MyPrisoner.com

An anguished moan pierced the silence as Starr once again tried forcing the ropes. They’re just ropes, why can’t I break them? she wondered. She was kneeling on a bed, her ankles crossed and tied together beneath her with a tight rope binding them to the iron headboard. Her knees were spread apart and each one securely tied to its respective corner at the rear of the bed. Her forearms were pressed together, and a long strand encircled them from her wrists all the way to her elbows. Her arms were pulled back and tied to the headboard as well. Another rope had been braided into her hair, and it too attached to the headboard, pulling her head back at an uncomfortable angle and restricting her movement further. As if that weren’t enough, the final rope was snugly tied to her waist, then passed between her buttocks parting her labia and back up through the waist again and tied to the footboard like some kind of sick handmade thong.

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Celebrities are such fun. Whenever they’re removed from their coddled lives they just fall to pieces. Take one of my more recent schemes, for instance.

Since these young pop star girls are so popular, I grabbed the three top draws via the old teleport in, snatch, and teleport out method. Not challenging by any means, but quick and effective. So here I sit in one of my warehouses with Britney Shears, Jessica Samson, and Christina Aguilar moaning in restrained ecstasy.

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“This is sick,” muttered Battle Lass as she watched the video.

“The worst part is,” responded WBND Anchorwoman Nora Connor, “there’s several more hours’ worth of video we haven’t even watched yet.”

On the video screen was Monica Eberhardt, a top supermodel. She had been stripped naked, her arms bound overhead and her ankles tied up near her waist. She was perched atop a large wedge, its point digging into her crotch. A Hawaiian man in a long, dark-colored robe was adding weights to her legs, increasing the pressure on her pussy, while an evil-looking woman in a tight, corseted dress was whipping her torso with a bamboo cane. Monica was screaming for mercy, but each plea was met with another lash from the woman.

The man stepped toward the camera and gestured toward the tortured starlet. “I am Makaweli Kalapoku,” he boomed. “As you can see, Monica Eberhardt is in great pain. I have nine more of the world’s top supermodels in captivity as well, and you can rest assured their fates will be similar. I have the following demands: First, this island will no longer be a part of the United States, and will instead become its own sovereign nation with me as its ruler. Secondly, a sum of fifty million dollars will be deposited in my private offshore account. Finally, the U.S. Government will not take any action against me. Full compliance with these terms will lead to the release of the women. Any other action will result in their slow torture and eventual deaths, video of which will be sent to every major media outlet in the world. You have twenty-four hours.”

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It was a pleasant night as JunJitsu coasted down the street in her motorcycle. The streets had been quiet lately, as her routine patrols had allowed her to clean this neighborhood of most of the muggers and dealers. If it continued to stay quiet, she might start working on a different block.

As she rounded a corner, she quickly brought her bike to a halt. Five men were helping a semi-conscious woman into a dark-colored van. If nothing else, this activity was suspicious-looking, and JunJitsu determined it needed further investigation. Besides, if she were to launch into action now, chances were the woman would be hurt or killed in the process.

She followed the van at a safe distance, and since she was wearing riding leathers and a helmet, there shouldn’t have been any indication a superheroine was tailing them. The van passed up the sign pointing toward the hospital, so obviously they weren’t seeking any kind of medical attention for the woman, meaning it was most likely a kidnapping.

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“In today’s news, another graduate student from the Texas A&M Anthropology Department has gone missing. Twenty-three year-old Louis Sanchez was last seen working late in the anthropology lab on Tuesday night. He did not show up for classes the next day, nor had any of his friends or relatives heard from him. This marks the third disappearance in eight weeks. Authorities are investigating…”

“She’s going to get herself caught,” I sighed, turning off the television. “I guess it’s time.”

Dr. Carla Aquilla was a brilliant anthropologist at A&M. About two months ago she had uncovered the biggest find of her lifetime, a necklace mounted with a rare gem of unknown origin buried in a recently excavated well. Shortly afterward, students began disappearing from the graduate program. While the police hadn’t put it together yet, my research showed that all of the missing students had Dr. Aquilla as their faculty advisor. The students had all disappeared without any trace whatsoever, and my intuition told me she was at least somehow responsible. In addition, Dr. Aquilla’s bank account was growing more quickly than usual. My guess was, she was either performing some kind of ritual sacrifice or was somehow involved in a slave-trading operation, and anyone with either skillset had to be at least worth talking to.

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