|by Van ©2012
sat... and waited... and worried.
Her concern, of course, was about what Fiona was going to do to
her when she returned—specifically, what she was going to do to
her bare, naked, vulnerable feet.
Helpless in her captor's form-fitting and tightly strapped
straitjacket—her butt squirming atop a neatly folded and scratchy wool blanket—her
mouth filled and propped
open by the "Fat Spider" gag—and the aforementioned bare, naked,
and vulnerable feet
locked in a set of heavy timber stocks—all Rory could do was wait... and worry.
Finally, after something like five minutes, the door opened and
Fiona made her entrance. A sloshing wooden bucket was in
her left hand, a small suitcase in her right, and a towel was
draped around her neck. She walked to Rory, specifically,
to the side of the stocks with the wiggling toes and vulnerable
feet, and set down the bucket and suitcase. "First of
all," she said, "let's get these tootsies squeaky clean."
"Nrrrf!" Rory knew her expected role was that of the
Brave, Feisty Damsel. Gagged whining and a piteous,
begging pout were completely out of character (and wouldn't do
her any good), but she couldn't help it. "Nrrrf!"
"Courage, Princess," Fiona chuckled, then sat cross-legged,
reached into the bucket, and produced a scrub-brush.
Rory stared at the brush in horror. It was dripping with
suds and she knew what was coming! "Mrpfh!"
Fiona smiled and began scrubbing Rory's left foot.
"Mfff!" The brush wasn't nearly as stiff or rough as Rory
feared it might be—Thank God!—but
it tickled! It tickled a lot! "Mrrpfh!"
Fiona dunked the brush back in the bucket, then scrubbed Rory's
"Nrrrrrf!" Yes, the brush was soft, which was much better that stiff,
but the soapy water was cold!
Rory wiggled her toes and fought the straitjacket. Her
heart was pounding and her breath whistling through the hole in
the Fat Spider.
"Alright, then," Fiona purred, returned the brush to the bucket,
then lifted the towel from her neck and dried Rory's feet.
"Just look at those pretty, pink, wiggling piggies," she giggled.
Rory still couldn't muster the expected Brave Damsel
stare. She knew this was only the beginning.
Fiona opened the suitcase and began rummaging inside. The
stocks were in the way and Rory couldn't see much of what was
happening, but then, Fiona lifted a stainless steel something into view and
began clamping it to the top of the stocks. It was some
sort of framework, a metal arch with ten tiny eye-bolts evenly
spaced along its underside. It leaned out over the far
side of the stocks, above Rory's feet. "Mrrf."
And now, Fiona was tightening something around Rory's right big
toe! Rory watched her thread the end of a length of cord
through one of the framework's eye-bolts—"Mfffh"—pull out the
slack, and tie a knot. It looked like the same kind of
cord Fiona had used to bind her thumbs and big toes for the
Her lips curled in a gloating, highly irritating, sinister smile, Fiona
worked her way down Rory's toes. Soon, ten taut lengths of
cord formed a fan, linking Rory's toes to the frame. Fiona
produced a pair of scissors and went down the line, snipping off
the free ends of the cords. "There, " she sighed.
"It's like a pretty little harp." She focused on Rory's
worried face. "Okay, yesterday you learned about
'strappado'. Today's vocabulary word is
'bastinado'." She produced a tapered wooden rod about
eighteen inches in length. "Do you know it?
Rory shook her head, all the while staring at the rod.
"Another torture of the Holy Inquisition," Fiona lectured.
"A stick or cudgel—"
"M'mmpfh!" Fiona had used the blunt tip of the rod to
lightly trace the length of Rory's tautly stretched right sole.
"—is used to beat the soles of the victim's feet." Fiona's
smile was absolutely evil.
"That's the simple definition, but in practice, the torturers
would start with light taps from something thin." She
flourished the rod. "Like this. They'd slooowly
increase the tempo and force, switch to a bigger stick, slooowly
increase the tempo and force, again, then switch to a bigger stick. The
final result would be a pair of black and blue feet. The
pain is said to be beyond description."
Rory's eyes were wide with horror.
Fiona laughed and let the rod fall from her fingers. "Oh,
c'mon Ginger-Fox. You know I wouldn't do that to
you." Still smiling, she reached down and this time
produced a feather. "That would be torture."
"Nrrrf!" Now Rory was staring at the feather. It was a white quill,
probably from the wing of a turkey or goose, about eight inches
in length with a tapered tip.
Fiona reached back into the suitcase (Rory assumed) and pulled
out a sand-glass. It was less than an hourglass but more
than an egg timer. Fiona set it on the top timber, next to
one end of the "toe-harp" frame, then began spinning the feather
between her fingers. "Okay, Initiate, here's how the rest
of your day is going to go."
Rory's blue eyes followed the fluttering shaft with dread.
"I'm going to tickle your tootsies for the duration of the
glass," she continued. "Then, I'll go upstairs, do a few
chores, maybe read a chapter of a good book, putter in the
garden, whatever. After a while, I'll come back, turn the
glass, and tickle your feet, again. And that will continue
'til sometime late this afternoon." She met Rory's staring
eyes. "There's nothing you can do about it, and I won't be letting you off
the hook this time. That's the point of level two,
Initiate, to see if you can take being bound and gagged when you
really don't want to be
bound and gagged. Yesterday was predicament bondage, and I
went easy on you. Today... not so much."
Rory steeled herself for what she knew was coming. The
prospect of prolonged and repeated tickle-torture was
terrifying. But... how
bad can it be? Rory really wanted to pass her
trials and prove she was worthy of joining the club, to earn the
Whelan sisters' respect. How bad can it be?
"Okay, Ginger-Fox." Fiona lifted the glass, turned it
over, and set it back down. "Here we go."
Rory watched the sand drain from the top chamber into the
bottom. "Mrrrf!" The feather was tracing the length of her
right sole! Bad!
It's gonna be bad! Now, the feather's tip was
fluttering between her pinioned toes.
Rory squirmed and screamed
through her gag. "Nrrrr!" The repeated, continuous,
lambent caress of the feather was sending waves of titillating
sensations through the stretched skin of her feet. Just
when Rory thought her poor, suffering toes or the arch of her
sole or the smooth, rounded sides of her feet couldn't take any
more, Fiona would direct her efforts to a different region, or
to the other
foot. And she switched from the blade of the quill to the
blunt tip at the other end! First, she lightly traced
Rory's left sole, and then her right. Rory shuddered in
distress and screamed,
again. "M'mpfh!" The tickle-torture went on and on,
and more than half the sand in the glass was still in the upper
Fiona listened to Rory's gagged, gurgling distress, and
continued tickling her feet. "It's a lot of fun being
bad," she muttered under her breath, and shifted her attention
from Rory's right foot to her left.
and Rory were back in the sauna. Half an hour had passed
since the conclusion of the last tickle session and it was still
an hour before Caitlin should be arriving home from work.
They'd learned their lesson yesterday and were conversing in
'Well, you passed trial five, Ginger-Fox," Fiona said.
"One trial to go."
"You're an evil, evil person," Rory huffed. "You know
that, don't you?"
They were sitting on opposite sides of the sauna with their
backs against the cedar walls, knees bent, feet flat on their
respective benches, with their arms around their legs.
Their naked bodies were flushed and dripping with sweat.
Fiona roused herself and poured a ladle of water on the lava
back down. "It's an acquired skill," she chuckled.
"Being evil, I mean. My natural inclination is to be
gentle and kind. It takes time to develop the proper
attitude, to mold the playful kitten into a prowling
lioness. Anyway, a torturer's gotta do what a torturer's
"Hah!" Rory straightened her legs, stretched, then
reclined on her back, full-length, with her ankles crossed.
"How was it?" Fiona asked.
Rory focused on her smiling cousin, and glared. "You were
"No," Fiona giggled, "share your feelings, Ginger-Fox."
Rory stared at the cedar-lined ceiling. "Well, it was...
different, that's for sure. If you'd been doing something
really bad to me,
like my new word-of-the-day, bastinado, that would have been one
thing. As it was, I sort of drifted, aware of what you
were doing and really wanting
it to stop... but I was in sub-space... especially after the
Fiona nodded. "And the waiting periods?"
"Yeah," Rory sighed. "They were... horrible. And
that jacket. It was sooo
tight. I've never thought much about straitjackets, but...
Fiona chuckled. "Yeah, wow."
Rory glared at her
"I'm serious," Fiona said. "Straightjackets are
cool." She stretched, then crossed her legs in a
semi-lotus. "One trial to go, Initiate, but we can't do it
Rory frowned. "Why not?"
Fiona smiled. "Caitlin going away next week is an
opportunity, and I don't intend to waste it. We'll wait
'til she leaves on her trip, assuming it isn't called off, then we'll do the final
Rory frowned, again. "We wait 'til next Tuesday?"
Fiona chuckled. "Yeah, and meanwhile... you live in terror
Rory sighed and shook her head. "Evil. You're evil."
weekend was fun. Saturday, the Whelan sisters took Rory on
a road-trip to introduce her to some of the neighboring small
towns. They shopped in craft shops and did a little hiking
and birdwatching at a wildlife refuge. On Sunday they went
to brunch, as promised, and Rory agreed that the restaurant
chosen was very good,
also as promised.
That evening, the long-awaited
video-link with Momma-Fox happened. With the eight hour
time difference, Rory knew Aunt Megan/Momma-Fox had to have
gotten up early to make the call, but despite the hour the
Whelan matriarch looked fabulous
(in Rory's opinion). After the welcoming niceties and a
little smalltalk, conversation turned to when she'd be returning
to Stately Whelan Manor from Jolly Old England.
"I still can't say," Megan sighed. "The seminar schedule
remains in flux. Academic politics. I've done some
guest lectures, but most of my time is spent in the
libraries. I'm getting a lot of research done, but don't
know when I'll start teaching."
Rory smiled. "I can't wait to see you."
"Same here, Ginger-Fox," Megan chuckled. "Have my girls
been treating you well?"
"Oh, yeah!" Rory nodded. "I've been helping Fiona in the
shop and with the chores. I'm thinking about looking for a
Megan smiled. "If you can, please wait 'til I get
home. I have contacts and should be able to help."
Rory nodded, again. "Okay."
Megan glanced at her wristwatch. "Well, I'm meeting
someone for breakfast, then I have to catch a train. I
have a full day planned in the Bodleian."
Rory frowned. "The what?"
"The Bodleian Library," Megan clarified. "Gotta go.
Girls, take good care of Rory."
"Yes, mother," Caitlin and Fiona answered in unison.
"Love you like crazy," Megan said.
"Love you back like crazy," the Whelan sisters answered in
unison. Obviously, it was a family ritual.
"I love you too, Rory," Momma-Fox added.
Rory blushed. "Love you, Aunt Megan."
Caitlin tapped a key and ended the session. She smiled at
Rory. "She does, ya know. Your mom and 'Aunt Megan'
were really close when they were kids."
Rory nodded. "I know."
"So," Fiona said, "who's up for some TV?"
morning dawned—almost. The sun was still below the eastern
horizon with only a soft glow heralding its arrival.
Caitlin had decided to leave for the capital early so she could
check into her hotel well before the scheduled start of the
working group's first session. Caitlin and Rory had also
risen early, to see her off. They were accompanying
Caitlin to the garage and Rory was carrying her suitcase.
"Call when you get there," Fiona suggested.
Caitlin opened the trunk of her car and watched Rory place the
suitcase within. "Why?"
"To make sure you aren't killed on the way, of course," Fiona
"Touching," Caitlin grinned. "Okay, I'll call, if I
Hugging and kissing farewells ensued, then Caitlin climbed
behind the wheel, turned the key, and backed from the garage.
Fiona and Rory watched Caitlin's tail lights disappear down the
driveway. The garage door cycled closed behind them.
"So..." Rory smiled at Fiona (nervously).
"So," Fiona chuckled, then nodded towards the house.
"Woe is me," Rory sighed, and started down the garden path to
the kitchen door.
Fiona followed close, then led Rory through the kitchen and into
the living room. "Guess what comes next?"
"Breakfast?" Rory suggested.
Fiona smiled and shook her head.
Rory heaved a sigh, kicked off her sneakers, then unbuttoned,
unzipped and pulled down her jeans. She folded the jeans
without being told, deposited them atop the sneakers, then
removed and folded her t-shirt, panties, and bra and completed
the pile. Finally, she knelt in the center of the room and
placed her hands atop her head.
Fiona walked over and picked up Rory's clothing. "Wait
here," she ordered, then headed for the stairs. "I'll be
"Whatever," Rory muttered under her breath.
Fiona was right back,
and she returned without Rory's clothes. No surprise
"Okay," Fiona said, stepping behind Rory. "On your feet
and hands behind your back."
Rory complied and Fiona pulled a length of thin, braided cord
from her right hip pocket and began tying Rory's crossed wrists
behind her back. She only made a few turns around and
between her young cousin's wrists before cinching it tight and tying the final
knots, but the binding was tight and inescapable, further
evidence of Fiona's bondage expertise. She then reached
into her left hip pocket and produced a folded cotton
bandana. It was a faded olive color. Rory looked
back over her left shoulder and watched her captor shake out the
bandana, fold it point to point, roll it into a long tube, then
tie an overhand knot in the center.
"Any famous last words?" Fiona asked.
"Uh... you'll never get away with it?" Rory forced a
nervous smile. "Whatever 'it' is."
Fiona smiled. "Open."
Rory sighed and opened her mouth.
Fiona thrust the knot between the Rory's teeth, shifted her hair
to the side, cinched the cleave-gag tight, and tied a square knot at the nape of
"Mffh!" Rory complained. "Nrrn!" Fiona had grabbed a handful of
"Now that you're naked, tied up, and can't scream for help,"
Fiona chuckled, "time to drag you down to the dungeon!"
Fiona's grip on Rory's hair was real, and she was using force as
she pushed Rory towards the kitchen. Rory had no choice
but to "allow" herself to be led; however, she had to admit it
was no-nonsense encouragement rather than actual abuse.
They passed through the kitchen, down the stairs to the
basement, and through the secret passage.
yesterday, the dungeon's outer chamber was in "normal"
mode. The main attractions were all there—bondage chair,
bondage table, X-frame, and cage—and nothing new was in
Fiona closed the door behind them, dragged Rory to the center of
the chamber, and forced her to her knees. It all remained
very much a theatrical
display of force, of course. "Stay," she ordered, then
strolled to one of the cabinets.
Rory shook her now tousled hair from her gagged face and watched
Fiona open the door. To Rory it was a new cabinet and,
therefore, its contents unknown—and with Fiona's back blocking
her view, they remained unknown. Fiona lifted something
from a peg—Clink, clink, clink—turned,
and Rory's eyes popped wide.
A disturbingly evil
smile curling her lips, Fiona returned. In her left hand
was a socket wrench and dangling from her right was the
connecting chain of a pair of heavy iron shackles. She
knelt behind Rory and began fitting the hardware around her
Rory watched over her shoulder as the wide, thick, semi-circular
halves of the shackles closed around her ankles and Fiona used
the wrench to secure them with heavy bolts. Crick-crick-crick,
crick-crick-crick, crick-crick-crick... Several
trips to the cabinet and a hundred or so turns of the wrench
later, Rory was wearing a full set of chains. Crick-crick-crick,
crick-crick-crick, crick-crick-crick... To
elaborate, her ankles were hobbled a foot apart, an iron belt
was around her waist, her wrists were manacled a foot apart, a
collar was bolted around her throat, and a long chain linked
everything together. Her hands were now in front, but
Fiona had used the former wrist cord to bind her elbows behind
her back, about a foot apart. With that arrangement,
Rory's arms were pinned at her sides and she couldn't reach up
and remove her gag.
The final attachment was ten feet of heavy chain, secured with a
shackle-bolt to the ring in the front of Rory's collar.
The end of the chain in her right hand and the socket wrench in
her hip pocket, Fiona took a step back and gazed (leered) at
Rory's pale, naked, chained body, from her pink toes to the top
of her tousled head.
Rory sighed through her gag. The chains were heavy,
probably something like twenty pounds of cold steel, if not
more. The cuffs were close-fitting around her wrists and
ankles, and the collar wasn't quite
as tight. Thankfully, all the interior edges were
smooth and slightly rounded, so nothing was biting her
skin. The metal was dark with a dull finish, somewhat
medieval in appearance.
"Okay, your costume is complete," Fiona said, then turned and
walked towards one of the Mysterious Doors—not the one with the
high-security padlock and not
the one that led to the chamber where Rory had endured the fifth
The chain went taut and Rory shuffled in her wake. Clink, clink, clink...
They crossed the threshold and entered yet another long stone
corridor with more timber, iron-banded doors.
Good gravy, Rory
thought. How big
is this place?
The corridor took an abrupt turn to the left, then continued,
lit only by small, feebly flickering electric candle fixtures
set in shallow niches. There were no more doors in
evidence. Rory was being led (dragged by her chain leash)
down a long, narrow, dim and dirty passage. Clink, clink, clink...
The chains seemed to be getting heavier. She knew that was
all in her mind, of course, but the length of the corridor down
which she was being required to lug said chains was not imaginary.
At last (Rory hoped), they came to yet another timber and
iron-strapped door. It was even heavier than the others,
and was secured by a big iron latch and an equally big antique
padlock. In another difference, there was a small, covered
hatch at eye level. Rory watched Fiona pull an
honest-to-god skeleton key from her pocket and unlock the
padlock. She then opened the latch, followed by the
"Phew," Fiona sighed. "This thing weighs a ton,
literally." She smiled at Rory. "Well, a quarter of
a ton, maybe. Lookie here," she said, pointing at a
slot-like niche in the doorjamb. "See the latch in there?"
Rory craned her iron collared neck and peered into the
niche. Inside was an iron peg.
"That's the handle," Fiona explained. "When the outer door
is closed and latched, a bolt slides into the niche and it can't
be lifted—" She nodded over her shoulder towards the space
beyond. "—which secures the inner door."
Rory's eyes adjusted to the near total darkness, and she beheld
a gate of thick, heavy iron bars. Fiona lifted the peg in
the outer doorjamb niche, then took a couple of steps forward
and opened the gate. Creaaak.
She reeled in the leash chain, and Rory had no choice but to
They entered a rather small, square chamber, no more than ten or
twelve feet on a side. It had a high, vaulted ceiling
tapering to a foot-wide shaft covered by a grill of iron
bars. It took Rory a while to take all this in, as the
only light was the already feeble light from the corridor.
Meanwhile, Fiona was at the far side of the chamber and was
doing something with the end of the chain.
"There," said as she returned the socket wrench to her hip
pocket. She took a step to the side and smiled at
Rory. "Why don't you get comfortable?"
Rory could now see that she was tethered by her collar to an
iron ring set in the stone wall. She shuffled forward
until she was close to the wall and the chain nearly touched the
floor. And speaking of the floor, "filthy" was an
understatement. She could see stone flags, but there was a
generous scattering of dirt, or what might even be
compost. How she was supposed to get "comfortable" wasn't
at all clear.
Fiona pointed up at the grill-covered opening overhead.
"Remember the gazing ball in the back garden?" she asked.
Rory blinked in surprise, and nodded. The ball in question
was a garden ornament, a sphere of milky glass resting on a
stone pedestal. It was unusual as such things went (in
Rory's limited experience) in that while it might once have been
reflective, it was now dull and semi-opaque, with swirls of
color marbling its surface. Rory had assumed it was very old. It was
also unusually big, something like three feet in diameter.
"The shaft is a light tunnel," Fiona explained. "Once the
sun gets a little higher, it's bright enough to read in
here." Her smile turned evil. "Newspaper headlines,
anyway. It's still pretty dark, and come evening... pitch
Rory's heart was hammering. Chained in a dungeon cell? She's gonna leave me
chained in a dungeon cell?
Fiona pointed to a wooden bucket in the corner. It had a
rope handle and a hinged wooden lid. "Your toilet."
She pointed in the opposite corner to a gallon-size, terracotta
jug with a cup-like lid. "And, drinking water." She
stepped behind Rory and untied her elbows, then untied and
removed her gag. She then walked towards the open door.
"W-wait!" Rory gasped, working her jaw and licking her
lips. "This is it?"
Fiona stepped through the gate, turned, and pulled the grid of
heavy iron bars closed. Creaaak-clang.
She reached behind her and thumbed the latch in the doorjamb
She then turned back and smiled at Rory. "That's it.
Think of yourself as a kidnapped princess, being held prisoner
by a treacherous noble. Your father's knights are scouring
the kingdom on a quest to rescue you, but I wouldn't bet on
their chances. Maybe Sir Hunkalot will trip over a clue,
but if I were you I'd get comfortable, like I said before."
Rory stared at her gloating cousin. "Fiona! This
place is filthy!"
Fiona shrugged. "I'll mention it to the dungeon
maid. She's chained to a wall around here,
someplace." She stepped back across the threshold of the
outer door. "Anyway, the sixth trial is all about time, Initiate.
So..." She started slowly closing the door, "See you
stumbled forward until stopped by the chain. She found she
couldn't even touch the iron gate. "Nooo!"
Thunk. The outer
door was closed, and Rory heard a metallic clatter as, she
assumed, it was latched and locked.
"Thursday?" Rory whispered. "I haven't even had
breakfast." She lifted her fettered hands to either side
of her mouth and shouted. "FI-O-NA! COME
BACK!" She waited... but nothing happened. She's playing with me, she
decided (hoped), like with
the strappado. She won't leave me here for three
days. She'll let me cool my heels a while, then come
Rory shuffled back to the far wall—Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink—and peered
through the near-darkness to inspect the floor. There was a soft glow from
overhead, but as far as she could see, one place was as dirty
and grimy as the next. She sighed and settled to the
ground. Clink, clink,
clink. The air in the cell was toasty, something
like eighty-five to ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Rory's skin
was already beginning to "glow." I hope this place has ventilation, in addition to
Rory eased her back against the stone wall. Her
housekeeping evaluation was confirmed. The entire place
was a filthy mess. The bottoms of her feet were very
dirty, as were the parts of her body that had already made
contact with the floor—what she could see, anyway.
"Okay, I'm an imprisoned princess," Rory muttered under her
breath. She folded her shackled legs to one side, lifted
her manacled wrists to her lap, and arranged the connecting
chains as best she could, seeking a comfortable
arrangement. Her efforts were successful, for the moment,
but she could tell seeking comfort would be a neverending
process. She was ready for breakfast, but not actually
hungry... yet. "An imprisoned, starving princess," she sighed.
thought. A princess in
chains in a dungeon. That is cool. She was
helpless and alone. A smile curled her lips. All alone. Her
fingers slid across her labia, and a fluttering thrill shivered through her
pussy as she savored the fantasy. Father's knights will find me... I
Rory considered taking a drink from the jug, but decided to
wait. There was always a chance Fiona intended to leave
her in the dungeon for an extended period, but she refused to
believe the "See you Thursday afternoon" remark had been
anything other than a cruel joke. Nevertheless, it seemed
prudent to conserve the water in the jug.
The air continued to be hot... and humid. It was nothing
near the heat of the sauna, but as she rolled on the floor and
changed position, the inevitable sweat accelerated the process
of making her chained body as filthy as the dungeon floor.
There was no mirror, of course, but she knew she must look an
The grill-covered shaft in the ceiling was indeed a light
well. The gazing ball far overhead was funneling a few
candlepower of blue-white light into the cell.
Eventually, Rory did drag her chains and herself to the jug,
carefully filled the cap, and drank about a cup's worth.
The water was clean and cool, and gloriously wet. She could have easily
drunk more, and she longed to pour some water over her head, but
instead, she capped the jug and dragged herself back to the
center of the wall. She lay on her side, ignoring the
dirt, grime, and the hard, flat stones, closed her eyes, and
willed herself to sleep.
Princess Aurora was naked and hanging from chains in
a full spread-eagle. Torches and a brazier of hot coals
shed light and an overabundance of heat. The air in the
torture chamber was close and hot. Aurora's body was
filthy and dripping with sweat, her red hair a tousled, damp,
Fiona, the cruel (and quite possibly insane) daughter of the
Duchess of Whelan, Aurora's kidnapper, was running her gloved
fingers over a collections of whips and floggers arrayed on a
crude wooden table. She was naked to the waist, clad from
the waist down in skintight leather pants and knee-boots.
Her red, curly hair was gathered in a single tight braid that
trailed down her pale, lightly freckled back. A sinister
smile curled her lips as she examined the instruments of
"Mother said I shouldn't mark your skin too much," Fiona
announced. "She says there's still a chance your father,
the King, will pay your ransom. And she wants you to be
worth something if we have to sell you. They say the Moors
treasure pleasure-slaves with white skin and light red
hair. They call them 'peach maidens'." She selected
a multi-tailed flogger, lifted it from the table, and gave it an
expert flip. The long leather tails rattled and
swayed. She turned and smiled at the helpless
princess. "However, she agreed to let me have a little fun."
Aurora lifted her chin and glared at her torturer. Any
Royal Threats she might have wished to share were stifled by the
dirty rag stuffed in her mouth and held there by a narrowly
folded, dirty cloth bandage.
"After a nice thrashing," Fiona said as she flipped the flogger
in her hand and held the blunt end of the tightly braided
leather handle before Aurora's pale blue eyes, "I'm going to use
this to give you another frigging." She gave the
shaft-like handle a slow lick. "It's the least I can do
for a Royal Guest."
Aurora let her chin drop as Fiona stepped behind her. She
heard another rattle as her torturer prepared to strike, there
was a whistling swish, and—
Rory snapped awake. There was a metallic rattling noise
coming from the direction of the dungeon cell door. She's back! Fiona's back!
The light from overhead had faded, so when the outer door opened
all Rory could see was a silhouette. The inner gate opened
and Rory's rescuer (she hoped) stepped into the cell.
Rory frowned. For some reason Fiona had changed into a
business suit. Then, her eyes popped wide as the truth
dawned. It wasn't Fiona coming towards her! It was Caitlin!