Performance Art
By Moonrunner
Mature musclewoman becomes part of a private collection.


The night before her fiftieth birthday Annabelle had gone with friends to
Bofinger's for a celebratory dinner, marking not only her birthday but also the
first professional exhibition of her paintings since she'd arrived in Paris.
Leaving the brassiere she'd been caught in a heavy downpour and boarded
the Metro at Bastille, changing line twice before reaching Sully Morland,
which was the closest stop to her rented flat on Ile Saint-Louis.
She'd moved in six months ago, finally realising her long held ambition to
live and paint in the French capital. Her first show had been extraordinarily
successful with most of the pieces selling. The gallery had urged her to begin
preparing for a second exhibition as soon as possible, and half finished
canvases now cluttered the flat's open plan living area.
   Winding her way around the easels and art boards she'd deposited her armful
of colourfully wrapped presents on the kitchen countertop, then climbed the
spiral stairs to her bedroom on the mezzanine.  Peeling off her wet clothes,
Annabelle put on a short robe of green silk from the closet, leaving it to
hang open rather than tying it. She glanced towards the bed, but even at this
late hour sleep was far from her. Instead she went down to make a pot of
coffee and try to make progress with one of the larger pieces she'd been
working on. At no time since she entered the apartment had she reason to
suspect she was not alone, or that a hidden stranger observed her every
move while awaiting the opportunity to strike.

  The canvas that was frustrating and challenging Annabelle in equal measure
was a modern Andromeda: a creature of dynamic curves and solid muscle,
tugging at the chains binding her to the rock. As she did most often now,
she had used herself for the model. She'd omitted some of the grey from her
short brown hair and the wire frame spectacles, normally resting on
her slightly upturned nose, which gave her the look of a small-town librarian.
The physique however was all her own, sculpted over twenty plus years of
pumping iron, and as much a work of art as anything she'd painted. The barbell 
currently lying on the uprights of her weights bench, up in the bedroom,
was loaded with plates totalling 300 pounds. That was more than fifty percent
over her actual body weight, yet she could press it without undue strain.
In fact lifting the weight seemed easier right now than trying to
represent the strength needed to lift it with a few simple brushstrokes.
Sighing, she put down her coffee mug and she reached around for the jar
where she kept her brushes.

   That was the moment the intruder, a blonde female, chose to break from
cover and lunge at her. Startled, Annabelle hadn't time to issue a challenge.
She slammed her forearm into her attacker's face, causing the blonde to
prematurely trigger the stun gun she was holding. Blue sparks fizzed
unnervingly close to Annabelle's left breast. Instinctively she batted the
weapon away from her. It proved to be a catastrophic error.
  While her attention was shifted to the Taser, her attacker's free hand
fell with a chopping motion on first the right and then the left side of
Annabelle's neck. Rather than the expected pain, she instead felt a 
numbness soaking through her like ink through a blotter.
Toppling back against one of her easels, she tried reaching out for something
to arrest her fall, but her arms would not move.  All the neurological wiring
that kept her in control of her body seemed to have been sheared.
She'd dropped to her knees and was battling to regain some kind of
equilibrium when the next, the final, blow struck her at the base of her skull
and she toppled forward. Her green robe was removed. Something moist
wiped against her skin, followed by a pricking sensation that spelled the
end of any further awareness.
 
  For an unknowable time Annabelle was freefalling into a surreal landscape
that could have been from one of her own paintings. Part of her realised she'd
been drugged, sedated so deeply that her subconscious was swallowing her up,
but the realisation did nothing to alleviate her feelings of confusion and
helplessness. Unsurprisingly then, when she woke in what appeared to be the
bedroom of a five star hotel, she'd assumed she was still tripping.
  She sat up, although her bruised neck resented her for it, and swung her
feet down onto the thick piled cream carpet. Her robe was gone but thankfully
she was able to find her spectacles. They were on the nightstand beside a
kidney shaped steel dish containing a syringe. Presumably it was loaded with
whatever was being used to keep her docile. Trying to stand and walk
proved difficult; like trying to make progress down the aisle of a moving
train while the carriage jounces from side to side. Using the wall for
support Annabelle managed to reach the door, which her kidnapper(s) had not
bothered to lock. She opened it just a crack, assured herself the next room
was deserted, then stepped through.

   It led her into a luxuriously furnished living room. Noonday light streamed
through a picture window that made up the far wall and provided access to
a roof top terrace. The skyline reassured her that she was still in Paris.
More specifically, in one of the apartment buildings opposite the Montmartre
vineyard on the Rue des Saules. Like the bedroom, the décor here looked
expensive but dated, with too much cream and chrome. Two leather couches and
a smoked glass coffee table took up the middle of the floor.
   She longed to give the place a thorough search, hoping for some clue as to
why all this was happening to her. But the effort of fighting of the drug was
catching up with her. If Annabelle didn't move quickly there was a genuine
danger of the sedative reasserting itself before she found the way out.
She braced herself against the back of one of the couches while she waited for
a wave of dizziness to pass: It didn't.
  ''Stupid Bitch!'' she chided herself. ''No time for this. Got to get to
the street. Don't you dare pass-out.''

  ''Better get you back to bed before you fall down, sweetheart. Just how far
were you expecting to get with all that junk still in your veins?''
  With great effort Annabelle raised her head and focussed her blurry vision on
the face of the intruder who'd broken into her studio. Only now the blonde
wore a nurses uniform, or rather a fetish wear version of one in white vinyl,
zippered down the front and with a red cross over one breast.
It was worn for effect; emphasising her body's muscular power by the
way in which the uniform's short sleeves fitted snugly around the woman's
massive biceps, and how the man-crushing thighs pushed against the indecently
brief hemline when she moved. Squeezed into that crudely sexual outfit was a
physique a Marine Drill Sargent could take pride in.

  ''What do you want with me?'' Annabelle struggled to form the words.
Her brains still felt like mush. ''There's been some mistake.''
 
  ''No mistake,'' the blonde answered. ''My patron has had you under
surveillance for quite a while.'' As she spoke she slid her right hand into
a front pocket, working too hard at making the gesture appear casual.
  ''Women with physiques like ours are comparatively rare, and Ms. Wargrave
never misses an opportunity to add another one to her collection.
  You'll be joining the seven specimens she keeps in the Compound at her
estate, monitored round the clock by CCTV for my patron's viewing pleasure.''
The barest hint of a smile formed on her lips. ''My patron likes to watch.''

  Listening to the genial, tour guide manner in which the blonde discussed
the abduction and imprisonment of these ''specimens'', Annabelle felt her
hackles rising. The blonde had easily bested her once already. It was foolish
to antagonise this younger and patently stronger woman, especially in such a
doped up condition. Yet Annabelle was unable to rein back her anger. 

  ''Oh yeah, I bet she likes to watch. Probably likes to do a whole lot more
besides. And how about you? Does this Ms.Wargrave pay you well for
bringing her new toys to her, or do you simply get off on beating and drugging
other women?''

  ''Money has nothing to do with it. I was in the original group selected
for the Compound. As well as myself it was comprised of Ms. Wargrave's
personal trainer and a couple of bodyguards. All of us had been working as
staff on the estate. I'd been Ms. Wargrave's private nurse,
hired straight out of the army. Eventually the four of us weren't enough
to entertain her any longer. Wargrave wanted to expand her collection,
and realised she'd need someone with my skills and training to help capture
fresh bodies for her zoo. She offered me a chance to live in the real world
again and I took it. Better to be a jailer than an inmate. If our positions
were reversed you'd have made the same choice.''

  Annabelle slowly shook her head. ''Not a chance. I'd have snapped Wargrave's
neck first opportunity I got. Then I'd set a torch to her bloody Compound
and watch it burn.''

  The blonde shrugged. She didn't appear very impressed by Annabelle's bold
words. ''At the beginning we were all just as defiant. Wargrave brought us
to heel with a cocktail of psychotropics, like the stuff I've been dosing
you with. It's gradually eroding your self-control. Without the normal
safeguards on your passions you'll start to become feral; one of eight naked
savages fighting among themselves for the resources they need to survive. 
What do you think the reaction of your artist pals in the Place du Tertre
would be if they saw you like that?''

  She was nervously fidgeting with whatever she had concealed in that uniform
pocket. Smart money was on it being a weapon, but it had to be something close
range or she'd have used it already. The woman would eventually have to come
within striking distance. Annabelle bided her time, mustering the strength to
do as much damage as her weakened state would permit, until her opponent was
only two paces away. The nurse hadn't called for back-up so chances were she
must be working alone. The odds were as much in Annabelle's favour as they'd
ever be. Reaching up to her forehead, feigning another dizzy spell,
she waited till she saw the blonde's hand pull clear of the uniform pocket.
  Then she whipped her arm back, mashing her elbow into the woman's temple. 
Blondie grunted an obscenity. The syringe she'd been concealing dropped to the
floor, imbedding itself needle first in the carpet. Taking a tight grip on her
opponent's left arm, Annabelle turned so that her back pressed up against the
nurse's body and, using her hip for leverage, she got enough power into the
shoulder throw that the blonde was sent cartwheeling over the couch.
  Blondie came crashing down on the coffee table, its tubular steel frame
crumpling beneath her. As devastating as it looked, her time in the Compound 
had conditioned her body to survive far worse. Unfortunately for her,
the 'far worse' came in the form of a charging shoulder slam that hit her only
a moment after she got back on her feet. The nurse defended instinctively,
aiming for something soft and exposed. Blinding pain flared in Annabelle's hip
as a knee strike intended for her groin landed a couple of inches off target.
  The blonde pushed her away and, locking her stiffened fingers into a
knife-hand, let fly with a series of alternate slashes and jabs. 
Annabelle raised her forearms to protect her upper body, which left her with
few options for counter attack. All she managed were a few hook kicks that
slapped ineffectually off the boilerplate solidness of her kidnapper's calves
and thighs.

   ''Hope this isn't the best you've got to offer,'' the blonde taunted,
 ''or the girls at the Compound are going to have their fun with you
 all day long.''

  Truth was, Annabelle pretty much had nothing left. She was tiring.
Her next shot would probably be her last and she needed to make it count.
Swivelling on the ball of her left foot she snapped off a mighty kick with her
right, feeling it sink into her opponents brick hard abdominals as if they
were made of wet sand. Blondie was slammed against the picture window hard
enough that she kept on going, flying on through it in a hailstorm of
shattered safety glass 
 
   Without hesitation Annabelle leapt through the ragged hole in the window.
She was owed some payback, which she meant to collect out of the blonde's hide.
But what she found on the other side quickly cooled her battle fever.
In place of the paved terrace she expected there was a clearing of packed dirt,
bordered on either side by chain link fencing. Ten yards beyond where the
woman in the white uniform lay sprawled there was dense jungle.
Annabelle realised she'd been duped with a clever optical illusion. She was
standing at the heart of the Compound with a dozen hidden cameras no doubt
tracking her every movement. They must have transported her here from her
studio without ever allowing her to regain consciousness. Glancing back she
saw a steel shutter had slid down behind her, preventing a retreat back to the
squat concrete structure she'd just stepped out off. The unbreachable nature 
of that steel wall served to mock her earlier boast that she would escape this
place and raze it to the ground. It effectively cut her off from hope of
future rescue. And somewhere, possibly very near or on the other side of 
the world, the mysterious Ms. Wargrave would be watching and considering
what games to play with her new pet.