When he was satisfied, not only with her confessions but with her diminished state of awareness, Alves lifted her off of the ground; She came easily, not putting up any fight, and her weight was no great task for him. He settled her onto a bay of hale, the stuff scratchy on her back, and he began to remove her clothing, one piece at a time, taking his precious time. "You're very beautiful, Tara," he said casually, as he pulled her panties off, the final piece, and tossed them into the pile he had created. She had enough strength to move around still, and she seemed to protest as much as possible, but she made quadriplegics seem like energetic balls of fury. When he was done, he gathered each of her hands together, and began to bind them in strange leather gloves (http://www.madame-s.com/images/items/SL054_0.jpg) that he had retrieved from an otherwise unassuming rusty toolbox stashed behind the hay.<br/><br/>When he had finished, she still had a decent range of motion, but her hands were bound together of course. To keep her from squealing, he placed a matching leather restraint over her mouth. It would not restrict her breathing, but she would have to scream her lungs out to make a whisper of sound. "Hold still, Tara," he said gently, as he left her, leaving her to squirm lazily on the hay for a moment. He returned with a long, metal chain, ending in a hook. He wrapped the hooked end around a metal loop in the glove contraptions, and coerced Tara back to her feet. "Stand still," he told her, "And don't try to remove the chains.<br/><br/>He went over to the side of the barn and began to wind a mechanism, and soon Tara could feel the chains tugging at her. Whether she liked it or not, whether she stood and went willingly or she was dragged, she soon ended up in the center of the barn, and was hoisted a good foot into the air. It was surprisingly not as uncomfortable as one would be led to believe, but it still chafed at Tara's hands. He lowered her a little bit, allowing her to stand, as long as she stretched to stand on her toes. "Good," he purred. She could not see him from behind her, and after a few moments of silence, one might have believed that Alves had left the barn, but soon she felt the crack of a leather whip against her back, instantly breaking the skin. No matter how hard she cried, she couldn't bite her tongue and end it all. Nor could she make enough sound or protest enough to get out of her situation. She could perhaps try to gradually turn, propelled by her toes, but then he could just reposition himself behind her, or whip at her chest. She had no tactical advantage in all of this. "You're not Tara Callahan. Don't think of yourself as Tara anymore," he chided, cracking the leather against her back again. "You were born in Virginia, but you're being remade here. You're not Tara Callahan. You can't say this, but you know this."