Roses Are Redheads
by Ty M Goode

Author's Note: I wrote this as a One-Shot, with an option to continue in the future. Problem is, I haven't much storyline developed beyond this point. I'm sure other contributors can relate to the difficulty of sustaining a story once the excitement of initial capture is complete. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it.

"What d'ya think?" Capt. Schuster asked the detective sitting across the desk from him.

Detective 3rd Grade Tristyn Delaware's expression was noncommittal, but her superior could read the interest creasing the policewoman's pleasing features. Schuster took little notice of his subordinate's beauty. Not that he was above such things, nor too old. When dealing with officers under his command, or any member of law enforcement for that matter, he put on blinders that allowed him to treat each one with equal concern. His number one priority was to keep them out of harm's way, be it a shapely female detective or a 240 lb. beat cop.

"I don't know, chief." Tristyn finally answered. "It could be a legitimate effort to cleanse his troubled soul, or just an attempt to stall being transferred to Fruitland." (Fruitland, Maryland, was the site of a new, maximum security facility to house the criminally insane. Law enforcers had tried to come up with a better nickname for it, but "Fruitland" just seemed too appropriate.)

"Well, I don't have to tell you how manipulative he can be." Schuster cautioned. "After all, you were one of the primaries involved in his arrest."

It was true. Tristyn had unraveled a thread of evidence the perpetrator had left, that had been previously overlooked. Then, acting as a decoy, she'd been instrumental in the capture of the infamous "Pocono Prowler". Now, the "Prowler", one Gregory Lipscomb, had made it known he would trade evidence on the three women still missing for a reduced sentence or, at the very least, another psychological examination by a doctor of his choosing. His one stipulation, he'd talk only to Detective Tristyn Delaware.

Everyone involved in the case knew that Lipscomb stood a snowball's chance in hell of overturning his conviction. But, if bringing closure to three families required nothing more than a 90 minute drive from Philly to Kutztown, PA, Tristyn thought it a very small price to pay. "Well," the detective answered, "I've been itching to get out of the city. At the very least, I'll come back with some apple butter and shoofly pie."

Schuster nodded his agreement, and that was that. Both present wanted to keep this under the radar. Lipscomb's exploits and subsequent trial had been a jackpot for the news media. The buzz was just now dying down; other calamities around the globe making the "Prowler" yesterday's news. Neither wanted this sicko back in the limelight again. Phone calls were made. Detective Delaware would be there at 10 am the following morning.

* * *

Tristyn pulled the city car up to the gate, surveying the compound that lay beyond. "Disrepair" was a charitable description for the condition of the stone structure that rose up from the clearing. More than half of the barred windows visible had been sealed off with plywood. The landscaping hadn't seen a sickle nor shears in eons and the driveway looked like a bombed-out runway. The rain-swollen clouds overhead didn't improve the picture any.

Delaware flashed her badge to the security guard (whose eyes practically popped out of his head at the sight of the driver) and was allowed to pass through. She swerved up the drive like a drunkard, dodging potholes in an effort to spare the car's suspension. Parking in the main lot, which was filled to less than 25% capacity, she checked her makeup one last time.

Both she and her boss had agreed that Lipscomb might be a little more cooperative if teased with the right kind of bait. Normally while on duty, and frequently when off, Tristyn rarely used even lipstick. Her fresh-faced appearance was more than enough to knock bad guys off their guard, whilst putting victims and witnesses at ease.

Far from appearing "tarted up", Tristyn was pleased with her careful preparation. Her coral colored lips glistened with a like-colored gloss. A light application of blush enhanced, rather than concealed the spattering of freckles on her cheekbones, and a touch of eye shadow only hinted at their smoky potential. Emerald green irises sparkled back at her with anticipation of the game about to begin.

This is why she'd gotten into law enforcement, the opportunity to put bad people where they belong. She'd realized early on that her appearance was as much a weapon against crime as was her brain, badge, and sidearm. More than once, her build and beauty had caused perpetrators to underestimate her, resulting their prolonged stays behind bars.

Exiting the car, Tristyn took time to smooth out the navy blue skirt that was long enough to be professional, tight enough to be provocative. A pair of nude colored pantyhose clung to toned legs, which ended in a pair of expensive looking shoes with functional 2" heels. The navy colored jacket buttoned tightly around her waist, yet softened the curve of her back to the swell of her firm rump. The crisp, white, high collared blouse was a bit on the snug side, open enough to reveal a slender golden chain around her throat, but concealing all but the promise of her B-Cup bust.

Her hair had taken the least amount of effort, a quick shower and conditioner, followed by a brief brushing had left the tight ringlets of copper shimmering even in this gloomy light. Normally, she'd have pulled her shoulder length hair back into a more functional ponytail, but Tristyn thought that a properly timed brushing back of an errant strand from her face might yield bigger dividends.

She strode confidently into the building and up to the receptionist's desk. If anything, the interior of the building was more forlorn than outside. The frumpy receptionist had her sign in, then led her down the short hall to the guard's booth. There, Tristyn handed in her sidearm, the skirt negating her the opportunity to wear her backup, .25 caliber ankle holster. Told to wait for escort, the detective took in her surroundings.

Worn, warped, moss-green linoleum floors gave way to puke green painted walls. These in turn were capped with dingy white ceilings blotched with numerous water stains and cracks. Tristyn couldn't figure out why Lipscomb didn't want to leave this depressing place for the admittedly sterile, but climate controlled environs of Fruitland, with its rec center and satellite TV.

Further ruminations were interrupted as the nurse/escort arrived. The detective was taken back by the appearance of a relatively attractive blonde. She thought a matron shaped like a battleship more suitable for this place. The nurse introduced herself as "Trixie", no less, and asked Tristyn to follow. The conversation as they walked deeper into the bowels of the asylum was professional, focusing on the patient, rather than what had led each woman to this moment.

"I'm afraid Mr. Lipscomb had a rather bad turn this morning." Trixie explained. "So much so that the use of restraints was required. My administrator called your captain and it was decided not to cancel your interview, and since then the patient has calmed somewhat, but we've left him straight-jacketed as a precaution."

They reached a door similar to countless others they'd passed, this one different for the guard standing beside it. The guard, having seen them approaching, turned and peered through the door's slotted viewport. Apparently satisfied, he slid the bolt free and swung the portal open, his back temporarily facing the two women. The guard's rumpled uniform was more in line with the declining state of the facility. Batons having been outlawed, his belt was equipped with pepper spray, tazer and handcuffs.

"At least this dude is prepared." thought Tristyn. She let Trixie enter first, then followed. Seated behind a steel table was the person she'd come to see. His head was cloaked with a thick canvas sack, the fabric stained with the sweat and drool of countless previous patients. Tristyn knew that this method of sensory deprivation and pacification was frowned upon, but, like Gitmo, not yet illegal. The detective figured her sudden appearance when the hood was removed might even give her more of a "Wow" factor.

The patient sat upright, arms involuntarily hugging himself within the confines of the canvas straight jacket. Detective Delaware could see beneath the table that the chain of his leg shackles passed behind the front legs of the steel chair upon which he sat. A similar chair sat vacant across from him, awaiting his interrogator. Receiving a nod from the cop, Trixie reached out and yanked off the hood.

Now, the human brain is indeed a wondrous organ, basically a super computer the likes of which could never be replicated. It can sift through and analyze data at a phenomenal rate, often anticipating future events with astonishing accuracy. However, as with man's clumsy efforts to reproduce such performance with the silicon chip, the sum total of its conclusions is only as good as the information provided. That said, too much, or conflicting data, can cause the brain to "reset", temporarily locking up, just like its electronic copycats.

Thus was the case when the hood came off, revealing not the face of Gregory Lipscomb, but of a portly stranger with a swollen eye and a face half obscured with duct tape. Tristyn looked up at the now smiling face of Nurse Trixie, then back at the stranger before her. This was a completely unanticipated development.

The analytical part of her brain was just beginning to inform her of the physical similarities between the guard who'd opened the cell door and the man she'd come to interview when a pair of cold spots pressed against her neck. Where logic and deduction had temporarily failed her, Tristyn's brain regressed thousands of years and allowed instinct to kick in. The detective began reaching for her sidearm, not yet remembering it was safely locked within a steel cage, when her world exploded in an odd mixture of pain and numbness.

Her breath rushed from her in a raspy wheeze and her muscles twitched uncontrollably. Tristyn was helpless to keep from pitching forward, where her face would impact painfully with the tabletop. At the last instant, a pair of hands wrapped around her torso and lowered her to the table with a far less damaging 'thud!'

The fingers at her midsection curled, then jerked back sharply, ripping open her blouse and jacket at the same time. The detective's numb arms were wrenched behind her as the upper half of her wardrobe was pulled free. Giving Tristyn credit, she tried to claw through the gray haze and lash out at her assailant, but her limbs remained unresponsive.

She heard the distinctive staccato click of handcuffs and felt the corresponding bite around her right wrist. Her arm was twisted up so that her hand rested between her shoulder blades. With her face pressed against the cool surface of the table, Tristyn's mouth gulped like a fish out of water, trying to regain control of the situation, call for help, plead for mercy, anything. About the only thing she could manage was a hiss of pain as her left arm was twisted up high and tightly cuffed.

She couldn't see the thin band of plastic being threaded through the links of the cuffs, but could certainly feel it pass across her throat. Nor could she miss the dry, raspy sound of a cable tie drawing closed. This sound corresponded with a thin, choking pressure across her windpipe and the fierce tension pulling her fettered wrists even higher up her spine. Breathing had suddenly become a challenge.

Tristyn was jerked upright, then plopped down on the interview chair with a spine-jarring impact. Her hair was curtained across her face, obscuring her vision. Sight returned, albeit painfully, as her attacker grabbed a handful of her coppery locks and yanked her head back, leaving the detective squinting into the harsh glare of the steel meshed florescent lights in the ceiling. A hand grasping a clump of gray hovered into view.

The gray...whatever, began forcing itself into her gaping mouth. She could do nothing but experience the sensation of, first her right cheek and then her left, helplessly bulge out as the fabric (she now comprehended) was rammed in place. Tristyn's tongue was forced flat as yet more material was shoved down the center. She gagged and retched, as her airway was nearly completely blocked. Even though her jaw was jacked completely open, she still felt excess cloth spilling out of her mouth, caressing her lips. The detective instinctively knew that she'd require assistance in removing the massive amount of packing.

There came an odd ripping sound, followed quickly by a sticky sensation on her cheek. She caught a passing glimpse of a roll of duct tape darting past her nose, its sticky path running right between her glossy lips. The tape passed around her head once, twice, three times before it was ripped free. In the process, the packing compressed more than she thought possible within her mouth, assuming the consistency of concrete.

Her rapidly clearing senses couldn't comprehend why the tape was once again stuck to her cheek. To the detective's disbelief, it spun tightly under her chin, then over the top of her head and back down again, making two complete circuits. This additional pressure forced her to clench down involuntarily on the wadding. And as if this wasn't enough, yet more tape was wound around her head five additional turns, crushing her face from nostrils to chin.

Tristyn was yanked to her wobbly feet and shoved forward. Her hips hit the edge of the table hard, a firm pressure on the middle of her back causing her to lay across the table once more. A hand grabbed the waistband of her skirt, the sound of tearing fabric coinciding with the ruined garment ending in a puddle around her ankles. The detective's pantyhose quickly followed. Dressed now in only a matching set of mint green, demi- bra and briefs, Tristyn tried to put an end to this madness.

"hhmmnnnghhh!!!" She protested. The feeble wheeze she heard left her completely flabbergasted. A scream that loud should have been heard for miles, but the mouth packing and tape had snuffed it out like a candle. Things were beginning to look bad.

Fire around her ankles accompanied the sound of yet another ziptie being drawn tight. The strong hands flipped her on to her back, resulting in the handcuffs snicking another notch tighter as they were pressed between herself and the table. A trousered leg snaked between her pinioned ones, causing her thighs to part slightly. A shadow passed over her. Tristyn focused in on the leering face of Gregory Lipscomb.

"Detective Delaware," he said, "so nice to see you again."

As she'd belatedly figured out, Lipscomb was dressed in the guard's uniform. Only now did she notice how poorly it fit, but the ruse had served its purpose. Ice ran up her spine as the imposter's hand pressed on her ribcage, millimeters from her satin and lace clad breasts. Tristyn held her breath, but the hand that moved was not the one that worried her. That would soon change.

The detective caught sight of a long, 'T' shaped cable tie in Lipscomb's free hand. The faux guard deftly passed one portion around her waist, tightened it, made a minor adjustment and tightened it again. The sharp edged plastic dug into the soft flesh above her hipbones, all but disappearing. Tristyn couldn't see the "tail" section jutting out from beneath her rump, floating in space between her legs.

"Perhaps you're wondering why Correctional Officer Epstein here," gesturing toward the straight jacketed stranger, "didn't attempt to warn you of this sudden change in events," Lipscomb queried.

"In addition to being gagged and hooded, Mr. Epstein is holding a parcel for me that assures his silence."

In answer to Tristyn's unspoken question, the "Pocono Prowler" held up a bullet shaped device. Roughly 3" long and 1-½" in diameter, the object was made of clear plastic. Trapped within the transparent casing appeared to be more than a dozen, evenly spaced, 3/8" spheres. Between the gaps was a greenish-gray substance that resembled modeling clay. Dangling from the ominous cylinder was a tail-like wire.

"C4," Lipscomb explained, "just over 85 grams. Add to that 18 ball bearings and you've got yourself one hell of a party favor."

"Epstein here," the "Prowler" gestured to the guard, "currently has one nestled up his poop shoot. With less than a year before retirement, you can see why he's being so cooperative."

"How did I lay my hands on such nefarious materials?" He asked rhetorically. "Why, I have Nurse Trixie to thank for that. Although, you might know her better as Charlene Suffolk."

Tristyn's eyes grew wide at the mention of the name. She strained to look up and over her shoulder at the "nurse" standing behind her. Sure enough, the similarities were there, but so subtle as to be ignored. The different style and hair color, blue-tinted contact lenses, and makeup carefully applied to superficially alter the appearance of her bone structure had achieved their goals. The whereabouts of Charlene Suffolk, the second of the three missing women, was no longer a mystery. She stood in this very room. Questions swirled in the dumbfounded detective's head, leaving her unprepared for what came next.

With a quickness that caught her off guard, Lipscomb thrust his fingers under the waistband of Tristyn's panties. She felt the tapered end of the device press against the lips of her sex and tightened her muscles reflexively. But it was too little, too late. The probe must have been lubricated, for that and surprise allowed it to slide within her silken passage with relative ease. Lipscomb made a show of arranging her panties neatly back in place, then grasped the free floating cable tie.

While Detective Delaware was focused on ejecting the horrific intruder, the "Prowler" fed the tongue of the tie through its receptacle on the waist belt, just below her navel. He drew out the slack, checked the alignment, then threw his hand up to the ceiling as if starting a chainsaw.

"hhnnnnnmmphhhh!!!" Tristyn wailed, as the stiff plastic shrank into the hypersensitive clefts of her ass and vagina, dragging the satiny material of her panties with it.

The auburn curls of her neatly trimmed pubic hair now peeked out from the edges of the bunched up, delicate fabric and although unseen, had transformed the panties' back panel to near thong-like coverage in the blink of an eye. The cutting grip of the plastic was relentless, the detective's flesh having no option but to conform to its hideously unnatural dimensions. Instinctively, Tristyn tried to reach down and rip off the offending band. This only resulted in tightening the tie around her throat, choking her alarmingly. Using all her willpower, she worked her hands higher up her back and she could breath once more.

Holding up a small black box that was obviously a transmitter, the "Prowler" turned it so that Tristyn could see the strip of masking tape with the letters G-C-B printed on it. Below the tape was a dial, below that, a red button. "GUARD-COP-BOTH." Lipscomb said, turning the dial to point at each of the corresponding letters. He made an explosion-like motion with his hands, accompanied with the appropriate sound effect.

Her mind spinning, the policewoman could offer little resistance as the "Prowler" used more ties to trap her legs above and below the knees and around her upper thighs. Incredibly, once her shoes and pantyhose were yanked off, her big toes were lashed together with a plastic restraint. Lipscomb took an extra long ziptie and forced it between Tristyn's trapped thighs, capturing the band that pinioned them.

The Detective 3rd Grade was then slid off the table and forced to kneel on the hard floor. The "Prowler" passed the ends of the long tie around the redhead's ankle bonds. A series of powerful jerks later and Tristyn's thighs were glued inseparably to her calves. A last and longest tie passed behind her neck. When the ends looped behind the strap at her knees, the lump of dread mushroomed in her stomach. Although she tried to fight it, Tristyn's torso inexorably bent forward, aided by Lipscomb's knee planted firmly in her back.

She wound up folded like a beach chair, with her chin planted firmly between her kneecaps. The involuntary contortion was instantly intolerable. The severity of the ball-tie caused multiple stripes of agony, as hyper-flexed muscles in her legs and abdomen strained against unrelenting restraints, restraints that had to come off NOW! Unfortunately, her only option at the moment was to endure.

She felt herself lifted with apparent effortlessness and "sat" on the interview chair once more. If not for the chair's armrests, she would have easily toppled over. She gazed up at her assailant, trying unsuccessfully to keep the tears of pain from gathering in her beautiful green eyes.

"Well," Lipscomb announced, as Trixie/Charlene strode to the corner and expanded a wheeled, collapsible aluminum frame. From the frame hung what was obviously a canvas laundry sack. "I suppose we'd best be on our way. I apologize for such a clichéd method of transport, but sometimes the most obvious manner is the least likely to raise suspicion."

Trixie left the cart alongside Tristyn, then walked over and covered the guard's head once more with the canvas satchel, pulling its drawstring tight. The sack billowed slightly, accompanied a relieved, albeit abnormally hushed sigh. It was apparent that Epstein felt that his role in this fiasco was drawing to a close. It was.

Upon hearing the muted exclamation, Lipscomb decided to elaborate for the detective's benefit. "Yes, Mr. Epstein is quiet as a church mouse isn't he? Well, in addition to his little "backdoor buddy", I took the liberty of shoving his socks in his mouth before taping it shut. Hence his need for paper shoes."

"Don't feel neglected, Detective Delaware," he said, tapping Tristyn's puffed-out, tape swathed cheek and gazing into her wide eyes. "Epstein was kind enough to contribute to your predicament as well."

"How do his boxer/briefs taste, officer?" he said, letting the statement sink in. "I've learned that my custodian spends a great deal of time jacking off in the guard's lavatory. Must make for a 'gout interessant', hmm?"

Bile churned in Tristyn's stomach. If she hadn't noticed the salty secretions before, it was understandable. But now, the tang assailed the taste buds of her overstuffed mouth. She gagged and retched, making sharp, nasal snorts as she tried to keep from choking. The bad just kept on getting worse.

"Charlene," Lipscomb said to the counterfeit nurse, "would you be so kind as to escort Mr., "Patient Lipscomb" back to the isolation room? Please leave instructions that he's not to be disturbed for six hours. Thank you so much."

Tristyn watched as Trixie/Charlene helped the guard clothed in patient's scrubs to his feet and shuffle him out the door. No sooner had the door closed, when Lipscomb picked her bundled form up and deposited her ass-first into the laundry bag. The detective peered up forlornly and watched as the "Prowler" produced another canvas isolation sack. This one too, was stained and discolored by ages of continuous use.

"We've just but a few moments to wait, detective," he said, "then we'll be on our way. I'm afraid we have a bit of a car ride ahead of us, but I'm sure you'll do your best to get comfortable. On the upside, in about five hours time, you'll be able to have closure on the fate of the other two women still missing. The downside is, you've just become number four."

With that, Lipscomb drew the sack down over Tristyn's head and tightened the drawstring around her throat. The redhead was plunged into a stifling, inky blackness. Already, the air she breathed was foul and nauseating. "hhnnnnghffff!!!! she cried out, for help, for mercy, for release. As she felt the weight of linens dropping on top of her, she cried out once more. Lipscomb was pleased with the sound, or rather, the lack thereof wafting up from the pile of dirty clothes within the hamper.

Jerry Epstein shuffled along quickly, whilst being very mindful not to jostle himself too hard. At least the end of this nightmare was in sight. Besides the (literally) explosive ache in his backside, his balls screamed beneath the way-too-tight crotch strap of the straight jacket. One thing was for sure, when he got out of this, he was going to retire and sue the bejeezus out of the hospital.

He stood there meekly, listening as "Nurse Trixie" explained the isolation period to the two morons at the desk who didn't even recognize their co-worker standing in front of them. The guards indicated they would comply with the instructions. Why shouldn't they? Trixie had been working here for more than three months. Then Epstein was shuffling once more. His paper-clad feet left the hard tile floor and sank down into the padding of the isolation cell. The padding provided protection for violent patients, as well as sound-proofing to prevent headaches for the staff.

Inexplicably, he was spun around more than half a dozen times, leaving him totally disoriented. He felt the 'nurse' lean in closely and whisper in his ear. Guard Jerry Epstein went berserk, twisting and writhing in his straight jacket, staggering to and fro trying to find the door. 'Nurse Trixie' calmly left the room, locking the door as she did. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she still had seven minutes remaining.

Lipscomb too, was looking at his watch, the pained, harshly muffled grunts of a struggling detective keeping him company. At the proper time, he turned the dial on the transmitter to 'G' and pressed the button. From where he stood he could neither hear nor feel the distant "thump!" coming from the other side of the hospital. Without hesitation he opened the examination room door and wheeled out the laundry cart.

The guards in the isolation wing did indeed hear the thump, which was forceful enough to rattle an empty Pepsi can on the desk. Looking at one another, each ran through a litany of possible explanations. A dropped piece of furniture? Thunder? Earthquake? Nothing seemed to fit what they'd heard. By unspoken agreement, each stood and walked down opposite sides of the corridor, peering in through each door's mesh reinforced windows.

When one guard reached the cell occupied by Patient Lipscomb, he blinked, blanched, then turned and vomited on his shoes. Surprised, his partner ran up, asking what the hell was going on. When he received no response, he too peered in and moments later was vomiting on his own shoes.

It was thirty-seven minutes before the first alarm went out. By that time, Detective 3rd Grade Tristyn Delaware rode alone with her misery, locked in the trunk of Trixie/Charlene Suffolk's car. She strained and fought against her bundled-up form like a wildcat, stopping only when her gag reflex kicked in, or when the pull of her wrists cut off her airway, or when exhaustion overtook her. She'd rest and then attack her bonds once more. She had to escape. She had to! For her ride in the trunk hadn't been entirely without company.

The redhead had felt herself wheeled out of the interrogation room after an indeterminable amount of time. Tristyn had done her best to draw attention to herself, exploding tampon be damned. She'd moaned and grunted and squealed, the efforts sounding feeble even to her own ears. After what seemed a thousand paces, the motion stopped. When she was lifted from the cart, gone was the cool, clammy air of the hospital on her skin, replaced by the humid climate of outdoors.

She could not see that she was in the loading bay, Charlene's car waiting with trunk open. Lipscomb carried the bundled detective down the ramp and placed her on her side in the trunk. He climbed in behind her and cradled Tristyn's inert form like a newborn. When the trunk closed, Lipscomb's hand immediately snaked through the small gap between her heels and crotch-strapped privates. Pulling her scrunched up panties aside, he amused himself by plucking out her pubic hairs one by one, all the while whispering his plans into her canvas hooded ear.

Shaved privates, rape, piercings, whippings, servitude, and ponygirl training, then finally, sale to an overseas buyer, all was described with the exacting detail of one who'd done it before. By the time they'd bounced down the driveway and stopped at the guard shack, Tristyn's head was swimming. Realizing that this was her last, best chance, the redhead sucked in a breath for the scream of a lifetime. Anticipating this, Lipscomb calmly clamped his hand down over her face, pinching her nose shut through the sack. The scream backed up behind the briefs, tape, canvas and flesh, remaining locked in her lungs until after they drove off.

A short while later, the car came to a stop. Lipscomb climbed out, taking one last pubic hair with him, letting it flutter away on the breeze. Cargo straps were used to secure Tristyn in place, a not-so-playful smack on her bare ass preceded the trunk slamming shut. As the "Prowler" slipped into the passenger seat, Charlene peeled out of her nurses uniform. She was naked underneath, her pierced nipples and clitoris glistening in the defused sunlight. Slipping on a sundress, she trash-bagged the uniform and tossed it a good distance off the side of the road.

As she slid behind the wheel, Lipscomb congratulated himself again for not having sold her as he had the others. Charlene had indeed turned into a topnotch slave, which was fortunate, as he had not expected to be caught so soon. Charlene would be an excellent role model in the training and disciplining of former detective, and former human being, Tristyn Delaware.

In the darkness of the trunk, the aforementioned law enforcer showed little sign of life, save for the fluttering of fingers and the billowing in and out of the canvas hood. She had to fight for each and every rancid breath. The darkness restrained her mind, as the straps did her body. Tristyn told herself she would fight, she would resist, she would not submit to what Lipscomb would have her become.

But already, the question of "But for how long?" began to creep into her thoughts. Tristyn did not realize it yet, but the seed of doubt had been planted. All it would take to grow was time and training. And Gregory Lipscomb had ample amounts of both.

The End

Copyright© 2012 by Ty M Goode. All rights reserved. I welcome your comments. Email me at tymgoode69{at}yahoo{dot}com. Please put 'Roses Are Redheads' in the Subject Box.