkward and tiring.  You know the first chamber down the left passage behind the secret panel off my bedroom?"  

Solange nodded.  The chamber in question had a simple bed of wood timbers with a straw-filled mattress, a single sturdy wooden chair, and several heavy iron rings set in the walls, ceiling, and floor.  Its door was solid oak braced with iron straps, and it locked from the outside.   It was as much a cell as her current accommodations, albeit more roomy and better appointed.

"That is your new quarters," Lady Brightman continued.  "At night I expect all of your clothes to be neatly stowed in the wardrobe I shall have placed outside the door, and to find you waiting on your knees for me to punish any demerits you have earned during the day.  I predict you'll spend at least one night a week tied to the bed, the chair, or with one or more limbs dangling from an iron ring."

Solange's doe eyes glistened.  Her lips curled in a charming little smile she was unable to suppress.

Lady Brightman ran her right hand over Solange's left shoulder, then cupped her left breast.  The maid's heart was beating very fast.  "And if you are especially good... you may share my bed.  Does that sound fair, mon petit elf?"

Solange nodded.  A single tear rolled from her left eye, splashed her left breast, and rolled to Lady Brightman's hand.  Their eyes locked, and they kissed.

The kiss lasted a very long time, then Lady Brightman stood and left the cell.  Solange stared at the open door... then smiled when her employer (and Mistress) returned with a thick woolen blanket.  She spread it over the helpless maid, tucked it under her chin, and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead.

Lady Brightman returned to the door and smiled back at the helpless captive.  "Send you away?" she muttered.  "I'd as likely send away one of my real daughters.  Maybe you are a fool... but I guess I'm stuck with you."

The door slammed, the bolt slid home, and the key turned in the lock.  There was a pause, then Lady's Brightman's heels tapped away down the corridor.  Solange snuggled against the blanket and straw.  Prickly and scratchy?  Yes, but it was a gift from her Mistress!  She was warm and secure (literally so)... and she was not going anywhere.

Solange was very happy.