by Pat Powers
“MY safety?” MacCammon asked, a note of outrage in her voice.
“Yes, of course, as I've already told you, the Grossinger Corporation values its assets, and you are now one of those assets,” replied Talena. “”You're clearly desperate enough to risk great injury to yourself, and we wouldn't want that, now would we?”
“No, Mistress,” McCammon responded a bit sullenly.
Talena patted MacCammon on the thigh. “That's a good girl, 401. We'll make a proper slavegirl of you yet. Now Jerry is going to help you get up. If you feel dizzy, let us know, understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” MacCammon said. Ordinarily she would have been miffed at Talena for her patronizing tone, but the anti-depressants, whatever they were, made that very difficult. When Talena, helped by Jerry, uncuffed her wrists from the rings set in the side of her bed and the helped her to sit upright, she experienced a momentary wave of dizziness. She also noted that she was not wearing a tail any more. She was all right with that.
Talena noted the dizziness as Jerry took her wrists and connected her cuffs behind her back, then took a short chain and hobbled her feet, finally attaching a leash to her collar.
Are you sure you can stand up?” Talena asked.
MacCammon took a deep breath. It cleared her head a little. “Yes, Mistress,” she responded.
Talena nodded at Jerry in a meaningful way and Jerry nodded back at her. As MacCammon stood up, he supported her while she steadied herself, which was nice, but unnecessary, MacCammon thought.
“Heel, 401,” Talena said when it was evident that she was able to walk, and MacCammon followed Talena, the leash swinging before her as Talena held it, her strides kept small by the chain that hobbled her.
They walked to exactly the same room she had been taken to before her escape attempt. This time, however, Talena led her to a different chair, and her wrist manacles and foot shackles were linked to iron rings set in the sides of the chair.
Talena then walked out of the room, but Jerry stayed, watching her with a certain relaxed alertness.
The room was filled with chattering salon workers, with a few other naked women in the chairs, though none appeared to be chained down as MacCammon was.
One of the workers walked over to MacCammon and stood in front of her. “Hi 401, I'm Lynn, I'll be taking care of you today,” she said. She then peered carefully at MacCammon's face and body, and then at the touchpad she held in her hands.”Ok, let's get to work,” Lynn said, pulling a portable sink behind MacCammon and then washing her hair.
For the next couple of hours or so (she had no way to tell time) MacCammon had a very familiar experience, sitting in a chair and being prepped and made up. Others came and helped Lynn with the job, and they spoke to one another in the relaxed banter she was accustomed to hearing from expert minions when she'd been President. But none of them spoke to her except to give her an order. One might say, “Spread your fingers wide, 401,” or turn her head to a certain angle and say, “hold your head like this, 401.” She was a mannequin to be handled, used, and decorated.
At the same time, she thoroughly enjoyed the whole process, it was a throwback to her days as President, when she was the center of attention and people did nice things to her and for her without her having to so much as lift a finger. Of course, they had her chained down in the chair so that doing much more than lifting a finger would have been impossible for her. But still, it was nice.
Of course, that could be the drugs. Her old Presidential self would have found the situation intolerable. It was very clear from the way the salon minions treated her that she was far beneath them on the social scale, just about on par with a mannequin. Perhaps they did not speak to her except to give orders because she wore a homouth and could not speak back to them, but their ignoring her was a little too practiced and familiar for it to be just that. It had to be that she was a naked slave, like the other naked slaves that sat in the chairs of the salon, also being ignored, she noticed.
As they worked she was able to see their progress most of the time. Her hair had been a complete mess when she came into the salon, matted and lumpy from spending so much time confined within a hood. At the Swinging Jungle they'd put her in a shower every morning and hosed her down, sort of like washing a car. It helped keep her clean, but it wasn't exactly the full treatment.
Now she saw her hair treated, makeup skillfully applied, just the way her staff had applied it every morning before she made any public appearances. Bright red lipstick, subtle brown mascara, a hint of blush on her cheeks to highlight her nano-assisted healthy glow.
They also painted her fingernails and toenails bright red and rouged her aureoles and nipples and her labia, which had definitely NOT been a part of her makeup routine in her Presidential days.
And when they were through, the face she saw in the mirror was the old President MacCammon, her blond hair's lustrous curls hanging down to her shoulders, but brushed well off her forehead. Of course, there was one big difference, the homouth, now smeared with bright red lipstick so it looked even MORE obscene if that was possible.
And of course, there was that collar around her neck, and her naked, naked body beneath it, her nipples and vagina reddened to stand out against her pale white skin, her breasts now large and her hips wide. She now truly looked like “the woman who has screwed more Americans than any porn star in history,” as one opposition wag had described her. It had been so very nice to sign the executive order sending him to prison … though that had been one of the things that had led to her present situation. Turns out it was illegal to do that sort of thing, even for the President.
She was a little disappointed when Jerry freed her from the chair and said, “On your feet, 401.” The drugs had worn off a bit, but not much, and her dizziness was not so pronounced. Still, Jerry cuffed her wrists behind her back, shackled her feet together with a short chain, and led her out of the room.
He led her a short way down the hall to another room filled with people scurrying among bolts of cloth, sheets of leather, lengths of chain, sewing machines and several large industrial 3D printers. There was a desk near the door and a young, prematurely balding man with a neatly trimmed beard sat at it.
“This is 401, Sam,” Jerry said, perhaps the first actual sentence she'd heard Jerry utter.
Sam glanced up at MacCammon and nodded. “Well she's late, but better than never. Understand fitting and dressing will be a bit of a pill.”
“You'll want to keep her chained up, she put a knife to one of our salon people's throats earlier today,” Jerry said. “She's one of those rare legal slaves you hear about … slit your throat in a minute if she thought it meant she could get away.”
“Oh, Mrs. President!” Sam said, laughing. “So violent!”
“She's just 401 here,” Jerry said, a note of reproach in his voice.
“Of course she is,” Sam said, his eyes still laughing a bit. “We'll keep her chained up good, I understand you'll be watching in any event, but we have to take her leash now if she will be ready in time for the party. That delay she caused has put everything on rush. Mary, come and get 401 now!” he called, and a middle aged Latina came over and casually took her leash from Jerry.
The Latina said, “I am Mary,” as she led MacCammon to a small platform with an X printed on it. “Stand on the X, facing me and close your eyes, you don't want them damaged,” Mary said.
MacCammon did as she was told. She knew Jerry was watching her, and that the fastest pace she could maintain with that chain connecting her ankles was a shuffle. Jerry looked like he could do a fifty yard dash in the vicinity of six seconds.
Red light beams laced out from all around MacCammon and slowly descended from above her head down to her feet. As that occurred, several other seamstresses walked over to where Mary stood and looked at a large computer monitor.
“Eyes open now,” said Mary, looking at the monitor which was now displaying an outline of MacCammon's body with measurements of al
l her critical points.
“Just as I thought, our projections were almost exactly on the money,” Mary said, “we can use the pre-cut materials. Let's get to it.”
Mary grabbed MacCammon's leash and led her to a dressing room, where four or five men and women were sorting through and handling garments and bits of garments..
“Jerry,” she called, “we need to get her on the fitting rack.”
Jerry came over and freed MacCammon's hands from behind her back, then attached them to chains attached to pulleys set at about her shoulder height. He pushed a button that pulled the chains taut, and MacCammon's hands were pulled wide apart. He stopped the chain well before her arms were fully stretched out, but were still pulled well away from her torso.
“Thanks, Jerry,” Mary said as MacCammon stood there with her arms spread wide. The waiting seamstresses descended upon her, dressing her with clothing that looked very familiar, a very nice gray dress and jacket with a white blouse, the sort of thing she had worn so many times at formal events and press conferences. They applied them with velcro straps and and hidden catches rather than buttons and zippers. There were buttons and zippers on the garment, but they were for show only. MacCammon realized that she was not meant to remove these garments, that they were meant to be removed and put on her easily, but by others. Like the seamstresses that swarmed around her.
The outfit was finished off with knee length white stockings and the modest black pumps she liked to wear.
The area around the fitting rack where she was dressed had full-length mirrors at intervals. It was hard to see the progress of the seamstresses while they were working because their bodies blocked her vision, but in the final stages they spent a fair amount of time stepping back from her and examining their work critically, adjusting this and that, and allowing MacCammon to see.
And near the end of their work, MacCammon was able to see that the salon artists and the seamstresses had restored her appearance completely. To look at her, she was the old President MacCammon.
The only differences being that bright red homouth, and the dark black leather collar around her neck, and her wrists cuffs only partially hidden by her sleeves.
Mary made one last critical round of MacCammon, not finding anything to change, and said, “All right, Jerry … she's ready.”
Jerry walked over to her and quickly unhooked her from the fitting rack, cuffing her hands behind her back and attaching a leash her collar.
“Heel, 401,” Jerry ordered and led her away to the elevator bank she had collapsed within sight of earlier that day. It was time to find out why she'd been returned to her old Presidential looks ... well, almost.
Chapter 4 - Level Alpha
“401 heading for Level Alpha,” Jerry said into his microphone as he pressed a button and she felt the elevator ascend, for a long time at a brisk pace. Tall building, for sure.
She glanced at her surroundings as they ascended. It was the usual nicely appointed executive elevator with thick carpeting on the floor and some very nice smoky mirrored glass on the walls.
But what piqued MacCammon's interest was the elevator control. It had two divided banks of buttons. There was a series on the bottom labeled -5, -6, -7, -8, -9 and -10, and then buttons on top labeled E3, E4 and E5.
So there had to be at least six floors this elevator didn't stop at, and probably a LOT more than that. Probably floors -5 through -10 were underground, where she and the other slaves stayed. E probably stood for “Executive” as in “Executive Suites” so that meant the top floors in the building's executive suites. That was an awful lot of executive suites. Given that there were slave kennels in the basement of this building, the top floors probably were Executive Shenanigans suites. Which was probably where she was headed.
One brow went up as she realized that if she was right, her escape plan would never have worked. The elevators didn't stop at the ground level. Probably the elevator she had come down on was some out-of-the-way service elevator, with some heavy security guarding it.
When the elevator doors opened it was as if she was returning to her old world. The carpets were lush, there were ferns in beautifully decorate planters, subtle and flattering lighting, actual art on the walls (instead of generically inoffensive modern art) and just the faintest hint of very pleasant floral scent in the air, as if she was in a small private garden. It was like re-entering her old world, except of course that she was leashed and bound and collared and had a homouth on her face.
A tear crept unbidden down her cheek as Jerry gave a tug on her leash and led her into the room. It was the opening reception room, there was a very nice looking blond woman in a pantsuit at a desk who looked at Jerry and smiled.
“401 here,” he said with his usual brevity.
“She'll be in Room D,” said the blonde.
Jerry nodded and led her to a door to their leftt. He held his eye up to an optical security reader and the door buzzed and clicked open. They walked down a short hallway past the door to Room C to Room D. Room D was a lavishly appointed place, a large open space with tables on the wall where slavegirls were laying food and drinks on tables with beautiful white cloths under the supervision of Talena. There were sprays of flowers beautifully set out to complement the art on the walls.
Jerry led MacCammon to a small room, almost a niche, set in one of the side walls. To the left of the room was a sign in tasteful lettering that contrasted nicely with the wall color, that said “Slave # 401, formerly Eileen MacCammon, President of the United States.”
Well, nobody was trying to hide her identity here. Which she found vaguely alarming, she wasn't sure why.
In the center of the room was a white bench made of some plastic-ish material, with thick legs and thick white pads atop it and curiously, beneath it. There were thick iron rings set along its edges and sides.
Jerry turned around to face MacCammon. “401, I respect you,” he said, and MacCammon was once again saved from having her mouth fall open in surprise only because she wore a homouth. “You made an escape attempt. It took courage to do that. It took three hits from your shock collar to bring you down. That shows real grit. You are tough. Now I'm going to undo your foot binds and your arm binds to get you on that bench. I will not assume you won't try to escape, and I won't assume that you won't do whatever is necessary to succeed. Therefore I will use any amount of force against you that I have to. I will pull no punches. I have no desire to hurt or harm you but I will if I have to. Bear that in mind, 401.”
MacCammon nodded, impressed. It was by far the most talking Jerry had ever done in her presence. But more to the point, Jerry was taller than her and his shoulders were very wide and very muscular. She had not been planning an escape attempt, and was vaguely surprised that Jerry found it necessary to warn her against it.
That's why when Jerry undid her wrist binds and removed the chain between her ankles and told her to get on the bench, lying face down on it, she did just that. Her experience in politics had told her that it was important to know when to fight, and when not to.
Jerry secured her wrist manacles to rings in the the front bench legs and secured her ankle shackles to rings set in the rear bench legs. If MacCammon had had any doubts about what would be going on in that room, she knew now. It was just like being secured to a work station at the Swinging Jungle.
Once MacCammon was secured to the bench, Jerry went to a small table and picked up a remote control and pushed a button, and MacCammon felt the bench elevating She found herself on her knees, then felt soft cushions rising to support her butt . At the same time the bench's front legs folded down so that her hands were at her sides.
She was sitting, quite comfortably, in a kneeling position, looking up at Jerry as he touched another button on the remote, and she felt her homouth transform into her normal mouth.
“What is the proper response to an order from a Master or Mistress, 401?” Jerry asked.
“Yes, Master,” she replied.
“
Correct,” Jerry said, and he clicked a button and she felt her homouth one again gracing her face.
Jerry pressed another button, and MacCammon's eyes widened as she felt an object probing her vagina, slowly and inevitably forcing its way in, then vibrating. She made a soft “mmph” at the feel of it, unable to restrain her surprise.
Jerry pressed another button and the object stopped vibrating and slid out of her vagina.
He made a similar check on a butt plug. It worked too, though the “mmph” she made at its entrance was not one of surprise.
Finally he took a large medallion and attached a chain to its top ends, then clipped its ends to rings set in her collar. MacCammon was able to read the sign as he attached it to her. It said, “Warning: Use Homouth. I bite.”
MacCammon sighed inwardly. There went that plan.
Jerry stepped out of the room and he heard her tell someone, “401 is all secured, ready for touchup.”
For a few moments she was left alone, pondering the meaning of one of the things Jerry had said: “I respect you.” On the surface, given the other things he'd said, it just meant he respected her as a worthy opponent. But there was an implication there, that he thought of her as a human being, not just an animal to be used, as she'd been consistently treated by her captors. He was capable of seeing her as a person, someone to be respected. And he wasn't respecting her because she had once been President, as her followers did. He was respecting her because of who she was, right now, someone willing to make an escape attempt and bear great pain to make it work. Slaves were people too, in his mind. It surprised her. No one had treated her like a person since she'd been taken. Maybe there were others who thought as Jerry did. It was worth thinking about.
Talena interrupted her thinking when she walked into the room, with a woman from the salon she remembered. The salon woman immediately walked over to Talena and inspected her face, hair and hands critically, brushing on a little makeup here and there, then nodding approval.