'You can't keep me here,' said the small girl from where she was sat huddled on the mattress by the bare wall, knees up to her chin and arms round her legs. 'My mom and dad will looking for me.'

'I guess,' said Connie, as she busied herself with the chain and padlock she was holding. 'There're lots of people looking for you. Your name's in all the papers, on TV. Hey, you're famous.'

The small girl glared at the woman in front of her.

'I guess they like the fact you're called Sunday. Real sweet name. Sunday Denning. The media love names like Sunday.'

The small girl known as Sunday frowned. 'You'll get into trouble, if you don't let me go.'

Connie looked up from fixing the padlock on to the heavy chain. 'I'd get into trouble anyway, even if I did let you go.'

The girl sat by the wall glowered at the girl standing in front of her. 'You shouldn't keep me here.'

'Where do you want me to keep you, kid?'

For a moment the ten year old was puzzled. She didn't want to be kept anyplace. She didn't see why she was kept in this horrible place anyway. But was this woman saying she had a choice? 'You mean... I don't have to be here?'

Connie sighed and looked at the near naked girl. 'Don't start that routine of wanting to be free. We went through that and I told you. You are a prisoner. This is your prison. I am your prison officer.'

The child shook her head. 'But you said...' She stopped as she understood. The woman who had brought her to this damp, dark, cold place wasn't going to give her any choices.

Connie Glover was looking back at her handiwork: three padlocks threaded through the large rings of the long, rusty chain she was holding. She held it up so it could be seen better in what light there was from the small, barred grimy window above the child's head. Partly so she could see it and partly for the child's benefit.

Anything to terrorize the little one.

'What's that for?' asked the child nervously.

'Who is it for,' said Connie. 'Ask that.'

The girl gulped and she repeated the words, but her voice was tiny. 'W-who is it for?'

'You, princess.' Connie couldn't help but grin.

'Don't call me that!' The girl by the wall almost shouted. 'Only my mom calls me that name.'

'Well, princess, she isn't here so you'll have to do with me saying it.' Connie could barely stifle a grin and she rattled the chain. 'This lovely length of steel chain is all for you. Nice 'n' heavy.'

'You're not putting that on me,' pouted the pre-teen.

'And how exactly are you going to stop me? The way you stopped me putting the other one on your neck?'

There was a momentary silence as the little girl considered it. 'If you got me locked up, don't see why you got to put these chains on me.' She brought one hand up and felt the chain round her neck, the one that connected her to the large iron staple on the wall above her head.

'Princess, you wear them because they please me. Plus I don't want you running anyplace. Even in this cell.'

Tears suddenly flooded the child's eyes. 'Don't want to be here,' she sniffed. 'I want to go home.'

'I'm sure you do, but you can't.'

'They'll find me and you'll go to jail. Forever.'

'They won't find you and I won't go to jail.' Connie looked round the small, dark cell. 'No one knows about this place.'

The girl sniffed back her tears, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. 'H-how'd you know about it then?'

'That's a secret. But when I found it, I wanted to have a prisoner of my very own. Now, let's get this new chain on you.'

'I'll scream if you come near.' The girl pressed herself back to the wall, clutching her legs to her even more tightly.

'Scream if you want. No one'll hear you. Oh, and what do I do if you make a lot of noise I don't like?'

The ten year old shot a look at the leather strap and rubber ball device by her feet. 'You make... you put that thing in my mouth.'

'That thing is a ball gag. Call it by its proper name. Go on.'

'Uh... ball gag' whispered the girl. 'I don't like it.'

Connie shook her head. 'You don't like the cell, you don't like your chains, you don't like wearing a gag. Huh! Next you'll be saying you don't like me.'

'I don't!' The child shouted. 'I hate you!'

'Oh dear, how sad.' Connie smirked as she nodded at the thin mattress under the child's ass. 'And to think I went to all that trouble to get you a nice mattress to sleep on.'

'Let me go!' the child was shrieking. 'You're a bitch and I hate you!'

'Gag time?' Connie shouted back, over the noise the girl was making. 'For a whole day?'

The girl stopped shrieking, eyes wide at the threat. 'Uh, no,' she whispered, hoarsely.

'There, you can be sensible, can't you?' said Connie gently. 'No one likes shouting.'

The child shook her head in fear.

The woman crouched by the child, at her eye level. 'Listen carefully, princess. I want you in more chains. I went to a lot of time and trouble to get these and you are going to wear them. Understood?'

The child nodded almost imperceptibly.

'These chains go on your wrists and keep your hands up to head height. I like to see that pretty little slim neck of yours in that iron necklace, but these chains, if you want to know, are short because I don't want you playing with yourself. You know, hand in pants.'

The girl's eyes widened as what her captor was saying hit home. 'I d-don't play... I don't do that,' she whispered. 'Mommy says it's wrong.'

Connie smiled. 'So you have played with your little snatch, right? And dear mommy caught you. How adorable.'

Even in the subdued light of the cell Connie could tell the child was blushing. She continued: 'Okay, so you had your fingers in you. Everyone does it. They just say they don't, or like your mommy they say you shouldn't. Well, this chain is to stop you playing with yourself.' The teen couldn't help adding with a smirk, 'Mommy'd be real pleased.'

'But why... um, you know...'

'Stop you, princess? Because I'm your jailer and I own you now. And I want to take your pants off.'

'M-my pants?'

'I do wish you'd stop repeating everything I say. You've been here three days and those pants are probably filthy. I know you pee and poop in the hole near you, like I told you to, but it's better if you're naked.'

B-but you said I won't be able to put my hands in my pants.'

'Figure of speech, kid.' The woman grinned.

'This chain on my neck. It's heavy,' complained the child. 'It hurts.'

'You'll get used to it. Promise. Now stand up and shuck those pants off for me.'

Reluctantly the child clambered to her feet, still embarrassed at being seen like this by this stranger. This woman who three days ago had grabbed her from the street. Reluctantly the child slipped her pants down and stepped out of them. She stood, hands in front of her hairless snatch.

'Go on, child. Pick them up. I'm not worried about seeing your slit.'

'Not a slit,' mumbled the child, but she did what she was told. The child stood and held them out. They had been white but were grubby now.

'Fuck, sweetie, I don't want them. I know, stuff them in your mouth.'

'No! Won't do it!' gasped the child.

'Yes! Will do it' mimicked Connie. She paused and then resumed, her voice little more than a whisper. 'Don't do it and you go without food for a whole day. You'll be eating those filthy pants in desperation.'

Sunday blinked and then, almost crying, slowly did what she was told, forcing the ball of off-white material into her small mouth. The child's cheeks bulged like a hamster's.

'See, they don't taste so bad do they? In fact, honeykins, you look really sweet. That puffy cheek look really suits you.' The woman moved over to the wall above the child's head and clicked the middle padlock on the chain to the iron staple. She tested it with a tug, but she knew it wasn't going to come away. 'Don't worry, they won't stay in your mouth for long. I just like making you do things you think are weird.'

'Ummmth' grunted the child, agreeing.

'Okay, left hand first. You know which is your left hand, don't you?'

Sunday nodded and lifted her left hand. The woman closed the padlock near the end of one length of chain round the little girl's slim wrist - a few links that encircled her pale wrist tightly. The woman whistled a little to herself as she tested it and then motioned the child to lift her other hand for the other padlock on the second length of chain.

Sunday gave the merest moan as she realized the weight. Tears glistened in her eyes. She stood shivering with her hands up above her head. As she couldn't hold her hands up with the weight of the old chain she let them rest and hang. She looked bewildered why she was standing like this.

Connie stopped whistling. 'There, there honey, you'll get used to these new chains. They fit real snug. Hey, I can hardly get my pinkie in between the chain and your arm, see?' The woman demonstrated on one of the girl's wrists. 'Made to measure. You should be grateful I get the right size chains for you.'

The woman stepped back and went to the large bag she had brought in with her. She pulled out a roll of silver duct tape and peeled back the edge before she returned to the child. The girl watched the woman tear off a strip, wondering what was happening. Too late the girl understood it was to keep the soiled pants in her mouth.

'Grmmmph!' was as much as the child could exclaim before the tape was across her bulging cheeks and half-open lips. The woman ignored the child's pathetic struggle and smoothed the tape over Sunday's face.

'Good,' said the woman, almost to herself. 'Need a couple more strips more to make sure they stay in the night. Don't want them slipping out, do we?'

Little Sunday tried to shake her head, partly to hope the tape might come loose or simply to avoid more of the tape. Her efforts, small and chained up as she was, were futile. The woman was whistling again as she applied two more generous strips of tape to the girls face, managing to make them cross right under her cute button nose.

A final, longer length went round the top of the terrified girl's head - over her hair - and down the sides of her cheeks so it could be finished off under her chin.

'That should make it so those nasty ol' panties of yours don't slip out,' said the woman. She went back to her bag and dropped the roll back in. 'Okay, princess,' she said as she picked out a length of knotted cord. 'Let's test your new gag, huh?'

Little Sunday was squealing, probably screaming, into her gag. It wouldn't make any difference: the child had been thrashed before by this woman.

'You know what to do, sweetie. Turn and face the wall so I can whip your ass.' The woman flexed her arm.

Tears were falling copiously from the little girl's face. She sounded, with the urgency of her muffled cries, that she might be pleading not to be whipped. She looked as if she didn't want it, eyes wide. She even tried to back into the wall, as if it might help.

'Listen, princess.' The woman sounded cross. 'I have things to do and you are just delaying me. You know I have to whip your ass. Or you want me to whip your front instead? Honestly, I don't mind how I whip you. But I will whip you.'

The scared little girl shook her head, more tears rolling down her face and over her tape gag. She hadn't been whipped on her front but the woman had threatened before to whip her "sorry little tits" as she called them.

'Sweetheart, you're trying my patience,' snapped the woman. 'Turn round. Won't take a minute and anyway, it's been two days since your last whipping.' She added with a smirk: 'Anyhow, you won't be sitting down for a while anyway, with your hands chained like that, so you won't have to bother your hurt little butt.'

Sunday realized with panic in her eyes that the chain at her wrists was indeed too short to let her sit. More muffled cries crept out from the gag, but she gave in. Slowly, shaking with fear, the small girl turned so she faced the wall. Her body was shaking from the sobbing.

'Hush, sweetie,' said the woman as she took up her position. 'Only ten strokes, but as I can see that little ass of yours still has some faint marks from the last time, I'm gonna be very kind and give you a choice. You can have ten on that ass, which looks a little sore still, or twelve on the back of your legs. Understand?'

The sobbing girl didn't respond.

'Understand?' the woman repeated.

Sunday nodded a little.

'So, ten on your ass?'

The girl shook a no.

'Twelve on those legs of yours?'

Very reluctantly the child gave a nod.

'Good. So much nicer when you cooperate.' There was a whistling sound and the first of twelve blows landed on the back of the child's skinny thigh, a red mark erupting bright on the kid's pale fleash. Sunday screamed into her gag and almost collapsed.

By the time the sixth one struck Sunday with a sharp crack, the girl was hanging limp in her new wrist chains, knees scraping against the wall and head down.

'Okay honey, up you come,' said the woman, almost kindly. She got hold of the child's body and lifted her slim body up. 'Try to stand, princess' she said. 'I don't want to whip you like that. I have to complete this with you standing.'

The pain wracked child seemed barely breathing. She was beyond pain in some ways. The woman sighed. 'Honey, you have to help me. I need to finish your whipping. You know, your mom probably said the sooner something's over the sooner it's done. Try to be brave and stand up.'

Somehow the girl responded. She managed to stand.

'Try to lock these knees, sweetie,' said the woman, tapping the side of the child's legs. 'I'd love to help you but you have to learn to stand still. There's going to be a lot of these whippings and it'd help me if you could take them without all this fainting and stuff.'

It took a couple of minutes before Connie was satisfied the child was steady enough for her to continue. But she only landed another two before Sunday's legs buckled again.

'Oh shit,' breathed Connie. 'You are going to make me late. Look, let me help you some.' The woman kicked away the mattress and pushed Sunday's bare feet so they were on the cold concrete floor. The child's legs weren't bent quite so much. Cursing gently, Connie got her keys and undid one wrist and moved the padlock up a couple of links so the child was at full extension, almost on tip toes, and then did the same with the other wrist.

Sunday didn't resist. The last padlock was closed and Connie patted the child on the shoulders. 'Now this means you have to spend the night on tippy-toes but, at least you're kind of standing. In time I guess you'll get used to this and stand up all on your own. I sure hope so.'

Without another word the woman completed the allocated twelve lashes. She wasn't sure if the small girl was conscious, but when she checked the child was.

'Great, honey. Twelve strokes and the gag held up real well. Could hardly hear you screaming most of the time.' The woman looked down at Sunday's legs, a mass of red weals. 'They'll bruise up nicely,' said the woman, touching them. The child flinched.

'Okay, I'm done for tonight. You just stay there and I'll see you tomorrow.' Connie went to her bag and made sure everything was put away. The only thing she went back to the child for was to pick up the rubber ball gag and hang it on a hook near the child. 'Don't fret. You can have that back in that pretty mouth of yours real soon.'

Another pat on the child's limp body and the woman left the cell, bag in hand, pausing only to lock the steel-reinforced door with the two large heavy padlocks. She whistled as she walked to where she had her uniform hanging up. It was cool, just being in her bra and pants but that was she expected in these deep, dank dungeons.

Still whistling, the woman got dressed.

---

The press conference was over. The police chief stood, trying not to whistle, as she shuffled papers on the desk. One of the reporters approached her, a man she knew well - the crime beat reporter from the local newspaper.

'Chief Glover, any chance of me getting a statement from the parents?'

'Kelvin McGee, you asked that twice at the conference. I can only tell you what I told everyone then. No interviews, no inside-the-distressed-family pieces. You know this is a terrible tragedy for the whole of the community and especially for those good folks, little Sunday's parents. We're trying to find Sunday. But we have to protect the family.'

'So you checked everywhere?'

'Oh Kelvin. Of course we have. I have personally led the search. We have been everywhere. Hell, if there's any place we haven't searched, tell me. We've been searching for 72 hours now. Round the clock.'

'Uh, the old mill, on the north side of town.'

The police chief raised her eyebrow. 'You think?'

The reporter looked flustered. 'No... I guess you checked it out. It's just that my editor wants something.'

'So do I,' said Connie, leaning towards the man. 'Look... strictly off the record.' The woman looked round at the TV crews packing up their equipment, the other reporters drifting away. 'No names, no direct quote.'

'I know. You can trust me. Unnamed source, promise.'

'Jeez, I hope so.' The cop took a deep breath and dropped her voice. 'I think Sunday is still alive. We found something. One of her shoes, least we think it is hers. Family can't be sure.'

'But that means... she could be dead.'

'No. It means that as we found it on the main route out of town she has been kidnapped. Maybe out of town... maybe out of state.'

'Ransom note?'

'Not yet,' sighed the woman. 'But those folks ain't got much to give.'

The reporter shook his head. 'My paper can get up a reward.'

'Good. It may help,' said the woman. 'God knows we need it on this one.'

'But it happened with that Freda girl.'

'Friday. Alannah Friday.' The police chief pursed her lips. 'When I was a lieutenant... shit, we turned the whole county over.'

'You said then you thought she might be alive.'

The chief shook her head. 'I said I hoped she was alive. But hell, it was eight years ago.'

'She'd be what, fifteen now, right?'

'You know full well. I read your piece this morning, Kelvin, when you dragged it all up. But there's no connection we can find between that girl's disappearance and this.'

'Uh-huh. Both girls. Both went missing right after school -'

'And one black and one white. One seven, one ten. One taller than the other.' Connie's sarcasm was all too evident.

'But the names... days of the week.'

Connie stared at the man coldly. 'Back off Kelvin, or I take my off-record quote back. I don't need you making the townsfolk nervous and locking their daughters up, not going to school and socials and whatever. Though it might be one way to make sure everyone stays safe.'

'We know there's a family, with a daughter called Tuesday. They'll be scared.'

'Everyone is. Now let it go, okay? You've got your bit of inside information.'

The reporter nodded.

---

The old police station dripped water from the leaking roof and Connie made her way over the rubble littered floor of what was the main room. She had her bag with her and was whistling happily. She looked round, glancing toward the shattered door to her old office. Hanging broken and half open, the glass had long given way to some vandal. Her gold painted name, Lt Glover, would be on a thousand shards of glass.

But that didn't matter. Not now she had the biggest office at the new police station across town. At the top of the old staircase down to the cells, Connie took out her key and unlocked the stout, steel fronted door, painted with the warning "Police. Do Not Enter". There were countless dents in the door, target practice for some punks throwing rocks, but it was solid iron behind that steel cover. The heavy door swung back and Connie hurried through, locking it behind her.

Always a satisfying sound as the tumbler locks clicked down.

Down the stairs, through another solid door, into the cell corridor. She paused at the door of Sunday's cell and listened. There was silence from within and she felt tempted to go in and check, but Sunday would be alright. Hurt, but okay. The child had to get used to being treated like this.

At the next cell, the woman paused and shed her uniform. It still felt strange going in after all this time in just her underwear but it had to be done. The almost naked woman shivered with the cold and unlocked the heavy door. But she consoled herself she'd soon feel warm.

She opened the heavy door and smiled at Alannah. The black teenager grinned and scampered towards the woman, her large tits jiggling, the chains rattling pleasantly at her ankles. Hands cuffed behind her so she couldn't play with her cunt, though Connie had long suspected the girl managed to finger her own asshole.

'Mistress!' cried the fifteen year old as she pressed herself to the woman.

'Ease off honey while I lock the door,' said the woman.

Alannah stepped back to allow the woman to secure the door. When she turned back, Alannah was looking for a kiss. Tongue out, ready to be bitten. Connie obliged and under her hard bite the child whimpered in a mixture of pain and pleasure.

The naked black girl had learned well over the years, which pleased Connie. The woman broke the kiss but not before she had brought her hands up to seize the black girl's generous boobs and sink her nails into the tender flesh. 'Oh, Mistress,' gasped Alannah, eyes closed. Connie could never tell whether it was a plea for mercy or a moan of pleasure.

But Alannah Friday had never known mercy. She had known pain and suffering, torture and humiliation. But all she had known other than being punished and whipped and bound and stretched was relief when the suffering ended.

No, paused. The suffering never really ended. There were just gaps in it.

Connie let go and hooked her forefingers through the large steel rings that pierced the teenager's nipples. She lifted the heavy tits and let them dangle from the rings. 'Must get you chained up by these. They'll be thinking I don't care.'

The girl grinned. 'You gonna tie me up some?' she asked.

'No, haven't got time right now. Just a whipping.' The woman nearly added: got to get home for my son's birthday and my husband should have news of his promotion. But she never said anything about her son and daughter and husband to the prisoner. They were separate parts of her life. Loving family, adoring prisoner. They didn't have to know about each other.

Connie smiled at how hectic life was. It could even be said she had two jobs. Police chief and prison officer. Protector of the community, punisher of the individual. Shame they didn't both pay the same.

'You gonna gag me, Mistress?'

'What? Oh no, Alannah. I want to hear you scream.' The woman let go off her prisoner's weighty tits.

The girl smiled and Connie ran her hand over the girl's perfectly bald head. 'Miss your hair, sweetie?'

Alannah shrugged. 'You wanted to shave me,' said the girl. It was said as a fact. No emotion. A good prisoner did what she was told. Alannah had wisely learned that not long after arriving, though it had taken some spectacular beatings before she truly learned.

'Mistress?' Alannah was looking concerned. Clearly something was praying on her mind.

'Go on, be quick. I have a lot to do. Twenty lashes for you.'

The girl nodded. 'You said, the other day, you might need this cell. Will you make... will I have to leave?'

Connie sighed. 'I don't know yet. I'm thinking about it.'

The girl nodded. She looked sad. This had been her home for eight years. There were pictures of her on the wall, pictures of a terrified seven year old, mouth taped up and bound. Other images from each of her years here. A growing girl in chains, ball gags, straps. Ropes too - thin white ropes that dug deep and contrasted nicely with the prisoner's dark skin. A girl showing red whip marks on her coffee-colored ass, her back, her legs, around her cunt. Plucked hairless, naturally.

And of course raw whip marks on her developing tits. It was good that they had got so large so early in life. Connie liked that, liked to see them jiggle as the child writhed against the whip. Her big ass wobbled nicely too when thrashed, but it was the girl's tits that always pleased Connie. The woman wondered if she might encourage Sunday's tits to grow as big as this.

'I love you mistress,' said Alannah.

'And I love you too, sweetkins. I wouldn't give you such a nice home if I didn't.' Connie gave the girl a little kiss and ignored the offered tongue. She didn't have time to bite it. The woman pushed the teenager away. 'Go get me whip three,' she said.

Alannah hurried, ass and tits wobbling, chains clinking, to where the whips hung. Even with her hands cuffed behind the teen managed to get the whip off the hook and bring it back.

'Twenty strokes,' Connie reminded her prisoner as she took the black leather whip. 'On your legs.'

'Front or back?' asked the girl, the faintest tremble in her voice. The front of her legs would still hurt from their thrashing the other day.

'Hmmm, front.' The woman cracked the whip, noting Alannah for all her years of being thrashed and beaten, whipped and scourged, still looked apprehensive. But that was how it should be. Prisoners like her - and Sunday - should appreciate the pain they were to be given but be respectful of it.

Alannah went and stood on the small stool so she was higher, her legs more easily accessible to Connie's whip. She was shaking slightly, which was always lovely to behold.

The woman looked at the naked black girl. She thought of Sunday, standing up there just as brave, just as fearful. Tuesday too, one day.

But Connie was in no hurry. The next six years or so would do.

The police chief flexed her arm. 'Scream well, princess,' she said.