Part One

 

Patient Thirty-four

Chapter One

Nameless

 

My feet are connected by a foot and a half long, stout leather thong. Fur-lined leather cuffs encircle my ankles while my arms cross over my stomach and wrap around my waist. Two thin straps press against the outer edges of my crotch, over the pink cotton panties that cover my pussy. My wet pussy. Livia complains about how often she has to change my underwear, sometimes two or three times a day. I suppose she could diaper me, but it gives her an excuse for her frequent visits. She knows I can't help myself and she loves to see a constant reminder of that.

The straitjacket allows some movement, perhaps a shifting of arms inside the canvas sleeves, but it's only a tease of freedom, something that I haven't known since arriving here. White gleaming walls, cold tiles, heavy locking doors, no hope of escape. No hope as I sometimes pace to and fro. No hope that if I did get out, maybe go running down some street or highway, the straitjacket would still surround me, an obvious sign to anyone on the outside that I don't belong outside, with the green lawns and suburban people. Ah, yes, the straitjacket, what more potent symbol to tell others where you've come from, and where you should be returned? It was spotless white when Livia and two burly men locked it on me long ago, now stained with tasteless, shapeless food and my gagged drool. When I'm good and earn a reward the dark brown, leather muzzle that covers my lower face and the large plug in my mouth are removed and a Hannibal Lecter style mask takes its place. At that time I'm allowed to move my jaw a little, talk, exercise my vocal chords. Not that anyone listens.

I am twenty-four years old. My name is Bailey Gardner. That's what I keep telling myself. Bailey. Bailey. No one but me says it. Not even Livia although she does address me by my room number. Food is spooned into my mouth and I swallow, but sometimes I spit it back just to stain that spotless white uniform, to get something out of her besides "Now, open up like a good, little crazy girl."

I'm not crazy. I'm not! I try telling others that, but the gag stops me. I see faces at the square portal of the cell door; men, women, white collars which hint at white lab coats which in turn hint at them being doctors. I rush the portal, try to explain who I am, how I got here, but the gag stops all intelligible speech and makes me really sound like a crazy person, one who needs to stay in this padded cell forever.

How long have I been here? That's hard to say. In the beginning I tried to keep track of the days but soon lost count. The days, and nights, all seem to run together along with my jumbled, chaotic thoughts that beg someone, anyone, to just listen to my story. Then they'll see that I don't belong here. If only someone would listen!

And then, one day, someone other than Livia brought food. A woman, with an expressive, pretty face, maybe fifteen to twenty years older than me; her only dress was leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles, a leather collar around her throat, yet she moved with the grace of refinement. A pair of fully developed breasts with dark brown aureoles sat well above a thin, yet not fully wasp waist. Legs smooth, strong, while above them a triangular patch of pubic hair hinted at what lay beneath. Her black hair was done in a practical up do, but would hang down well past her shoulders if let loose. Single strands of grey stood out here and there, but instead of taking away from her just beginning to fade youth they only added to a nascent, attractive maturity. Slim fingers held the plastic bowl that contained my daily slop which she stirred with a wooden spoon.

"Well, aren't you the little wild thing?" she said. Her voice had a slight drawl and was a pleasant contralto, any lower and it would sound wrong, but the timber was at just the right level to add to that maturity and, despite her nudity, an implicit authority. "You look ready to chew through anything to get out. Just like a captured animal."

The woman smiled, shifted hands on the bowl and held up a small hand mirror that was hidden in the palm of her hand that originally held the bowl. "Captured animal" is putting it lightly. In the mirror is someone who vaguely resembles a person. Ginger hair, once in a well cut pixie style with bangs, is now a long, chaotic, tangled mess. A pair of light hazel eyes stare back above light freckles that run across my nose and the small portion of the top of my exposed cheeks. A wide, cracked, brown leather muzzle, dark with the natural oil from who knew how many hands and contoured to allow a little dip underneath my nose, covered my lower face. The gag, held securely in place outside, gave anchor inside to a wide leather plug. It not only stopped any coherent talk, but also even prevented my teeth from touching. My chin peeked out below from which dripped a constant, thin strand of drool. My bare legs, still covered in welts from Livia's latest punishment, were crooked at the knees as I sat in my gathering pussy juices, the spreading stain on the cotton panties a betrayal of barely hidden, deeper needs.

"You don't have to stay like this," the collared woman said. "Things can get easier. But there is a price."

Yeah, I thought so. What was it? A pussy lick? Or maybe a strap-on? Livia had done both to me, many times. Her tongue had snaked its way inside my cleft, lapping at my embarrassingly abundant juices, and I couldn't help but respond, at last ending in a final shudder. The strap-on though, that was worse. More than once she reamed my elevated ass, demonstrating that not even that was off limits. And she had also brought in some men. Naked and wearing a hood, they weren't restrained and they could see, each with an erect cock that always homed in on my pussy. Other times Livia replaced the plug muzzle I wore with a ringgag that kept my mouth open and directed the dicks there. She made sure I drank most of the cum, yet some did drip down my chin to also stain the straitjacket. Later, after the muzzle gag had been reinserted and I lay in the pitch dark, I still smelled the cum and longed for my own orgasm. At last I would drift off to sleep, to only dream of struggling in even more restrictive bindings, more mouth filling gags. Not even in my unconscious could I find escape. And now this new, strange woman held out a hand if not offering escape, then perhaps a less severe captivity.

She placed the bowl on the floor within my crooked legs, then reached behind my head and unbuckled the gag. Slowly she withdrew the plug but my mouth remained open, shocked that for once nothing filled it. The plug dripped in shiny saliva and with care she dabbed at my chin and the sides of my mouth, her fingers light and delicate. She wiped the messy substance off on the straitjacket, not in disgust, but for simple practicality. There was weren't any tissues available and the straitjacket was the handiest thing.

She held up a full helping of the paste. "Do you want to eat?"

"Yes. Yes, please," I whispered. I was hungry and those were the words that Livia had drilled into me at feeding time. Without my saying them I'd go without. I had refused to utter those cursed, magic words after landing in here, but eventually I cracked. Livia had probably thought she had broken my will, but several of my spits on her nurse's uniform had taught her different. Since then she still fed me, but more often now wearing a latex apron while I endured a ringgag. She shoveled it all in, but sometimes she allowed me to eat without the ringgag, and sometimes I even didn't spit on her. Thinking we were making "progress" Livia would try again and I complied docilely, but then I would just let loose right in the middle of a meal. Once I even got her in the face. After that little triumph she always wore a surgical mask and faceguard. And, as with Livia, I said to this new woman, like I had so many times before, "Please, may I eat?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." She held the spoon up. This was different too. Livia really did shovel the food into my mouth, hardly waiting until I swallowed the previous portion. This woman held it beyond my lips. I stared at it, not sure of what to do.

"Well, go on," she said. "Take it. It's not going to jump into your mouth. Go on."

Yes. Yes, that's how you eat, I remembered. Lean forward a little, bottom lip on the underside of the spoon, top lip brushing over the gruel then press on both sides. Gently suck and pull back. Yes.

I smacked my lips, worked my tongue. Yes, like that. Just like that! I did it!

"Good! Very good!" she said. "Now, let's try again."

Another spoonful. Once more lean in, press, suck.

"Wonderful! Oh, you really are doing well. Just a moment." She put down the bowl and dashed out. She was gone longer than I expected and I wondered if I was supposed to lean down and eat the rest like a dog. Well, it wouldn't be the first time. Livia would leave it there and I would face dive into the mush while my raised ass got beaten with a leather tawse. Livia was always precise on how long in between slaps, and made sure both my ass cheeks got the same amount. I got into the position, legs underneath me, ass up in the air, fully expecting this new woman to return with a tawse or a crop. My chin was less than an inch above the bowl when she did come back, but not with a whip.

She found me with my ass raised and a quick look of confusion clouded her face, but then disappeared. She held in her hand a cup and saucer. The attendant aroma made my mouth water. Coffee.

"Would you like some?" she said, squatting down and offering it with both hands. "Cream and sugar."

I slowly pulled my head up, licked my lips. "Yes, please," I said.

She held the cup in front of me. I leaned in, slurped at the full cup. She bent it forward, allowing even more of the precious liquid past my lips. I pulled back a little and she took that as a sign to draw back too.

I blinked. She had gone out of focus. Hot tears ran down my cheeks.

"It's okay to cry," she said. "I understand. Now, will you promise me something?"

"Yeeeessss...," I said. Or did it come across as a whine? I'm not sure. All I knew was that this woman had shown me more attention, not to mention kindness, than all those other fuckers put together. Whatever she had asked, I would have said yes.

"Promise me two things. First, that you'll be very, very good. Can you do that? Hmmm?"

I nodded. And nodded. Yes, I thought. Yes, I'll be good! I'll be the best!

"And that we'll be friends."

I stopped nodding at that. Because of my "friends" I had wound up here.

"Oh, come now," she said. "Surely, you can do that? Being lonely is such hard work. Let's be friends and ease each other's burden. I'll start. My name is Francesca."

I blinked again. What was going on here? What did she want? Really want? I licked my suddenly dry lips. Was this a deal that I would later regret? But the straitjacket, the padded room...

"Alright," I said.

"Alright what?" she said. There was no guile in her eyes.

"We'll be friends."

Francesca nodded and whispered, "And I'll help you, when I can."

I whispered back. "Thank you. Thank you, Mistress Francesca."

Francesca smiled. "No, I'm not a mistress. I was, well, something like that once..." For a brief moment she turned introspective with a sad, faraway look. But then she brightened and smiled. "Your consent makes me happy. Oh, you have no idea." She lifted the coffee again to my lips. "But maybe you will, one day."

For the first time in what seemed like forever someone... Someone had treated me like a person. Tears again streamed down my cheeks. I couldn't speak.

Francesca held up the spoon, overflowing with paste. Again, that voice, that authoritative, soothing sound issued forth, and I eagerly obeyed. "Now, open your mouth."