Frilly Pink Nightmare (A Predator's Punishment) free porn video

"It's how we survive. How we improve." His voice was a cold droning between her ears, a probing of her patience. She tightened her smile, ran one hand through her greying hair. He watched the rain decorate the glass wall behind her, shining from the lights of the skyline beyond. Stomach cold and tight with anticipation, he steeled his singing nerves and continued with his speech as he had so many times before. "A predator is built to recognize weakness. It's their design. Their nature. We tell ourselves that we're moral creatures--more than animal. All bullshit. It's jungle law, no matter how much you dress it up." She matched his stare with an empty silence, smile cold on her face. Searching deep for any hint of understanding in her auburn eyes, he continued with a new grin of his own. "Take this room. Five hundred an hour. Private. High-class. All of it, down to the gold leaf, the work of predators. For predators. An herbivore can't afford jack shit. They're limited in their desires. Docile. A predator takes what they want, because they know they can." "And, of course, you're a predator." Her voice, clearer than crystal, seemed to cut through his speech. He paused as if it had always been his intention, taking care to keep the stare unbroken. He liked the way she moved her head. The pride of her glaring, the emotions behind the hints of wrinkles at the edges of her eyes, the shape of her shoulders--there was a beauty to her disdain. He continued with a renewed energy. "Of course. I'm sitting here, aren't I? Sitting here in the special room. The millionaire's room. All the little guys, the almost-high- class, they're out there sharing space at the bar, on the floor. Oblivious of their own inferiority. We're something more. We're predators." Her smile twitched into a smirk. "I think you might be confusing killer instinct with innate advantage. How can we know if your success is the result of a superior will? Not, for example, the mere effect of family fortune, ties, influence?" He raised a smirk to match her own, eyes darting to her hand as she broke the stare to tap once, twice, at her phone before placing it back on the table. He let her words grow flat in the silent air before responding. "You've got it all wrong, honey. History is irrelevant. Privilege plays no part in this. It's action. At all levels of life, we have a goal in common with the competition--make everyone your bitch without ever being one yourself. It's the poetry of survival. Only, just a few of us are brave enough to act on it. And I think I know that at least one of those people are sitting in this room as we speak." He loosened his tie and leaned back into the leather of the chair, eyelids low as if heavy with sleep. Her smile was back to frozen grace, almost painted-on. He wondered how she would bruise. "Take this. Take us. Just for example. I don't even know your name, and you sure as hell don't know mine. Why is that? Mindless fear? No. An understanding of risk. A predator's eye for danger. We're looking for something short-time. Something violent. A fling, real high-concept, yachts, international waters, balance statements that are going to have our accountants suicidal. Just stop me if I'm wrong. And there's someone else, isn't there? Someone else for both of us. Someone long- term. Someone back at home. Husbands. Wives. All the same shit. We get our kicks preying on their insecurities. Abusing trust. I know you, honey. I've known a hundred like you. You all like sneering at the thought. That's why I bring it up. Transparency. No room to think about what happens next with a warped perspective. Just animals, figuring out the pack order. Alphas taking charge. Predators fulfilling their god- given purpose." He had found his stride half-way through the monologue. It flowed out of him like honey, perfect in its pitch and presentation. The speech of a God whispering down truth from Olympus. It made him feel like he could kill with his bare hands. She sat in silence for a few moments. Her smile almost seemed burned onto her face. "Well, you're quite the orator. And what can I say? You have some lovely observations." Her voice seemed to be a thousand miles away as he let his hands unclench from their grip on the leather armrests. He ran through the lists in his head as he had so many times before. Noting variables. Finalizing pre-made emotional responses. "I can't deny that we've taken precautions to keep this hush-hush, even to ourselves. And no little 'fling' would be complete without that mystery. You know an aging woman's hunger for excitement when you see it. Congratulations. Maybe you should have chosen Dr. Holmes as your alias for our little meeting." He let himself crack another grin and let loose booming laughter. Movements infinitely practiced, he rose from his chair. "You've got the spirit of a much younger woman, honey. I like that." As he moved by her still-seated form, he let one hand stroke her shoulder in passing. "I'll be right back. The bartender here is a friend of mine. I'll get us something interesting." Ignoring the coldness of her shoulder and the lack of response, he moved into a antechamber more expensive than most homes before vanishing into the hallway. What came next was almost beautiful in its grace, motions born of a long history of practice. A dance of chemicals and alcohol. He had come prepared with options, anticipated body weights. Her backtalk had him excited. He wanted something slow-acting, disorienting, breaking. No easy victory. The bartender kept his gaze for only a split-second as he handed over the two drinks. He decided as always that the bartender's hesitation had to be fear. Recognition of a master at work. On the way back to the room, he prepared her future agony. Slipped two little perfect chemical orbs of pain into her cocktail, carefully designed for tastelessness, invisibility. An unstoppable construction of fate. For the first time in hours, his smile burned his cheeks with a true and unadulterated glee. He entered the room with a little tuneless hum of pleasure, handing her the drink as if it was the least consequential thing he could ever do to her. A motion that had taken dozens of attempts to perfect. He looked forward to finding what else in his routine could be improved. It was always a highlight of a night like this. She took the drink, placing it on the table with a gentleness that made it all the more a tease. He had been here before. It had taken him a few times, but he had come to appreciate this frustration as a heightening of emotions. A final chance to play with his prey, experiment with their psychology from a position of quiet supremacy. He took a quiet, self-satisfied drink of his own cocktail. A movement designed to subtly entice her into the same, to begin the cycle. She only watched, smile ever-present. For the first time, he felt a twinge of hatred. A burning yearning for taking her by her graying hair and her perfect dress and her empty smile, beating her, violating her, skipping the slow submission. It passed. He let the coldness return to his veins. Planning expected responses with reptile accuracy. "I think it's the tips. God knows they're big enough." He let the speech come rumbling up of its own according, a perfect imitation of charm. "He's a great mixologist, but there's something about his work for me that elevates beyond the usual. A certain pride. I've invited him to work at some of the places I own, but he refuses. Politely. Quietly. He's got loyalty, and I respect that." He took another drink, watching in silence as she again failed to imitate. As he stared into her lifeless smile, the urges returned. He fought them with a new grin of his own. "He's a good man. Dedicated. I think you'll like what he did for your drink, honey. It's got a, a--" Chills ran down his spine. He could feel his tongue, over-sized for his mouth. A great and invisible weight seemed to be pushing down on his skull, his spine, his eyelids. Panic began to warm his blood. As he fought to form another word, he found himself lost in her smile. It seemed to drown out the rest of his vision, growing monstrous. As his world began to twist and darken, she rose to her feet. "Oh, I know all about your little bartender. I don't think dedicated is quite the word. After all, it just took a little blackmail and he was willing to do just about anything. You didn't really think you were the first person in the world to use roofies, did you? It's such a shame, too. I was hoping that you would have waited longer before getting started. I was just beginning to enjoy watching your deviance at work. You have an amateur's enthusiasm." She crossed the room with slow steps, eyes finally breaking the stare to wander the length of his body as it grew limp. Her phone glowed brightly at her side, a beacon of light in his growing dark, texts unreadable even as he strained his vision. Just as his glass threatened to fall from his hand, she gripped it with an iron strength, gently pulling it from his feeble attempt at holding on. "I just adore watching the ones like you. Watching how you try and worm your way to another success. Watching how you shrivel at the first hint of danger. Watching you fall apart at the seams." As she spoke, she brought his drink up to his lips, gently pouring the rest into his slacked mouth. His limbs were growing into cylinders of lead, pulling him down into nothingness. He could barely manage to swallow as she forced his mouth close and pinched his nose shut. "You're right, you know. About the predators. All of it. You just made one little mistake. You forgot that predator and prey are not mutually exclusive terms. Some predators hunt others of their own, smaller ones, weaker ones, stupid ones." She patted his cheek as his eyes began to cloud over with the darkness. Her final words melted into the hum that filled his mind. "Let's see how much of a predator you really are." * * * He awoke with a retch. The smell of vomit filled every part of his consciousness, triggering a new wave of nausea. Vision slowly focusing, he lost the battle against his own disgust and let the pain and sickness come forth in another violent burst. It dripped from his chin, acidic to his tongue. Tears of pain tickled at his cheeks as he struggled to remember his existence up to this point. "Awake so soon?" Her hand ran down his spine with an unearthly gentleness, hesitating at the small of his back before disappearing and leaving him shivering. "We're just about to get started," her voice cut through his headache, gouging into the chaos of his thoughts, "but you won't be staying awake for much longer. I know it hurts, but I want you to understand that this is nothing. What comes next, well... This is just discomfort. That will be pain." He groaned and spit into the toilet bowl he could now see beneath him. His throat felt like someone had attacked it with sandpaper. Trying to feel for his limbs, he shifted his weight back to find his arms frozen in place. The sounds of clinking chain gave him a hint as to how he wasn't laying helpless on the floor. Before he could discover his exact situation, the sensation of a needle slipping into his neck filled him with a warm and all-consuming fear. His vision began to blur again, as he tried and failed to word a plea for mercy. "Shh. Don't worry, little predator man. My poor little Allen Hamton. So afraid." Hearing his name sent a new wave of terror shivering down Allen's spine even as he began to edge away from reality. How did she know? How much did she know about his secret, all of his girls? But how could they have told? They never knew his name. All the nights of their pain and his satisfaction ran through his head. He had been so careful. No trace of identity in those wild hours in hotel rooms and secret place. He had made sure of that. Vision blurring again, he tried to focus on his surroundings, but the return of the woman's voice dominated his thoughts. "Do you think they felt what you're feeling now, Allen? When they first woke up, a censored void in their minds instead of memories, do you think they were afraid? I'm sure they were. But what comes next.... What comes next will be unique to your experience, Allen." To Allen's terror, another needle slipped into his neck, opposite where the last had punctured. He could only murmur in stunned response as vision again clouded with empty dark. "Back to sleep, my little predator man. We won't be meeting again. If you want someone to hate, someone to think of during the quiet moments to come, however few they may be--you can think of me by that silly little alias, yours truly, Ms. Porcelain. To me, you will just be another "fling", one more in a long line. My newest little--" Consciousness faded from Allen's mind like a snuffed flame. As he disappeared into oblivious silence, the last of the woman's words echoed in his mind, only partially understood--"doll". * * * The first thing he felt was the sensation of rain on bare skin. Then, as his mind shuddered into consciousness--pain. It burned from every part of his body, a unified radiating agony that surged through his nerves like wildfire. His skin screamed bloody murder from his face all the way down to his toes, almost as if he had been flayed. The frigid rain on the sensitive skin of shoulders made a pounding surge of new pain fill his mind. Still struggling into consciousness, Allen attempted to move his hands. He was able to move his left hand towards his face, put as he attempted to put his right hand down and brace against whatever he could find, he found it frozen in place. Groggily still trying to his open his air, he continued to try and move his wrists to no real success. The faint sound of chains clinking and jingling broke through his headache. He tried to stand up. With his hands useless and legs numb, it took only a fraction of a second for him to end up back on the hard concrete ground. His ankles seemed locked together, unable to move more than a few inches away from each other. His breath escaping with a hiss, he stared up at the rain, wincing as it drove into his face with a cold, uncaring force. By the third attempt, he managed to get to his knees. Vision only starting to return from the darkness that still played at the edge of his consciousness, he was greeted by the rare of flash of blinding light in the cold blackness. Through his struggling he had discovered something unidentifiable surrounding the tops of his legs, tickling the skin between his waist and his upper thighs. At seemingly random spots accross his body, especially on his chest and around his waist, something painfully heavy was tugging at his burning skin, almost as if weights had been painfully fused with him. With his hands unable to move anywhere but a few inches between his chest and face, there was no chance to understand how, what or why. Through the painful process of getting to his knees, he had likewise grown aware of a new and excruciating pain across all of his torso, a tight constriction that had him gasping for breath from his little exertions and worried that his ribs were about to crack. The first hints of tears mixed with the rain running down his cheeks. Loosing his balance as he attempted to straighten his back, he found himself coming into contact with a concrete wall directly behind him. Slamming into the rough surface with the hyper-sensitive skin of his back forced a gasping squeal of pain from his lips. The pain pushed him another slow step closer towards clarity, the lights around him slowly breaking through his clouded vision. Grimacing and whimpering through the pain, he began to force himself to his feet, sliding his screaming back against the scathing wall for balance. By the time he found himself fully standing, he could see hints of color as he stared down at himself. Hues between pink and purple trailed by glimmers of white played before his eyes, swirling around where his waist should be and blocking vision of anything below. The sensation of whatever he was staring at tickling and rustling against his exposed thighs caused the cold squeeze of fear in his stomach to tighten. A new height of panic blossomed from within him, spreading through his limbs like fire. Shallow breathing growing rapid, he attempted to take his first step. He stumbled, nearly falling on his face but able to land back against the wall and keep upright. Something was wrong with his feet. The pain was so extreme, his first thought was that they had been broken. His ankles and feet, now supporting his entire weight, screamed in protest at his new position. Something that he couldn't see squeeze and strangled each foot, as if trying to crush them even as they were kept nearly tip-toed. Steadying himself back against the wall, Allen gasped in air, struggling against the crushing of his ribcage with every breath. Tears fell from his chin, mixing with rain. An uncontrollable shiver shook his battered form, the cold now fighting with the pain for his attention. It took him a few moments, but at last he was able to take a step without the safety of the wall. Wincing with every part of the motion, he took another, and was soon hobbling slowly forward. The sensations of the movement were straight out of a nightmare--whatever was clinging to his chest slightly bouncing with every mincing step, the material surrounding his waist and upper thighs tickling and stroking his exposed skin, feet screaming with every balance-threatening step. As his vision slowly cleared, he found himself in what seemed to be an alleyway, surrounded by garbage and puddles of mixed water and trash. As he moved into darkness, his first conscious thoughts of concern as to what had happened to him began to whisper in from his mental fog. Glancing down, he could see only a hint of strange shapes, unrecognizable mutations of his concept of his own body. The blurry light of a street lamp a few yards ahead called to him, tearing his attention away. He limped out of the darkness of the alley, gasping for breath from the struggle. Something snagged one unseen foot, and he lurched forward violently into the street lamp. To his surprise, he felt no new pain on his sensitive chest as he careened forward, nearly bouncing off the street lamp before his restrained hands were able to grab on. Looking down, eyes blurry still with tears, he stared in stunned silence at the two strange discolored orbs of flesh latched onto his chest. Beyond them, although he barely noticed, an explosion of pinks hid anything below his waist from sight. An instinctual squeal of terror tore through his sore throat as he brain caught up with his stare. Panic now burned through every inch of his body, consuming his thoughts with pure fear. No longer caring if he fell, Allen whipped around in search of any reflective surface. A storefront display for a women fashion's store stood a few yards away, designed around a mirror that ran from street level to the store's ceiling. Oblivious to the risk, he hobbled and limped towards it with tiny mincing steps, panic burning in his chest despite the freezing cold of the rain that surrounded him. Just as he neared the glass, he tripped as he tried to step too far past the few inches whatever was wrong with his ankles allowed. Catching himself on the pexiglass of the storefront window, Allen stared straight ahead at the mirror before him. Rain fell around him as he stood frozen in shock, sliding off the small awning above him to splash and patter to his left and right. In the silence that surrounded him, the noise seemed gigantic. The creature in the reflection was a frilly, pink nightmare. Teetering on blindingly pink, bow-adorned shoes whose wedge heels must have raised it six inches off the ground (before even considering the platforms below), the thing that stared back at him seemed a hideous creature born of equal parts sugarplum fairy and showgirl. At the top of the shoes, pink straps decorated at their backs in white bows strangled its ankles, connected together by a short pink chain that prevented anything but the slightest width to its stance. The bright pink opaque stockings, shining brightly even in the dim light of the street and decorated with thin vertical lines of lighter pink, made its legs seem almost plastic to the upper thigh. Hideously eye-catching bows of white connected the stockings' garters to a painfully frilly garter belt of the same color. The frilliest, most hideously bow and lace-decorated pair of underwear he could ever imagine sat positioned strangely over the garters, completely exposed to even the most unaware passerby. Underneath the layers of lingerie, strange hip padding, only a few shades off the creature's skin tone but still easily noticeable as false, expanded a distinctly male lower half into the ridiculously curvaceous lower half of an hourglass-shaped physique. The thing in the mirror wore what could loosely be described as a skirt, although the garment was much higher than any he had ever seen, sitting almost directly on its waist like some monstrous tutu. A nearly completely horizontal explosion of what seemed infinite white petticoats projected from the hip in violent and nearly straight lines, extending at least a metre away from its torso in every direction. Sitting directly atop this nightmare of crinolines and lace was a layer of blindingly pink fabric, stretched tight to an outlandish hem adorned with thick lace. Bows and other absurd designs of lace and fabric, in various eye-sore combinations of pink and white, adorned the skirt from its hem all the way up to its waist where it merged into a hideous corset. The torture device, tightened beyond any normal human's limit, lacked any obvious strings or other mechanisms to relieve tis tightness, instead adorned in cutesy designs of light pink and white against the darker, plastic-looking material that curved unforgivingly inwards to a waspish meeting point with the skirt. As the corset rose up, the creature's upper body almost seeming to spill out of its stranglehold, it ended with a heart-design overbust coated in hideous frills. Outrageously poofy sleeves extended from the corset to wrap around the creature's upper arms while still leaving its shoulders exposed. Two over-sized breasts of the same color as its hip padding spilled out from the corset's bust, squeezed upwards as if they were about to burst free at any time. His stare lingered on their bizarre presence for only a moment before it was drawn to the intensely attention-drawing tattoos covering nearly every bare inch of skin of the creature's chest, neck, and arms. Each tattoo was a word or phrase that made his skin crawl in revulsion, flowery, hyper-sexualised descriptions of their wearer that he couldn't help but agree with. Most tattoos were accompanied by hideous designs of bows, roses, hearts, tattooed in vivid pinks and reds that further increased their visibility. Past the tattoos, the creature's outfit resumed with a thick pink choker necklace hidden behind frills and a eye-catching string of oversized fake pearls that ran around the choker's middle until meeting at a large metal ring hanging directly from the necklace's center. Two metal chains, of course in bright pink, ran from the ring down to where the creature's wrists were suspended just above chest-level. Delicate- looking white lace gloves ran from the first knuckles of its ridiculously-long-nail-tipped fingers to just past its wrists where they ended in petticoat-like explosions of lace. Wrapping tightly around each wrist was a matching pink bracelet, decorated with pearls in the style of the choker and adorned with rings that connected to the chains and left the creature's wrists hanging limply in front of its oversized bust. One other chain hung from the creature, attached at the crook of one arm as if a frilly over-sized pair of handcuffs and ending with a hideously frilly purse, adorned with a bow of nearly the same size, that hung at the creature's side. It was the stare of the creature in the mirror that scared him the most. Nightmarishly wide, panicked eyes stared back at him, made up with inch-thick eyeliner that streaked out nearly to its temples in two harsh lines. Shining pink and purple eyeshadow stretched from the liner all the way to its painted-on brows, laughable in their artificial arches, which pointed upwards in hyper-defined terror. Wide circles of a light purplish blush covered its cheeks, framing what appeared to be lightly colored tattoos of hearts in the center of each cheek. Glossy lips of a sensual, vivid pink, clearly drawn-on from their gigantic size and carefully worked to appear plumply kissable surrounded a mouth hanging open in disbelief and framed perfectly by the dot of a beauty mark at its side. Outrageous earrings framed the terrified-looking face, enormous hoops ending connected at their bottom to several shimmering strands of rhinestones. Only the hair could have drawn his stare from that gaudily made-up and horrified expression in the mirror. Two enormous pigtails of an unnatural, horrific pink seemed to be exploding from the creature's head. The rest of the creature's hair, resting above its painted brows and billowing down behind, connected to the pigtails with two equally oversized lighter pink bows literally covered in lace and ruffles. The appearance of the creature was a unified vision of pink, frilly excess. When Allen's mind finally snapped and admitted the connection of the thing in the mirror to his own reality, the built up terror seemed to burst from him. It all came out at once, a mixed scream and shriek that seemed to explode the night air around him, thundering through the sound of falling rain. Across the street, another store's employee paused her lowering of the metal rolling gate to stare at the bizarre sight. It took only seconds for her surprise to turn into extreme amusement, phone now in hand and recording the scene as the strange drag queen weakly slapped the pexiglass storefront in blind, feeble rage before losing her balance and teetering backwards into the downpour. With new shrieking of mixed fury and fear, Allen found himself slamming into the concrete below. Air squealed out of his already strained lungs, soon followed by choking sobs. Rain gathered around his head as he began to struggle in useless attempts to roll over and scramble to his feet. The few umbrella-carrying pedestrians still out in the rain took the time to give the panicking man a wide berth, although many did pause to snap a photo or laugh at his situation as he tried again and again to get to his knees. By the time he had succeeded, he was freezing cold and blind with a burning, confused anger that dominated his senses. Now back on his knees, he attempted to claw off the makeup covering his face. The pain of contact with his sensitive skin caused him to stop almost immediately. As he gently touched his lips, cheeks, eyes, he felt a new wave of terror surging unstoppably up from his stomach. It wasn't makeup. The extreme soreness of his skin around his eyes and mouth, the pain of contact, the fact that nothing was running despite being absolutely soaked--it dawned on him with a cold fear. Tattoos. The high-pitched, primal scream that followed tore through the street, rising even above the honking and rumble of traffic. Hands now a blur of motion, he strained against the chains to reach whatever he could, pulling and yanking with all of his limited force. Nothing budged. As he tried to tear the wig off his head, he felt as if he was about to take his scalp off with it. Still the rain bit into the burning, sore skin of his exposed shoulders, arms, back, and face. He continued with one shaking hand to try in vain to remove his necklace, or even get his new unwanted breasts to budge, as he crawled over to a lamppost and used the other hand to slowly lift himself up to gain his footing again. By the time he was standing. Allen had melted into pure confused panic. Eyes bulging, and throat raw with new waves of screaming, he minced painfully down the street, stomping through puddles, then back, still tugging at his hair. Other pedestrians stopped even attempting to pass him, turning to find different paths as soon as they noticed the soaked, mincing pink madman blocking the street. Blinded by his pouring tears and the falling rain, one heeled foot caught on the edge of something solid and sent him tumbling out into the street. Furious honking filled the air, but he no longer cared. Resting his head in the thin layer of water streaming down the asphalt, Allen sobbed with an uncontrollable fear. * * * When they found him, he was choking on his sobs in the middle of the street, curled up weakly in the fetal position as if it could offer him some protection from the rain and scratching at his lace gloves with his useless fake nails. It took both officers to drag him into the squad car as he had transformed from a sobbing pink mess into a screaming pink nightmare as soon as they laid a hand on him. It may have well been the strangest public disturbance arrest they had made--for officers in their department, that was quite the honor. The struggle into the car took a few minutes, ending only when one officer used substantial force. The screams turned to new, mewling sobs as they got him up against the trunk to find that they could locate no way to remove his chains or even open his purse. Although it felt redundant, they hand cuffed him in the only position the chains left as an option, leaving his hands even more forced into hanging limply at his chest, now functionally completely useless. The officer that had forced him into the back couldn't help but laugh at the man as he shut the door, amused by the sight of the seat forcing his skirt up to his oversized chest, garish panties on display. Headquarters had received a strange anonymous tip of a bizarrely described streetwalker carrying a purse full of heroin in that area. When they had gotten down there, calls were already flooding in that some drag queen was laying down in the middle of the road, assumed drunk or high. It had come to quite a surprise that the traffic hazard they expected fit the description of the tip's subject perfectly. They would get the warrant for the purse once they had him booked for the night. It was a weird way to go, sobbing in the middle of the street, chained up like that. The officer seated in the passenger seat turned to glance backed through the pexiglass safety window at the strangely attired man. He was still pulling at his wig, sobbing wordlessly in an expression that could have been heart-rending if it wasn't on what looked like the world's biggest drag queen Barbie fan. A twinge of sadness struck at her for a second, but it soon melted away into a state of pure disturbance and disgust at the strangeness of his situation. Why (and how for that matter) had he managed to attach his outfit with some kind of glue that made hardware store epoxy seem like scotch tape? The situation could well be a set-up from his pimp he was taking the fall for, but that wasn't for her to judge. They would have to wait. * * * The outfit had them all puzzled. What everyone at the station had just assumed was just so much lace and cotton had turned out to be impossible to cut with their box cutters and scissors. Next had been the carbide shears, a leftover from another strange prisoner incident involving kevlar. They didn't make a scratch. Rumours spread like wildfire. It was some sort of body armour. More heroin was inside. Thankfully, x-rays had already confirmed that nothing was hidden within the ridiculous clothing. Another thing was already for certain -- not all of the outfit was meant to be permanent attached. The ridiculous panties, never failing to draw uncontrollable peals of laughter and giggle fits that lasted minutes out of whoever had the fortune of being flashed a peek of them, slipped off his padded thighs without even a hint of resistance. What they found below got an even bigger laugh -- chastity almost seemed too kind a word. The shocked officer didn't even attempt to take it off, merely sliding the panicking man's underwear right back into place. If it wasn't for the ankle chain, the panties could have been taken off easily. Whether or not this was a good thing for the wearer depended strongly on how his sentencing went and where exactly he ended up. Cutting them was another question entirely, as whatever material they were made out of likewise resisted all attempts at damaging. As soon as Allen had entered the facility, the correctional officer in charge had taken a high tensile bolt cutter to the chains attached to Allen's arms and ankles. Starting with the purse's chain, which easily snapped, he found the other three larger chains impossible to even damage. A request for some way to get industrial strength bolt cutters was submitted but until it was approved (which few expected to be during this decade), it was decided that leaving the suspect handcuffed on-top of the rest of his chains was a comfortable amount of overkill. As such, it was decided by administrative staff that further attempts to undress Allen should wait until sentencing, especially as the smarter staff realized the extremely strong lawsuit potential harming someone awaiting trial with reckless power-tool usage could give him. In place of enforcing the usual prison attire, the administrators decided on his being kept in an isolated, carefully observed cell normally reserved for more dangerous prisoners. When they told him he would be in his pretty new outfit for at least a few weeks and potentially months, he cried for three hours straight. It wasn't the first time he had made good on the officers' nickname for him so proudly tattooed across his back, "Princess Crybaby", and it would be far from the last. * * * The blinding light of the interrogation room had Allen squirming before the officer even had a chance to begin in earnest. Merely sitting in the hard, undersized chair and feeling its plastic rubbing against his exposed thighs had done all the belittling an interrogation could ever do in a less than second. The endless reminders of his new and apparently permanent outfit had broken him long ago. The embarrassment of his past few days in his cell, from having to ask for mortifying assistance from the snickering guards just to use the disgusting toilet down to the corset's always-present pain, had just made his brokenness more visible. "So, Mr. Hamton..." The officer could barely keep his smile from developing into a laugh at the sight before him. It was like every toy doll in his daughter's bedroom had mated with every Disney princess and then raised the baby on a steady diet of drag shows and burlesque. "I think we both know what we found in that little purse of yours. It took quite some effort, but we got in. Over two kilos. Top-shelf stuff. Not to mention the other Schedule Is. And your cute little pink phone, just brimming with a lovely list of potential buyers all over the city. You were going to have a busy week, weren't you? I didn't think that this was the sort of work a man like yourself would disappear to do. You left it all behind, didn't you? With nothing more than a note to your wife. Your kids. Is this what you really call following your dreams? Being the real you?" The officer paused as the bizarrely dressed man's sobs grew into howls of agony. Tears flowed down the man's flamboyantly tattooed face to drip onto the cold tile floor. "Be smart, Mr. Hamton. We can help you. They'll put you away for twenty years, minimum, with this kind of possession and intent to sell. That's federal sentencing standards, nothing we can do about. You think you're gonna do okay in even a minimum security prison, looking like that? We might, might be able to get that outfit off. We can get some power tools in here, call up some doctors. I won't lie to you, you have options on that. But the tattoos? You won't last ten seconds in general population." The howl died out into a new wave of choking, raspy sobs. Allen gasped for air, face a contorted, made-up mask of agony. The officer rose to his feet, crossing the claustrophobic room to stand over the crying man. "You need protective custody to have even a chance at survival. There are predators in the prison population, Mr. Hamton. They will devour you alive. Do you understand that? Work with us. Tell us who gave you the product, who bought you this outfit. Otherwise, Allen, you're just going to be easy prey." Allen raised his gaze from the floor momentarily, meeting the hard stare of the office above him. He tried to form words with his tattooed mouth for a split moment, but could only choke on his sobs, still hyperventilating. I cannot be prey. The thought was the only thing he had left, a hollow little prayer ringing in his mind he clung onto as the numbness of despair claimed everything else. He had started it so many years ago, after his first "hunt". It hadn't left him since. But now, it was so quiet, so weak. Like the last flickering of a dying flame. I am a predator. I have hunted for twelve years. My girls are my prey. I am a predator. I cannot be prey. As his little prayer went out, Allen lowered his head to the table and wished for a death that would not come. * * * She scrolled through the police report with a little smile playing on the edges of her mouth. She already had framed the mugshot. It was one of her new favourites. Soaking in the report's information for the eleventh time, she let the satisfaction warm her thoughts. After she had finished her little celebration, the woman turned to the file, one hand drawing back a strand of greying hair from her vision out of habit. Certain that all the information was collected, she closed the file and underlined the title--#17 HAMPTON, ALLEN - 11 VICTIMS. Movement infinitely calm and unhurried, she placed it in the nearly overflowing cabinet and closed the drawer. Turning to the other file still open on her desk, she began to review the newest subject's information again, memorizing details, noting features. He was a naughty one. It was finally time again to begin work on a special doll, one for her to keep. An opportunity, always rare, to prepare a true punishment. Her smile blossomed into a full and unabashed grin, eyes glimmering with a cruel and endless genius. It was time for another hunt.