She awoke. She was lying in the grass. Judging by the itching, she was stark naked. Her head ached slightly. Her fingers were numb. Her tongue was fuzzy, so fuzzy that it felt like it needed shaving.

Strangely enough, there were no naked men -- or women -- lying atop her. Or under her. Or beside her.

“Must have been a hell of a party,” she thought.

Anne Coaltar opened her eyes slowly and carefully, as experience had taught her to do after really good parties. After a few minutes of adjustment, she was able to see her surroundings.

She appeared to be lying in a small meadow surrounded on all sides by deep, dark woods. There was a small grassy sward before her, strewn with flowers, and she could make out a footpath through the meadow, wide and deep as if many feet had trodden it over time. Which figured, for a footpath. Something about the light was kinda off, and there was a huge planet visible in the sky even though it seemed to be mid-morning.

One HELL of a party, Anne thought. What the hell drugs had she been taking? She couldn't even remember.

The trees around her looked unfamiliar, but they always did, trees being apolitical except when being clearcut. The sky was a bright, cerulean blue, the grass a brilliant green. There were unfamiliar flowers and weeds poking out of the grass, but they were apolitical too so Anne paid no attention to them.

Anne felt a strange thing at her throat. She casually fingered it. It felt like metal. It was hard. It was unyielding. It was hard and unyielding. Like metal.

She didn’t remember owning a necklace so heavy and thick, much less wearing one to the party.

Could it possibly be that a band of metal now encircled her throat? That while she was unconscious someone had slipped a band of metal around her throat with its attendant chain dangling from it?

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d awakened naked in someone’s back yard with something or someone stuck on or in her.

Anne rolled around to see if she could recognize whose house this land lay in back of. She stared in shock and surprise when she saw nothing behind her but more meadow and trees, and a large rock with a metal hasp set in it, from which a chain dangled.

Experimentally, Anne grabbed the chain her collar was attached to and gave it a tug. The chain on the rock immediately pulled taut against its hasp.

Someone had left her chained up naked in the woods after the party.

“Lielly!” she immediately cried. “Bill O’Lielly! I know you’re out there! Come down here immediately and get me out of this ridiculous collar or I’ll tell everybody what you wore the last time you went out on a date … and when the last time you went out on a date was!”

Her words were greeted only by the soft sighing of the wind in the trees.

“You bastards think this is funny, do you?” Anne cried. “You won’t think it’s so funny when I write a kiss-and-tell article for The New Republican! Oh, the secrets I’ll have to tell about ALL of you … you’re pissing me off really good, now. I might start making stuff up. With you guys, who know?”

Anne went on in this vein for some time, but eventually the weight of the silence all around her wore her down and she just laid there for a time in the grass, seething with anger.

Somebody was going to pay for this. Probably a democrat.

The thought opened up new and frightening possibilities in Anne’s mind. Could the Demorats have been responsible for her present predicament? Could it be THEY who had chained her up? And if so, what further indignities did they have planned for her?

The thought would have filled Anne with dread, except that in her heart she knew that no mere demorat would have the balls to do anything like this to her. They were all weak, pusillanimous little things who would have to have her written permission in triplicate before they’d chain her up naked. Or even look at her when she was chained up naked.

Now, Dick Cheney, there was a guy who’d chain you up naked. And waterboard you. Both at the same time. (She found the thought oddly arousing.)

(Earlier, she had thought that Dick Cheney might be the one who had put her in this predicament, but the thought of yelling “Dick!” repeatedly while naked and chained to a rock in the woods was daunting. Someone might misinterpret.)

After a bit Anne realized that it might be some time before someone came to unchain her, so she explored the possibility of escape on her own. She could not see the place where the chain attached to her collar, but she could feel no lock. However, the chain link attached to the ring set in her collar was misshapen and had a seam of some sort in its middle.

Other than that, nothing but collar and chain.

Anne picked up the chain and followed it to the hasp set in the rock. It, too, was devoid of locking mechanisms, just a set of links leading to the hasp in the rock. The hasp itself was secured with some heavy spikes that had been pounded into the rock. Anne gave the chain a few hard tugs, but there was not the slightest give in the hasp.

She was going to have to hang around until whoever had chained her there came by to release her.

Anne noted idly that there several other hasps set in the rock. Weird.

Anne sat down and began mentally composing her next column. It would be about the way Demorats’ nanny-state approach to gender relations was like chaining a woman to a rock. For although she knew the Demorats were too cowardly to actually do such a thing, at some level she just knew they were responsible. The treacherous, traitorous bastards.

Her column was coming along swimmingly with many colorful metaphors for Demorat sexuality flowing from her mind -- she couldn’t WAIT to get to her computer and type it up -- when she saw two figures approaching along the walking trail.

Strangely, they looked like Renfair types, wearing leather jerkins and breechclouts and carrying spears and shields and wearing swords, the usual goofy Renfair stuff.

“Hey, over here!” Anne cried. “Over here!”

The men were unfamiliar to Anne, and she was naked, but they had to be in on whatever joke was being played on her,

The men showed no sign that they had heard her, but continued along the path. Anne was afraid they were going to pass her by, but at the nearest point to her they diverged from the path and walked toward her.

“Thanks, guys, I seem to be in a spot of trouble here,” Anne said nervously. On closer inspection, these men were not very savory looking. They didn’t have the dreamy, hazy look of Renfair types. They were muscular and their eyes were hard. They looked like Secret Service agents might if they were to wear Renfair stuff.

One of the men was blond with a scruffy three-day beard and hair that curled up at the nape of his neck … he would have been considered kind of hot by the French. The other was older, with a thick brown beard and matching hair, worn shoulder length. He looked like a Viking, except for the lack of horned helmet.

The blond one approached Anne until they were standing practically nose to nose. He was about Anne’s height but his shoulders were very wide and thick with muscle.

“Gorga-gorga-gorga,” he said. It sounded to Anne almost like he was gargling.

“Oh, come on, speak English, guys,” said Anne. “Enough is enough.”

“Gorga-gorga” said the older one to the younger.

“Gorga,” said the younger. “Gorga gorga gorga gorga,” he added.

“Gorga,” said the older.

“Let me guess … Klingon?” Anne asked.

At these words, each man nodded and seized Anne by a wrist and began systematically inspecting her body. Anne tried to resist, but her strength was as nothing compared to their. She feared their activities were a prelude to rape and she began to scream for help.

Apparently this annoyed the older man for her casually hit her in the face so hard it made her ears ring and her eyes cross.

When she had recovered enough from the blow for her eyes to uncross, the men had pried her mouth open and were staring down her throat, then feeling around her teeth with their fingers, fingers which had not been washed in some time by the taste of them.

She gagged when their fingers probed too far, but they just kept probing. It was the most disrespectful treatment Anne had ever had ever been subjected to since she’d had to sit in the audience instead of at the guest table at the Republican national convention.

It was also weird, very weird.

ALSO FROM PAT POWERS

Anne couldn’t help it, she started screaming again and hitting at the men’s legs. They ignored her and continued their probing as she screamed in protest and struck their legs with her fists.

Finally giving up on her vagina, they then subjected her anus to the same probing her vagina had had. This elicited a few gasps of pain from Anne, as they were just as gentle with her anus as they’d been with her other orifices.

After probing her anus carefully, they gave up on inspecting her and dropped her unceremoniously in the grass.

While Anne lay crumpled in the grass, in a state of shock over the gross indignities to which her person had been subjected, the two men began gabbling “Gorga gorga gorgas” at each other.

Anne had heard of such searches before, but they were always conducted by uniformed Homeland Security agents in private rooms at airports, and generally involved swarthy foreigners with suspicious towels on their heads and crazed liberals with loose lips. Never anyone like her.

Plus the whole being naked and chained to a rock during the search was more of a Gitmo thing.

Anne was in too much shock from the assault to pay much attention to the men as they talked among themselves, still doing that “Gorga gorga” stuff. At length they seemed to come to some kind of decision, and one of the men turned toward her and drew his sword out.

“HEEEELP!” screamed Anne. “HEE

EELP!” After what they had done to her, Anne had no illusions about what approaching her with a drawn sword meant.

Anne desperately scrabbled away from the man, who kept walking steadily forward, probably because Anne was chained to the rock and wasn’t going to be able to scrabble away for more than a few seconds.

It looked like certain death for Anne.

Stay tuned for our exciting Chapter 2. Is Anne in fact doomed? Or does a fate worse than death await her? A fate a lot like the one pictured at left? Will she get her hands on a word processor so she can tell the world how badly the Renfair demorats have treated her? Only time will tell! And, well, me.

Image courtesy of Bondagerotica sponsor Sex and Submission.