MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved
Chapter Three
9:03 AM:
"You'll need to step in here, Ma'am" Jeneen said to Lorraine, steering her
gently by the back to one of the cramped lockers along the starboard wall of the
truck, "This is where you must ride until we get back to the plant."
Lorraine Eiderhorne was an attractive woman of thirty-six with an almost regal
air about her. She had managed Mulholland's personnel department for eight
years, and was very accustomed to being in charge. Oddly enough, one of the key
things she did for Mulholland was to assess which of his people could be
optioned out as meat-wenches, and then advise him on how best to replace them.
As he had announced his two newest choices only this morning, Lorraine was still
reeling from the bizarre knowledge that she had just become Mulholland's latest
candidate for his inhumanly cruel favorite MPI selection, spit-prep number 11.
Lorraine knew all too well that thirty days of merciless tortures and body
modifications awaited her at MPI central, which would pale to the agony suffered
when she returned, quivering on a roasting spit to be cooked alive for next
month's employee barbeque. "This can't be happening," she kept thinking to
herself, "Not to me. This can't be real!"
Lorraine was very trim and fit, and worked diligently to stay that way. She had
pale green eyes and medium brown hair done into a neat french braid. At work,
Lorraine always wore severe makeup, with dark eyeliners, pale base and cherry
red lipsticks that she reapplied hourly. She enjoyed reinforcing her sense of
power with excessive cosmetics. At five foot eight, she was about four inches
taller than Pamela, and two inches taller than Jeneen. Pamela and Lorraine were
completely naked, except for the painfully tight elbow and wrist bindings both
women had to wear. But since Jeneen wore her thickly soled sneakers below her
blue cotton dress and rubber smock, Lorraine stood exactly at eye level with
her. With just a hint of tear-rimmed desperation in her face, Lorraine glanced
at the tiny two-foot-square locker she was told to stand in, then looked back
into Jeneen's eyes.
"Isn't there any place for us to sit down?" she asked softly, trying hard to
control the quiver in her voice which gave the impression of whining, "And
please, it is so cold in here, can you just heat it up a little bit?"
"Afraid not, Ma'am," Jeneen clipped back to both questions, "The truck's
temperature is preset at 52 degrees to maintain freshness." While giving
Lorraine these unsatisfactory answers, Jeneen quickly guided the woman inside
the little cell and spun her around, while Lorraine's feet twisted, awkwardly
trying to negotiate the uneven surface of the floor.
"Besides, a little case of goose bumps never hurt anyone." Jeneen added cruelly,
having decided she really didn't care for this woman, "However, this little
stretch-locker will indeed hurt you, Ma'am. That is, after all, its primary
purpose."
"Ouch! You don't need to do this, dammit!" Lorraine blurted with the sudden pain
of her right ankle being sprained, and the frustration of having her simple
requests ignored, "Please be reasonable about this. I'm not giving you any
trouble. . ." Resisting the urge to slap the woman, Jeneen pulled a large rope
noose down from it's netting pouch, draped it around Lorraine's neck, and began
to tighten it, using a small ratcheting lever mounted to a side wall of the
locker.
"Yes I do have to do this, Ma'am. And I am being very reasonable, thank you,"
Jeneen said, collecting her calm as she briskly worked the ratchet, "Your
employer specifically requested the two of you ride in stretch lockers, even
though it costs him extra. And he wants you to have moderate mammary distress
also. Since he is paying for all of this, well... we are honor-bound to oblige
him, aren't we?"
"Wait, what do you mean about mammary distress?" Lorraine cried anxiously,
"What. . Wait just a minute there! I can't. . . .how am I supposed to. . .to
breathe! Please!!
Lorraine was in a dead panic now, struggling to find a toe hold somewhere on the
sloping floor of the cell, since Jeneen had swiftly taken away the last bit of
slack from the rope, as well as Lorraine's ability to speak.
"Don't worry about anything, Ma'am. I think it's really best if I just show
you," Jeneen said almost sweetly, as she plucked at the rope over Lorraine's
head to see if it was tight enough to demand full tiptoe concentration from her
now-silenced victim. It was.
"Your body will tell you exactly what to do," Jeneen whispered, leaning in very
close to the woman and looking deeply into her terrified eyes. Above the
fragrance of Lorraine's' hairspray and heavily applied cosmetics, Jeneen could
smell the woman's fear now, raw and tangible, and it rather satisfied her.
Jeneen smiled contemptuously for a brief moment, then shut the door, locking it
carefully with her small key.
Jeneen turned around to Pamela who had watched this exchange in speechless
terror. Pamela Sanchez was a petite woman of twenty-nine, who spoke and wrote in
five languages, three of them fluently. Her mother's parents had immigrated from
Portugal, and her father's family was from Ecuador. She had such a pleasant
personality she was a natural gem in customer relations, where she had
co-managed Mulholland's corporate accounts for almost four years. She had
shining jet black hair that fell just past her shoulders, and the prettiest of
faces. Her dark brown eyes were large, gently lined, and filled with a beautiful
latin mystery. Her lips were very full and painted with a glossy beige frost.
She wasn't as assertive as Lorraine, nor as vocal. Somewhere in the back of her
mind, she hoped this would figure in her favor.
"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?" Jeneen asked lightly as she gently turned
Pamela by her shoulder to face the open locker next to Lorraine's cubbyhole.
"Um, no. . . I don't guess so." Pamela answered sadly, not knowing much what
else to say.
"Now this," Jeneen continued devilishly, "This, is bad." Jeneen took a lever
located about a foot above the door handle of Lorraine's locker door and pulled
it down slowly but firmly. "This is what Mr. Mulholland means when asking for
moderate mammary distress."
From the other side of the locked door, Lorraine could be heard screaming and
gyrating away from her precious toe hold against the metal door. Her feet kicked
into the door a couple of times, while her face, visible through the nine-inch
square window, turned beet red, equal parts anger, asphyxia, and betrayal. After
a brief struggle she came back to rest again, gasping for air and sobbing in
pain against the door, with her eyes screwed shut in blinding misery.
"Oh Gosh! She's in some awful pain now... whatever did you do to her?" Pamela
asked.
"We call that the spirit breaker. That little lever just brought twelve hidden
knives out of the door panel to dig into her breasts," Jeneen answered, "They
are less than two inches long, but they are very sharp indeed. She's rather
forced to press herself against them now, because of her noose, you see? Lots of
girls, especially the uppity ones like her, will fight like hell in there. I've
seen some of them break their feet in a couple of places and slash their breasts
nearly in half before they figure out how to deal with their new position."
"Oh my god, you're going to do that to me too. . ." Pamela said mournfully, as
Jeneen marched her forward into the booth and turned her around. While Jeneen
hurriedly placed the heavy noose around Pamela's neck and pulled Pam's long
tresses through the back of it, she realized the girl hadn't made a question or
a complaint of it. It was more like a resigned statement of fact, sorrowful, but
still peaceful. Jeneen smiled at that, and decided she kind of liked this one.
It seemed almost a shame she had to do her up in the same way as Lorraine.
"You really are a dear one, aren't you?" Jeneen said, working the ratchet lever
that tightened Pamela's noose, "You're not like that noisy bitch at all."
When Jeneen had almost gotten the rope snug above Pamela's head, she paused to
study the woman's exotic face again, and touched her cheek lightly. "You know,
If you weren't one of Mulholland's prize wenches, I'd think seriously about
taking you aside for one of my own personal projects. We are allowed to do that,
you know, twice a year, even though I haven't taken on a project wench of my own
yet."
"Oh! Could you?" Pamela asked her, "Please? Could you?"
"Don't go thinking it would be so good for you," Jeneen warned her softly,
stroking the girls incredibly sleek hair, "With Mulholland's way you get to live
for one month exactly, if you can call that living. With me, you'd get to last
for 6 months tops; and we're not talking happy days here. Seriously, what kind
of a deal can that be?"
"Ohhh, I don't know. It's just ... I just have a feeling. That's all. . ."
Pamela murmured, looking deeply into Jeneen's liquid hazel eyes, and feeling
kind of stupid.
"I know baby... I know." Jeneen said, and leaned in further to kiss Pamela very
softly on her creamy butterscotch flavored lips. "I have that same feeling
too..."
"We'll see about it, OK?" Jeneen said, smiling briefly and grabbing the ratchet
again, "Now, once I pump you up to your tiptoes, remember to lay as gently
against this door as you can. Then the knives won't jab you as deeply when they
come through. And whatever you do, try not to bounce away, you'll only cut
yourself up worse when you land back against the door. Got it?"
Unable to form the words, Pamela merely gave a nervous little nod, with a can-do
look on her frightened face. "This girl is just so sweet," Jeneen thought,
"She's not even trying to bargain with me. I could drink her right up."
"Courage Baby," Jeneen whispered, squeezing the ratchet five more times, until
Pamela's toes barely touched the highest spot in her cell, and she was making
wet gurgling sounds. Jeneen then shut the door and locked it. "Here we go!" she
silently mouthed to the girl waiting in anguish on the inside. Watching Pamela's
face intently through the window, Jeneen slowly pulled the lever halfway down.
Pamela gasped in pain, as she felt the tips of twelve narrow blades violating
her breasts, but held fast to the door. "Good girl!" Jeneen mouthed again, and
slowly pulled the lever the rest of the way down. Pamela sobbed desperately
through the constriction of the neck rope. Her beautiful face contorted in agony
as the knives burrowed in the rest of the way. But somehow, incredibly, she
managed to follow Jeneen's advice, and resisted the terrible urge to fling
herself around the booth.
Jeneen kissed her fingertips and placed her hand gently to the glass window,
then turned to leave. As she shut the rear door of the truck, and pulled the
locking lever down, she could hear whistles and screams coming from inside the
building behind her. They were the usual cacophony of shock, amazement and glee
that co-workers always expressed when number 11 wenches were being paraded from
floor to floor, too beautiful to be believed, and agonizing helplessly on their
roasting spits.
Jeneen wondered idly if she really meant it this time, what she had said, and
felt, about little Pam. She had expressed the same desire to several other
wenches during the past year while working at MPI, but always ended up putting
her urges aside, and abandoning the girls to the gory defaults of MPI's pitiless
processing. She tried not to dwell on it much, but she suspected this meant she
was kind of a tease, as she innocently tempted her prisoners with scant hopes of
being rescued.
She desired them badly enough all right, especially sweet submissive ones like
Pamela. She had even lusted after Mariah for a short while. But it was a big
commitment to take on a project girl for six months. It was a lot of hard work
too. And from what she had heard, it could be even harder to let them go.
Perhaps that was what she was afraid of most.
But there was something truly special about Pamela, and the trusting way she
took the spirit breaker just now. "Time..." Jeneen thought, straightening her
smock and walking around to the front of the truck to tell Don she had finished
up. "Time will surely tell..."
END OF CHAPTER THREE
MPI
(c) Aiken, 2002, All rights reserved
