Beebe was triply
helpless, in that she was bound with plasticuffs, duct-tape,
and conditioned hemp rope. Adding insult to injury, the
targets of Beebe and Suki's current commission—Joan Watson and
Special Agent Jordan Shaw—had been bogarted by heavily armed men
dressed entirely in black (with hoods). Beebe was naked
and dangling from the clothing rack that had formerly held the
selection of the spandex catsuits she'd selected for her
"Terrifying Bitch Goddess" costumes for this particular phase of
the kidnapping gig. Her armpits rested on the rack's
top-bar, and a web of neatly hitched and cinched hemp rope
suspended her in place in a half-sitting position. Her
wrists were plasticuffed behind her back, her arms mummified in
duct-tape from her mid-upper arms to her fingertips, her ankles
bound with plasticuffs, her panties stuffed in her mouth, and
her lower face mummified under tight, overlapping layers of
duct-tape. She was triply helpless.
As for Suki, she was also naked and bound with plasticuffs,
duct-tape, and hemp rope and silenced by a
panties-and-duct-tap-gag, but rather than being semi-suspended,
she was stuffed inside the heavy-duty, gray plastic shipping
container they'd used to transport Joan and Jordan to their
current location. The container's lid was closed, latched,
and locked, of course.
That had been the status quo at the New Jersey warehouse for the
last... five hours? Beebe had a pretty reliable internal
clock and was sure she and Suki had been racked and boxed,
respectively, for something very close to five hours.
So far, Beebe wasn't in a lot of pain. She supposed her
"comfort" was something of a testament to the technical skills
of the Man-in-Black intruder who'd done her rigging. Her
weight was well distributed between the top-bar and the various
thigh and torso ropes. Beebe's problem wasn't her
bondage. Her problem... their problem, as Suki
was also inescapably helpless... was thirst.
Thirst was their existential problem.
Four days. They had something like four days. Six at
the very most. As far as Beebe could tell, their only real
hope was their captors would show mercy and make an anonymous
call to the cops. Beebe knew she certainly wasn't going to
wiggle out of the plasticuffs... or duct-tape... or hemp
bonds. And the same went for Suki.
All was quiet inside the darkening warehouse. It was early
evening and the sun was definitely beginning to set. Now
and then (infrequently) Beebe could hear the distant sounds of
traffic rumbling down the surrounding side streets.
Beebe closed her eyes. She might as well try and get a
little sleep. Either they were going to be rescued... or
they weren't. Hysterics were unproductive.
Just then... Beebe frowned and opened her eyes. She was
hearing a quiet buzzing noise, as if a bumblebee or really big
fly was loose in the warehouse. I hope it's not a
horsefly or deerfly, she thought. They were known to
bite, and Beebe was in no condition to shoo anything away should
it try and alight on her exposed skin.
There was definitely something roughly the size of a
bumblebee flitting around the warehouse. It was up near
the ceiling, weaving in and out of the rafters, and Beebe could
see it, clearly. It swooped close until the lens of its
minuscule video camera was half a meter from Beebe's tape-gagged
face... then hovered in place.
It wasn't a bumblebee or fly at all. It was a quadcopter
drone—a tiny quadcopter drone!
Obviously, the tiny flying machine was very advanced
hardware, worthy of the NSA or CIA. Maybe the
NYPD had a couple of such machines undergoing technical
evaluation, but the New Jersey State Police? No way.
The drone continued hovering a few inches in front of Beebe's
tape-gagged face... then dropped down so its camera could scope
out her rope-bound breasts... then lifted back to the level of
her face. Beebe's best guess was the black, quiet,
technological wonder was about the size of a small walnut.
She could hear its twirling rotors, but that was probably
because there was almost no ambient noise. The thing was
undeniably stealthy... under normal conditions.
And then, as quickly and unexpectedly as it had appeared, the
quadcopter zoomed away and once again all was quiet in the
Seconds passed... and became a minute.
Then, Beebe heard the click, click, click of
approaching footsteps, probably a pair high-heeled shoes.
The clicking grew louder... and a beautiful woman in a black
suit (and black high-heeled pumps) stepped out of the shadows
and approached Beebe and her rack.
Who the hell are you? Beebe wondered.
If the newcomer was a cop or federal agent of some sort, her
arrival would have been preceded by a squad of heavily armed
officers or agents in body armor, an "entry team." The lack
of such a team was both puzzling and uninformative. If
the hypothetical cops or agents were NYPD, NJSP, FBI, DEA, ATF,
etc., their black uniforms and armor would have been emblazoned
with their affiliation in block letters. (Of course, if
the hypothetical SWAT team outfits had been completely
unlabeled, that would have meant they were NSA.)
As for the newcomer, she was definitely a she—a hot,
very fit, 40-something she. Her totally black outfit was
business attire, probably a designer label and custom
tailored. The way she moved suggested a dancer, acrobat,
or martial artist. Her features were even, her lips full,
her eyes pale blue, and her gleaming brown hair pulled back in a
The woman strolled forward, smiling and gracefully stepping
around Suki's box. She continued forward and walked a slow
circle around Beebe and her rack. When she returned to
Beebe's field of view... she stopped and smiled at Beebe's
Beebe locked eyes with the woman. She really is
remarkable, Beebe thought. A rare beauty.
"Dr. Bondage, I presume," the woman purred. "My name is
her eyes—then quickly closed them again. A bank of bright
lights were hovering overhead and shining directly in her
face. It would take time for her eyes to adapt. She
also realized she was recovering from some sort of sedative,
which would also take time.
While Joan waited for her body to return to normal she
considered her situation. She was lying on her back on
some sort of padded surface. A bed or a gurney? No,
the padding was too thin. Her arms were at her sides and
her feet about twenty inches apart. She was fully
clothed... except for her missing shoes. Something was
stuffed in her mouth and a strip of tape sealed her lips.
Some sort of padded cuffs encircled her wrists and ankles.
Stout straps stretched across her upper arms and torso, just
below her breasts, and across her thighs, pinning her down.
Avoiding the glaring lights directly overhead, Joan opened her
eyes a slit and lifted her gagged head. Her restraints
were old-style medical restraints, medium-brown leather with
off-white, nylon padding, the sort of things that might have
been common in a hospital or mental health facility a few
decades in the past, but had long since been replaced by more
humane Posey or Segufix-style canvas or nylon restraints.
Her eyes finally adjusted, Joan continued her
examination/evaluation. She decided she was in some sort
of medical clinic, possibly an outpatient surgical suite.
Stainless steel cabinets lined the walls, some with glass-front
doors and some all steel. The spotlights overhead were
certainly suitable for a surgery.
The only truly incongruous feature of the suite was a
wall-mounted, large-screen, HDTV. It was dark at the
moment, but perfectly positioned for Joan's hypothetical viewing
from the padded table.
And speaking of the table... Restrained on her back,
Joan's perspective was limited, but she could tell the table was
fully adjustable, with articulated and probably motorized
joints, the sort of table used for orthopedic surgery.
Ominously, given the circumstances, this particular table
included articulated versions of the steel troughs and stirrups
commonly used for gynecological exams and/or
As far as Joan could see and/or feel, her burgundy and black
dress was intact, as were her pantyhose, panties, and bra.
As for her high-heeled pumps, they remained absent. Damn,
she thought. I like those shoes. She hoped
she'd get them back at some point.
Joan realized her thoughts were what Sherlock would call
disgracefully disorganized, her attitude towards her captivity
far to casual, and her demeanor inexplicably calm, but she
suspected all of that was probably the fading effects of the
sedatives she'd been given. Only too soon the waking
nightmare of her situation would become all too real.
Joan's eyes popped wide. Jordan! There was
no sign of Jordan Shaw! Where was Jordan? And who
had done this to her, to them, assuming Jordan was also
captured and restrained... somewhere.
As the seconds ticked by, Joan's heart hammered and she drew
deep breaths through her nostrils. Panic began fluttering
at the edge of her thoughts. It was time to assert control
of the only thing she could control, at the moment: her
emotional state. Joan stilled her thoughts and found her
center. Her pulse steadied, her breathing rate calmed, and
the threatened panic evaporated (for now).
Joan began systematically examining her restraints, as Sherlock
had taught her. She twisted her wrists and tugged on the
padded cuffs. Extracting her hands would be impossible,
even at the expense of damaging her skin. As for the rest
of the restraints, struggling was pointless. There was no
way she was going to wiggle out from under the horizontal straps
or somehow slither and slide her way off the table.
Suddenly, Joan realized she wasn't alone. Someone was
standing in the shadows at the head of the table. She
lifted her head and looked back over her left shoulder, as best
she could. Whoever was there, they were female and
blond. And then, she took several steps forward and came
into Joan's full view.
Joan's eyes widened and her heart began hammering, again.
Standing before her helpless, bound and gagged form and smiling
her trademark quirky smile was—Jamie Moriarty!
Jamie Moriarty, the woman Sherlock first met as "Irene
Adler." The love of his life. "The Woman."
She'd lured him into an intimate relationship, then faked her
own death, causing Sherlock to spiral into addiction.
Genius. Sociopath. International criminal mastermind
of a web of illicit organizations with global reach. But a
captured criminal mastermind!
Jamie was in federal custody! She was at an "undisclosed
location," being interrogated by the best-and-brightest of
various federal and international law enforcement/intelligence
services. She'd been in custody for more than a
year! She certainly wasn't wandering around free and
kidnapping people... like Joan Watson!
"Hello, Joan," Jamie purred. Continuing to smile, her blue
eyes locked with Joan's, she reached out and placed the back of
her right hand against Joan's tape-gagged face. She was
wearing a stylish but unremarkable black dress and her hair was
loose about her shoulders.
Joan flinched in response, but quickly tamped down any further
Jamie gently stroked the side of Joan's face, then placed her
first and second fingers against Joan's right carotid artery.
"Your heart is going pitapat," Jamie noted.
"Understandable... I suppose."
Joan blinked and stared at Jamie's face. Her mind was
racing. Moriarty had escaped? Obviously.
How? She was supposed to be the most closely held prisoner
in federal custody! Discovering and dismantling her
various organizations was of the highest priority to the
Department of Justice, MI-6, and the International Criminal
Court at the Hague! Jamie Moriarty didn't just... escape.
"I know you have many questions," Jamie purred, "but
first..." She lifted a tablet computer and tapped the
The bank of spotlights overhead dimmed—motors in Joan's table
hummed to life, and it rearranged itself into a recliner, taking
Joan with it, of course—and at the same time, the screen of the
wall-mounted HDTV began to glow. "There's something I'd
like you to watch," Jamie purred. "In fact, I insist."
The screen resolved into a crisp image of a naked woman hanging
from her wrists! "Mrrrfh!" And that woman was Jordan
Joan could tell instantly it was Jordan. She was
tape-gagged, like Joan, so her mouth and lower face were covered
by a tight strip of medical tape, but Jordan's auburn hair was
pulled back in a ponytail providing an unobstructed view of the
rest of her visage—as well as her bare breasts, flat stomach,
thick pubic bush, and firm thighs.
"Remarkable, isn't she?" Jamie sighed. "Have you ever seen
a more attractive federal agent? Male or female?
Perfect skin and muscle tone. Outstanding physical
condition. Near ideal feminine proportions. Firm
breasts with minimal sag, even considering her age." Jamie
tapped and stroked the tablet screen and the camera capturing
Jordan's captive image panned back, then lowered and focused on
her bare feet.
Jordan was standing on her toes. Her ankles were bound
together in padded leather cuffs, similar to Joan's ankle-cuffs,
and attached to the floor by a taur leather strap. As Joan
watched, Jordan slowly shifted her weight. The camera
panned upwards... from Jordan's shins... to her knees...
thighs... crotch... stomach... breasts... chest and armpits...
her glowering, tape-gagged face... her stretched arms... to her
leather-cuff-bound wrists and clenched hands. Jordan was
naked, helpless, awake, and not happy. She
glowered at the camera lens. Her breasts bobbed (just a
little) as she panted through flaring, angry nostrils.
Joan tore her gaze from her fellow captive to their
"Yes," Jamie nodded. "I knew you'd feel empathy for
Special Agent Shaw, even though you'd only just met."
Joan turned back to the screen and the image of the Special
Agent in question. Jordan's smooth, bare skin was flushed
and glowing. Apparently, wherever she was, the air was
somewhat overheated. Come to think of it, Joan was also
flushed and shining with sweat, just a little. Emotional
distress might be a factor—and probably was for Jordan as
well—but still, if someone offered to dial down the thermostat a
few degrees, Joan wouldn't say no.
"I knew this experiment would work best if I had some means of
encouraging your cooperation," Jamie continued, "other than
pain, of course." She resumed gently stroking the side of
Joan's tape-gagged face.
Joan flinched at the contact, but her eyes remained focused on
the screen and Jordan Shaw's nude, helpless, stretched body.
"Holding the welfare of another hostage to your good behavior is
the obvious answer," Jamie purred, "but kidnapping a family
member or close friend would have complicated the emotional
matrix considerably." Jamie's hand slid lower and cupped
Joan's right breast. "I know you would automatically
admire and respect a person like Jordan Shaw, but since you
don't know her personally, that makes it a matter of
general empathy. Much simpler from my point of
view. Do you see?"
Joan shivered as Jamie gently squeezed her breast, then
turned her head and glared at her smiling captor.
"Mrrrpfh." Joan noted that as usual, Jamie's quirky and
attractive smile didn't reach her eyes. They were as cold
as blue glacier ice, as uncaring as a shark's.
Jamie released Joan's breast, took a step back, and began
unbuttoning her dress. "It's a little too warm in here,
don't you think?"
As Joan watched, Jamie removed her dress, leaving only a skimpy,
lacy, nude-colored demi-bra and a matching pair of
bikini-panties. Joan couldn't help but be impressed by
Jamie's physique. Objectively, the psychopathic genius was
quite attractive, but Joan wasn't in the mood to appreciate
feminine pulchritude. She tugged on her restraints and
struggled to control her emotions.
"I can tell you also find conditions a tad toasty," Jamie
purred, then wheeled over a steel tray-table covered with a
medical-green cloth. "Allow me to make you more
Joan's eyes popped wide when Jamie flipped aside the cloth,
revealing a scalpel, a small and large pair of bandage scissors,
and a pair of ratcheting bone-sheers. "Mrrrf!"
Still smiling her simultaneously charming and predatory smile,
Jamie selected the medium pair of bandage scissors, then set
about the task of removing Joan's dress, starting at the lower
hem, between her legs, and slicing vertically up her stomach and
between her breasts. Joan couldn't help but shiver as the
cool steel of the scissors' blunt tip slid across her
flesh. The horizontal leather strap pinning Joan to the
table offered no real impediment. Jamie was easily able to
pull the fabric out from under the taut leather as
required. Next, Jamie severed the dress' left and right
shoulder seams, then pulled the ruined garment from Joan's body
and tossed it into a free-standing laundry hamper.
Joan continued glaring, mewling through her tape-gag and
squirming her now semi-clothed body, but to no avail. She
was helpless, just as Jordan Shaw was helpless. Joan had
no choice but to endure the humiliation of being stripped
naked—assuming, of course, that Jamie intended to remove her
pantyhose and underwear next.
Jamie sliced down the length of Joan's pantyhose from her right
hip to her right foot... then did the same on the left.
Again, the table's horizontal thigh strap presented little
impediment to the process, and the ankle-cuffs was only slightly
more of an obstruction. All too soon the ruined pantyhose
joined the ruined dress in the hamper... followed by Joan's
bra... followed by her panties.
Now totally nude, strapped to the table, and tape-gagged, Joan
continued staring daggers as her captor.
Jamie smiled down at Joan's nude, captive form for several long,
humiliating seconds. "Like most concepts of any degree of
importance," she said finally, "I've always considered the idea
of beauty, male and female, to be multivariate, defying simple
formulae. Ethnic or societal considerations aside, I
believe there is no true ideal." She reached out and
rested her left palm on Joan's smooth, bare stomach. "You
are very beautiful, Joan. I knew that before, of
course—before stripping you naked—but I must say... I find you
perfect in every way. Could your breasts be bigger?
Yes. But that wouldn't make them any more perfect, only
different. Your complexion, skin tone, and muscular
development are superb. Combined with your remarkable
intelligence, you truly are a rare individual, Joan."
Jamie squeezed Joan's left breast, and Joan squeezed her eyes
shut and tugged on the restraints with all her strength.
"I find you intriguing, Joan," Jamie purred. "An object of
fascination." She gently massaged Joan's left nipple
between her index finger and thumb. "I always have.
Imagine my surprise when Sherlock fell in love with you almost
immediately, despite his natural resistance to becoming involved
with... shall we say... ' normal' human beings." She
continued toying with Joan's nipple. "There has to be a
reason you two were drawn together... or is it a particularly
sterling example of the universe's perverse sense of
humor?" She released Joan's nipple and returned her palm
to Joan's stomach. "I simply must learn more
about you." She gave Joan's tummy a gentle pat. "And
perhaps you'll learn a few things as well."
"Now..." Jamie shifted her smiling gaze to the HDTV screen
and the stretched, naked, bound, and gagged form of Jordan
Shaw. "Returning to the topics of empathy and obedience,
I've arranged a little demonstration for your edification,
something to insure you and I are on the same page in these
matters, so to speak." She flipped the green cloth back
over the scissors, shears, and scalpel on the rolling steel
tray, then rolled the tray away. "Let's hope this is the
first and last time that what you're about to witness will be
Joan was looking back over her bare shoulder at Jamie as she
strolled towards a steel door... then made her exit without
further comment. Joan turned back to the screen. The
image of Jordan's naked helpless was unchanged.
Demonstration? Joan thought, and tugged on her
A full minute
passed... then became two.
Abruptly, the camera slowly pulled back until all of Jordan's
stretched, semi-suspended body was visible on the HDTV screen...
and a female figure entered the scene. Joan was absolutely
sure the newcomer was female. Her figure was undeniably
feminine and athletic, the svelte body that of a dancer or
martial artist; however, none of her skin or hair was
visible. The woman was covered from head to toe in a
Zentai suit of royal-blue spandex, including gloves (with
fingers), integrated slipper-boots, and a full-head,
faceless-hood. The only thing marring the stretched,
skintight, shining material was a "utility belt" of matching,
royal-blue nylon festooned with various pouches and small
Jordan lifted her tape-gagged face, focused on the strange
newcomer, and her green eyes widened.
"Mrrrf?" Joan could hear Jordan's gagged inquiry quite
clearly via the television's speakers.
Oh-by-the-way, Joan was quite positive the woman-in-blue wasn't
Jamie Moriarty. The newcomer was too slender and her
breasts too modest. It was possible Jamie had bound her
breasts and laced herself into a corset, but Joan didn't think
so. A cursory kinematic analysis confirmed that the
woman-in-blue walked with a different gait. Graceful and
feminine? Yes, but not the same gait as Jamie Moriarty.
Joan noticed one additional detail: the woman was wearing
translucent latex gloves over the blue gloves of her
As Joan tugged on her bonds and watched, the blue woman placed
her anonymous body intimately close to Jordan's right side,
reached behind the captive's back, and took a firm grip on the
prisoner's ponytail with her left hand. She then began
slowly, gently sliding her blue and latex doubly-gloved right
hand up and down Jordan's squirming body.
Jordan heaved a gagged sigh. It was an infuriating and
demeaning experience for poor Jordan. It had to be.
The nude, shining, bound, and gagged Special Agent squirmed and
did her feeble best to avoid the attentions of the blue woman,
but the stringent, stretched pose imposed by her inescapable
bonds rendered all resistance futile.
The woman-in-blue's massage of Jordan's glistening skin
continued... and Joan had no choice but to watch.
And then, the blue woman opened a holster on her belt and
withdrew what Joan recognized as a "Wartenberg Wheel," a
stirrup-like pinwheel of needle-sharp spines spinning on a steel
handle! It was a neurological diagnostic tool, but its
potential as an instrument of torture was obvious.
Jordan's futile struggles reached a new level of impotent
intensity as the woman began running the wheel up and down
Jordan's torso, between her breasts and navel.
Joan tugged on her bonds. Onscreen, the camera zoomed in
to a closeup of the needle-sharp points as they dimpled Jordan's
tan, shining skin. The ordeal continued, and the scope of
the wheel's torturous track enlarged to include Jordan's
breasts... nipples... armpits... her taut tummy... and her
Joan realized she was blinking back tears. Intellectually,
she knew it was in no way her fault Jordan that was being
tortured, but how could she not feel some degree of
The blue woman continued running the wheel over Jordan's body...
Jordan continued mewling and squirming... and tears continued
streaming down Joan's tape-gagged face.
Suddenly, the blue woman returned the wheel to its holster with
an elegant flip of her blue and latex-clad wrist. She then
released Jordan's hair and took three steps back. At the
same time, the camera pulled back so both blue-clad torturer and
her nude, panting, shining victim remained in the frame.
Jordan glared at the woman-in-blue, her spirit
The woman-in-blue paused for several seconds... as if staring
back from behind her featureless blue mask... then spun on her
heels and padded away.
Jordan heaved a sigh, let her head tilt forward until chin
touched her shining chest, and closed her eyes.
Joan sighed as well. The camera pulled in and began slowly
panning over Jordan's body. The Special Agent was now
dripping with sweat and her skin remained flushed, but Joan
could see no evidence that the woman-in-blue had used the
Wartenberg Wheel to cause any actual damage. There were no
tracks of angry pinpricks or minuscule drops of blood.
Suddenly—Whack!—something filled the screen, then
instantly disappeared, leaving behind a pink blush on Jordan's
The camera pulled back, revealing a woman in a scarlet-red
Zentai suit wielding a multi-tailed flogger of red
leather! Blow followed blow as the hooded, gloved,
red-clad woman delivered carefully metered punishment to
Jordan's writhing body. Breasts. Stomach.
Thighs. Between Jordan's legs. Rump. The backs
of her thighs. Jordan's calves. Her back. Her
breasts, once again.
The red woman was slow, deliberate, and systematic, punishing
Jordan's helpless form in methodical detail, but she was careful
to exclude the naked prisoner's tape-gagged face.
Blow followed blow. Every square inch of Jordan's body
received repeated attention, especially her breasts and
butt. Joan realized she was crying again. She
couldn't help it.
And then, the red woman clipped the flogger to the right hip of
her red nylon utility belt, reached over to her left hip, and
detached a riding crop of red leather.
"Mrrr," Joan whined in sympathy.
Jordan herself was stoic, glaring at the blank mask of her
red-clad torturer as the woman flexed her shoulders.
And then, the woman-in-red woman used the crop to repeat the
punishment she'd inflicted on Jordan's body with the
flogger. Again, blow followed blow followed blow.
Business-like smacks rained down on Jordan's flinching,
writhing, sweat-dripping, flushed body.
Joan continued crying as Jordan suffered.
Finally, the red woman took two steps back.
Jordan panted and hung in her bonds. Her body was not only
wet and flushed, but was now covered with patches of angry
rose-pink. Again, there was no blood and no broken
skin. There weren't even distinct stripes or
bruises. Joan had to admit the woman-in-red was a perverse
artist. She'd delivered pain without apparent damage.
Abruptly, the mistress-of-the-whip spun on her red heel and was
Again, Jordan heaved a sigh and rested her chin on her shining
chest... and panted.
Tears dripped down Joan's tape-covered cheeks as she watched
Jordan's breasts bob up and down. Enough, she
thought. You've made your point. Her
thoughts were directed at Jamie Moriarty, of course, not her
And then, Joan's eyes popped wide. "Mrrrf!" A third
Zentai-clad woman had appeared! Her suit was deep
purple, as was her nylon utility belt. Like the red-clad
woman, she was wearing latex gloves over her purple Zentai
Jordan had noticed the purple newcomer as well. Her eyes
widened, then quickly narrowed to a glowering stare of scathing
She's so brave, Joan thought. She was proud of her
fellow captive. How could she not be? She was also
filled with dread. (How could she not be?)
The purple woman stepped forward and embraced Jordan from the
side in the same intimate, unwelcome manner as the blue woman
before. Jordan attempted a head-butt, but the purple woman
gripped her hair and held her head back, also like the
blue woman before. She then reached into a long, thin
holster on the right hip of her purple utility belt and
produced... a dildo clad in purple rubber! She clicked a
switch on the side of the dildo, and it began to buzz.
A vibrator! Joan realized.
"Mrrrf?" Jordan had reached the same stunningly obvious
The woman-in-purple touched the tip of the dildo to Jordan's
right nipple... then began a slow, circular massage,
encompassing more and more of her right breast.
The teasing massage continued... and enlarged to include
Jordan's left nipple and breast... followed by her stomach...
her thighs... and finally... her labia!
The woman-in-blue had been expert in the use of the Wartenberg
Wheel—the woman-in-red had been expert in the application of the
flogger and crop—and the woman-in-purple was proving equally
expert in the extraction of involuntary orgasms! She was
taking her time, frigging Jordan's private part... then backing
off... then attacking again!
Joan wasn't weeping any more, but she was anything but
happy. She relaxed in her bonds, as best she could, and
watched the purple woman "entertain" Jordan's nude, shining,
flushed, and doubly punished body.
Eventually, inevitably, Jordan screamed through her gag—her
helpless body went rigid—then she relaxed and hung limply from
her wrist cuffs.
Joan was afraid Jordan had fainted, but the Special Agent mewled
through her tape-gag, stood erect, opened her eyes, and glared
at the woman-in-purple—or rather, she would have glared at
the woman-in-purple if the Zentai-clad woman in question hadn't
already spun on her heel and left the scene.
"Mrrrf!" Jordan huffed, then sighed and closed her eyes, again.
As Joan watched, a single tear rolled down Jordan's right cheek,
then continued down the smooth surface of her white, Microfoam
gag. Damn you, Moriarty! Joan fumed.
And then, the HDTV screen slowly faded to black... as did the
bank of spotlights over Joan's head... as did all the lights in
her medical clinic prison. The motors of her articulated
table hummed to life and returned to the fully-reclined
position, taking Joan with it, of course.
Naked, bound, and gagged... in total darkness... without even
the whisper of air circulating through the ventilation system...
Joan willed herself to relax.
Does anyone even know we've been kidnapped? Joan
wondered. Is anybody even looking for us?
She tugged on her inescapable wrist-cuffs in frustration.
Damn you, Moriarty!