by Van ©2019
		Chapter 3

Beebee Bonde, aka "Dr. Bondage," sat in her nearly featureless cell, stared into infinity, and reviewed recent events.

It had been a routine operation for Dr. Bondage & Suki Incorporated (if any of their operations could be called "routine").  They had been commissioned to kidnap Dr. Joan Watson and Special Agent Jordan Shaw of the FBI and hold them captive for a minimum of five days.  It was assumed and expected the sequestration would involve nudity, bondage, and erotic "entertainment," but no physical harm would befall the targets.  As for exactly why their anonymous "patron" wanted Watson and Shaw off the streets for a full work week, Beebe and Suki had no idea, but they'd accepted commissions with similar profiles before, and in this case (as with every case) they'd done their due diligence.  That is, they'd tried (discretely) to discover who might be behind the operation and had taken measures to ensure even their patron wouldn't know exactly where they'd be taking Joan and Jordan, and intended to remain off the grid until the targets were rescued on day six.  Obviously... they'd failed.

Complete failure was a first for Beebe & Suki.

Watson and Shaw were gone, kidnapped from their kidnappers by unknown kidnappers in the form of the mysterious "men-in-black."

And now, Beebe and Suki were also gone.  They'd been rescued by unknown women-in-black—supposedly led by the legendary "Bondarella"—or more precisely, they'd been rescued and arrested.  However, whether their "arrest" was in any way official was not at all clear.

Immediately after identifying herself, Bondarella was joined by a dozen or more women, all dressed in black spandex catsuits with boots, knee and elbow pads, body harnesses and utility belts, and armed with handguns (which they kept holstered).  They were as professional as the men-in-black who had stolen Joan and Jordan, acting with well-drilled efficiency, and (Beebe noticed) without any overt direction from "Bondarella."  Unlike the masculine invaders, the females' features were fully exposed.  No hoods.  And as far as Beebe had been able to tell, just about every human skin tone and hair color on planet earth was represented.

The women-in-black released Bee from the clothing rack and extricated Suki from the shipping container, but their plasti-cuff, duct-tape, and hemp rope restraints remained intact and in place.  The kidnapped kidnappers were deposited side-by-side on the concrete floor, naked, bound, and gagged.

A red-haired woman-in-black stood beside Bondarella, smiled down at the captives, and conversed with quiet voices.  The distance was too great for Beebe to hear precisely what was being said, but she managed to make out a few words, like "forensic team," "perimeter sweep," and "local cops."

Then, two of the women-in-black knelt and slapped transdermal patches on the sides of Beebe and Suki's necks, then pulled black spandex hoods over their heads.

Beebe's final memories of the warehouse were Suki mewling unintelligable but no doubt rude and abusive remarks through her tape-gag (and whatever was stuffed in her mouth), as well as the taste of garlic on the back of her tongue.  Beebe recognized DMSO, a solvent used to deliver drugs through the skin (as in the case of transdermal patches).

Then came oblivion.

Beebe woke to find herself in a jail cell.  There was nothing else she could call the place.  However, it was a rather modern, even hi-tech, jail cell.  The walls, ceiling, and floor were smooth, hard, sealed concrete.  She was lying on a thick pad of memory-foam enclosed in an envelope of gray, microfiber cloth, and facing a featureless steel panel she assumed was the cell door.  In one corner was a stainless steel commode and a combination drinking fountain and washbasin.  Overhead was a rectangular grid pattern of tiny holes, each with a single shining LED.  They provided more than enough light for Beebe to examine her condition, which was:

• Naked.  Her blond hair was loose about her shoulders, but was clean and had been combed and brushed.
  
• Cuffed but not bound.  That is, her wrists and ankles were locked in wide, thick, stainless-steel cuffs padded with some sort of synthetic material; however, none of the cuffs were attached to each other.  They were close-fitting, well-rounded, smooth, and without apparent keyholes.  Beebe suspected the use of radio-controlled and/or magnetic locking mechanisms.
• Thirsty and hungry.  Beebe roused herself and drank deeply from the drinking fountain, but her stomach remained empty... and grumbling.
• Alone.  There was no sign of Suki or their rescuers/captors.

Beebe lay back on the foam slab and stared up at the ceiling.  Obviously... somehow... and with Suki's experienced, trained, and highly intelligent help, they'd managed to screw the proverbial pooch.  That was obvious, but for the life of her Beebe couldn't figure out exactly where they'd gone wrong.

Suddenly, the featureless steel door disappeared into the wall—"Snick!"—Star Trek fashion.

Three women-in-black entered the cell.  The first was Asian, possibly Japanese, the second was tall and blond, a classic Nordic shield maiden, and the third was African, her curly hair very short and skin so dark as to be nearly indigo under the cool, blue, LED lighting.

"Breakfast is served," the African announced.  She spoke with a trace of a melodious accent.  "Hands behind your back."

Beebe smiled, stood, and followed the order.  The prospect of being fed made compliance easy.  She just hoped the promised "breakfast" would be equally palatable.  Not to Beebe's complete surprise, there was a quiet click and her wrist cuffs locked together.  Obviously, the manacles were, indeed, magnetic.  At least the ankle-cuffs remained unattached.  Beebe would be able to walk to breakfast without being dragged, carried, or forced to hop.

As soon as Beebe exited the cell, the shield maiden and Japanese women-in-black took hold of her upper arms and the African pulled a black spandex hood over her head.

"Is this really necessary?" Beebe asked with an unseen smile, but the question went unanswered.  She decided not to press the issue.

Beebe was led down a corridor... a long corridor.  They took a left turn... followed by a right turn... then did even more walking.  There was a brief pause punctuated by a melodic chime, they entered a close space (obviously an elevator car), then rose several stories.  (Either that, of the elevator was glacially slow.)

Finally—"Ding!"—they left the elevator and the journey continued; however, the floor underfoot was now carpeted and Beebe could hear others passing in what was, apparently, an office hallway.  No one said anything to Beebe or her escorts.  Apparently, wherever Beebe now found herself, the sight of naked and hooded prisoners being led to breakfast was unremarkable.

The journey continued... then someone (probably the African, in Beebe's opinion) knocked on a door and they entered the space beyond.  Beebe was plunked into a padded chair, her legs pulled apart, her ankle-cuffs placed against the legs of the chair, and they magnetically locked into place.  Then, the hood was jerked from her head and whatever was linking her wrist-cuffs together released itself.

Beebe was in a small, elegantly appointed dining room.  The furniture was French Provincial, there was a table with a white linen table cloth formally and expensively set for two, and a window-wall providing a scenic view of forested valleys with snow-capped mountains in the distance.  Beebe might be in any of a number of locations, but decided she was probably still in North America, specifically, the northern Great Basin or the southern Canadian Rockies.  It they were in China, Southwest Asia, or the foothills of the Andes, it would have taken time to get there, and Beebe was sure she'd be starving, as opposed to merely very hungry.

Oh-by-the-way, opposite Beebe was a second chair, and seated in that chair was the stunningly attractive, 40-something woman who had introduced herself as Bondarella.

Bondarella's costume was smart, expensive business wear, similar to what she'd been wearing at the warehouse; however, it was off-white linen, rather than black.  She smiled at Beebe, lifted a silver coffeepot, and filled the eggshell-thin, exquisitely beautiful cup at Beebe's place.  "Cream or sugar?" she offered.

"Black, thank you," Beebe answered, lifted the cup and saucer, and took a delicate sip.  "Delicious."

"Thank you."  Bondarella took a sip of her own black coffee.

Beebe's smile became carefully coy. "Are you really the Bondarella?  Or are you The Dread Pirate Roberts?"

Beebe's hostess smiled.  "I am, indeed, the Bondarella," she answered, "or rather, I was."  She sipped her coffee, again.  "Bondarella has retired, or more precisely, she has decided upon a change of career.  I still use the name, on occasion.  I find it useful."

Beebe nodded, then glanced down at her empty plate.

Bondarella chuckled softly, lifted a tiny silver bell, and gave it a shake.

"Tinkle-tinkle-tinkle."

Immediately, a door opened and four 20-something women appeared.  They were dressed as waitresses in black high-heeled pumps, pantyhose, and pencil-skirts, white long-sleeve blouses with wing-collars, and black bow-ties.  In point of fact, they were waitresses.  The lead pair deftly replaced the empty plates in front Beebe and Bondarella with plates fully-loaded with fried eggs, diced and sauteed potatoes, crisp bacon, and browned sausages.  The trailing pair positioned toast, butter, fruit preserves, and plates of fresh sliced fruit and berries within Beebe and Bondarella's easy reach.

The food was a traditional American breakfast, fresh, hot, and most welcome (on Beebe's part).

The waitress who delivered Bondarella's plate was a freckled redhead with green eyes.  Her ginger locks were tied back in a tight bun and she was adorable.  Beebe was very hungry, but not so hungry she couldn't summon the energy to imagine the red-haired cutie bound, gagged, and writhing on the floor... and then she was gone, as were the other waitresses.  Once again, Bondarella and Beebe were alone.

"Please," Bondarella purred, indicating Beebe's plate with a graceful gesture as she picked up her fork.

Beebe noted that everything was prepared just the way she liked it.  How did her captors know she preferred her eggs fried (with runny yokes) and her bacon crisp?  Satisfying her curiosity (and in the process gathering intelligence about her hostess) was important, of course, but not as important as filling her empty stomach.

That said, Beebe managed to eat in accordance with the normal rules of etiquette.  Her hostess was equally polite, and they ate in silence.  Apparently, Bondarella was content to leave what Beebe was sure would be a detailed interrogation until after they were finished.  Beebe and her "hostess" cleared their plates.

"My compliments to the chef," Bebe purred as she dabbed her lips with her napkin.

Bondarella smiled and nodded.  "Would you like seconds?"

Beebe smiled back.  "That depends.  Will there be lunch?"

Bondarella's smile turned coy.  "Certainly.  Subject to good behavior, of course."

"Of course," Beebe agreed.  "In that case, I'm quite full.  Thank you."

The service door opened and a pair of waitresses appeared, one of whom was the freckled ginger.  They cleared the table with quiet efficiency.

Beebe sat back in her comfortable chair (with its inescapable magnetic ankle clamps) and watched the ginger's freckled hands gather her used flatware and place it on the now empty plate.  The redhead's wrists were slender, like the rest of her.  Once again (and despite her captive circumstances) Beebe imagined binding and gagging the adorable waitress, then sitting back and sipping coffee as the 20-something beauty writhed on the dining room floor.

A third waitress arrived with a replacement coffeepot.  Beebe assumed it was full of fresh coffee.  At this point, only the pot, cups, saucers, stirring spoons, and the rest of the coffee service remained on the table.  All three waitresses departed, and once again Beebe and Bondarella were alone.

Bondarella refilled both coffee cups.

"Thank you," Beebe said quietly, then gazed out the window-wall at the natural view.  She could see a microwave tower on a nearby hilltop off to her left, but otherwise there were absolutely no signs of human habitation, all the way to the mountainous horizon.  Were they on the edge of a wilderness, or was the unspoiled vista pure happenstance?

Beebe shifted her gaze to her hostess.  "Suki?"

Bondarella shook her head.  "I make no promises.  At the moment there are too many variables.  I feel comfortable promising a reunion at some point, but I don't see it happening in the immediate future."

Beebe frowned and opened her mouth to lodge a pro forma protest, but was preempted by the service door opening and the reappearance of the ginger waitress.  This time, she was carrying a tablet computer and a long, wide belt of white leather.  Beebe's frown deepened.  A belt?

The ginger bowed and handed the tablet to Bondarella, then stepped behind Beebe's chair.

Beebe sat perfectly still as the redhead knelt, slipped the belt around the chair-back and arranged it across her narrow waist, then pulled out the slack—all the slack.  Beebe's eyes momentarily widened as the belt dimpled the flesh of her tummy and was buckled tight, but she otherwise hid her reaction (or tried to, anyway).  She remained impassive (and faintly amused) as the redhead lifted her left hand and placed it on the armrest of her chair.  There was a quiet snap and the cuff was now locked in place, like her ankles.  Beebe supposed a "courtesy struggle" was in order, so she gave the cuff a perfunctory tug.  The cuff was, indeed, one-with-the-armrest.  Obviously, once again magnetism was at play.  Beebe waited for the ginger to secure her right cuff to the right armrest, but instead—

"Erin," Bondarella purred, and beckoned the redhead to her side.  Beebe's hostess then reached up, gently cupped the ginger's freckled chin, and pulled her into a kiss.  The kiss was in no way reluctant on the waitress' part.

Naked, her ankles magna-cuffed to her chair's lower chair-legs, the belt tightly pressing her firmly against the chair-back, and her left wrist magna-cuffed to the left armrest, Beebe watched the redhead and her hostess kiss... and ignored the thrill rippling between her splayed legs.  She also watched as Bondarella whispered in the redhead's ("Erin's") ear... and the ginger whispered back.

Bondarella grinned and slapped Erin on the rump.  "Go!" she ordered, nodded to the service door.

Erin blushed, giggled and made her exit, smiling coyly at Beebe as she closed the door behind her.

"Adorable, isn't she?" Bondarella purred.

"Indeed," Beebe agreed.

"She'd like to play with your breasts," Bondarella continued, "and do a more thorough job of binding you to your chair."

Beebe felt a blush touch her cheeks, then picked up her coffee cup and took a sip.  "Would she, now?"

Bondarella nodded.  "Can't say that I blame her," she chuckled.  "You have very nice breasts, Beebe."

"Uh... thank you." Beebe purred.  She continued ignoring the continuing thrill quivering through her pussy, and managed an only slightly nervous smile.  "I thought you said you were retired?"

Bondarella smiled back.  "Retired, but I'm not dead, nor have I taken vows of celibacy."

"Point taken," Beebe conceded.  "Do you mind if I ask a few questions about some of your more notorious, uh, cases?  I confess I'm something of a fan."

Bondarella sipped her coffee.  "At the moment, I'm afraid not.  I have questions for you."

Beebe heaved a theatrical sigh.  "Ask away."  It wasn't like she had any real choice.

"First of all," Bondarella said, "be aware that we have perhaps the most talented hacking staff of any comparable organization, including most governments."

"And by 'we' you mean..."

Still smiling, Bondarella shook her head.  "A topic for later discussion."  She began tapping and swiping the screen of the tablet, then made a sweeping gesture towards the side of the dining room opposite the window-wall.  Instantly, the featureless wallpaper revealed itself to be a gigantic computer screen, and on that screen windows began to pop.

Beebe beheld copies of e-mails, photographs of Joan Watson and Jordan Shaw, photographs of various commercial or residential properties, including the warehouse where Bondarella and her crew had "rescued" Suki and herself, as well as the residence they'd happened to be using during most of the planning of the Watson/Shaw commission.  And they were her files, as well as Suki's files.  Beebe had spent hours studying them during the planning of the Watson/Shaw operation.

A lump formed in Beebe's stomach and she glared at her smiling captor.  There was only one way she could think of that Bondarella could have cracked the passwords required to access this material.  "What did you do to her?" she demanded.

"Who?" Bondarella inquired (innocently).

"Suki!" Beebe snapped.  "What did you do to her?"

"Your partner is quite well," Bondarella answered, "albeit somewhat under-dressed at the moment, much like yourself.  As I said, our hacking staff is very talented, especially our senior hacker."

"You expect me to believe—"

"Our senior hacker can crack passwords in near real time," Bondarella interrupted.  She set down the tablet, picked up her coffee cup, smiled, and took a sip.

Beebe was still skeptical.  "Your 'senior hacker' can open triply encrypted files?  Seriously?"

Bondarella nodded.  "Believe me, she could crash the entire dark web in an instant, then bring it up with full access to all files.  In fact, she could do the same to the entire internet... but someone might notice.  Then, we couldn't use either of them, could we?"

Bullshit, Beebe thought, but buried her skepticism deep.

"In any case," Bondarella continued, "the problem with being able to look anywhere... is knowing where to look."

"That makes sense," Beebe conceded.

Bondarella held up the coffeepot, Bebe smiled and shook her head, and the retired kidnapper who supposedly employed near omniscient super-hackers refilled her own cup.

"Once we became aware of a threat to Joan Watson," Bondarella continued, "we began taking countermeasures.  Unfortunately..."  She paused to sip her coffee.  "we were too late to prevent Joan and Special Agent Shaw's abduction, as well as their... re-abduction?"  Her smile became irritatingly smug.  "I like that.  Their re-abduction.  I'm confident we'll reacquire Joan and Jordan's trail, eventually, but whoever is behind all this has done an excellent job of laying down large numbers of highly plausible false trails.  We must go slowly, so as not to trip various layers of cyber-tripwires.  We must disguise our, uh, level of penetration... so to speak."

"So to speak," Beebe purred.

"What we're going to do now is go over everything we've already learned about your operation."  Bondarella continued to smile.  "I'm interested in your thoughts about why you accepted the commission, what you know about your competitors, and the plans you made to entertain Joan and Jordan."

Beebe's smile became visibly forced.  "If you've already hacked our files, as you claim—"

"Your feelings, Beebe," Bondarella interrupted.  "We have the facts.  I expect you to provide... the color."

"And if I refuse?"

Bondarella's smile broadened.  "There, you see?  Even after having studied your file, you manage to surprise me.  I had no idea you were such a flirt."

Beebe stared at her hostess/captor/interrogator.  Flirt?

"Sitting there all naked and helpless and vulnerable?" Bondarella continued.  "Do you really want to start playing now?  We have Joan and Jordan to rescue, and who knows what small detail might lead to a timely breakthrough.  My hackers will continue working away at the puzzle, but at the moment their progress is, at best, deliberate.  Answer my questions now.  We can play later."

Beebe stared at her famous (notorious) and seriously beautiful captor... and felt her jaw relaxing as her smile become more genuine.  "Sure.  Why not?"

"And its not like you have any real choice," Bondarella added.

"Point taken," Beebe sighed.

Joan was tied up.  She was also naked, locked in a concrete cell, and lying on a slab of memory-foam encased in gray linen.  The cell's only other furnishings were a stainless steel commode, a tiny steel washbasin, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall near the ceiling, above the featureless steel slab that was the inside face of the cell's door.

As for the bondage, the material used was ¼" braided nylon rope dyed medium-brown.  All the ends had been neatly heat-sealed.  Her wrists were tied together behind her back with her hands palm-to-palm.  Her elbows were also bound together.  A web of horizontal and diagonal strands yoked her shoulders, pinned her arms to her torso, passed above and below her breasts, encircled her waist, and dove between her legs, cleaving her labia and butt-cheeks.  The rope lattice continued down her legs to her ankles, lashing her legs tightly together.  All of her bonds were hitched and cinched between her limbs and torso, making the individual elements a unified whole and distributing the tension up and down her entire body.

All efforts on Joan's part to twist or squirm or kick were rewarded by a modicum of slack for some areas, but only at the cost of increased tightness for others.  She'd already wasted several long minutes exploring her condition with an eye towards escape, and that included groping and straining for any knots she might be able to reach with her fluttering fingers, all to no avail.  Joan was trapped in an inescapable web, a cocoon of interlaced and hitched strands of taut rope.

The author of Joan's predicament was Jamie Moriarty, of course.  The smiling (and disturbingly beautiful) evil genius had carefully positioned every loop, tightened every cinch, and tied every knot... and Joan had let her, meaning had offered no resistance during the process.  She'd allowed Jamie to render her totally helpless.  Of course, Joan's captor had made it very clear that Joan had no meaningful choice.  Any resistance on Joan's part would cause Jordan Shaw to suffer.

Not that Jamie had entirely trusted Joan's promise of obedience.  Jamie had released Joan from the articulated surgical table back in the medical suite one cuff or strap at a time, but in each instance she had immediately replaced the leather and steel medical restraints with nylon rope.  Joan was never completely free, or more precisely, was never free enough to offer meaningful resistance—but eventually she was free from the table.

And then, Jamie had led Joan from the "clinic" and down a concrete hallway at the end of a humiliating rope leash.  At the time, Joan's knees were bound, but not her ankles.  She was able to walk, after a fashion.  Joan wasn't gagged, either, but thought it wise to keep her thoughts and feelings (all of which were negative) to herself.

They arrived at a gray steel door and Jamie produced a key and opened the portal, revealing the modern but traditional prison cell beyond.  Joan was politely encouraged to recline on the memory-foam slab, she did so (sullenly), then watched as Jamie bound her lower legs and ankles with more nylon rope.

Task accomplished, Jamie stepped back and paused in the open doorway.  "Beautiful," she sighed, smiling down at her nude, elaborately bound captive.  She then turned and, without another word, closed and locked the door and Joan was alone in the cell.

Joan heaved a sigh... then began testing her bonds... and she continued testing her bonds for several minutes.  Her efforts was methodical and energetic, but ultimately futile.

Sherlock had trained Joan to defeat all forms of mechanical locks, and that included handcuffs.  It also included defeating the locking mechanism while wearing said handcuffs.  Also, her partner kept pressuring her to expand her "escapology" training, and for the first time Joan regretted not taking him up on his offer.

Joan sighed, again.

Being able to dislocate her shoulders at will so she could wiggle free from hypothetical bondage?  Making use of hidden escape aids to sever ropes or tease apart key knots?  Possessing a trained body with the flexibility to perform the contortions required to reach the unreachable?  That was all well and good, but Joan found it difficult to believe any amount of training would enable her to escape rope bondage applied with the degree of competence demonstrated by Jamie Moriarty.

That said, before meeting Sherlock, Joan would have said it was impossible to shrug out of a pair of standard police handcuffs without the use of a set of picks or a hidden key.  Now, she not only knew it was possible, and with enough effort could accomplish the task... eventually... with most models of handcuffs.

Anyway, pining after training she'd repeatedly turned down was akin to crying over spilt milk.  Joan languished in her inescapable bonds for an hour... then two.

Suddenly, the cell door opened and Jamie Moriarty reappeared.  Joan's smiling captor was dressed in a white cotton robe with her legs and feet bare and her blond hair loose about her shoulders, and she was carrying a tray with an open bottle of red wine, a single stemmed wine glass, and a plate laden with what appeared to be small sandwich-wraps of some kind.

Joan had opened her mouth to deliver a carefully metered scathing remark, but snapped it closed again.  Her stomach was grumbling.

Jamie set the tray on the floor next to Joan, then cinched the belt of her robe, sat on the pad with her back against the concrete wall, and hauled Joan's nude, bound body against her body.  Jamie's legs were splayed with Joan's bound legs between, and Joan's bound arms were now resting against Jamie's breasts and tummy.

"Bresaola salami drizzled with olive oil and lemon juice, fresh lettuce, and Robiola cheese," Jamie purred as she picked up one of the wraps and held it before Joan's pouting lips.

Joan decided there was no shame in surrendering to hunger, and the wrap smelled delicious.  She opened her mouth and took a bite.  The wrap was, indeed, delicious, especially with the proverbial sauce of hunger.  Bite followed bite until the wrap was gone.  Jamie paused to pour wine into the stemmed glass... took a sip... then held the glass to Joan's lips so she could take a sip.

The meal continued until Joan had cleared the plate.  The wraps were, in point of fact, excellent, as was the wine she shared with her captor.  Joan was sure all the makings of the meal had been imported, except, perhaps, the flatbreads and lettuce.  The wine was of equal quality.  Imported? Joan thought, or are we in Italy?  Perhaps a quarter of the wine remained in the bottle, and Joan knew she was on the verge of being tipsy.

"Jordan," Joan said quietly.  "Are you taking care of Jordan?"

Jamie's reply was to pull a small remote from the pocket of her robe, point it at the TV above the cell door, and press a button.

The television began to glow... and resolved into the image of Jordan Shaw.  She was naked, like Joan, and lying on a linen-encased memory-foam pad, also like Joan.  She was also stringently restrained; however, her bonds were leather, rather than nylon rope.  Jordan's arms and hands were behind her back and encased in a single-sleeve armbinder from her fingertips to her armpits.  The leather was saddle-brown, zipped tight, and reinforced by secondary straps encircling Jordan's wrists and elbows, as well as anchoring straps that yoked her shoulders and crisscrossed her chest.  Her ankles were joined by tightly buckled cuffs of similar leather.

Joan noted that her fellow kidnap victim wasn't gagged.  Also, she appeared to be asleep.  Jordan's tan, smooth body shone with sweat... just a little.  Finally, with respect to her earlier ordeal and from what Joan could see, Jordan's skin was none the worse for wear.  There were no bruises, welts, or whip-marks.

"Since you've agreed to be a good girl," Jamie purred in Joan's ear, "Special Agent Shaw recently benefited from a full-body massage, has a full tummy, and is being allowed to sleep in a comfortable cell."

"Comfortable," Joan huffed, then swallowed her shame and cleared her throat.  "Thank you," she said in a near whisper.

"You're quite welcome, Joan," Jamie responded, kissed the side of Joan's neck, then rolled Joan onto her stomach and began fiddling with a knot at the small of her back.

Joan frowned.  "What are you... oh."  What Jamie was doing had become obvious: she was untying Joan's crotch-rope.  The twin strands of nylon rope loosened, then slowly slithered from between her butt-cheeks and labia.  (Joan did her best to ignore the accompanying sensations.)  Then, Jamie rolled her onto her back and Joan watched as her smiling captor stretched the free ends of her former crotch-rope up to the ropes passing above and below her breasts, passed the strands under the breast-ropes, and pulled out the slack.  This pinched the breast-ropes into an "X" and left sufficient slack for Jamie to separate the strands and take a single turn around the base of each of Joan's now bulging breasts before tying a final knot.

"Is this really necessary?" Joan complained.

"As a matter of fact..."  Jamie resumed her former position with her back against the wall, then hauled Joan into her former position with her bound arms against Jamie's robe-clad body.  "I'm afraid getting that lovely crotch-rope out of the way is, in fact, quite necessary."  She reached into her robe pocket, pulled out a small object that was not the remote, and held it for Joan's horrified inspection.

Joan swallowed, nervously.  The object was a compact, wand-style vibrator with a curved, pointed tip designed for clitoral stimulation!  Joan had no personal experience with that particular model, but instantly recognized it for what it was.

"Time for dessert," Jamie purred, pressed a button on the side of the vibrator, and it began to buzz.

"No!"  Joan began squirming in Jamie's grip.

"Quiet, Joan," Jamie chuckled, wrapped her legs around Joan's kicking, thrashing legs, reached across Joan's rope-bound torso and arms, cupped her right breast, and held her tight.  "You might wake up Special Agent Shaw, by which I mean I might have to send one of my assistants to her cell with a flogger to wake her up."  She touched the curved tip of the vibrator to Joan's left nipple.  "Quiet as a mouse, Joan," she whispered in Joan's ear.  "Not so much as a whimper or a moan.  And don't you dare cum without my explicit permission."

Joan shivered and squirmed, but stopped kicking.  Somehow, she managed to confine her outrage and humiliation to her thoughts.

The tip of the wand trailed down Joan's rope-bound body to her thighs... then nudged her clitoris.

Joan went rigid in her bonds and Jamie's embrace and bit her lower lip.  She just hoped that as the stimulation continued, she wouldn't start biting her tongue.  The wand was... incredible... in a horrific and decidedly unwelcome sort of way.

Jamie smiled... and continued serving "dessert."

On the screen and back in her cell, Jordan Shaw continued to slumber.