Dr. Folke had
been going nonstop, conducting what was supposedly only the warm-up
for her interrogation for the last... oh... ten minutes, but
Bonnie was finding it increasingly difficult to estimate the
passage of time. Of course, the diminutive,
lab-coat-and-glasses-wearing Folke knew exactly how
long she'd been tickling Bonnie's squirming feet and wiggling
toes with her collection of feathers, probes, scratching tools,
and vibrating mini-brushes. The doctor had an excellent
view of the slowly changing LED numbers on the face of the
compact electronic timer sitting on the lab cart. Bonnie
There were several thoughts Bonnie very much wished to share
with Dr. Folke. Among them were: "OH-MY-GOD!
OH-MY-GOD! STOP! STOP! NOT THE TOES
AGAIN! STOP! NOT THE FEATHER! OH-MY-GOD!
STOP!" Unfortunately, the large pacifier of pliant natural
rubber the doctor used to deliver cool, refreshing electrolyte
solution directly into Bonnie's mouth was still filling said
mouth and was still strapped tightly in place. It was not
an especially effective damsel-silencer, but was more than up to
the task of converting any and all attempts at speech on
Bonnie's part into so much incoherent, giggling, blubbering
gibberish. Finally, as Folke had disconnected the clear
vinyl fluid-delivery tube from the end of the pacifier, the air
whistling through the narrow and now unobstructed passage in the
plug added a wheezing, whistling counterpoint to Bonnie's vocal
Oh-by-the-way, the wand-style vibrator clamped to the chair's
seat with its business end squashed against Bonnie's labia was
still vibrating at a near-subliminal level—but anything one
might choose to describe as "near-subliminal" would just have to
wait its turn! Bonnie's increasingly frazzled brain had
much bigger sensory fish to fry in the form of the nerve
impulses arriving from her feet and toes and demanding immediate
redress of grievances, redress the rest of her helplessly
restrained body was powerless to provide.
Clearly, Dr. Folke enjoyed her work, and she was very
good at it. The quirky smile curling her lips was ample
evidence, as were the never-ending, unendurable, tingling,
titillating sensations rippling across Bonnie's soles and toes.
The captive fought the chair's restraints with all her strength,
but made no progress whatsoever towards either escape or getting the
tickle-torture to STOP! Bonnie was, however,
working up a healthy sweat. Who knew writhing in
bondage while a sadistic, four-eyed munchkin in a lab-coat
tickles your tootsies was a decent aerobic workout? Bonnie
mused; but mainly her thoughts were STOP-STOP-STOP!
Just when Bonnie thought she'd shrivel up and DIE if Folke didn't
whisked open and Marina-the-amazon-receptionist/handler entered
the tickle-torture chamber, and right on her heels strode
Xin-the-ninja-kidnapper! Marina wore the same high-heeled
pumps, pencil-skirt, and cotton blouse as before. Xin, on
the other hand, had changed into a pair of high-heeled
knee-boots and a black, skintight, spandex catsuit. With
the tiny fraction of her mind not occupied by total hysteria,
Bonnie decided Xin looked like an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.
cosplayer, only without the stylized eagle logo on her
shoulder. She's not wearing a Hydra patch, either,
Bonnie noted, which probably would have been more
"Sorry for the interruption, doctor," Marina apologized, then
nodded in the direction of her shorter, dangerous-looking, Asian
companion. "You can blame Xin."
"Actually," Xin purred, smiling at Bonnie's naked, wide-eyed,
squirming, sweating, and obviously very unhappy form,
"you can blame Mistress Payne."
Her eyes on Bonnie's squirming feet, Folke continued her
apparent efforts to use a goose feather to drive Bonnie
COMPLETELY INSANE! "I assume you're referring to our
beloved CEO?" Folke heaved a sigh, stopped tickling
Bonnie's toes (which did not stop wiggling), returned
the feather to the cart, and favored Xin with a thin
smile. "Another change of plans?
Really? Mistress Dominique is getting more and more
"Don't worry," Xin chuckled, "I won't tell her you she said
so. Anyway, this one is going upstairs, at least for
now. Maybe you'll get her back later in the week.
"I have no choice but to file a formal protest," Folke pouted.
Xin smiled. "In which case Mistress might very well send
me back down here to invite you upstairs."
"Like I said," Folke said, returning her smiling gaze to
Bonnie's no longer squirming feet, "I have no choice but to
delete Miss Schnupp's entire interrogation file. If
Mistress does send her back—" She locked eyes
with Bonnie. "—I'll have no choice but to begin again from
the very beginning." She shook her evilly smiling,
bespectacled face. "All that gagged-giggling, muffled
begging, and futile, pathetic struggling... totally wasted."
"Yeah, such a pity," Xin purred, produced a pair of
rubber-padded steel handcuffs from somewhere behind her back,
and strode towards Bonnie and the chair. Marina came along
to assist, not that her efforts as a handler would be in any way
whipping at the hands of Dominique Payne, Jade received a nice
bath, followed by a full-body massage. That is, her
catsuited and anonymously masked handlers doused her with a
rubber hose, scrubbed her with a soapy sponge, doused her again,
then strapped her to a table and rubbed some sort of lotion or
ointment into her abused skin. They were thorough with
both tasks, the bath and the massage.
Jade struggled the entire time and the ball-gag remained in her
mouth. Thus, her objections and creative suggestions
regarding her handler's possible mixed-species ancestry came out
of her plugged mouth as so much well-muffled noise. And as
for her struggles, the amazons manipulated Jade's writhing,
kicking, and twisting body with near trivial ease. It
And then, Jade got to check "straitjacket" off her
fashion-related bucket list.
The jacket in question was made of natural, heavy canvas with a
great many two-inch braided cotton straps, all with dangling,
rattling friction-buckles. In fact, Jade's instant
reaction upon seeing the thing was to think: Damn, look at
all the straps! She resolved to resist being put
into the thing with all of her remaining strength; but, as
always, the amazons were more than up to the challenge
of handling a reluctant, squirming, naked Jade Porter.
During the process of being strapping into the canvas cocoon,
Jade noted several pertinent design features:
1. This was not a baggy, one-size-fits-most
jacket, and while it wasn't quite a custom fit, it
came damn close. She conjectured that somewhere in Payne
Tower was a storeroom full of such jackets in all
sizes—regular, petite, and plus.
The handlers had taken turns embracing Jade's upper body and
squeezing her upper arms against her torso while her companion
tightened the straps, further restricting Jade's ability to
squirm with each iteration. When they were finally
satisfied, the canvas hugged Jade's body like an amorous python
and her upper body was virtually a single limbless unit.
She found she could twist at the waist, a little, but that was
2. When zippers running down the inside-forearm of each
sleeves were zipped closed and their fobs secured with
heavy-duty snaps, the closed ends became the functional
equivalents of canvas bondage-mittens. Her fingers and
hands were now encased, immobilized, and utterly useless.
3. The straps were not only plentiful, but highly
functional. Her arms performed the traditional self-hug
across her waist, enforced by the wide, heavy-duty straps that
had been dangling from the ends of the sleeves but were now
tightly secured behind her back. In addition, an
integrated horizontal strap encircled her upper arms and torso
above her breasts, a vertical strap secured her folded
forearms against her stomach, and a pair of diagonal straps
dove between her legs, passed to either side of her pussy, and
performed the totally unnecessary function of making sure she
couldn't perform the impossible task of lifting the jacket
over her head.
4. The jacket had a high collar with a wide strap
similar to the others, and while it wasn't a posture-collar,
it did a credible job of restricting her head motion.
5. And speaking of the straps, there were no long,
unsightly, dangling free ends. The straps were all
more-or-less the exact lengths required to fulfill their
individual functions and all the ends tucked out of sight into
canvas sleeves, more testimony to the pattern-maker's skill.
Next, one of the amazons unbuckled and removed Jade's
ball-gag. Her ankles were still locked in rubber-padded
steel cuffs so she couldn't kick, but she was finally free to
share her innermost thoughts with her handlers.
"Let me go! Let me go you motherf—mrrrf!"
The amazon had her in a tight embrace and an equally tight
hand-gag. Also, Jade noticed for the first time a second
amazon standing in front of her with what appeared to be a
small, clear plastic bottle of spring water.
"Enough nonsense, Miss Porter," the handler with the bottle
purred. "There are other, less pleasant methods of
hydration at our disposal. Would you like a nice drink, or
are you going to be difficult? Blink twice if you've
inclined to be cooperative."
Still angry, Jade continued staring daggers at the wire-mesh
mask of the amazon with the water, but she was thirsty.
She surrendered her pride and blinked her glowering brown eyes
"Good girl," the amazon with the bottle chuckled. The
grabby amazon released her hand-gag, the bottle touched Jade's
lips, and she drank.
The water was cool and wet (of course) and really hit the
spot. Jade drank quickly... and soon the bottle was empty
and a ball of pink rubber foam had taken its place.
"No! Nrrrf!" The amazon stuffed the ball into her
mouth, sealed her lips with a wide strip of medical tape, then
fit a brown leather muzzle over her head and buckled it
tight. The muzzle's thick, padded panel cupped her chin,
covered most of her lower face, and pressed tightly against her
already gagged mouth. Narrow straps framed her nose, a
wider strap encircled her crown, and diagonal straps anchored
the arrangement on either side of her leather-caged head.
Jade's eyelids fluttered, but this time she was blinking back
angry tears. One of the amazons hoisted her onto her
shoulder, face down and legs to the front, and carried her
through the door and down the hallway.
Who knew that
being bound, gagged, and tickled like crazy for an extended
period of time could tucker one out? Certainly not Bonnie
Schnupp. Maybe it was all the struggling. She had
worked up quite a sweat while Folkes the Evil Munchkin used
her Fiendish Tools to tease and titillate her feet. Also,
the gagged giggling had been serious exercise for her
diaphragm. And speaking of gags, once Xin released her
from the chair, she swapped out Bonnie's giant pacifier gag for
a "normal" ball-gag. Bonnie vaguely remembered Folke
insisting that she didn't want any more of her "specialized
equipment" to go missing. Anyway, ball-gagged, wrists and
ankles locked in padded steel cuffs, and balanced on Xin the
Ninja's right shoulder in a fireman's carry, Bonnie was
To make a long story short—especially since Bonnie dozed off at
least twice during the process and couldn't vouch for all the
details—Xin had carried her... somewhere... and handed her off
to a pair of catsuited amazons wearing hoods with fencer's
masks. They wet her down with a hose—soaped, scrubbed, and rinsed
her body—then forced her into an honest-to-god
straitjacket. She'd struggled, like the sleepy kitten she
felt like, but it happened.
One of the
amazons removed Bonnie's ball-gag and held a water bottle so
Bonnie could drink (which was kinda nice), then stuffed a ball
of pink foam into her mouth, sealed her lips with a strip of
white tape, and buckled a leather muzzle-harness over her
head. At some point Xin had made her exit, unnoticed by
Bonnie, but apparently (obviously) the amazons already had their
Bonnie was hoisted onto the shoulder of one of the anonymous
She-Hulks, and another bouncing journey followed. Bonnie
"enjoyed" another brief nap... then they arrived at their
destination, a genuine padded room. I guess it goes
with the straitjacket and muzzle theme, Bonnie mused.
Bonnie was heaved off the amazon's shoulder, more-or-less gently
deposited on the padded floor, then her handler joined her
partner in the hallway and the door closed with a muffled but authoritative
thud. Like the chamber's floor, walls and ceiling, the
portal's inside surface was thickly padded with bleached canvas.
Bonnie found the strength to sit up (despite her sore tummy's
mild objections) and looked upwards. Light was coming from five small
can-type fixtures protected by wire grills and recessed into the
ceiling pads. The room was about twenty-feet by twenty
feet, and—"MMMRPGH?"—there was another naked, ankle-cuffed,
straitjacketed, and muzzled captive present! The second
captive had smooth, dark skin, black, curly hair, big brown eyes
staring at Bonnie above the mouth-panel of a muzzle identical
to her own, and—JADE?
Jade also sat up and made mewling noises. Obviously she
was just as effectively gagged as her fellow intern and
The two friends would have shared the stories of their captures,
their whipping and tickling ordeals, respectively, everything
they'd seen and heard to date, etc., but thanks to their gags,
none of that happened. They both had questions—so many
questions—but all went unasked and unanswered.
Bonnie could see very faint marks on Jade's legs, but they may
have been the result
of lying on the creases in the floor padding. As
for Bonnie's feet, they bore no marks from Dr. Folke's Fiendish
Feathers and Titillating Tactile Torture Tools.
The captives squirmed and rolled across the floor until they
were side by side—locked eyes and shared a pitiful sigh of
mutual commiseration—then settled down, full-length, onto the
padding. Jade rested
her head against Bonnie's
canvas-clad shoulder and they both closed their eyes.
Eventually, the prisoners drifted off to much needed sleep.
Jade's nap lasted... hours? It felt like hours, but no
clock was available and they couldn't compare notes.
Anyway, the door of the padded room opened, a pair of catsuited
and masked amazons appeared, lifted the ankle-cuffed,
straitjacketed, and muzzled captives onto their shoulders, and
carried them away.
An elevator carried then up to a very curious
space. Jade surmised it was another of the tower's
upper-story nightclubs; however, it wasn't the Aqua Lounge of
her earlier experience. Bonnie surmised that she might
It was a large room with a very tall ceiling and a bar off to
one side staffed by multiple bartenders. The decor was
severely Modern, predominately mirrored glass and/or highly
polished chrome steel. There were the usual tables and
chairs, booths, and conversation groupings of sofas and
easy-chairs, but the club's compelling features were the rows of
very curious cylindrical pedestals and what what could only be
called interrupted vertical columns.
The pedestals and columns held—quite literally held—naked
In the case of the pedestals, the women were bent forward at the
waist with only their upper thighs, hips, rumps, and lower backs
visible. The rest of the women's bodies and limbs were inside
the base of their respective pedestals. Bonnie and
Jade watched in horror as the last of the dozen or so
pedestal-captives was "installed." Led by a catsuited and
masked handler, a naked, twenty-something, tape-gagged, and
oddly compliant brunette was led to a low circular platform with
four oval openings. The woman stepped onto the platform
and placed her feet into two of the openings, then bent forward
and placed her hands in the remaining openings. A padded,
T-shaped post rose from the base until it pressed against her
stomach, then a chrome outer cylinder rose from the floor.
It was as if she was a diver frozen in the pike position, with
her breasts more-or-less squashed against her knees The
handler closed the two halves of the cylinder's horizontal top,
encasing the bent-over woman's head, arms, and and lower legs in
In the case of the interrupted vertical columns, there were two
Style 1: The column's lower half enclosed the captive from
the waist down while the upper half encased her from the chest
up. In short, the prisoner was reduced to an anonymous
torso; including, of course, her breasts.
Style 2: The lower half of the column enclosed the captive
from the mid-thighs down and the upper half from the waist
up. Thus, a style-two prisoner was an anonymous pussy and
a pair of buttocks.
Bonnie and Jade were carried to a pair of empty style-two
columns, Bonnie was eased off her handler's shoulder, then
watched as both handlers "installed" Jade. Her ankle-cuffs
were removed, then her feet forced into a pair of openings about
six-inches apart. Jade tried to kick and struggle, but as
soon as a foot was forced into an opening, a rubber ring
inflated and trapped her ankle. Soon, Jade was in place,
the lower half of the column's shell rose from the floor and
locked, and the handlers closed the top. There was a
hissing sound, as if more rubber was inflating, then the
handlers released the thigh straps of Jade's straitjacket and
secured them up and out of the way through D-rings sewn into the
side of the upper jacket. Jade squirmed and complained as
the upper half of the column descended... but soon she
disappeared from Bonnie's sight... that is, most of her
disappeared. The column locked in place, the handlers
closed the halves of the bottom lid, there was another hissing
noise, and the deed was done. Jade was now a disembodied
set of smooth, brown thighs, hips, pussy, and rump.
And then it was Bonnie's turn. "Mrrrf?" Her
struggles were as pointless as Jade's, and soon she was
identically installed in her very own column. She could
now confirm that rubber did inflate in the lower column
to immobilize her legs, as she'd suspected, but rubber also
inflated inside the upper column, immobilizing her already
straitjacketed upper body from waist to neck. Also, and it
was no small thing, the upper column was actually one-way
mirrored glass, not chrome steel. Bonnie could
Bonnie turned her muzzled and tape-gagged head from side to
side. The air inside the upper column was close, but that
may have been her imagination. There had to be ventilation
somewhere in the darkness overhead... didn't there?
Anyway, the amazon handlers had departed.
Preparations at the bar continued. The male and female
bartenders were adding stemmed glasses of various sizes to
suspended racks, stocking bottles on the shelves behind the bar,
chopping lemons and limes, etc. As Bonnie watched, one of
the bartenders threw a switch and LED lights shone through the
mirror behind the rows of bottles, spelling out what Bonnie
assumed was the name of the establishment in a decorative font.
Oh hilarious! Bonnie mused. 'Evil
Petting Zoo.' Such wit. Such
frightful cleverness. And so very original.
But then, the full significance of the name and her
predicament sunk in. A chill rippled down Bonnie's spine
and she suddenly felt decidedly naked between her waist and
thighs. They wouldn't dare! Would they?
Bonnie realized one more column awaited an occupant, and it was
more or less in the center of the room and directly in front of
Bonnie and Jade's columns.
There was some sort of commotion to the extreme right and Bonnie
watched as two amazon handlers dragged a naked woman towards the
empty column. The woman was a brunette with a fit,
curvaceous, tan body and Bonnie could tell she was "old,"
meaning in her late 30's or early 40's... maybe. Her
wrists were locked together in front in thick, padded leather
cuffs and her lips sealed by a wide strip of white medical
tape—but despite the tape-gag Bonnie recognized the squirming,
mewling captive's identity. The nude prisoner was none
other than Audrey Klein, Jade's boss!
Bonnie watched as Audrey was installed in the remaining
column. She struggled hard, but soon the amazons had her
feet and legs in the lower column, her arms over her head, and
her tape-gagged head disappeared as the upper column
descended. It turned out Audrey's encasement was a hybrid
of the two styles. The Klein Studios CEO was exposed from
her thighs to her armpits! Both her breasts and her
pussy and rump were on display!
Audrey's handlers departed, and as far as Bonnie could tell, all
preparations for the nightclub's opening were complete.
Something like ten minutes passed... and finally, the first of
the Evil Petting Zoo's patrons began strolling from
the elevators. The men wore tuxedos and the women formal,
full-length gowns. Bonnie could tell the first-timers from
the old hands (even though Bonnie, herself, was a
first-timer). Old hands were nonchalant. Their first
priority was to go to the bar and order drinks. Newbies
stared at the exposed female flesh on display with one of two
reactions: open wonder, or shock and embarrassment.
Actually neither reaction seemed entirely genuine, but there was
always some reaction.
And then... it began.
Guests, usually in pairs and usually with drinks in hand, began
circulating around the room. Hands squeezed breasts and
tweaked nipples, slid across bare backs, between thighs to brush
against labia, and caressed taut, firm buttocks. Cold,
moisture-beaded glasses and cubes of ice teased exposed,
Poor Audrey was receiving a lot of attention.
Perhaps it was because she was the room's centerpiece, or
perhaps it was because she had more of her exquisite body on
Suddenly, Bonnie's eyes popped wide and she swallowed nervously
behind the foam filling her mouth, the tape sealing her lips,
and the muzzle caging her head. A pair of guests were
strolling in her direction! Both were
female. One had a quirky smile, a cropped mop of red hair,
and was wearing a red, sleeveless gown with a plunging
neckline. She also wore a brown leather collar with an
attached leash, the end of which was in the hand of her
companion, a long-haired brunette with glasses, a sly smile, and
a birthmark on her upper lip. She wore a black pants-suit
styled like a tuxedo.
"She has very pretty skin," the redhead purred.
She was biting her lower lip in a slightly goofy but decidedly
sexy manner as she stared at Bonnie's exposed flesh.
Bonnie would have been flattered, after a fashion, if she wasn't
frozen in fear.
"I suppose," the brunette agreed. Seconds passed... and
finally she rolled her eyes. "Well?"
"Well, what?" the redhead responded.
"Get on with it," the brunette chuckled.
"Uh..." The redhead reached a tentative hand towards
"Mrrrf!" Bonnie had no idea if the couple could hear her,
but she had to say something when the redhead's cold
hand cupped her pussy... then said hand began to move.
"Poor thing," the redhead sighed. "She's trembling."
Bonnie was, indeed, trembling. She couldn't help it.
She would have also been squirming and twisting, but shivering
was all the inflated rubber pinning her inside the column would
"Don't make her cum," the brunette said. "The night is
"Oh, Ally," the redhead chuckled, "you're so very wicked."
The brunette smiled a truly evil smile (in Bonnie's humble
opinion), tugged on the redhead's leash, and pulled her in for a
long, deep, wet kiss. "My Lisa," she purred when they came
up for air.
The redhead's hand had never left Bonnie's pussy, but it had
stopped moving while she concentrated on the kiss. The
couple—whose names were, apparently, Lisa and Ally—smiled at
Bonnie's shivering form, what they could see of it, as once
again Lisa's hand began to slowly move.
"Well, I suppose a nice quickie won't do any harm," Ally
"I'll do my best," Lisa purred, then bit her lower lip,
again. "This really is a deliciously decadent
place, isn't it? Very jaded-aristocrat."
Bonnie turned her head and did her best to ignore Lisa's
caressing hand. She noticed Jade had acquired a pair of
admirers of her own in the form of an elegantly dressed and
attractive male and female couple in their fifties.
Meanwhile, in the center of the room, Audrey Klein continued
garnering the lioness' share of the attention. However, as
more and more patrons arrived, none of the helpless denizens of
the Evil Petting Zoo went neglected for very long.
"Mrrrk!" Bonnie was going to cum! She was definitely
going to cum! "Rrrk?" And then, Lisa's hand
disappeared. "Mrrpfh!" Ally was leading Lisa towards
the bar. How... inconsiderate, Bonnie decided, not
that she'd wanted to be groped and diddled by a perfect
stranger, even a devilishly cute stranger like Lisa; but still,
being left in the lurch like this was just plain rude.
Payne was still wearing her work clothes for the day:
high-heeled pumps, pantyhose, pencil skirt, sleeveless blouse
with a corset-like bodice and spaghetti-straps tied in a neat
bow at the nape of her neck, and a bolero-style jacket, all in
black. Dominique was of the opinion that black
complemented her baby sister's fair complexion, so Penelope
usually dressed in black. She'd learned long ago that it
was always a good idea to go along with her eldest sister's
After a hard day of doing her best to creatively nurture the
various Payne productions in their various stages of
development—and assuming Dominique hadn't decreed one of her
"evenings in" (meaning a night when big sister decided to
torture her for no good reason)—Penelope would often visit one
of the tower's nightclubs. She found it both relaxing and
inspirational. Tonight, however, she'd decided to try
a different method of inspiration.
At this hour, most of the business offices were deserted.
A few productions with overseas partners were still active, but
most of the tower's cubicle farms and offices were virtual ghost
towns. That was also true of the conglomerate's service
and support departments, but Penelope had already used the
security system to check on her destination. Human
Resources Special Services hadn't yet shut down for the night.
Penelope had a plan—not a detailed plan, as some degree
of uncertainty always added spice to any scenario—but Penelope
had a plan—or at least knew how she could make something
"interesting" happen that didn't involve Dominique. Her
heart beat rapidly as she made her way down the empty hallways
of Dr. Folke's domain, pausing at each closed door to listen for
signs of occupancy in the room beyond. The Evil Munchkin
had to be somewhere. The security system was never
wrong. Finally, Penelope heard a faint buzzing noise
emanating from behind a door labeled "Therapy 3." She
eased the door open, peered inside, then swallowed nervously and
forced a smile.
"Oh, there you are, doctor," Penelope said with forced
Dr. Folke was, indeed, working late. And so was her
Marina was naked, as in totally nude, and was standing in a
shallow alcove set in the far wall. Her feet were about
two-and-a-half-feet apart and her arms outstretched to either
side in what Penelope recognized as the classic, spreadeagled
pose of Leonardo da Vinci's "Vetruvian Man." Her hands and
feet were hidden behind close-fitting, pillory-like openings in
the alcove's sidewalls and floor. A ball-gag was loosely
buckled around the well-muscled Latina's neck, its red rubber
sphere resting on her brown, glistening chest. Her long
black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she strained
against her obviously inescapable bonds, a grimace contorting
her beautiful face. Why, one might ask? Folke was
pressing the buzzing business end of a wand-style vibrator
against the Latina's flushed labia, and it appeared she had been
doing so for some time before Penelope arrived.
Folkes heaved an exasperated sigh. "Penny," she sighed,
"can't you see I'm busy?" She returned her full attention
to her helpless assistant. "Not a word, Marina," she
purred. "Not a sound. Keep absolutely silent, and
don't you dare cum until I give you explicit permission."
Marina's response was to stare straight ahead, pant through her
flaring nostrils, tug on her bonds, and sweat.
The only other thing in the room was a gurney, a padded table on
wheels with medical-style restraints, a great many medical-style
restraints, all in brown leather with canvas padding.
Penelope entered Therapy 3, eased the door closed behind her,
and tiptoed to the gurney. "I was wondering if you could
find the time to help me 'relax' before you leave for the
evening," she said quietly.
"I told you," Folke muttered. "I'm busy." She was still
concentrating on teasing Marina to the cusp of orgasm, and
Marina was concentrating on doing her best to not cum.
An empty laundry bag hung from a hook clipped to one end of the
gurney, and Penelope knew what it was for. She removed her
shoes and dropped them in the bag, then removed her jacket,
carefully folded it, and also placed it in the bag. Her
skirt and blouse were next. Finally, she pulled her
pantyhose down her hips and legs, and tossed them in the bag as
well. As Penelope was not in the habit of wearing panties
or a bra (another of Dominique's fashion edicts) the youngest
Payne sister was now totally nude... like Marina.
Penelope hopped onto the gurney and began arranging herself in
the various restraints. She didn't buckle any of the cuffs
or straps—that would be inappropriate—but she made sure she was
properly positioned, flat on her back with her ankles a couple
of feet apart and her arms at her sides. The last step was
sliding her hands inside the loose mittens built into the wrist-
cuffs. And then, she waited, staring up at the featureless
Folke continued using the vibrator to tease her amazonian
assistant for something like a minute... then sighed, clicked
off the wand, and placed it on the floor of the alcove between
Marina's splayed legs. "Sorry, darling," she said, then
thrust the ball-gag into Marina's mouth and buckled it
tight. "Take a break while I deal with the spoiled brat."
Whether or not Marina was inclined to "take a break" was a moot
point, of course, but it was clear that she didn't
appreciate the interruption. She tugged on her bonds,
grimaced in gagged irritation, and mewled through her
gag—"Mrrrm!"—when Folke thumbed a button set in the wall beside
the alcove, turned, and strolled to Penelope and the gurney.
Penelope watched as three things happened at Marina's alcove:
(1) a thick panel of clear glass descended across the front of
the shallow space. Marina's continuing gagged tirade was
first diminished, then cut off completely when the glass sealed
with an audible hiss; (2) the row of LED lights set in
the ceiling of the alcove winked out; and (3) a second panel,
identical in color and texture to the room's other walls,
descended across the glass front. Marina and her shallow
prison were now completely hidden away and the naked, gagged,
helplessly bound, and closely confined Latina was in total
darkness. A casual visitor to Therapy 3 wouldn't even
suspect that she was there.
Meanwhile, Folke had arrived at the gurney. First, she
zipped closed the wrist-cuff's mittens, confining and
immobilizing Penelope's fingers and hands. She buckled the
wrist-cuffs themselves, then worked her way around the gurney,
buckling a belt around Penelope's narrow waist, cuffs around her
thighs, ankles, and upper arms, then stretching and buckling a
strap across Penelope's upper arms and chest, just above her
breasts. Finally she secured a wide, padded collar around
the nude captive's neck. Each time Folke secured a cuff,
belt, or strap, she gave the narrow outer strap that secured the
restraint a firm tug, causing a distinctive ripping sound.
"Vrrrip, vrrrip, vrrrip," etc. When she was finally
satisfied, the restraints hugged Penelope's anatomy tight enough
to compress their interior padding and dimple her smooth, pale
Penelope squirmed and struggled. She was helpless—as
helpless as she would have been in steel chains or cunningly
tied rope—as helpless as she would have been in any bondage
applied by her Big Sister.
While the prisoner-of-the-gurney tested her bonds, Folke had
strolled to a built-in cabinet, retrieved something from the
shelves, and returned to Penelope's side. She turned the
object in her hands for the youngest Payne's inspection.
"I know you hate this thing," she purred, "but you deserve some
punishment for interrupting my work."
Penelope stared in horror. The "thing" in question was a
half-mask of hard, off-white plastic lined with gray,
medium-density foam. It would cover a hypothetical
wearer's nose and mouth and cup her chin, following every curve
and feature, and incorporated both a pair of nasal plugs and
a distressingly large mouthpiece of latex foam and
silicon-rubber. The respective plugs were designed to seal
the wearer's nostrils and to fill her mouth to capacity, and
Penelope knew from personal experience that they worked.
The excruciatingly narrow openings in the nose plugs would
allow her to breathe, but only with slow, careful, shallow
breaths. The mask was both a highly effective gag and
a mild method of breath-control torture.
"Frida... please," Penelope whined.
"Didn't I tell you last time that you should always call ahead?"
"But then," Penelope countered, "Dominique would know I wanted
to play. She's set the system to monitor all my
"Not my concern," Folke responded, then began fitting the mask
in place. It was an involved process, and might have been
difficult without Penelope's reluctant cooperation, but
eventually the mask was in place and its many straps tightly
caged Penelope's head.
Their eyes locked, once again, and Penelope panted through her
not quite plugged nose (or tried, anyway).
Folke smiled her trademark quirky, evil smile, reached
down and gave Penelope's right breast a gentle squeeze... then
tugged on the steel ring permanently piercing her right nipple.
Penelope shivered in response. It was just about her only
possible movement. The gurney's restraints were taut and
tight, and attempting to force sounds past the hated mask was
quite literally a waste of precious breath.
"Actually," Folke said, "your timing is serendipitous. I
have a new interrogation technique a colleague sent me I've been
looking for an opportunity to test." She began massaging
both of Penelope's breasts. "First, a pair of gaskets—more
or less padded pipe-clamps—tighten around the base of each
breast until they bulge and turn that delightful shade of
mauve-pink I find so attractive and become very sensitive.
Next, a carefully formulated glycerol suspension of capcaisin,
allyl isothiocyanate, and gingerol derivatives is painted on the
Penelope froze in her restraints and stared up at her captor and
soon to be torturer in abject horror.
"The effects are said to be quite spectacular," Folke
continued. "One of my colleague's test subjects likened
the sensation to chewing and swallowing an entire ghost-chili,
then gargling a shot glass of wasabi and ginger puree—only the
sensation is on your tits, of course, not in your
mouth. Supposedly, the effects build over the first ten
minutes, remain at peak intensity for more than an hour, then
slowly fade over the next three to four hours. I
can't wait to try it."
Penelope blinked back tears and tugged on her bonds. This
was not what she'd had in mind when she went looking
for her good friend and sometimes playmate, Frida Folke, but it
was too late to back out now. That was for sure.
"And now, my darling Penny," Folke purred, "I've neglected poor
Marina long enough. If you'll excuse me..." She
turned and walked towards the hidden alcove imprisoning her
naked, bound, gagged, and no doubt still perturbed
assistant. "Why don't you enjoy a nice nap while I resume
teaching Marina how to control her baser instincts. We'll
commence our little experiment in, say, fifteen minutes?
Marina can probably hold out at least that long before
Penelope willed herself to stop struggling against the medical
restraints. If she kept it up, thanks to the mask she'd
probably get dizzy and pass out from shortness of breath, and
that was not fun. And any sort of
unconsciousness, whether from slumber or oxygen deprivation,
would only be a temporary reprieve from the coming ordeal.
She stared up at the ceiling, concentrated on regulating her
breathing, and tried her best not to worry about what was in
store for her poor sweater puppies.
Oh-by-the-way, Penelope had that very important board
meeting to attend in the morning. Did Frida know
that? Would she think to check Penelope's schedule before
clamping her tits and painting them with torture-sauce?—or after
clamping her tits and painting them with torture-sauce?
I suppose if there are lingering effects I can slather the
girls with ointment and wear a turtleneck to the meeting,
Penelope decided, but no matter how my tits
are feeling, I have to be there!