Stories of Tie Up Games

I understand that videos are available at some less salubrious sites.
Thanks for staying with it, @Bradstick

Well this is another one of those stories that a bit different from what I normally read here. Seems a bit harsh with the sentences they are receiving and very dim with the prospects of them not making it through this. But yet I'm intrigued as to what will happen. Is it as serious as it seems or this a more of a smoke and mirrors kind of thing. I'm firm believer in punishments need to fit the crime and this doesn't quite seem to. Curious to see how this continues to play out.

Thanks for that, @Red86

It's a question of simple economics. Prison costs a lot and the revenue generated covers the cost of accommodating and, where necessary, repairing the merchandise. It also seems to have had a positive effect on the levels of crime. Also the proles enjoy the spectacle. It's a bit like bread and circuses I suppose. Get down to the bookies and place your bet.

@blackbound, sorry I missed your reply.
Surely, not a jackass, merely a dedicated sportsman. Well, that's what he thinks, in any case.

Wow two runs in one day, definitely unlucky.

But probably good for the bookies.

It's good to see so many people looking in to this piece. Thanks especially to @blackbound @Bradstick, @harveygasson and @Red86 for thier comments.

Here comes the next part.

This reserve was adjacent to the first one and set up similarly. Rhys would have preferred to have been hunted over the original reserve with at least some of which he’d already had the opportunity to become acquainted and he was sure that his rival purchase must already have had a working knowledge of the reserve. He ran.

Rhys ran for about a mile before veering off to the left this time to seek some cover. Oh, why couldn’t he climb? He found a small gulley. He crawled into it and tried to gather some of the thorny undergrowth around him. At least he could rest for a while in some concealment. Breathing; he had to control his breathing. Sound; he had to keep quiet and listen. Pain; oh fuck, his ribs had exploded once more. Fear; why not give in? At least the fear would be no more. No! For fuck’s sake no! Just breathe; breathe and think; breathe gently, breathe, listen, and think.

The artificial adrenaline from the injection was still coursing through his body making it difficult for Rhys simply to lie still but he knew he had to do so. By now the hunter could be on his track. He couldn’t risk moving. He couldn’t risk being seen. He couldn’t risk being heard. He couldn’t risk anything.

Over the next hour he heard movements that couldn’t have been small animals, they had to be human, what else that big would be on the reserve? Then it happened. He had to do something. Someone was running in his direction, crashing through the undergrowth, snorting. He had to do something. Was it the hunter? He had to do something. No, why should he be in so much of a panic? He had to do something. Surely it was his rival. He had to do something.

Just as whoever it was seemed to be about five yards away, Rhys made a break for it. Ignoring the lacerating thorns he disentangled himself from the concealing undergrowth and tried to make off with whoever it was still in pursuit. Rhys didn’t dare look round; the adrenaline was still working; he kept running. Then it happened: he heard a single shot and fell to the ground with the breath forced out of his body.

After a few seconds, he realised he wasn’t dead. Shit, blood, I’ve been wounded. Why can I hardly breathe? Perhaps this is what dying is like. His brain was racing. His adrenal gland was working overtime reinforcing the work the epi-pen had done. What was only a few seconds seemed to last an age. He could still hear someone approaching. As the heavy steps came nearer, Rhys realised that the body that had fallen on him was what was stopping him breathing and that the sticky blood flowing over his upper body and arms was not his.

The age it took for the hunter to arrive was actually little more than a minute. He rolled the dead purchase off of Rhys. Even so, the pains in his ribs and arms hardly subsided at all as his lungs strained against his broken ribs. The hunter wasn’t in the least concerned with Rhys’s well being; he’d finished with him now and was more intent on examining his trophy. That exit wound was going to make the taxidermist’s job difficult. He hated shooting his quarry in the back. He produced his mobile and rang the Supervisor, telling him to, “Come and collect”. Ignoring Rhys completely, the hunter continued examining his trophy’s wounds and sucking his teeth in annoyance. This one wasn’t going to be easy to display at all.

The Supervisor, his slaves and his dog soon arrived and left the refrigerated 4×4 van as near to the site of the kill as they could. Two noticeably muscular slaves rolled the trophy onto a stretcher and carried it off to the van while the other slave locked the metal blindfold onto Rhys’s bridle and led him away. At least he used the choke chain again and not that wire noose.

Once he was in the holding pen again, the adrenaline would not let Rhys just pass out, would not grant him even temporary relief from his agony. Even the wound dressing he was receiving reinforced the pain he was in. Being blindfolded now and having been unconscious last time, Rhys got no warning what the change of slaves signified. He merely felt someone sitting on his belly after he’d been forced to lay face upwards in the stinking sand and something hard being held firmly against his right pec. He felt a sharp thump, no, not a thump – a stabbing pain – no, it was a thump. Oh, fuck, did it really matter? The slave then wiped the site of his work and examined it carefully. Rhys now had two neatly applied black tally marks towards his tariff. As soon as the slave shifted his weight from his belly, Rhys rolled onto his side and curled into the foetal position. He was still alive. He wished he wasn’t.





Finally sleep granted Rhys temporary relief from his pain but his sleep was short-lived before he heard someone being dropped into the pen. The strap around his elbows was checked. It might have caused its own problems but its restrictive nature did relieve some of the pain in his ribs and his wrists, not that Rhys appreciated that at the time. Whoever was with him was saying nothing and Rhys managed to figure out why even though he couldn’t see him.

All Rhys knew about his future was that, if he was ever to be released, he needed to beat the gun five more times. He didn’t know whether he’d be put up for auction immediately, whether he’d be allowed recovery time, whether he’d be the only quarry next time with the obvious implications for his possible survival or even whether he really wanted to live any longer.

The slave clamped Rhys’s ankles using a similar device to the one holding his wrists except that this one was padlocked on instead of being riveted. He patted Rhys’s shoulder in what was supposed to be a reassuring gesture but he knew better than to try to make comforting noises as he went about his work. Rhys heard the jangling of the chain hoist and dreaded being lifted out in the strappado position again. The resultant desperate scream for mercy was totally pointless.

The slave hooked the hoist onto the clamp round Rhys’s ankles and supported his body as it first raised him to be hanging upside down and then lifted him clear of the holding pen where another slave eased his body onto the ground and disentangled the clamp from the hook. The survivor found himself rolled onto what he later managed to identify as a stretcher by the way he was obviously being carried somewhere. Lying on his arms was more than uncomfortable but lying on his front wasn’t even an option. It was only a few minutes before Rhys realised that he was in a pleasantly warm building. He was taken along a corridor and into an echoing room where the stretcher was put down and Rhys, none too roughly, was rolled off the stretcher and forced to kneel on the floor.

The next mechanical sound was unidentifiable as Rhys was made to bend forwards at the waist. He felt something forced between his arms and his back leaving his arms displayed on some sort of firm, stable horizontal surface. Leather straps fastened his arms to the surface leaving them immobile and the noise level from whatever it was increased as an unaccustomed smell met his somewhat flattened nostrils. He felt his wrists being vibrated for about half a minute and he screamed as the clamp came apart leaving just the straps holding his arms in place. The angle grinder was turned off and Rhys heard someone enter the room.

“Up there,” and Rhys felt the straps holding his arms against the work surface and the one around his elbows removed. It was almost as painful as the restraints were removed and the work surface was slipped clear as it had been before. Rhys had been reduced to a crying heap on the floor. “Make sure he doesn’t choke.” Rhys found himself supported so that he could sit on the floor. “Is he alright?” Rhys could hear no answer because of course the service bay operatives wore the same sort of bridle as he did. “Right, haul him up.”

Rhys’s newly freed arms were draped over a slave on either side as they lifted him as tenderly as possible to his feet and hauled him to where the voice had indicated. Heavy ropes were looped round his wrists behind the remnants of the metal clamp and pulled tight, hauling Rhys’s arms sideways and leaving him crucified and sagging in his bonds. Another thick rope hung down from the ceiling and was threaded under Rhys’s right armpit, across his chest and back under his left armpit. The end of the rope was then thrown over a sturdy bar some three feet below the high ceiling and, upon its return, was pulled so that Rhys was rather better supported and was then tied off to a ring set into the floor. Rhys could stand with his feet firmly on the floor and his arms stretched sideways but no longer having to bear his weight. “Take that off.”

A slave unlocked the metal plate that was flattening Rhys’s nose and covering his eyes and Rhys looked around. He was in a large, immaculately clean, high-ceilinged room furnished with poles, bars and a large padded table with a powerful light over it and some sort of wardrobe sized unit at one end. There was an entire wall of what looked like storage lockers of different sizes and even some cages against another wall. The contrast between the gleaming state of the metallic walls and floor and the disgusting holding pen was extreme. There were also several slaves; Rhys was becoming accustomed to seeing men and boys wearing only cock cages and metal bridles working in silence and bowing to acknowledge the receipt of their instructions. The other person in the room soon captured Rhys’s attention as he took his jaw in his hand and examined what he could see of Rhys’s face.

Damn, treating the condemned like pure animals all the way to the end. Human trophies sounds like something you'd see in a horror movie.

Wasn't quite expecting Ryhs to get a reprieve. Has something changed or are they giving a slightly better place to rest and heal until he's put back up for bid again. I guess the latter is plausible given you wouldn't want the hunters to feel they have easy targets.

Showing that he has already survived a couple pf shoots should increase his value. - - - as long as they can get him fit again.

Red86 took the words out of my mouth. Just when it looked like there was no mercy whatsoever for our protagonist, a ray of hope?

Not for his own benefit, of course, that's incidental.

Always difficult to sell damaged goods.

As promised, with more views come more episodes.
I hope they're not following too quickly for people to keep up.

@blackbound, @Bradstick, @harveygasson, and @Red86

Here comes the next part.

This man in the white boiler-suit made notes into a Dictaphone as he continued to feel along Rhys’s arms and down his legs. It was almost as if he was making an inventory of Rhys’s body parts. It was more like an MOT test than a medical examination but that, in fact, is what it was. The Doctor moved to a desk to enter data into a computer and, as he went, gave the instruction to, “Cut that lot off.” A rather slight slave, who obviously hadn’t had his very blonde hair shaved from his head and face for about a week, approached Rhys, looked him in the eye and held his finger to the hole in the front of his gag in a “shh” gesture. Seeing him about to start work on the tape around his torso Rhys gave an understanding nod. The slave went as gently as he could but Rhys couldn’t suppress his movements and groaning completely.

While the supporting tape was removed, other slaves went about their various tasks in the inevitable silence and any that didn’t currently have a job, simply knelt on the floor with their arms folded behind them and feet crossed, heads bowed and facing a wall. Rhys had no way of knowing that the slaves considered working in the service bay to be one of the better assignments. The Doctor chose his slaves very carefully; he had little need for violent thugs or particularly muscular labourers and preferred the sort of intelligent slaves that were often a challenge to other users. He also needed slaves who would do no more damage to his charges than had already been done.

With all the tape removed, Rhys’s ribs no longer enjoyed the comfort of the support that it had provided and the subsequent prodding at the hands of the white clad man nearly caused him to pass out again. “Prepare a cast. Start just below the rib cage; stop just below the arm-pits. Line it properly. Make it tight.”

After certain preparations, Rhys had his ribs bound first with a thin bandage and then with several layers of something like ‘Modroc’. The two slaves worked with skill and as much care as they could take. The Doctor examined their work and explained, “The plaster will heat up quite a lot as it sets but it will cool off again. The cast should immobilise your torso as your ribs heal. My staff will ensure that you do not jeopardise their work by restricting your movements very severely over the next few weeks. I am expected to return you to the auctions fit to complete your sentence. If I cannot do that within a reasonable time, you will be consigned to an oubliette. I think you know what that implies.” Rhys nodded wearily.

“Treat those abrasions when you take him down.” With that the doctor and all but two of the slaves departed.

Rhys was kept like that for four hours with the attendant slaves checking his temperature, blood pressure and respiration rate at regular intervals. He wished someone would speak to him. He wished someone COULD speak to him.

Convicted slaves come from all sections of society and from all professions, crime does not seem to be confined to one particular demographic type. This made the Doctor’s job easier: he could use nurses, paramedics and even had a medical student to help him for the next two years. One of the nurses came into the service bay and, nodding at the two attendants, approached Rhys and made a cursory examination. This man was a slave but he didn’t wear a bridle and had been allowed a fairly brief pair of baggy red shorts to indicate his rank.

At last, someone to explain things to Rhys! The nurse took a felt-tip pen and wrote, “RIBS93” on Rhys’s shoulders, the front of his left thigh and his right buttock. He then explained the daily regime to Rhys.

“I am to nurse you for the next four weeks. I am supposed to ensure that your ribs heal. That’s all. You will be immobilised for most of the time but will be allowed necessary exercise at eight-hourly intervals to ensure that your muscles don’t atrophy. I’ll see what I can do about the remains of that clamp but the cage remains. I might be allowed to replace that bridle with a lockable muzzle while you’re here but don’t hold your breath. Stamp him.”

By now Rhys knew the routine involved: another tattoo tally was to be marked just above the top of the cast. The Doctor had decided that the severity of the injury that caused his stay in the service bay rated the same as having faced the gun once more. One attendant braced Rhys from behind while the other stamped the needles high on his chest. That pain was, this time, almost inconsequential.

“Take him down. Then onto the table.”

The rope passing under Rhys’s armpits was released causing him to sag and hang briefly from his wrists before he managed to stand once more. One of the attendants freed Rhys’s hands while the other supported him and guided him over to the table which his fellow attendant had tilted to be vertical. Rhys was soon strapped onto the table by the ankles, neck, waist and wrists and the table was returned to the horizontal. That was the most comfort Rhys had felt since his arrest as he sank into the thick padding and soon went to sleep.





The first day in the service bay was somewhat different from the rest as the nurse made arrangements for Rhys’s future maintenance. First, the blindfold was locked over Rhys’s face until decisions had been made. Once they were made, the nurse returned and, without explanation, injected Rhys with something. Rhys knew nothing more until he woke up. The fist things he knew then were: that his head was fuzzy, that he couldn’t feel the remains of the clamp around his wrists and that his jaws, although still suffering intrusion, didn’t seem to be forced wide. It took quite a while for him to realise that it was dark and that there was something pressing against his eyes. He soon realised that his private parts were still encased in the spiked cage but he couldn’t help wondering what the little sharp pains were down his lower arms and on his shoulders.

Once he had fully come round, the nurse returned and explained what had happened. As long as he was being repaired, he could wear a panel gag with a flat tongue instead of the bridle but, it had plenty of attachment points for straps if they were necessary. If that didn’t work, another bridle could be fitted inside half an hour. All the while he behaved, he would not have his wrists clamped but they would usually be strapped to the table. The nurse examined the tiny burn marks caused by the sparks that had escaped the shield as the rivets that secured the clamp and the bridle to Rhys’s body had been cut from him, and he applied a small amount of a soothing lotion on one or two larger marks. The “nursing” was administered with little tenderness but perfect efficiency; after all, this wasn’t a hospital ward, it was merely a bay in the service centre where potential merchandise was maintained to optimise its financial value.

The nurse left and shortly afterwards, still unseen by Rhys, another slave came in. This one, before he was convicted of theft, had been a newly qualified physiotherapist. The Doctor snapped him up at auction at the first opportunity and he had only a year of his tariff left to serve. “Can you hear me, Ribs93?” Rhys nodded.

The physio explained that he was going to release Rhys from the table and do some tests. He’d then find some exercises that would maintain his muscles over the next four weeks without jeopardising the recovery of his ribs. The table was tilted and Rhys was without arm restraint for the first time since his arrest. There followed a lot of prodding, measuring and manipulation of the blindfolded HC who was instructed to answer any questions with a nod or a shake of the head. Rhys was made to do repetitive dynamic exercises to most of his body with a concentration on isometric exercises that he’d be able to do while strapped down. Every so often the physio would leave Rhys in a sort of limbo while he entered notes into the laptop until a full introductory programme had been worked out.

With very little explanation, Rhys was then backed up to the table and his wrists were strapped tightly a few inches wide of his hips, another strap was tightened around his waist and another, wider one, not quite so tightly around his neck before the table was returned to the horizontal. That made it more convenient for the physio to strap Rhys’s ankles to the table. The last piece of advice Rhys received was that, if he struggled, there were more straps available. The physio left. Rhys was alone in his darkness.

In the following hours, Rhys’s mind wandered in between bouts of fitful, nightmare-filled sleep.

Are we making "repairs" to humans or machines. Talk about dehumanizing.

So I've felt more and more bad for Ryhs as the story goes on. But the latest chapter is giving some hope he will eventually make it out of this. Even given he's already been awarded 3 marks for shots, it would be horrible to get all through this, treated ("repaired" according to staff) only to be shot. Especially since he definitely doesn't seem like a true hardened criminal. But I'm also curious if he makes it to another auction. Sounds like doc could pull him from the auction lines if he wanted.

So that's my running theory right now. I'm interested in the restraints and people being treated like slaves, not the trophies. But I will say, fear is a good tool when dealing with criminals. Makes them think twice before committing crimes. But need better then circus courts to make sure ppl don't get wrongly convicted. Just my two cents and not criticizing the story. I'm still equally curious to see how this continues to unfold and eventually ends!

How interesting! I am routing for Rhys to make it out this.l alive! I believe in him!

Bradstick wrote: 3 months ago How interesting! I am routing for Rhys to make it out this.l alive! I believe in him!

Same. And very kind of his captors to add an extra tally.

...so what happens if you get arrested a second time?

Thanks, @Red86 Indeed, people, watching machines being killed would not be nearly as much fun.

Seriously, though, I must agree with most of what you say. In real life such draconian methods are not only unacceptable, they have never been shown to work. Look at the number of people on death row in America.

Stick in there, @Bradstick, Rhys needs all the support he can get.

@blackbound, arrested a second time?! Doesn't often happen

Fucking hot as hell

Yes, @Caldo203, they like to keep it warm for the recovering merchandise.
Or have I missed the point?

@blackbound, @Bradstick, @Caldo203, @harveygasson, and @Red86

Interest seems to be building up so here comes the next part.

Rhys was eventually woken by the nurse who made a cursory examination of the visible parts of Rhys’s body and called an attendant who presented a wide-necked bottle to Rhys’s encased penis. The nurse suggested that he use it because, if he soiled his table, he’d be punished for it once he had been repaired. Rhys then felt a bed pan pushed under him accompanied by a further recommendation and a reminder of the consequences of not using it. Rhys simply couldn’t. He would soon learn.

The physio arrived and he tilted the table and undid the straps. “Stand still.” Rhys did his best to do so on his unsteady legs as he propped himself against the table for support. “I am going to remove your blindfold and loosen your gag. Remain silent.” Rhys didn’t think a reply was required.

With the leather blindfold removed Rhys saw a short, muscular young man wearing only a fairly brief pair of white cotton shorts standing in front of him. The physio obviously worked out. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, Rhys looked around the bay. That the other three people present were slaves was obvious; all were naked except for their cock cages and bridles. One of them was scrubbing the floor and the other two appeared to be guarding the door. There was no window in the bay but it was well lit and warm.

The physio took Rhys through some of the exercises that he’d introduced previously and during the next hour, Rhys was given a rigorous workout. Once he’d been told to warm down and the physio had made some notes on the laptop, Rhys was strapped back onto the table by one of the attendant slaves while the other left the room. He soon returned with Rhys’s meal whereupon his colleague looked Rhys in the eye and held his finger against the tube in his gag. Rhys understood the injunction and managed to remain silent once his gag had been removed. He was about to eat solid food once more.

Once all the vegetable pasta had been shovelled in and Rhys had been given water to drink from a hydration pack, his gag was replaced before he could even utter the automatic “Thank you.” That was forming on his lips. The leather panel that held the tongue in place pressed tightly against Rhys’s teeth but at least it was preferable to the enormous wedge that the metal bridle had recently secured between his tortured jaws. The table was returned to the horizontal and the physio returned to his task. He showed Rhys a range of isometric exercises and instructed him to make sure that he did the entire cycle whenever he could.

“Finish him off.” So saying, the physio departed and one of the attendant slaves buckled a leather blindfold into place consigning Rhys to total darkness once more. He was going to get a long time to think over the next four weeks.

The tedium of those four weeks was extreme. The day was split into eight-hour sections. After the first day nearly all sections were identical:
1) Wake up
2) Bottle, bed pan, clumsy wipe
3) Release from the table for physio
4) Back on the table and food
5) Table returned to the horizontal and Rhys abandoned to his own silent thoughts.

The only variation was provided by the occasional thorough scrubbing down of the visible parts of Rhys’s body, subsequent wiping down with disinfectant and even more occasional and far more intimate cleansings. Rhys did not welcome that particular release from the tedium of his existence.

The sensory deprivation had weird effects on Rhys’s psyche and it didn’t take too many days before he lost all track of time. The only person who ever spoke to him was the physio and that was only to issue instructions and make corrections to Rhys’s exercises, and he didn’t even see the Doctor or the nurse any more. Even his dedicated observation of the instruction to do his isometrics provided hardly any relief from the tedium or from the effects of the sensory deprivation. As his hearing became more acute, he noticed that there was no sound from the slaves so he correctly assumed that he was on his own except for the “servicing” he received every eight hours. He couldn’t even hear anything outside the bay. It was obviously sound-proof and all he could hear was the gentle sigh of the air-conditioning. Rhys re-lived his crimes endlessly when he was awake and his consequent nightmare punishment filled his sleep relentlessly.





As the four weeks ground slowly on, Rhys’s ribs gradually gave him less and less pain as they started to repair themselves. Four weeks was not long enough to allow a complete recovery but it did allow Rhys’s body to return to merchantable quality.

Rhys roused from his fitful sleep to find the cast encasing his torso being cut free. The tingling of his skin was almost painful as it was newly exposed to the air. Rhys was offered no explanation before the Doctor started his examination. He made notes into a Dictaphone as he continued to squeeze the boy’s ribs. He seemed to be happy with the progress the broken bones had made as he told the nurse to take him down. Rhys needed to ask so many things. He wasn’t going to get the chance.

The table was tipped and Rhys was released. Once he’d recovered his stability, the Doctor continued his examination as he manipulated Rhys into almost every posture he could imagine. All the while Rhys was being pulled, pushed & pummelled, the Doctor made notes into his Dictaphone but never addressed Rhys directly. He then instructed the physio to take over. At last Rhys could see. The Doctor, the physio and the nurse were present throughout the procedure. Rhys was made to extend his exercises to put strain on muscles long held immobile and heard constant remarks being passed between the Doctor, the nurse and the physio. Weren’t they ever going to ask Rhys anything about his recovery?

The lengthy examination ended with the instruction to the nurse to “Strap him up, just to be on the safe side.” and to the physio to “Take four more days to loosen him up a bit and get him used to the new exercises,” before leaving saying that he had something to bring up with the Judge.

Rhys was immediately blindfolded and told to put his hands on his head. As he stood there, the nurse wrapped his torso tightly in surgical tape before strapping him to the table once more. Obviously the repairs to Rhys were considered to have been so effective that he wasn’t in need of such compassionate imprisonment as he had previously enjoyed from then on. He was used to the tight straps around his wrists and ankles and the wide one around his neck but this time his movements were to be even more restricted. A tight, thick strap round his waist clamped his backside closely against the table and another under his armpits forced his shoulder blades down firmly. His elbows were pulled away from his body and secured leaving his arms virtually immobile and his legs were strapped around his calves and at some six inches above his knees.

Before leaving Rhys to his silent and virtually immobile confinement, the physio reminded him of the importance of doing his isometrics if he was to stand a chance of escaping the next time he was put to the chase.

The repeated eight hour routine started again.

Eventually Rhys awoke with the usual start when he supposed that he heard the physio and the attendants arrive. After the initial tensing of his muscles, he almost immediately started to relax, expecting to be fed and allowed to exercise once more. Then he felt the prick in his arm.





Rhys awoke. His head started to clear but the feeling that it was being crushed didn’t even start to subside. As soon as he became aware that he was no longer strapped down to the table, Rhys automatically tried to straighten his body and legs. It took some minutes for him to realise that he had been folded into some sort of container that afforded him hardly and freedom of movement. He couldn’t move his head except to twist it slightly and could not lower his arms which had obviously been fastened to the top of the low container in which he was kneeling with his chest forced down towards his knees. There had been no need to fasten his ankles as his feet were already in contact with the back of the cage which was so low that, with his knees strapped together as they were, there would be no way he could slide his legs from under him. The fact that there was no need had not stopped one of his attendants cuffing his big toes together and padlocking the rigid black metal cuffs to one of the horizontal bars at the rear of the cage so that Rhys’s feet were not even in contact with the floor.

As he continued to recover from the anaesthetic, the rigour of Rhys’s situation gradually resolved itself in his mind. A metal bridle had obviously been riveted once more over and around his head holding both a gag and a blindfold in place. His mouth had been forced wide open once more but he was aware that he could still breathe through it and he could detect light round the edges of the curved metal plate that stretched almost from ear to ear and squashed his nose somewhat when it was fastened to the front of the bridle.

The cage was obviously mounted on a pick-up and, as it made its way to wherever it was headed, Rhys was jostled against the cage and his wrist and toe clamps. At least this time whoever had riveted the wrist clamp onto him hadn’t forced him to keep his forearms parallel if he was to relieve the worst of the pressure against his arms. It was a short journey and very soon Rhys heard and felt the cage door open and felt the wire noose round his neck again. The “conversation” he overheard was completely one-sided and totally confusing.

“You didn’t think you’d be seeing this place again, did you? You see, that doctor tried to get your sentence commuted to an ordinary term of enslavement didn’t he? You’re such a prick; if only you hadn’t been found with that knife on you, he might have succeeded. Now, it’s just ‘welcome back’. OK, get him ready.”

“What place?” thought Rhys. He could see nothing and hadn’t recognised the salesman’s voice.

Uh oh! A mix-up? Someone setting him up? What's happening to poor Rhys?

And let me assure you, @Xtc, my interest is never not there.