2:00 p.m.

Lying on his back and staring blankly at the ceiling, Malcolm tried to piece together the events of the morning. Something very weird had taken place in the basement, strange events that he could not explain away despite being aware that it was the powerful fumes of the glue that had overcame him. The whole experience, everything he had seen, and touched, and heard, had all appeared so real and lifelike. He recalled the caress of soft flesh on his fingertips, the clicking of the mechanism, the wails of agony that issued from the girl's lips, and the look of sheer horror upon her face. Everything had appeared so real, but all the same he was fully aware that nothing he had experienced could possibly have taken place.
With his head a lot clearer now, Malcolm raised himself up on one elbow and peered blearily towards the clock. From where he lay the digital display was partially obscured by the Christmas card from his mother. He stretched out and shifted the card to one side to tell the time. The card balanced on the edge of the bedside cabinet for a fleeting second before toppling to the floor. He looked to the clock. The bright red numbers were displaying '2:03'. He had slept for about four hours.
Malcolm looked down to the floor beside the bed. The Christmas card had come to rest on two parcels, one large, one small, both wrapped in very similar bright red and green festive paper. He smiled. They were presents from people who obviously cared about him. The big parcel was from Mr. McTavish, the smaller one from Katie. He rubbed his eyes to rid them of cobwebs. He was feeling a lot better now. The headache had gone. Lazily he stretched out an arm and gathered up both the card and small parcel from the floor. He placed the card back on the cabinet and clutched Katie's present to his chest. At first he did not want to open it, simply being content to lie back and hold it in his arms. However he had thought all along that there was something odd about this little box. In relation to its size, the contents were heavy, and this puzzled him somewhat. Yet he was to test its weight many times over before finally succumbing to temptation and taking a peek at what was inside.
The paper was stuck down with sticky tape, and it looked like a label had been torn off. He peeled it open carefully and undid the green and red holly wrapping so as to be able to re-seal everything afterwards. Even in her absence he did not want Katie to find out that he had not kept his promise. Inside the wrapping was a small plain white box. There had been no message on the outside, but Katie had neatly written something on the lid. It read: 'Merry Christmas Darling. Let's put these to good use sometime. Love and Kisses, Katie. XXXXX.'
Malcolm read the message several times. He wondered whether the wording had been meant for Richard Davies or himself. He decided that it did not matter. She had explained that they were originally meant for 'old fuck-face' as she had called him, but they were his now. Katie was wonderful and this was her present to him. Suddenly all his aches and pains evaporated, and he lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in tissue, he found a pair of chrome handcuffs and two small keys. He smiled. It was the sort of thing she would buy on impulse, and he loved her for it.
He lay back on the pillow and returned his gaze to the ceiling. Immediately his vivid imagination came into play, and within seconds he was conjuring up images of Katie standing naked with her arms handcuffed behind her back. By the very nature of the action she would be hot and wanton, and begging of him to fuck her hard. That was Katie all over. She was the most adorable creature under the sun and he loved her dearly. Dreamily he kissed the handcuffs lightly and tested the keys in the locks. Everything worked smoothly and he opened and closed the bracelets several times before giving them a rest.
Still fingering the handcuffs, Malcolm turned his thoughts to Katie's message on the box saying: 'Let's put these to good use sometime'. Well together they most probably would. His own possibilities were boundless, and he could think of unlimited ways of putting them to the 'good use' she asked for. On her return they would play a little game. He would take her by surprise, pouncing on her from the shadows and handcuffing her arms behind her back. Then he would march her away to his hideout and force her to submit to his every demand. She would love every minute of it he felt sure.
His mind embroidered on all the endless permutations afforded by the new toy. For starters he would grab her as she entered the building after a day at work, or as she came up the stairs, or even as she was taking a shower. A new picture of Katie gelled as he visualised her standing naked on the bathroom floor, her arms handcuffed behind her back, and with her ginger hair still dripping wet from the shower.
But what should he do with her next? It would be too simple just to fuck her there and then. The game had to be far more involved than that. Katie would want it no other way. The kidnapping had to be just the start of what, by its very nature, would be a very long and drawn out affair, and the bathroom was definitely not the place for what he had in mind. The initial abduction scene in the bathroom was fine, but after that the action needed to be in a far more sinister location to advance his game on to its logical conclusion. So what better place could there be than the new dungeon? He could think of nothing more apt or suitable!
Malcolm's thoughts progressed as he considered what steps to take next. The scene changed again. Now Katie was standing by the low ropes next to the aisle waiting to enter the arena of pain. She was naked, still dripping wet from the shower, and with arms handcuffed behind her back. To start with he considered the rack, or tormentor as she called it. He would strap her down then slowly set about turning the wheel. He embroidered on the idea to the point where the sight of Katie's naked body, stretched out on the wooden bed brought a stiffness to his penis.
The bulge in his pants signalled a change to his thought patterns. It could never happen. Not with Katie anyway. No matter how enjoyable, there was absolutely no way he could ever contemplate doing such wicked things to the one he loved. The fiery redhead meant so much to him, and the more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he could never subject her to any ordeal that involved any unbearable physical pain. She may be a bondage freak and capable of enduring a little discomfort, but even Katie had her limits.
He tried to think of something more suitable, something less painful, something like a cane perhaps. He cast his mind back to time when she was pinned in the pillory. She had begged him to be locked inside, and he had willingly obliged by dropping the board. He recalled the pleasure of looking up her skirt for the first time, and of his promiscuous thoughts regarding the tanning of her backside. But somehow even this action failed to grab the attention and his thoughts returned to the allure of the rack. This mediaeval device of torture somehow invoked his concentration far more powerfully than that of the pillory, and soon all images of Katie's tight little arse were to fade into the background. Instead a new train of thought began to develop. If not Katie on the rack, then why not Tracy Goodyear? Ultimately it was what both of them wanted, even if for totally different reasons.
Malcolm's deliberations began to take on a fresh impetus. To start with he had to consider the initial abduction. How would he go about it? And where? At Tracy Goodyear's house perhaps? That was now a distinct possibility. Thanks to Jimmy Jones' letter he knew exactly where she lived, and precisely where she would be at seven-thirty that very evening. At least that established a time and a place, but what about the kidnapping itself? Well, to begin with he could pose as Jimmy Jones. Malcolm was practically the same height and build as the chauffeur, and Mr. McTavish's car was virtually identical. Furthermore there were uniforms to be found in the stockroom, plus many other items such as false beards and glasses lying around. In fact the more he thought about it, the more he began to realise that everything needed to create the perfect disguise lay at his disposal. He pondered over everything in fine detail. Perhaps it was possible after all. He not only had a time and a place, but also a means of getting her into a car. So what were the possibilities of actually doing it? The road between the old castle and Littlesea was a long and winding one with plenty of little parking spots amongst the dunes. He could pull in to one of those, restrain her with the handcuffs, gag and blindfold her, then quickly whisk her back to the complex. On the face of  it, it all seemed very simple. But was it? Slowly he came round to the conclusion that there possibly was an outside chance of getting away with it.
He pondered further, re-running the thoughts over and over in his mind.
Could he possibly abduct Tracy Goodyear under these circumstances and get away with it?
It was an awfully big question to answer.
He got out of bed to stand looking out of the window. To his surprise the sight of the beach and the railings had disappeared. The fog Jimmy had spoken about in Alf's café had arrived whilst he had been asleep. The change in the weather was the deciding factor. The promised thick blanket of freezing fog could prove the perfect cover for what he wanted to achieve.
He made up his mind there and then to seize Miss Tracy Goodyear that very evening.

7:00 p.m.

Just after seven o'clock Malcolm Smith set off for Castle Point driving Mr. McTavish's black Jaguar car. Since darkness fell a dense fog had descended leaving visibility down  to just a few metres in places. The temperature had also dropped to below freezing making driving conditions very hazardous. As a result he allowed himself more time than usual, for what, under normal circumstances, would  be a fifteen minute journey.
The teenager left the Amusement Park via the back service gates. The park itself was near enough square in proportion, and surrounded on three sides by iron railings, The fourth backed on to the gardens of a row of big Victorian houses in the street behind.
The back entrance was sited in a gap between two of these houses, and the avenue beyond connected via a small private road flanked on either side by hedges and trees. The gates and locks had only recently been repaired and made workable again after many years neglect. He considered this route to be a much safer bet than using the main gates fronting the promenade. On reflection however, once out of the complex, it seemed that it did not really matter much anyway, since the fog was so dense no-one would have seen him leaving whichever entrance he took.
Dressed in a chauffeur's uniform he looked smart, but the false beard and glasses did him little favours. He hoped that he would not be scrutinised too closely. Naturally nervous, yet with a steely determination about him, he set off for Castle Point. He had been up on the cliff tops once before, driven there by Mr. McTavish on a sight seeing tour when he first arrived at Littlesea. He was therefore aware that the badly marked and poorly signposted Old Coast Road, after arcing around the bay behind the dunes and climbing the steep hill to Castle Point, came to an abrupt halt somewhere out by the castle ruins. He recalled that there was a parking area next to the castle for hikers and sightseers to leave their cars, and there was also a little cluster of cottages nearby. One of those would be No. 3, Cliff Top Cottages, but he did not know which. He hoped that it was one of a group of three that he remembered and could pull up outside. He had thought about a quick reconnoitre but had decided against it. If he took the van and was seen, then the odds were that someone would remember the name on the side, and if he went in Mr. McTavish's car somebody was bound to report that a big  black limousine had been hanging about all night. He decided to make just the one trip and take everything as it came.
The black Jaguar car climbed the winding road to Castle Point, came over the brow of the hill and slipped silently up to the row of small cottages he had identified earlier. There was a track opposite that led down to a further cluster of scattered dwellings, but he doubted that a number three would be down there. The ones he wanted were to his right so he pulled across the road to read the numbers on the gates as he crawled by. The freezing fog appeared denser away from the sea, and was beginning to cling to the front of the car and the backs of the wing mirrors. He wound the electric window down on the driver's door and leaned out in order to detect the numbers on the gates. With much difficulty he found what he was looking for: He read first a one, then a two, then a big number three nailed to the gate of the end cottage. This was the dwelling nearest the castle ruins. Having located what he was looking for he moved on, swung around in the Castle Trust parking area, then returned to pull up right outside Number Three.
The time on the dashboard clock indicated that there were three minutes to go before half past seven. Malcolm had been forced to drive very slowly and considered this to be near perfect timing. He peered through the gloom at the garden gate and noted that the path led straight up to the front door of the cottage. There was a light on in a downstairs window and a porch-light burning outside, yet both were hardly visible through the dense freezing fog. As a precaution he had removed the bulbs from the rear number-plate lights of the Jaguar, and to be doubly sure he switched off the headlights before blowing on the horn. The blast appeared soft and muted in the still, grey freezing fog. He looked around for signs of life. There was not a sole about and no lights visible in the other two cottages.
The blast on the horn appeared to do nothing. All about him remaining still and silent in the shrouding mist. He considered whether Tracy Goodyear may had gone to Richard Davies's instead. He became anxious and began to worry. What if, for instance, her mother came down to say that her daughter had already gone? As he waited this seemed more and more the likely outcome. However, he always considered this part of his plan to be the most dangerous, and had already established in his mind that, if more than one person was to walk down the path, or for that matter if he was to be seen by anyone other than Tracy Goodyear, then he would simply drive away and abort the operation. He had this one escape route build into his little scheme, but if all went well and the girl he wanted stepped inside the car alone, then there would be a whole new ball game to play. From that point onwards he was determined to ensure that his devious plan would work. After all it was for Katie that he was doing all this, and she mattered more to him than anything else in the whole wide world.
He found himself getting impatient and he blew on the horn again, this time much louder and for a much longer duration. A curtain moved in the downstairs window and a face peered out. Someone at number three had at least heard the horn. So far so good! He peeped on the horn to signal recognition and looked away. The last thing he wanted at this stage was to be identified. To follow his plan accurately he needed Tracy Goodyear to come down the garden path on her own and get into the back seat of the car without any assistance from himself. As the tension mounted his nervousness increased. There was still so much that could go wrong, and he considered pulling out before he could become accused of any criminal activity whatsoever.
The light in the window went out and the door to the front of the cottage opened to add a different rectangle of cloaked light to the gloom at the top of the path. Then a dark shadow appeared to scatter the light with movement. The lone figure stood for a moment in the doorway to tie a scarf about the head, then stepped out into the fog and to close the door behind her. Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief. Despite the poor visibility this did not look like an aged person. This just had to be Tracy Goodyear walking down the garden path towards him.
Malcolm waited for the figure to reach the gate then jumped out of the car with a duster in his hand. From the opposite side of the car, and leaning over the bonnet to clean the windscreen he called over the roof: "Jump in the back love! I'll be with you in a moment."
At no time did he look directly towards her. Instead he listened to what was going on. He heard the rear door to the car open and a female voice say: "You're early! They said at work you wouldn't be here till eight?"
Remaining low he replied through the cover of the smudged windscreen. "Sorry sweetheart! Change of plans. The fog's getting really bad and I've got two more journeys to do after this one," he told her. He hoped the voice sounded enough like Jimmy's not to arouse suspicion, and with the added "love's" and "sweetheart's" close enough to resemble his style of patter and reflection.
"Don't worry! I'm glad you came when you did. My mum and dad's gone out and I was alone and waiting anyway," came a reply from over the top of the car.
Malcolm smiled to himself. The news that she was alone was even better than he expected. "Jump in the back love!" he told her, and he gave the windscreen an extra little scrub while he waited for the sound of the rear passenger door closing.
He remained wiping until he heard a dull clunk, then returned to his seat and engaged drive in the automatic box. The inside of the car was in darkness on account that he had removed the bulbs from the interior lights. With just sidelights and tail-lights to guide her in the gloom, his passenger had climbed into the back seat unaided and settled down. Malcolm was relying on the fact that having just stepped out of the bright lights of the house her eyesight would not have had time enough to become accustomed to the dark conditions. But all the same, at no time did he turn his head in her direction, always keeping his face to the front and his eyes fixed firmly on the road before him. He set off at a very slow pace, which in truth was something he was forced to do anyway because of the dense fog and the torturous drive down the twisting steep hill to the dunes and the beach below.
At a point he considered about halfway between Castle Point and the outskirts of Littlesea, Malcolm pulled off the road into a parking spot between the dunes. He gave his passenger no time to question what was going on. He simply jumped out of the car and called: "Sorry sweetheart, this is no good! I've got to wipe the headlights! Can't see a blind thing out there!" And he slammed the door behind him.
He wiped the headlights hoping to look realistic and circled the car to the back. "Just get the frost off the tail lights as well!" he called as he passed the back door on the opposite side of the car to where the girl was seated.
Working his way around the car, he wiped the rear lights and edged his way to the back door where Tracy Goodyear sat. Through the rear window he could see her facing the front, a scarf about her head. He prepared the handcuffs, opened the door and pushed her flat against the seat. She was taken completely by surprise. Before she had time to object he had one arm up behind the back and a bracelet about the wrist. "Don't move or say a word or I'll cut your bleeding throat!" he hissed menacingly as he drew the other arm around behind her back.
Within seconds he had the handcuffs on her wrists and a large black felt bag placed over her head. On deliberation he had considered a bag to be more practical than a blindfold, on account that it was much quicker and easier to apply. The girl, to begin with, issued a few startled yelps and put up a token resistance. But once the bag was over her head with the strings pulled taught about her neck, she stopped struggling.
"Don't move a muscle!" he hissed. "One sound out of you and you're dead meat!… Do you understand?… Dead meat!…"
He waited for a response but nothing came. The girl was rigid with shock. Impatient for an answer he shook her hard and shouted: "Understand?… Answer me!…"
This time her head nodded momentarily and a muffled voice from within the bag answered: "Yes!"
"Good!" he told her. "Now stay down on the seat like that and don't move a muscle… Keep your head down and you won't get hurt..." And with that he raised up her legs so as she lay completely flat across the back seat, then slammed the door shut.
Malcolm returned to the driver's seat and set off, driving slowly and cautiously until he came to the T-junction where the minor road met the main road between Littlesea and Whitecliffs Bay. He looked both ways. There were scattered orange street lights along this section, but at best he could just about make out one in either direction. A car crawling woefully out from Littlesea turned into the coast road and set off in the direction he had just painfully negotiated. There was a light on the roof and at first he thought it to be a police car, but as it passed he could see that it was in reality a taxi. He waited for the tail-lights to disappear from sight in his mirror before moving off. He was both relieved and pleased. If that was to be the only car he was to meet throughout the whole of his journey then he could have no complaints.
He returned to the complex via the same back service gates, getting out of the car to unlock them and then re-locking them once inside. The same procedures applied to the roller-shutter doors of the huge loading bay area inside the main building were both the Company van and Mr. McTavish's Jaguar were housed.
Malcolm closed the bay doors and returned to the car. The false beard was uncomfortable so he peeled it off and discarded it to the roof of the car along with his glasses and the chauffeur's hat. Thankfully the disguise had served its purpose and did not matter any more, and besides, his intentions were to keep the bag was over the girl's head until she was stripped naked and strapped to the rack.
Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief, picked off the remaining remnants of glue from his chin then opened up the rear door. His captive had not moved and remained lying face down across the back seat. Harshly he grabbed her by the wrists and dragged her out of the car. A brown handbag fell out and hit the floor spreading lipsticks, comb, hairbrush, handkerchief and loose change about the place. He ignored the mess: He would tidy it all up later. The girl was wearing a thick and long winter coat plus an even  longer heavy skirt to protect herself from the bitter cold. Both were in a matching dark brown along with a pair of high-heeled shoes in the same colour. He stood her on her feet and turned her around to face his direction. She tottered unsteadily before finding her balance. In that fleeting instance Malcolm realised that something had gone horribly wrong. The figure before him was of a small, slim build, and stood no more than five feet four in height even in high-heeled shoes. What was more alarming however was the absence of those huge bouncing breasts he had so furtively espied through the window of Katie's old flat.
Without thinking he snatched off the hood. The scarf beneath had worked loose and fallen forward to cover the girl's face. He pulled it off without bothering to undo the knot. "Who the bleeding heck are you?" he screamed as he shook her by the shoulders.
Through big blue eyes that had just become exposed to the light the girl blinked back in shock. She was a young scrawny and leggy lass of about sixteen or seventeen, of medium height with short blonde hair that had been cut level with the back of the head and curled forward at the front to swoop about the ears and come to a point at the cheeks.
He shook her vigorously again. "Who the bleeding heck are you?… Come on!… Tell me!…" he demanded feverishly.
Between physical shakes she croaked: "I'm... Err.. W... W... W.. Wendy.. Wendy Bartlett!"
"Where the fuck's Tracy... Tracy Goodyear then?" he asked adding another violent shake to the body.
"T.. Tracy.. Goodyear?...  She lives over the road from me!" she replied obviously knowing the girl in question.
In that instant Malcolm realised what had gone wrong and he let go of her shoulders. "Oh God!… Fuck!…" he swore.
The girl sniffed and regained her balance from the shaking.
"Where do you live?… What's your address?…" he demanded.
She sniffled again before answering: "Three... Three, Old Castle Cottages," she told him.
Malcolm shook his head. He had heard the worst. "Where's Three, Cliff Top Cottages then?" he demanded.
"It's... It's... down the lane opposite... The Goodyear's live down there... at the other number three… People often get it wrong!" she replied nervously to her abductor.
He collected his thoughts. What a stupid mistake to make. Like a idiot he had gone to the wrong cottage and kidnapped the wrong girl. "Who were you expecting then? Who was meant to pick you up tonight?" he quizzed frantically.
"A taxi...," she replied. "A taxi organised from work was meant to pick me up. To take me to their Christmas dinner. I thought you were the taxi come for me!"
Malcolm recalled seeing a taxi at the T-junction. That could prove dangerous, but he doubted whether the driver had taken much notice. The man had been concentrating on the road. "Where were you off to then? Kryton's party I suppose?" he suggested with a despairing little shrug to his shoulders.
"N.. n.. No... I don't work there... I work for Littlesea Printing," she told him nervously, then added: "You've gone and got the wrong person haven't you? Oh let me go please! I promise I won't tell anybody. It's Tracy Goodyear  you're after isn't it?... Not me?"
"Shut up!" he snapped. He was trying to think.
"Please!" she begged again. "I won't tell anyone! I promise! Please let me go!"
Malcolm's patience snapped, and he pulled the felt bag back over her head in order to shut her up. Shaking her violently, he bawled: "Shut up will you! Do you hear me? Shut up or I'll shut you up... permanently!"
She got  the message instantly and remained silent despite the viscous shaking.
Malcolm's thoughts were in turmoil. "Right! Walk!" he snapped spinning her round through ninety degrees and shoving her towards a door in the far corner of the loading bay. His immediate plan was simple enough. He would take her to the dungeon and restrain her somehow so that she could not escape. Right this minute he needed breathing space in which to think.
From the loading bay he directed the girl along a corridor, down the back stairs, across the empty hall of the basement and on into the grotto.
"Right halt! Stand perfectly still," he told her as they entered the dungeon display area to stand before one of the cells.
She stopped immediately as instructed.
Stood with arms handcuffed behind her back and a bag over her head, Malcolm retained his hands upon the girl's shoulders and pondered on how best to deal with the new situation. If all had gone according to plan, his initial actions would have been to relieve Tracy Goodyear of all her clothes the moment they arrived down here. In that respect nothing had changed. However he tried to think clearly and positively, and not do anything rash. Was this really necessary in this case? He came to the conclusion that unfortunately it was. If only for his own piece of mind he wanted to be certain that she carried nothing on her person that would aid an escape. The solution as he saw it, was to strip her of all her possessions and lock her in a cell for the night. After that he could return to his room and have a good think as to what to do next.
With this revised plan now set firmly in his mind, he dropped his hands from her shoulders and moved to one side. He eyed the girl up and down and considered the best way of removing all her many layers of winter apparel. The truth was, he had never physically stripped a girl before. Even Katie had gone about the task without any assistance from himself. What he really wanted was an efficient way of undressing her without giving any chance of escape. Then he had a bright idea. There was a crate full of leg irons somewhere in the exit cave. A set for every one of the fifty alcoves. If he could retain the handcuffs and bag in position on the girl until such time as he had the legs secured, then he could see no possible way of her escaping.
Tentatively he undid the bottom buttons of the girl's long coat and pulled the flaps apart. He wanted to see whether there was a way of dropping the skirt without removing the handcuffs. However, immediately on sensing a hand come in contact with her thighs the girl instinctively backed away.
"No!… Please don't!…" she begged in a voice deadened by the material of the bag.
"I told you to keep quiet and stay still didn't I!" hissed Malcolm, then threatening her with dire consequences he added: "Make one more move like that and you're dead!… Do you understand?"
The girl froze immediately. She was naturally petrified and gave no reply.
"Understand?" he bawled again and shook her viscously by the arms in order to gain a response.
The girl motioned with several nods to the head, and a muffled voice from within the bag replied chokingly: "Yes... I... understand!"
"I don't want any more trouble from you… You just stand there and don't move!.. Do you understand what I am saying?" he hissed with an added little shake to the body.
She returned another little nod followed by a few sobs and a quietly resigned: "Yes... I... understand!"
"Good girl," he praised.
Satisfied that she would give him no more trouble, he set to work. Fumbling beneath the coat he located the zip to her skirt and pulled it down. There was not much hips to the girl and what proved to be a long heavy garment simply fell to the ground.
Steadying her about the waist he told her: "Step forward a bit."
She did so, shuffling forward blindly until she could  no longer feel the skirt beneath her feet.
"Now your shoes," he instructed as soon as she was clear. "This leg first," he added whilst tapping on her left shin. The girl raised the leg and teetered on the spot. Malcolm held her steady and removed the shoe.
"Now the other one!" he said next.
She lifted up the other leg and Malcolm slipped the second shoe from off the foot.
Standing in stocking feet he told her: "Good girl, now that wasn't too difficult was it?"
She shuffled uneasily and nodded in response.
"Good!" he repeated. "Now let's see what else we've got under here," he added opening out the long coat at the front and assessing what problems lay beneath.
On reflection the task did not seem too difficult. He expected to find stockings and a suspender belt, but discovered only tights and panties to negotiate. He set to work. Being a quick learner the girl remained motionless as Malcolm hooked his thumbs beneath the waist elastics of the tights and, with a sharp tug, dragged them down to the feet. Then, getting her to raise each leg in turn, and with a little additional assistance to retain the balance, he stripped the tights away from the ends of the toes.
For the first few seconds of the operation, the girl's panties had moved along with the tights. Not a tremendous distance, but enough to expose a tuft of light blonde, fuzzy, pubic hair. Malcolm thought for a moment before drawing the panties back up around the waist. He decided it best to keep a little bit of dignity in the proceedings, at least for the time being anyhow.
"For being a such good girl you can keep these on," he told her as he patted her lightly on the backside.
Malcolm looked again beneath the heavy coat. From the waist downwards the only thing she wore were the panties. They were a dark blue in colour. There was also nothing sensuous about them. Standard issue schoolgirl knickers was probably the best way to describe them.
"Keep still and don't move," he reminded her before making his next move.
From beneath the bag a muffled voice spoke: "I won't!"
The response was enough to convince him that the girl was not likely to do anything silly. He released the front of the coat and moved away quickly into the exit passageway to locate a couple of crates that he needed. He returned after several minutes bringing with him a set of fetters and chain, another separate chain of about a dozen links, and two rather large and bulky padlocks. He dropped them all to the ground with a clatter next to the girl's feet. The noise startled her and she instinctively jumped away. For a second she seemed to lose her balance. Malcolm reacted quickly, caught her by the arm and steadied her.
"Stand still and open out your legs just a little," he told her once equilibrium had been restored.
She shuffled her feet to stand as instructed.
Malcolm knelt down and locked the leg-irons about the ankles. Just six links of chain joined the two fetters together, that was all. He stood up and smiled. From this point onwards, if she wanted to move against his wishes, then that could only be achieved by shuffling along and taking very short steps. He decided to keep them on whatever he did in the future.
Feeling more at ease with what he was doing, Malcolm unlocked the handcuffs from behind her back and set about removing the remainder of her clothes. First there was the coat. He undid the last of the buttons and dragged it down and away from the arms. Next came a thick warm crew-neck pullover. This needed some stout tugging from over the head before it came away. A white blouse with frilly collar and cuffs followed. It was fastened down the front by a row of awkward little buttons. But once undone the rest came away easily enough.  Finally he removed a primrose yellow slip. Again she helped by raising up her arms as he slipped it over her head.
He stepped away and shook his head in disbelief at what he was seeing. What an awful dress sense this girl had, with absolutely no colour sense whatsoever. Whereas Katie had gone out of her way to wear all black, this girl had not bothered to co-ordinate any of her underwear. Her knickers were a dark blue, her bra was a sort of lilac colour in shade, and the slip that once covered them a tasteless shade of yellow. He wanted to say something but decided against it. As disgusting as it might be, he would allow her to keep her bra and knickers on for the time being. She was only a thin slip of a girl anyway, and compared with Katie's voluptuous figure there was nothing here to get excited about whatsoever.
 Malcolm placed his hands upon the girl's shoulders and steered her towards the cell that faced the thumbscrew exhibit. She shuffled along under his guidance taking one small step at a time. Once there he opened the gate, turned her around so as to face the front and manoeuvred her backwards to stand against the rear wall.
"Open out your legs," he told her.
She complied to the width of the chain.
Working between her legs Malcolm padlocked the second chain to the ring in the wall and a to the links between the legs. Now he felt safe and doubly protected. His first line of defence was the leg-irons, his second the bars that sealed the entrance to the alcove. He closed the gate, set the padlock and tested the bars. Nothing moved, and all thanks to Mr. McTavish's insistence on authenticity.
He stepped away to take one final look before retiring. Wendy Bartlett stood in the cell, partly hidden by the bars. Just a thin slip of a girl wearing just her bra and panties. The black felt bag remained on her head, yet her hands were free to do with what she liked. She could remove it whenever she wanted. But all the same she could not escape. Her legs were locked in fetters which were chained to the wall. Beyond that a solid gate confined her to the alcove. Malcolm smiled. This was good. As far as he could tell everything appeared safe and secure and he nodded his approval. At least he could rest in the knowledge that she would still be there in the morning. In the mean time he had a lot of thinking to do. Maybe by tomorrow he will have come up with a scheme of what best to do with her.
"You can take the bag off whenever you like," he told her, then added a bit of advice: "Try and get a good nights sleep and I will visit you again in the morning. So good night Wendy! Pleasant dreams!"
And with that he gathered up all her things and left her to contemplate her future.

End of Chapter Three