The Shamber Chronicles, Part 4 By Chaucer; mawgren@hotmail.com Shamber fights to complete the mission and for her survival Greg sat on the floor leaning his back against the console. Life was not good. He didn't pretend otherwise. It was out of his hands now. The flurry and hubbub of his activity and the barking of his voice had ceased. Everything was silent; everything except the muffled sound of scraping and dragging and moving and occasional words from unknown voices. Wait a minute; voices from where? He could hear no one unless they entered this room. The only possible source was the one line he left open; the line to Shamber. What was it Thomas said about a professional operation? Sitting here moping and pining made his words true. What a nasty thought that was. Greg scrambled to his feet, donned his headset and worked the board. Clearly it was a live feed. Clearly they were openly and knowingly discussing this turn of events. "This here's the one been causing the grief." The voice was very close to Shamber's pickup. "Hard to believe, ain't it, Mr. Baker?" Greg literally flinched with surprise. The thug was talking to Lyle Baker, THE Lyle Baker, the Lyle Baker for whom Shamber was wearing her short, short, tight dress. When it came to short, short tight skirts on sexy girls with long, curvy, sexy legs, Lyle Baker would follow his dick off a cliff. He found nothing more erotic, not even nudity. But that surprise was secondary to the fact that they hadn't checked her for a wire! If she was conscious right now, she and Greg might be able to salvage this whole snarled mess themselves. He quickly put his fire alarm call on standby, indicating a possible change of status. "Did you check her for a wire?" Damn that Mr. Lyle Baker. "Uh, well, uh no." The thug had moved away from Shamber; probably to receive accolades and praise and atta-boys from Mr. Baker for capturing this nuisance. "That's too bad. Check her." Greg knew he had to act immediately. "Shamber, can you hear me?" His question was answered by the sweetest, most wonderful, most encouraging sound he could possibly imagine; Shamber's voice. "Greg's not going to like that. I mean like, he won't like it at all." There was a stunned silence before Baker spoke. "Who's Greg?" "He's like the guy on the other end of my wire. And he's got like tanks and bombs and rocket planes coming over the hill right now. And all the tanks and bombs and planes are aimed at that teeny tiny limp little thingy hanging below your belt." "Great to hear you, Shamber," Greg didn't even care what she said, as long as she was speaking, "one diversion coming up." Greg's thoughts about her words changed when he heard, loud and clear, "Like what's a div- div- diversion?" "Check her, damn it. Do it now." Mr. Baker had had enough of this nonsense. Shamber was tied to a wooden chair. The chords secured her waist to the chair back and also confined her elbows behind the chair. This served to thrust her more-than-ample bust line forward bringing Mr. Baker even more visual delight, which certainly cooked and steamed and frazzled away behind his business like demeanor. Greg sent a piercing blast through the system, being careful to protect Shamber by having it emanate from her microphone and not her ear piece. The thug startled for just a moment, freezing him as he stood in front of Shamber reaching towards the aforementioned more-than-ample bust line, which he had chosen as an absolutely great starting place for his search. She snapped her foot, which was tied to nothing, upward between his legs. Her instep connected solidly deep into his crotch. "Oh . . . THAT diversion," she giggled foolishly. He struck a hunched, desperate, bug- eyed, drop-jawed stance that told only part of the story her vicious kick brought to him. She sprang to her feet and head-butted him against the wall and onto the floor and out cold. If he had the opportunity, he probably would have chosen this to letting the full effect of her assault on his family jewels settle in. Shamber was now standing, sort of. The part below her waist was standing. The part above her waist was bent forward, parallel to the floor, because of the chair. Baker ran to her to contain the damage. She spun violently to swipe him off his feet with the legs from the chair. But she could generate no leverage. When the chair struck Baker, it simply stopped moving. He caught a partial glimpse of the outrageous wobble, bobble, and jiggle this sudden halt brought to the fabled more-than-ample bust line, which was now in a hanging state adding to the "animation." A partial glimpse of something so huge is more than enough. Shamber then moved to head butt Baker as she had done successfully a moment ago. But altitude was a severe problem. The best she could have done was to crotch butt him. He shoved her shoulders, sending her down into a sitting position and past equilibrium into a backwards tilt towards the floor. As she approached and passed the balance point, she placed her feet into Baker's stomach, hoping to hook her heels in his belt and flip him over her head. But he wasn't moving forward to provide momentum and she simply fell backward without him. Greg heard a sharp cry of intense pain as she struck the concrete with her arms between the floor and the chair. Although he bled for her in his spirit, he couldn't stray from the task at hand and he couldn't take a chance that she had remembered her many briefings. "Shamber, listen to me. That's Lyle Baker. He's the one you were supposed to contact on entry. He's the one you wore the dress for. He's highly susceptible to your . . . charms." At the moment, Greg begged for the definition of charms to include a solid overhand right to Baker's jaw, delivered as only Shamber could deliver. A look of disappointment claimed her face. It wasn't that Baker was ugly; quite the contrary. But he wore a caramel brown suit with a dark brown tie. What significance those facts held were a complete mystery to anyone but Shamber. To her, they meant a great deal. "Mmmm." Shamber spoke partially in pain, partially in seduction. "You play rough." Lying on the floor, knees high, she arched her back to accentuate the heave and prominence of her breasts. She slathered her smooth, man-slaying legs provocatively back and forth, allowing her hemline to stretch and move and form around her thighs and provide glimpses here and there of all the delicious intimacies skirts were supposed to cover. "Of course, sometimes rough play can feel very good." She began by purring but decided her purr could use some work. She settled for a husky whisper. Baker maintained his stern, scornful stare. He noticed her incredible legs, of course. Perhaps they comprised the most erotic vision his eyes had ever beheld. And he also noticed her over-flowing, sensuous, orgasmic breasts. After all, who could miss 'em? Then there was the overwhelming beauty of her face with its large, deep, green, endless eyes. There was this tiny tiny waist which the wrappings and coils of bondage couldn't thicken. He knew he didn't dare to let any of this influence him, of course. He knew that; but he kept noticing. In a brief while he wouldn't be alone with her. She moved again; a soft, wanton coo accompanied her delicious stretching. And when the word got out that this hot chick was causing the ruckus, all sorts of people would suddenly find it necessary to traipse into this very room seeking his help with a host of dire problems. He looked at his assistant stretched out on the floor. He looked at the room's other door. He went to the front door, which led to the rest of the facility, and locked it. What the hell. He considered all the possible ways and angles and approaches she could use to attack him with her feet. Carefully, he turned her chair onto its side and dragged it, along with its sensuous, oh so inviting cargo to the other door, pulled her through it, and locked that one also. For complete safety he wanted to drag her face down. But that would damage her knees. Couldn't have that; oh no. The inner room was large and empty. A pipe railing separated it into two sections. The front part was used mostly as an office. Charts and bulletin boards lined the walls. Several metal chairs on tiny wheels scattered about. A heavy, sturdy table lurked in the corner. The floor to the back part was sunken by three or four feet. A set of concrete steps interrupted the railing to lead down to the lower floor. Baker looked at the table. He envisioned her, still tied to the chair, flat on her back there. He would let her head hang over the edge so he could straddle her neck and shoulders and slide his manhood forward and back, forward and back between her huge melons. Oh, what a delight that would be. In this position he'd have her legs at his disposal to fondle and kiss and embrace and move between; after he tied her ankles to the chair legs. Yeah . . . nice. "Don't even think of trying to seduce me into untying you." He was dragging her to the corner and its awaiting 'nest'. "It will never happen." Setting the chair upright would be the easiest way to hoist her on to the table. As he twisted his upper body aside to look for the best way to leverage her aboard, a sharp, stabbing, damaging pain sliced through his foot. She had driven her stiletto heel into his instep. During the brief motionless flinch that followed, she sprang to her feet and raced for the railing, taking quick, tiny, clattering steps because of her stooped position and the confinements of her bondage. At the last instant, she leaped upward. The wooden sides to the chair scraped along the top railing and slowed as though she might land in the precise spot she took off from. Then the momentum she had generated carried her over and sent her plunging the seven or so feet straight down to the concrete beneath. Greg winced sharply as he listened to the harsh cries of pain forced from deep within her as she struck the floor. But there was another sound as well. With a great crack the chair broke. It remained in one piece, but it was a skewed, lopsided, distorted piece, crooked and off kilter. Even though wracked with searing pain, she quickly stood and bashed against the wall. Aware of the possibilities, Baker raced to the steps in an attempt to intercept her before she gained freedom. The chair began to break apart with each frantic battering blow. Although the ropes loosened about her, they stayed in place. By the time he rushed to her, she had only managed to free one arm. That's all it took. Greg literally leaped for joy as he listened to the sound he could identify without question; the unmistakable shattering jolt of Shamber's hard, painful, female fist colliding with the flesh of a male face. Baker straightened, his arms flew upward, and he tottered backward, clawing and pawing at his nose and upper lip to try to push aside the white-hot agony throbbing through him. He knew, sort of, that these next few moments were very critical. Uh, they must be. He needed to get back to her. It was a she, wasn't it? He had to act now and prevent, uh, whatever had to be prevented. Why won't this foot work? He has to turn around by using this foot. Doesn't he? With the chair in shards, the ropes lost their tightness. They simply wrapped around her. It took almost no time to discard them. Now, finally, there was no urgency, no need to rush. She approached Baker with a sexy swagger, filled with confidence and quiet venom. She grabbed his (yuck) brown tie, jerked his face around and delivered a sharp jab to his horribly hurting nose. But there was no need to inflict damage, no need to knock him out. There was only this satisfying need to hurt him, to make him feel it. His urgent cry proved to her that she had done just that. Another jab rocked his bones and pulled a scream from him that seemed to come from two or three people at the same time. "Yes! Get him, Shamber! Nail that moron!" Greg was hopping about, gyrating and sweating; his face distorted into a grotesque sneer. Although he was referring to Baker, he hadn't completely excluded Mr. Thomas. "My, oh my; such a fuss you're making." Shamber punched him again under his left eye. He strained against his own necktie, but her grip held. "You'd think I was like socking you or something." Once again she invaded his face with a stinging, scorching knuckle-laden punch. He bellowed a loud "NO!" and almost strangled himself trying to defeat his own tie. Then she drove her fist into his stomach. He hunched forward in a sudden expulsion of breath. She repeated the same blow which drew not one whisper of air. Then she released his tie and rocketed her fist upward into the center of his face. He flung backward, arms and legs outstretched, and fell onto a wheeled stainless steel cart. Instruments of varying types and sizes scattered and clattered noisily as he found himself zipping across the floor at surprising speed. This unlikely vehicle headed for the far wall, the bottom portion of which wasn't really a wall. A pipe or conduit ran horizontally along the floor. It was about four inches in diameter. Another one ran horizontally above it and so did others above that one. Each had progressively smaller diameters, but the distance from center to center remained the same. As a result, the spaces between them grew larger at the higher levels. These spaces were dark and empty, indicating that there was open air behind them. The highest pipe, about four feet from the floor had a steel plate directly above it. Regular painted dry wall ran from that plate to the ceiling. Baker turned his head to see where this bumpy, crazy journey was leading. As a result, the left side of his face was flat against the cart when it struck the pipes. It stopped moving, but he didn't. His head vanished in the open space between the two highest pipes. He stopped when his chest could not fit into the space. The noise stopped. All was still. Shamber tilted her head to the side to watch this strange development. His body was flat on its back, still on the cart, but his head had poked into the murky gloom on the other side. He placed his hands on the pipes to try to push free from them. He tried wedging and twisting his hands between them to spread them apart. Nothing worked. He was stuck. She also tried to pull him from this odd predicament. He remained stuck. Then Shamber placed her hand flat against the solid painted surface above the cart. "I wonder." She considered for a moment, then drew back her fist and drove it through the wall. She expected to encounter another sheet of drywall after a small open space. But there was none. Her hand stretched out into nothingness as far as she could reach. The wall she punched through was fastened to studs. She felt the plate at the bottom. Then she grabbed on to a shock of hair; Baker's hair. She smiled as she ran her fingers around and latched on to a firm fleshy protrusion. "It's a nose! Beep, Beep!" She pinched his nostrils together. Then she drew her fist upward and punched down towards the nose. It was awkward and clumsy, and it served mostly to scrape dirt and insulation down into his face. By trying to push her shoulder through the hole, she found more freedom of movement. Another punch enabled her to watch his body convulse, complete with a wave-like flinching of his arms and legs, and to hear a faint, muffled moan from the other side. "Greg! Like this is way cool. I wish you could see this." Actually, Greg could have seen this. She was wired for video as well. They had developed an audio feed that was impossible to detect or track. The video feed was a different story. So it remained offline until the critical moment when it was necessary. She inflicted another invisible punch into Baker's face. Again his body went into panic spasms, thrashing in pain as muffled howls came from somewhere. The jagged edges of her "access hole" had disintegrated and widened further. Now, she really had the ability to launch a strike. This time the cart clattered under his frantic throes and the heavily garbled and muffled screams took on a pattern. "THNOP! Oh, THNOP! PLEEB! THNOP!" "Thnop? What the heck's a thnop?" She considered and listened and listened some more. "Oh, you mean STOP! Silly goose, there's an S in there somewhere." This was followed by a sporadic moaning that sounded very much like crying. Shamber withdrew her arm and worked and twisted and pulled and cajoled and finally extracted Baker from his prison. His hair was gnarled and disheveled, his face and neck were coated with black soot and grime, his mouth was full of fiber glass, but none of that concerned him. He was holding and caressing and soothing the misery caused by her fists. "He's going to say it Shamber," Greg knew what was coming; "ten to one he says it." "Please . . . lady . . . you win," Baker had trouble breathing. Speaking was a real chore. "Please, don't hit me again. Please, please don't." "Hah, you lose smarty." Shamber poked her finger triumphantly upward as though Greg were hanging there in space. "What do you mean I lose?" "He didn't even come close to saying Thnop." "I'll do anything . . . anything you ask," Baker had too much on his mind to notice her odd words, "Anything at all, just stop . . . punching . . . me." "We can figure it out, Shamber, but make him tell us. We're down to minutes, now. Use him. Make him provide the information." Shamber held her arm straight out to the side, palm facing upward. It was clearly in Baker's line of sight. She "built" a fist, one finger at a time, beginning with her pinky and clenching it tight with her thumb. Then, slowly, she bent her arm, curling it into a bicep pose. Although her muscles were tight and toned and well-worked, they weren't particularly huge. To Baker's eyes, though, they resembled baseballs. "You see, this is what makes it like happen." She admired her muscles, such as they were. She was proud of them. Then her eyes shifted to Baker. "But they're not what you feel." She swung her fist around until it completely filled his eyesight. "THIS is what you feel." His breathing became short, frantic puffs. Sweat began streaking black lines across his face. Greg fed her the questions to ask and Baker couldn't wait to provide all the answers. In no time they knew precisely which server they needed to target and where it was located. They knew the safest way to arrive there and the safest way to exit the building. She sat him upright and leaned his back against the series of pipes. "You've been good. Yes you have. Now it's time to go nitey-nite." Baker's eyes bugged and a knot of exasperation clogged his throat. "Bu-bu- but you said you wouldn't hit me again." His words held the desperate pleading of a frightened child. "No silly, you said that." Her fist suddenly arched into his face, shattering his jaw and drawing a fierce scream from his battered mouth. "I would never, ever say such a thing." Another cruel punch ended his misery. He flopped flat on the cart with such finality that he spilled onto the floor. By this time, Shamber was already up the steps and heading to the first door. As she passed Baker's assistant, he produced a low moan and rolled on to his side. "Oh. It's you. That's right!" She pointed at him as though identifying a leper. "That's right!" She took him by the front of his shirt and helped him to stand. "Get up. Come on, get up. You can do this, silly, yes you can." Still groggy and wobbly on his feet, he struggled to stand on his own power. "I never did sock you properly, did I?" His eyes registered a sudden flash of fear as her fist tore into his cheek, spinning him around and onto the floor. "We've got to have like proper socks around here. That's just the way things are." She muttered through the second door and out onto the production floor where all the whizzes and whirs and sparks continued as though nothing at all had happened since Lyle Baker was last at his post. "OK, Shamber. Time's very short." Greg was gathering and spotting and preparing. "Let's do this thing."