They found a costume that
looked like something out of an old science fiction movie. It had lots of bust support, a deep square
bottomed neckline, a high collar and no arms.
There were tight pants of the same plastic looking material and spike
“You’re all modern, Tracy. Put it
on.” Tracy changed into the outfit.
Tracy looked at herself.
“Space m-a-a-a-a-a-n!” She called.
“You mean space chick. Men don’t have boobs.”
“The future wasn’t
politically correct back then.”
Rosalyn took down a peasant blouse that came with a full
skirt, a girdle and hemp sandals. The
girdle lifted her bust and crowded her breasts together to make them look like
an auxiliary pair of buttocks. The
blouse had been torn down one shoulder to reveal more bosom. The skirt had been torn from hem to waist so
that when she stepped one bare leg emerged.
They found an inquisitor’s
outfit. It was a scarlet cloak that
fastened but did not quite close in front with frogs and came with a red cap, low
patent leather boots and a gavel.
“It’s the Inquisition,” said Rosalyn. She went to a frame along the
wall and reached up to grab a pair of fur lined handcuffs. “No, no, kind sir,” she squealed. Don’t strike me. All I want to do is go back to my husband and
children.” Her body writhed and jerked
as if with a whipping.
Tracy laughed. “Heretic!”
she said. “Confess, so we can burn you
at the stake.”
Rosalyn changed into light pewter body armor, the breastplate
sculpted to show the teats in front that it concealed behind. There was a large diamond shaped opening over
the solar plexus. The legs and a metal
apron shielded the front but left the back bare except for the leather
straps. She put Tracy into a burlap sack that she wet down in a lavatory.
“Hanging is too good for you,
peasant scum,” Rosalyn snarled. You
must face the iron maiden. They went
over and inspected the object she named.
It was a heavy iron box in the shape of a woman. Spikes in the lid were placed so that if a
person were enclosed inside every vital organ would be ripped.
“Maybe later,” said Tracy.
invented the maiden for beheading people,” said Rosalyn. “Being hit over the head was
too noble; it was a warrior’s death. But
people got tired of seeing the deaths man make a hash of it with an axe, so
they built something with a dropping blade.
They called it the maiden, like when a man kisses you in the lap. It takes a little persuasion to get him to
put his head in the right place, and he isn’t happy if it isn’t clean or if he
thinks somebody has been there before.
Of course the French invented the guillotine, which was an
improvement. This was another
“I guess you could call it
“Can you imagine being in
it. They wouldn’t slam it; they tied you
in. And then they’d slowly push it
closed so you could feel all the spikes piercing you, coming inside you, tearing
you up. And you knew you’d had it.”
Next Rosalyn put Tracy into a brown Gestapo uniform with black belt and
shoulder straps and jodhpur pants with black jackboots. She
put on a long peasant’s shirt caked with mud on herself
and stretched out on the rack, hooking her feet into restraints at the bottom
and reaching up to grab hold of the windlass line. Tracy took a wooden paddle down from its hook and made as
if to strike her on the soles.
tell us vair ze others are
hiding,” Tracy squawked.
“Go ahead, do it,” said Rosalyn. “Hit me on the feet.” Tracy slapped the paddle against the dainty arches.
Rosalyn whispered, “No, no, I’ll never tell.” Whap. Then with straining voice, “All right. My husband and the boy are hiding in the
barn, but I won’t tell you about the baby.”
Rosalyn whimpered, “The baby’s in the laundry hamper. You won’t hurt it, will you?” Whap.
Rosalyn laughed and got up.
Tracy changed into an Indian princess costume with a
deerskin fringed skirt and a feather in a headband and a fringed vest that
uncovered the curve of her breasts below.
Rosalyn put on pilgrim clothes with silver buckles on the
shoes, black knee britches and a white shirt open at the front but knotted at
the waist. There was a high hat with a
buckle and a flat top.
Then they inspected what
looked like a refrigerator. Rosalyn pulled it open. It was a
freezer. “Is there anything to eat?”
“Yes, there is,” said Rosalyn. She brought out a piece of ice
about the size of a banana shaped like a phallus. With a greedy look she licked it until it had
warmed enough to begin to melt. Then she
sucked on it, pushing it down her throat until she gagged. She pulled it out and gasped. Then slowly she stuck it under Tracy’s vest and rubbed the nipple with it. “This is how they get your nipples up when
you pose nude for a photo.”
“My nipples are already up,”
Rosalyn giggled, “You’re so queer.”
She tossed the piece of ice
away. “Let me tie you up, Tracy.”
They changed into white tee
shirts. Rosalyn tied Tracy’s wrists a foot apart in front and made her
kneel. She ran a hemp rope from one
ankle around one elbow, under the crotch, up the front and around the back of
the neck and then back the same way on the other side to the ankle.
“You’re really into your
bondage,” said Tracy.
“Don’t tell me you never let
anybody do this to you before.” Then she
threw a bucket of water on her.
(For the browser: By now I am sure you have had quite
enough of Tracy without her
shirt, so I am going to delete a portion: 2,786 words, but who’s counting? Nothing much happens during this time except
that the ladies continue their heedless and less than wholesome fun for a
while. Eventually, while Tracy is tied up,
Hans Turelli turns up. It emerges that Roselyn is the “Iron Maiden”
and works for Hans. After some more
unpleasantness and threats, Turelli leaves for a bit
and Tracy is rescued
by Konrad, who has noticed something amiss and has
been looking for her. The unpleasantness
is reversed, and there is an episode with a fishhook. We resume the narrative while the two are
making good their escape. You will find
the page count is off in the next chapter.)
Then Tracy and Konrad were racing down a stone tunnel. Outside the motorcycle club was mounted on
their big BMW’s with big horizontal opposed pistons and steel drive shafts that
looked as if the world was too small to tax their mettle.
A cold wind had kicked
up. Someone handed Tracy a helmet and somebody else produced a riding
jacket. “Thanks for helping,” she said.
“Little Goth,” said Konrad. “We only
dream of having adventure.”
Even as the steel engines
were roaring into life, two men met on a roadside in the rising wind. It was a turn in the road that overlooked the
same valley from the southeast that the Tower of the Magdalene and the shepherd
tomb guarded on east and west. Ali, who had just driven from the grotto, met his son, whom he found
standing beside the pavement. They
“Father, I usually bring
triumph home, but this time I am banished, my friend owes a life debt and now I
owe a life debt to the same man.”
“My son, I deeply fear for
you. I would ask you to come with
me. We shall run and hide.”
“Father, were I to do less than
what I think right, you would lose me more completely than in the case of my
“Then you must help them, but
what are your thoughts on their purpose?”
“If they are right and
succeed, then their women will behave more like our own. Islam will lose its monopoly on the young.”
“It is not Islam we submit to
but Allah. What if they are wrong?”
“Then it is the end of everything. The whole world dies. There will be nothing to do but act as we
believe Allah wishes in the brief time we have.”
“Which is no less than we
seek on any day,” said Ali. Then he
“Since you are determined to
go, my son, there is one other thought that has haunted me. For days I have searched the ancient
world. There are two things that are the
abiding concerns of human kind. One is
war, and one is the fertility of the women.
War, hatred, prejudice, all forms of hostility serve to narrow one’s
choice of husband or wife, for otherwise humans are so loving and so open of
heart that any are happy with all.
“If this dream you seek is
the truth, there is a relationship between conflict and fecundity. Those who love the outsider choose to love
those who will give them infertile children and progeny. Those who are most fertile are those who hate
the most easily. So if you succeed,
there is more than the survival of Allah’s children you will win. It will mean the end of war and all things
related. It will be the golden age come
down to us at last.”
“I thank you for this
blessing, father. It warms my heart,
where it was cold before.”
“Where will you look?”
“Where Allah leads, father.”
They exchanged blessings
again and an embrace. Both men
wept. Aden spoke into his cell phone, and abruptly a line of men
ahorse bearing torches galloped out of the dark. Someone handed reins to Aden who sprang into the saddle. He made his horse rear up, and the wild
battle cry of the desert rang across the valley for the first time since the
days of Charles Martel.
Then they were gone.
Back in the dungeon Turelli was looking at Roslyn.
“Yes, I know she’s good.”
“O shut up, and get me down so I can find a pair of wire cutters.”
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