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Under Evaluation 2
Dr. Rayne Attenburg finished her mundane reports, then switched off her computer. Four hours had passed since the Public Defender had finished his assessment of Lila Powell’s condition. Rayne was anxious to visit the young woman, but knew that time was a valuable tool, regarding a patient’s ‘conditioning’. As the minutes crawled past, she would become increasingly desperate, willing to do almost anything to be released. It was Rayne’s job to see that the subject would do anything.
Stepping into her private office’s small washroom, the doctor applied some makeup. Bold eyebrows, a light blush to accent her prominent cheekbones, and blood red lipstick, was all that was needed to present a strict appearance. Rayne’s natural demeanor would provide the rest.
She slipped out of her knee length lab coat. Had the young attorney still been there, he would have received yet another shock. Underneath the coat, Rayne wore nothing but a gleaming, black patent leather corset. The base flared out to rest upon her hipbones. It curved in severely, wasping her waist to almost 20”. The hourglass shape opened up again, cupping her bare, 36D bust.
Rayne sat on the commode and worked the seamed, black silk stockings up her legs. They stopped at mid-thigh and were held in place with four garters. She pulled on and laced up a pair of patent leather knee boots. The polished hide glimmered like mirrors, as did the 5”, chromed stiletto heels. Standing at 6’ 1”, she had no need for clunky, platform-style soles.
Standing with an easy grace that comes from wearing such footwear for years, Rayne checked herself in the mirror one last time. She removed the tasteful gold hoops from her ears. She’d worn them only for the interview with the attorney. When conducting her true vocation, she wore nothing that would detract from her persona, which was a cold, remorseless bitch.
Dr. Attenburg strode back into her office, not the least bit self-conscious, though she wore no panties. Her naturally blonde bush was moderately trimmed in an inverted triangle. She found that her “recruits” were intimidated by her apparent disregard to her state of exposure. She’d also discovered early on in her role as Dominatrix, that most new “trainee‘s” reviled the thought of cunnilingus. This revulsion was exacerbated, when their noses were forced into a thick patch of pubic hair.
Rayne approached the office wall lined from floor to ceiling with book shelves. Pulling on a particular volume produced a soft *click*. A section of the bookshelf swung out easily, exposing a sturdy oak door. Selecting a key from the ring that dangled on her hip, the doctor unlocked the door and swung it open. Beyond the door lie a narrow set of steps.
Built prior to the World War I, the architects had known only slightly less about psychological disorders, than the doctors who treated them. Believed to be dangerous and capable of almost anything (which was often quite true), the builders had incorporated a means for the medical staff to escape, should an uprising take place.
Rayne descended the circular stone staircase with the confidence of having done it many times before. At the bottom, she reached yet another solid wooden door, this one complete with sliding view port and reinforced on both sides with steel sheeting. Another key was used to open the portal. Stepping inside, the doctor ignored the corridor that led to the right, out under the hospital grounds to a long abandoned groundskeeper’s cottage. Instead, she turned left, walking ten paces to yet another locked door.
Behind this, lie the cells that had once housed the most hopeless cases. All manner of murders, rapists and sociopaths had been condemned to this dank hole, the ‘modern’ medicine of its time, ineffective in treating their condition. The main access to the cells had been sealed off long ago, in part, due to the fledgling Human Rights groups which had believed the practice to be deplorable. However, not ALL accesses had been blocked. In addition to the secret stairwell, a special key permitted the service elevator to reach this level.
When Dr. Attenburg had been scouring the internet for a place to set up a base of operations in the States, she’d stumbled across the original blueprints of the hospital. It showed everything ready-made for an enterprise such as hers to hit the ground running.
A bonafide Doctor of Psychology, with particular expertise in the female psyche, Dr. Attenburg had no trouble joining the tired staff. She quickly worked her way up the administrative ladder. A timely and fatal, “car accident” involving the current director, as well as the greasing of a few politicians’ palms, and Rayne became the new hospital director. With everything in place, she brought in a few trusted people and set up shop. Lila Powell was not the first woman to be “processed”, here in the forgotten bowels of the hospital.
Rayne drew a deep breath, never failing to tingle at the scent of misery that seemed to be trapped down here. THIS was her element. Her heels clacked across the irregular stone floor. The wide corridor hosted a set of ten, heavily reinforced wooden doors, five on each side. Each door was equipped with two portals. A sliding view port up high and a slot near the floor, to which pass food trays. Currently, only three of the cells were occupied.
Aside from Lila, in Cell #6, Cell #3 housed one, Patricia “Pepper” Dwyre, a runaway from York, Pennsylvania. Rayne smiled, as she recalled that Patricia had practically captured herself. Pepper’s flight from an abusive home had gotten her as far as the outskirts of Philadelphia. It would be the farthest she would ever travel as a free woman.
It had been raining buckets when Dr. Attenburg, heading for home, saw her on the shoulder of the road. Thoroughly drenched, Pepper gratefully accepted a ride. She was set at ease, by the fact that her “rescuer” was a woman. Carefully crafted questions kept the conversation light and flowing. Patricia, upon finding out Rayne’s occupation, eagerly volunteered information that would have made a therapist blush.
Satisfied that all links connecting Pepper to society had been severed, the doctor had jammed a Tazer into the unsuspecting girl’s neck. As the short, shapely redhead lay slumped in the passenger seat, muscles twitching, Rayne injected her with a powerful sedative. Then it was back to the hospital. Being so late at night, no one saw her carry the unconscious girl into the groundskeeper’s cottage and through the connecting tunnel. Long before the sedative wore off, Pepper was stripped, manacled and gagged, then chained to a thin exercise mat on the floor of Cell #3. It had been her ‘home’ for the last three weeks.
As Rayne now passed the cell, she could hear a soft *whir*, accompanied by a fast, steady “thump-thump-thump”. The doctor smiled, completely aware of what was taking place on the other side of the door.
A hair over five feet tall, Patricia possessed the physical attributes of becoming a stunningly gorgeous woman. A full, freckled face with emerald eyes and thick mane of scarlet hair, heralded her Irish background. Her 34B cup bust wasn’t quite the equipment needed to become a porn star starlet. But her breasts were pleasingly full, with big, pink nipples. However, Pepper tended to be a little on the pudgy side. Rayne had quickly set up a regimen to correct that.
The doctor knew that currently, the 19 year old Miss Dwyre was bound and strapped to a treadmill. A thick penis gag was lodged in her mouth, a tube through its center delivering a steady flow of sports drink. At first, Pepper had sputtered and choked on the arrangement, but necessity had forced her to rapidly adapt. Just three weeks into her ‘training’, the redhead had dropped almost ¾’s of the targeted weight, the goal being from 130 lbs, down to 105.
Rayne paused briefly to listen to the prisoner’s bare feet slapping on the continuous tread. She knew that once the optimum weight had been attained, the treadmill would not lie off somewhere gathering dust. It would then be time for Patricia to graduate to running in high heels. Once mastered, the heels would lengthen, then lengthen yet again.
Deciding that Lila wasn’t going anywhere (true enough) for the time being, Dr. Attenburg unlocked the door to Cell #3 and slid the massive bolt open. Swinging the door open, she had to squint briefly, as the dazzle from half a dozen Klieg lights flooded into the dim corridor. There, focused in the center of tens of thousands of candlepower, was the glistening Patricia Dwyre.
Though her back was to her, Rayne could almost see the prisoner tense, at the sound of someone entering the cell. ‘Pepper’ had been here long enough, to know that only three people had access, none of them bringing good intentions. Sweat poured down her body, the machine’s tread dark with the drips and splatters of perspiration. Dr. Attenburg could now hear the redhead’s ragged breaths, as she tried valiantly to keep up with the treadmill’s pace. She had no other choice. Rayne closed the door, sealing in the room’s heat, that was well into the nineties.
Patricia’s arms were folded across the middle of her back, forearms together. A continuous leather tube, from bicep to bicep encased her arms, no fewer than a dozen straps squeezing her limbs unalterably in place. Aside from the gag and arm sheath, the only other restraints she wore, were a 2” wide leather collar, a set of thick leather ankle cuffs with attached hobble chain and a crotch strap. A thin, elastic cord was centered on the hobble chain, rising up to the crotch strap, to insure that her feet did not become entangled. Surprisingly (to the uninformed), she was not affixed to the treadmill in any fashion. The “voluntary” exercise was part of a carefully crafted regimen of training.
Purely as a safety precaution, a lightweight nylon harness passed around her torso, its slack tether anchored in the ceiling above her. It offered her no assistance, merely preventing a catastrophic fall. In addition to the safety harness, a nylon belt was strapped snugly around her waist. The belt was festooned with curious, block shaped objects.
Pepper’s pace did not slacken with the entrance of her visitor. Nor did she attempt to turn to see who had come in. She knew that either action would have dire consequences. Instead, she remained focused on the 16” monitor, three feet in front of her. The monitor registered heartbeat, respiration, elapsed time and distance traveled. The one thing it did not tell her, which she desperately wanted to know, was the duration of the exercise period. It never did.
When Rayne strode around front, Patricia hazarded a quick look. Her piercing green eyes brimmed with exhausted desperation and blinked rapidly from the constant sting of perspiration. Dr. Attenburg stood there, hands on hips, not uttering a word. The posture said it all, “I am in complete control. You are without any”.
Pepper tried to articulate a single word around the penis gag that might have been, “Please”. The doctor’s expression hardened and the redhead knew she’d made a mistake. Remaining silent, Rayne moved away. Once out of sight, she grasped a crop hanging from a hook on the wall. Continuing her brief trek, she stopped once she was behind the ‘jogger’.
“NEVER!…” She spat, in a voice that was devoid of compassion. The first blow of the crop coincided with her chastisement, landing square across both of Patricia’s ass cheeks. The livid red line burned bright, mixed amongst others in varying stages of fading. Rayne raised her arm back once more.
“…Speak without permission!” Each syllable was accentuated with a blistering strike of the crop, all centered on the poor Miss Dwyre’s buttocks.
Pepper faltered, very nearly stumbling. Somehow, she maintained her rapid gait. She knew that failing to do so, would mean a punishment far worse than the lashing she’d just received. For attached to the inside of the crotch strap, were two oddly shaped nodules. Her anus reluctantly gripped the smaller of the two. The larger, elongated one was wedged between her labia, with a node pressing directly against her clitoris.
Any of these could, individually or in tandem, deliver an excruciating shock. The power for these tormentors was provided by eight, lithium power packs attached to the waist belt. This, was the reason she ran so determinedly. Failing to remain within the parameters set for the current session and Patricia would feel as though her privates had been kissed with a branding iron. She’d yet to experience all the variations in which the shocks could be administered and had no wish to do so.
Lesson given, Dr. Attenburg turned to leave. The only clue the redhead had of her tormentor’s departure, was the brief wash of cool air from the corridor, followed by the sound of the door being securely latched in place. Patricia fought back the tears as she ran on in solitude, only four souls on earth aware of her plight.
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