by Van ©2012
		Chapter 7

An hour...  at least a full hour since she left me here.  Rory was naked (not counting a pair of black opera gloves or her bonds) and up on her toes in what Fiona had called the "strappado" position.  Her arms were behind her back with her wrists and elbows lashed with white nylon rope.  Her lower thighs were also tied.  She was bent forward at the waist with her wrists attached to a taut chain that stretched up, across the dungeon, and down to the hand-cranked winch.

Fi said 'level two' would be more intense—but torture?  Really?

Rory's feet and calves were really beginning to ache.  She'd tried hanging from her arms to give them a break, but after less than a minute the pain in her shoulders became too great and she went back up on her toes.  She'd only "rested" like this a half-dozen times, so far, and already was utterly convinced that by three o'clock, when Fiona said she'd return, she'd be hanging by her wrists in exhausted agony!

Suddenly, the door from the secret passage opened.  Rory's Evil Sadistic Torturer had returned early.  "Hey," Fiona said with a smile.  "How's it hangin', Ginger-Fox?"

Under normal circumstances—meaning when she'd been tied up, gagged, and left somewhere to struggle and fantasize in "comfort"—Rory would have glared and stared and done the whole Proud Prisoner thing in response—but Holy Inquisitorial Crap!  Strappado Torture!  "Mrrrpfh!"

"What's that, Ginger-Fox?"  Fiona strolled to the winch.  "You want to go higher?"  She put one hand on the crank and with the other unlocked the winch.  Klunk.  "Well... if you insist."

"NRRRF!"  Shaking her head wildly, Rory braced herself.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...

The crank turned, the chain rattled—and Rory's arms dropped.

"I swear, Rory," Fiona giggled as she continued turning the winch.  "You really are an easy mark.  Really."

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick...

Rory sighed through her foam-ball-and-panel-gag, reveling in the pleasure of not balancing on her suffering toes.  Her lower back and abs complained as she straightened up, but ultimately the relevant muscle groups shared her relief at the change in posture.  Belatedly, it occurred to Rory to assert the appropriate degree of Haughty Disdain expected of a Brave Damsel.  "Mrrrf!"

"Nobody appreciates my comedy," Fiona chuckled, then strolled over and released Rory's bound wrists from the chain.  Click.  "Okay, enough lounging around.  Are you going to come quietly, or do I need to drag you by the hair like before?"

Rory stared at her smiling cousin, but didn't dignify the question with a gagged "answer."

Fiona chuckled, put her right arm over Rory's shoulders, and led her towards the door to the secret passage.  "C'mon.  Things to do."

They made their exit.  Behind in the dungeon, the weighted chain swung in an ever-decreasing arc for several seconds.  Then, all was still.

Rory sighed through her gag.  Her arms were bound in the same manner, but her leg bondage was now different, and much more elaborate.  Sigh.

She was in Fiona's workshop, atop a small work table off to one side of the main work area.  She was sitting in the semi-lotus position with her ankles crossed and knees bent, and Fiona's ropes were making very sure she stayed that way.  Neat, tightly-cinched bands bound her thighs to her lower legs and lashed her to the table, preventing her from lifting her knees or sliding in any direction.  More rope encircled her waist and was linked to her bound ankles.  Her heels were nearly touching her pussy, something Rory could visually verify as her chin was hovering about a foot above her red pubic bush.

Oh by the way, Fiona had tied one end of a long length of rope to the D-ring in Rory's wrist bonds, tossed the remainder over a rafter, and hauled until her young cousin was back in the strappado position.  It was a sitting strappado, and not as stringent as the dancing-on-her-toes standing strappado she'd endured down in the dungeon, but it was strappado (in Rory's inexpert opinion).

Fiona tied off the rope and strolled around to smile at her glaring captive.  "Okay, news flash—I'm not as sadistic as you might be thinking at the moment.  A heartless bitch?  Yes, but I know a bouncing baby Bondage Brownie has to crawl before she can walk.  In other words, I'm not going to make you dance on your toes down in the dungeon all day, not on your very first day at level two."  She smiled, leaned forward, and kissed Rory's forehead.  "Aren't I just the sweetest thing?"

Rory glowered and sent a muffled growl through her gag.

"Okay, then..."  Fiona picked up a paper dust mask, stretched its elastic band behind Rory's head and over her ginger locks, then seated the form-fitting mask over her captive's nose and gagged mouth.  "I've been wasting an inordinate amount of time this week, and it's all your fault.  So, you just sit there, young lady, and enjoy the rest of trial number four.  I'll be I knocking out a few birdhouse kits."  She picked up a pair of rubber earplugs.  "OSHA regulations requires that all workshop damsels wear full protection, even when being tortured."

Rory offered no resistance as Fiona compressed the plugs and inserted them into her ears.  Next, Fiona produced a pair of headphone-style earmuffs and gave her "victim" double hearing protection.  Rory could now hear next to nothing.  Fiona's lips were moving—sharing more of her devastating wit, no doubt—but all Rory could "hear" was dead air.

Next, Fiona produced a pair of safety goggles.  They might have originally been clear plastic, but someone (Rory's money was on Fiona) had given them several coats of black paint, rendering them completely opaque.

Rory's sad blue eyes disappeared behind the goggles.  She felt the elastic join the growing array of straps and bands encircling her head, and then—Fiona's hands were gone.  She could see nothing other than a furtive glow that may have been coming from the ventilation ports in the sidewalls of the goggles, but she knew that might just be her imagination.  She was effectively deaf, dumb, blind, and virtually paralyzed—that is, her hearing was blocked, her mouth gagged, her eyes covered, and her limbs tightly bound.  Wow!

So... all she could do was wait.

Minutes passed... and passed...  and became hours.  Apparently, Fiona had decided to skip lunch.

Fiona was working.  Rory could tell when she was using her power tools.  There may have been a weak auditory component, but mainly Rory felt the vibration of the spinning motors and whirring blades transmitted across the floor and up through the table.

The sensory deprived captive "suffered" in "misery"—and drifted through a newly discovered and sublime region of subspace.

Rory was in the sauna, lying on her stomach on a towel-covered bench with her chin resting on her crossed arms.  Her porcelain skin was flushed and shining with sweat and Fiona was giving her a massage... and it felt glorious!

Fiona was as naked as her young cousin and just as flushed and sweaty.  Kneeling on a towel on the cedar floor, at the moment she was kneading Rory's shoulders.  "Are you still not talking to me?" she inquired.

"Of course not," Rory sighed.  "Oooooh, that feels soooo good."

Fiona smiled.  "You know, if you want, we can call off the whole thing."  She continued the massage, slowly working her way down Rory's back.  "You don't have to be a Bondage Brownie."  Still no answer.  "Well?"

"I'm thinkin' about it," Rory muttered.

The massage continued... and Fiona continued smiling.

"No," Rory finally admitted, "I don't want to call it off."

"Okay, then we could slow things down," Fiona offered.  "Maybe wait a few days before trial number five?"  Seconds passed as she massaged the Bondage Brownie Initiate's lower back.  "Do you want to do that?  Do you want to wait?"

"What part of I'm not talkin' to you don't you understand?" Rory muttered.

"Apparently, all of it," Fiona chuckled.  "We should discuss it."

"Hopeless," Rory sighed.  "No, I don't want to wait.  I want to get this over with."

"Why?"

Rory sighed.  "Why?  Really?"

Fiona smiled.  "What's your hurry, or do you enjoy being tortured?  I know you're a lot of fun to torture, but you actually enjoy it?"

"Not the torture," Rory huffed.  "The damsel-in-distress thing, that's what's fun.  And I'm curious.  You know, about the club."

"I wasn't being serious about you liking torture," Fiona admitted.

"I know," Rory chuckled, "but I'm still not talking to you.  For example, I'm not going to ask you about what we're going to do to me tomorrow."

"No spoilers, Ginger-Fox," Fiona chuckled.  "No spoilers."

Suddenly, the sauna door opened, admitting a wall of cold air and a naked Caitlin!

Rory and Fiona stared at the senior Fox in open mouthed surprise.  (But not with guilt!  Certainly not with guilt!)

"Hello to you, too," Caitlin purred.

"Uh, hi," Fiona responded.

"Yeah, welcome home," Rory chimed in.

"Geez," Caitlin laughed, "I come home an hour early and you guys act like I caught you with your hands in the cookie jar."  She ladled water from the bucket and wet down the bench opposite Rory and Fiona, then sat and smiled at her sister.  "Or, with your hands on Rory, as the case may be."

Fiona blushed—maybe, she was already flushed.  "I, uh, she was helping in the shop and strained her back, and—"

"I bent over and tried lifting too much lumber," Rory explained.  "From the lumber rack.  To make birdhouses."

"Yeah, birdhouses," Fiona nodded. "So I'm givin' her a massage."

"My back," Rory added.  "She's, uh, massaging my back."

Caitlin gazed at her sister and cousin.  "Okay, forget I mentioned it.  Carry on."

"So..."  Rory smiled at Caitlin as Fiona continued her massage.  "How was your day?"

"Okay," Caitlin answered.  "Oh, breaking news:  I may be away the middle of next week.  There's a budget working group at the state capital Tuesday through Thursday and they're probably gonna make me go."

"Sounds like fun," Rory offered.

"Not likely," Caitlin sighed.  "We'll generate a detailed report, it'll get used by various legislative staffs to generate Powerpoint slide ammunition for the next round of the budget battle, and that'll be it."

"You'll get to eat at fancy restaurants at the taxpayers' expense," Fiona noted.

"I'll get mileage and per diem," Caitlin huffed.  She noticed that Rory's eyes were on her breasts.  "What?"

"Fi said your breasts are too big," Rory explained, "but I don't think—"  Smack!  "Ow!"

Fiona had delivered a stinging slap to Rory's left butt-cheek.  "Traitor!" she muttered.

Caitlin laughed.  "I am the only one around here who can pass the pencil test."

Rory frowned.  "Huh?"

"The pencil test," Fiona purred.  "She can tuck a pair of number-two pencils under her tits and they'll stay there."

"Just barely," Caitlin huffed, "on a good day.  Anyway, it's not my fault Fifi was standing behind the door when they handed out boobs."  She gave her little sister's back a gentle, teasing nudge with her right foot.  "Sorry."

"Yeah," Rory grinned up at Fiona, "don't look so chest-fallen."

"The word is crestfallen," Fiona said, "you little traitor!"  Her fingers were dancing along Rory's ribs.

"Ahhh!  Stop-stop-stop!" Rory first tried rolling away, and when that didn't work, curled herself into a ball—a pink, sweaty, giggling ball.  "Stooop!"

"No playing grab-ass in the sauna," Caitlin chuckled.  "You know that.  Mom would pitch a fit."

"Okay," Fiona relented, then sat next to her sister.  She glared at Rory and stuck out her tongue.  "Traitor!"

Rory uncurled from her protective tuck, sat upright on the bench facing the Whelan sisters, and smiled.

"She's ticklish," Fiona noted in an aside to Caitlin.  She was still smiling back at Rory.

"So are you," Caitlin responded, nudging Fiona in the side.  "What's for dinner?"

"Chicken," Fiona answered.  "It's marinating in the fridge.  Also, couscous stuffed peppers."

"Sounds good," Caitlin said, then eased her back against the cedar wall, sighed, and closed her eyes.

Rory focused on Fiona and they nodded at the door in unison.  "Uh, I'll help you with the chicken."

"Okay," Fiona answered.  She stood and gathered her towel.  "I hate to sweat and run," she told Caitlin.

"You both look like you're about done," Caitlin said through lidded eyes.

"Parboiled."  Fiona headed out the door.

"Like a lobster," Rory agreed, then jumped up, snatched her towel from the bench, and followed.  "Later."

"Later," Caitlin responded.  "I'm gonna be here for a while."

The sauna door closed behind them and Fiona stepped between Rory and the shower.  "Dibs!" she announced.

Rory leaned close and whispered in Fiona's right ear.  "Do you think she heard us, before?"

Fiona shook her head, then opened the shower stall and turned on the water.  "Go," she whispered back, and nodded towards the bathroom door.

Rory turned and padded from the Momma-Fox bedroom, heading for the main bathroom to take a cold shower of her own.

A new day, a new ordeal—Level two—Trial five!

Breakfast was consumed, Caitlin was on her way to work, and Rory was following the instructions of her soon-to-be Grand Inquisitor.  Okay, she didn't know that Fiona was gonna do anything cruel and unusual to her, but it seemed like a safe bet.

Donning fresh clothes, going down to breakfast, then coming back upstairs and stripping off said clothes was wasted effort, but necessary to keep Caitlin in the dark.  Anyway, Rory was in her bedroom and kicking off her sneakers.  She arranged them on the floor of the closet in their usual position, then removed her jeans and hung them from the very same hanger they'd so recently occupied. She pulled off her tank-top and soon it was neatly folded and returned to its proper place in the chest of drawers.  Her panties and bra followed.

Naked and with her straight, ginger locks combed back and tied in a ponytail with a narrow, sky-blue ribbon, Rory padded down stairs and headed for the kitchen.  Fiona was wiping down the breakfast nook with a damp cloth.  "Okay," Rory huffed, "I'm naked and—"

"What did I tell you to do?" Fiona interrupted.

Rory sighed and spun on her bare feet.  "Geez, Tyrannical Bitch much?"  She padded into the living room knelt on the carpet in the center of the sitting area, settled back on her heels, and placed her hands atop her head.  She only had a wait of about a minute before Fiona appeared.

"Very cute, Ginger-Fox," Fiona chuckled.

"Very pointless," Rory huffed.

"Not at all," Fiona chuckled.  "It helps focus your almost Bondage Brownie mind."  She had something under her left arm, a rolled bundle of what appeared to be natural canvas.  "It also confirms your willingness to follow orders."

Rory would have countered with a snappy comeback, but her full attention was on the bundle.  She watched as Fiona smiled, knelt, placed it on the floor, and gave it a shove.  It unrolled, to the accompaniment of flopping canvas straps and tinkling buckles.  Fiona unfolded it completely, and—"Wow!"—Rory found herself staring at what was unmistakably a canvas straitjacket!

"Not one of your fits-like-a-burlap-sack models," Fiona purred.  "This thing hugs your body like the proverbial glove, especially when properly adjusted.  And believe me..."  She was straightening the jacket's dozen or more buckles and straps.  "I know how."

"Wow," Rory whispered.

Fiona stood and held up the jacket.  Tinkle, tinkle, clatter, clink.  "Up," she ordered with a smile, "and slide your arms into the sleeves."

Rory complied.  "Tight fit," she complained, and it was.  She had to extend her fingers and press her thumbs against her palms to force her way all the way to the ends of the tubes.  A long, inch-and-a-half wide canvas strap dangled from the end of each sleeve.

Fiona ducked under Rory's canvas-shrouded arms and zipped the jacket closed in the back.  Zzzzzip—click.  The fob of the zipper was a D-ring that snapped through a flange in the back of the jacket's high collar.  A strap was buckled over the ring and flange, securing both.  "Legs apart," Fiona ordered, and Rory separated her bare feet several more inches.  Fiona leaned to the side and grabbed the end of a strap dangling from the front of the jacket, pulled it between Rory's legs, threaded the end through a buckle in the back, and pulled.   Vrrrrrip!

"Oh!" Rory gasped.

Fiona leaned close and whispered in Rory's right ear.  "That isn't too tight, is it?"

"Well," Rory answered, "now that you mention it—"  Vriiip.  "Oh!"  This was the first time in the trials that Fiona had done anything between Rory's legs.  The pressure against her pussy was... there.  Not too tight, but tight, and definitely there.  The feeling was electric, another of those thrills she'd been feeling during her other ordeals, only more so, as actual physical contact was involved.  A different strap might have been even more stimulating.  As it was, the strap was too heavy to allow the formation of a "camel toe" and too wide to part her labia and force its way between.  However, it did squash things a little, and as Fiona fiddled with the jacket it repeatedly made its presence known.

And speaking of fiddling, Fiona was tightening the laces of a gusset running down the jacket's right flank.  She tied a bow and switched her efforts to the matching gusset on the left side.  It was tightened, another bow tied, then she switched back to the side right .  She released the bow, went back over the laces, pulling out an additional inch of slack, then tied a doubled bow.  The left lace was tightened and also secured with a doubled bow.  She then took a step back and smiled.  "Okay, hands on top of your head and give us a slow turn."

Tinkle, clatter, clink.

Rory raised her hands and shuffled in a slow circle.  An ominous array of buckles and straps remained, waiting to secure her arms.  A blush colored Rory's cheeks as she completed the turn, then faced her grinning cousin.

"I told you it would fit," Fiona purred.

And fit the jacket did.  It hugged every curve of Rory's torso, and while it wasn't exactly a glove or corset, it resisted Rory's every breath, seeming to tighten around her waist, across her breasts, and through her legs.  At the moment, Rory was actually glad she didn't have Caitlin's endowment, chest-wise, as not-huge as Cat's boobs might be.  "Wow."

"Okay," Fiona chuckled, "You know what to do."

Rory nodded, then crossed her canvas-encased arms across her chest.  Fiona freed the ends of the many remaining straps and buckles, then began the long, involved process of threading and tightening.

Vriiip, vriiip, vriiip, vriiip, vriiip...

Straps tightened around Rory's upper arms, pinning them to her sides.  Additional straps pressed her crossed forearms against her tummy (adding additional pressure to the crotch strap) and linked her elbows together across her back.  It came nothing close to pulling her elbows together, of course, but the tension added to the intensity of the self-hug.  And then there was the main attraction, tightness-wise.  The straps at the ends of the sleeves were threaded through loops sewn into the sides of the jacket, crossed under her forearms in front, through another pair of loops, then threaded through buckles in the back and tugged tight.

Vriiip, vriiip.

"Now," Fiona purred.  "This is easier with two people, but it can be done with just one.  Exhale."

"Exhale?"  Vriiip, vriiip.  "Ooof!"

Fiona had hugged her close, pressing Rory's arms against her sides with all her strength.  Simultaneously, she reached around and removed the resulting slack from the sleeve straps.

"Fi-O-na!" Rory complained.

Meanwhile—vrip, vrip, vrip, vrip, vrip—Fiona was removing any remaining slack from the other straps.  "Sometime you can help me put one of these on Caitlin.  Then, you'll see what I mean about it being easier with two people.  After you've passed your trials, of course."

Rory twisted her shoulders and tugged on her arms.  "This is tight," she muttered.  The canvas was stretched across her skin over most of its surface, with only a very few wrinkles and folds, and the taut fabric barely moved as she struggled.

"That's the general idea," Fiona chuckled.  She was threading the free ends of the straps through various loops and sleeves designed to keep them out of the way.  "The designer is a genius.  Don't you agree?  I have no idea where mom got this model, but it really is about as perfect a fit as you could ask for with canvas."

"I'll take your word for it," Rory sighed.  The crotch strap was... still there.  "This is it?  Trial five is wearing a straitjacket all day?"

"Oh, Ginger-Fox," Fiona chortled, "this is only the making-the-damsel-helpless part.  In fact, it's only half of making-the-damsel-helpless."  She started towards the kitchen, then turned and crooked a beckoning finger at Rory.  "C'mon."

Rory gingerly followed.  The strap was sawing back and forth across her pussy, ever so slightly.  "This looks like one of those 'be careful what you wish for' situations," she muttered under her breath, doing her best to ignore her new best friend, Mr. Crotch-strap.

Fiona led Rory through the kitchen and down the basement stairs.  Rory was still coming to terms with the straitjacket (especially Mr. Crotch-strap).  She watched Fiona open the wardrobe, manipulate the hooks—Click, click, click, click, click, clunk—open the secret passage, then turn and grin.  "There is no escape," she purred.

Rory strolled past her smiling cousin and into the passage.  "Hearty-har-har."  She carefully padded down the stone steps, waited for Fiona to open the door, then entered the dungeon.

Bondage chair, bondage table, X-frame, cage—nothing had changed.  The winch and chain had been stowed away, but nothing new had been deployed.

Fiona strolled to the gag cabinet and opened its door.  They both eyed the array of leather, rubber, and steel silencers.  "Hmmm...  Maybe I should let you choose," Fiona said, then shook her head.  "No.  You don't know what's coming, so you can't know what's appropriate."

Rory continued staring at the neat rows of hanging gags.

"Ah, perfect," Fiona chuckled.  She lifted her selection from its hook and closed the cabinet.  In her hand was what amounted to a thick ring of milky, translucent rubber with an attached strap and four curved, blunt-tipped horns or flanges of rubber-coated steel.  "I call this one the 'Fat Spider'," she said.  "Open."

Rory frowned.  "Why is it called a—frrrf!"

Fiona was using a seesaw motion to work the rubber ring into Rory's reluctant mouth, her brow knitted in concentration.  "This would be a lot easier if you'd just—"

"Urf!"

"—open your mouth, like that."  Fiona buckled the gag's strap at the nape of Rory's neck, under her ponytail.

The four horns followed the coutours of Rory's cheeks and chin, anchoring the thick, rubber torus between her teeth.

"There's a steel ring under the rubber," Fiona explained.  "Normally a ring-gag with horns is called a spider gag, but with all that rubber it's like a cross between a ball-gag and a ring-gag.  Hence, 'Fat Spider.  I suppose you could call it a Ball Spider, but that sounds like it's curled up its legs, don't you think?"

Rory's only answer was an angry glare.  The ring did a passable job of filling her mouth while propping open her jaws.  She could breathe through the center and register muffled complaints—"Mrrpfh!"—and the four totally unnecessary "horns" dimpled her bulging cheeks and already drool-dripping chin.

"Anyway," Fiona continued, "on with the show."  She walked towards one of the Mysterious Doors, one of the two without the high-security padlock.

Rory followed, her curiosity warring with her rising apprehension.  She was finally going to learn what was beyond at least one of the Mysterious Doors, but would she like what she found?

Immediately beyond was more mystery, in the form of a stone-walled corridor and several additional doors.

Fiona said the "Secret Dungeon" was actually the basement of the original Stately Whelan Manor, but Rory now realized that structure had been much larger than the present house.  The corridor was long and the spacing between doors quite substantial.  Fiona led Rory to the first door on the left, opened the heavy portal, and gestured for her to enter.

Rory padded across the threshold and beheld an array of wooden objects with iron bands, bolts, hinges, hasps, and in some cases, dangling chains.  She could tell what they were for, and while they all probably had fancy names, the only ones she could name were a pillory and and two sets of stocks.

The T-shaped pillory consisted of a vertical timber post on a substantial, well-braced base and a pair of horizontal timbers with the traditional hinge, hasp, and openings for the wrists and neck.  A line of holes and a locking pin in the post suggested its height could be adjusted.  An antique padlock dangled in the hasp, hanging from its open shackle.

Both sets of stocks were low to the ground and like the pillory were constructed from heavy timbers.  One had two small openings between the top and bottom halves, and the other had four.  Ankles only for the first, Rory reasoned, and ankles and wrists for the second.

Leaning against the walls were many pillory and/or stock-like devices in a variety of shapes—squares, rectangles, trapezoids, and oblongs, and at least one that was a perfect circle.  They were smaller and more lightweight that the stationary pillory and stocks, but looked heavy enough, in Rory's opinion.  Some had five openings and some four, but most seemed to have three.  Yokes! Rory realized.  That's it.  They're different kinds of yokes.  One of the three-hole models was the circle.  It was the size of a small tabletop, and Rory could easily imagine herself with its two halves locked around her wrists and throat.  It would be the same pose imposed by the cuffs, collar, and bar she'd worn for the third trial, however...  No way I'd get any laundry done wearing that thing.

Fiona smiled and watched Rory visually examine the yokes, then walked to the pillory with two holes.  She plucked the padlock from the hasp, then lifted the top timber.  Creeeak.  "Okay, Ginger-Fox."  She nodded at a thick, folded wool blanket resting on the floor behind the stocks.  "Take a load off."

Rory stared at the waiting stocks.  The ankle openings were deep and padded with what appeared to be lambskin.  She swallowed through her gag—or tried to swallow, anyway—then padded over and sat on the blanket.  Scratchy!  She gingerly placed her right foot in the right opening, then her left foot in the left.  Fiona closed the top timber—Creeeak—then secured the hasp and locked the padlock.  C-click.

Rory wiggled her toes.  The ankle openings were deep, close-fitting, and tight, but the padding would prevent damage.  So, trial five is sitting in a dungeon cell, gagged, bound in a straitjacket, and locked in stocks?

Fiona was smiling at Rory, specifically, at her young cousin's naked and imprisoned feet.  "Hmm... dirty."  She lifted her gaze to Rory's pale blue, worried eyes.  "I'll get a bucket, scrub-brush, and a few other things.  And then we can get started."  She spun on her heel and walked towards the door.

"Mrrfh?"  Rory blinked in surprise.  Get started?  Bucket?  Scrub-brush?  She wiggled her toes, again.  She wouldn't!

Fiona paused in the doorway, her lips curled in a truly evil smile.  She waved and pulled the door closed.  Thunk.

Rory wiggled her toes and flexed her feet, squirmed her strap-cleaved butt against the wool blanket, and fought the straightjacket with all her strength—but it was manifestly obvious that she was going nowhere.

Her toes and feet were hidden on the other side of the stocks' heavy timbers, but she was very much aware that they were there, all by themselves and supremely vulnerable! 

She wouldn't!  ...would she?