|by Van ©2015|
|OUR STORY CONTINUES|
♪♫♪ 'Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate's life for me.' ♪♫♪
The inane anthem of Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean ride had been running through Edith's head for the last six days. As soon as she'd stop thinking about it, a pirate would stroll past the mast or hatch cover or wherever she'd been left to "work on her freckle collection" humming or whistling or even singing the damn tune and it would be back in her head!
Six days at sea.
Six days spreadeagled on her back or stomach under the tropical sun for two or three hour-long stretches each day. The iron chastity belt and cuffs on her ankles and wrists always remained firmly locked in place, but the scold's bridle and collar had been removed as soon as she was taken aboard the good (meaning bad) ship Horny Merman. Six days broiling under the sun. Granted, at regular intervals the pirates would slather her body with a thick, greasy "sunscreen" that had more in common with cooking lard than anything in the Coppertone® or Hawaiian Tropic® product lines. Granted, at regular intervals those same pirates would sluice her helpless body with buckets of seawater. Granted, during her sunbathing ordeals they'd regularly quenched her thirst with chilled rum drinks. And granted, as soon as each hour was over she'd either be moved to a shady spot on the deck or a tarp would be rigged as a sunshade and she'd be allowed to spend a few hours in relative peace... until her next session under the tropical sun, but still...
Edith's body was now dappled like the proverbial Irish farm wife. She assumed her wrists and ankles would be less so, but the cuffs had yet to be removed. As for the chastity belt...
Six nights at sea.
After sundown Edith would be dragged below decks and spreadeagled on an impromptu mattress of folded sailcloth, bound with her wrist cuffs joined behind her back, or dangled from a net hammock. Then, the chastity belt would be unlocked and removed and she would become an erotic plaything for the pirate crew. Granted, they fed her delicious gourmet meals and plied her with more drink, but they also diddled her repeatedly, far into the night. As a "side benefit," the removal of the belt allowed Edith to confirm that she was, indeed, developing a significant freckle-free bikini-zone.
And on the sixth night, Edith was bound hand and foot, the belt removed and she was carried to Captain Sangria's cabin. Once there, it was a repeat of the first five nights, only this time she was the captain's personal and exclusive erotic plaything―and the little Latina was a spitfire! She was insatiable! She was also highly skilled in the boinking arts. Edith did her best to meet the captain's demands, but when she passed out after her fifth or sixth orgasm, the naked, sweaty, purring captain was still going strong.
As far as Edith knew, her experience as the ship's doctor of the pirate brig Horny Merman was without historical precedent in the annals of the real pirates of the Caribbean. She vaguely remembered the tale of an English doctor who was captured and forced into medical servitude by buccaneers, but couldn't recall the details―dates, names, etc.―or even the ultimate fate of the doctor.
Anyway, the seventh day dawned and Edith was roused from the captain's bed and the chastity belt was restored to its accustomed place. Then, the smiling Latina, naked and sprawled on her bed, watched as members of her crew hauled Edith away. The doctor was taken to the ship's bow where more of the crew was waiting. The Horny Merman had a figurehead mounted on the prow, under the bowsprit, and it took the form of... a horny merman. He―and anatomically, it was crystal clear that he was a he―had long hair, a flowing beard, a burly chest, and a lewdly erect penis. He held a trident in his right hand and a large conch-shell in his left. He was wood, of course, not just packing wood, and now, thanks to the crew and despite Edith's enthusiastic struggles, the horny merman was decorated with a naked human female who was not carved from wood.
Edith was spreadeagled, again, with her back against the merman's body, her wrist and ankle cuffs locked to taut chains, and her crotch supported by the merman's penis. In addition, the crew used thick ropes to lash Edith in place, further support her limbs and body, and take most of her weight off the merman's wooden willie. The ship's doctor was in no danger of falling into the sea, nor was she in any great discomfort. No more than usual, anyway. Her bare feet were three or four yards above the waterline, and when the last of the crew scrambled back onto the deck, Edith was alone with the sea, the horny merman, and the occasional pirate who would lean over the rail or scramble out onto the bowsprit, point at Edith's helpless form, and laugh.
Edith would have cursed them all to Davy Jone's Locker, of course, but the pirates had taken the precaution of stuffing a burlap-like rag in her mouth and giving her a cleave-gag of a dozen or more strands of hemp cord.
The sea was moderately calm, but Horny Merman was on a course that sliced across the swells, causing the bow to regularly plunge and rise. It wasn't a rough ride, but was enough to raise a little spray. In a matter of minutes, Edith was dripping with saltwater and would remain so as long as the ship maintained the current heading.
Edith hung in her bonds and rode the waves. Her hair was a tangle of wet curls and her breasts bobbled in rhythm with the plunging bow.
"Land ho!" a pirate shouted.
Edith blinked the salt water from her eyes and focused on the horizon. There was blue-green smudge in the clouds, and slowly... ever so slowly... minutes passed and it resolved into a row of green-clad mountains. Logically, they were returning to Damosel Island. If a sailing ship full of lusty female pirates made regular port calls at islands not owned by Petra La Roque, Edith was willing to bet it would have eventually made the evening news.
It turned out they were, indeed, returning to Damosel Island; however, the Native Village was nowhere in sight. Instead, the Horny Merman entered a small natural harbor dominated by a mighty fortress.
The Pirate Queen's Castle, Edith thought. It was the other venue of Petra's kinky resort, and the mass of gray stone looked like a star fort mating with a crusader castle. Historically, it made no sense, but the batteries of bronze cannon and soaring towers were very picturesque. Various small sailing vessels were anchored in the harbor and longboats and skiffs were hauled up on a sandy beach.
They entered the calm waters of the harbor, dropped anchor, and the crew swarmed over the prow to relieve Edith of her figurehead decorating duties and haul her back on deck. Her gag was removed and the full set of chains, collar, and scold's bridle she'd been wearing when taken aboard were restored. Next, a longboat was lowered, Edith was deposited on a seat just in front of the coxswain, Captain Sangria clamored down a rope and took her place in the bow, and the boat's crew rowed towards the fortress.
The captain was resplendent in her swashbuckling costume of thigh boots, tight pants, silk sash, poofy silk shirt, sword belt, bandoliers with pistols and throwing knives, and three-cornered hat with its long, elegant plume. Her raven-black curls were pulled back in a ponytail and a sexy, saucy smile curled her lips and lit her beautiful face―but that smile faded as they neared the stone pier in front of the looming walls of the nearest battery.
Female pirates waited to catch the lines tossed from the longboat, but standing next to them was a woman in a modern costume of knee-boots, a skintight cat-suit, and a belt with multiple pouches and a holstered pistol of some sort, all in black. The woman's straight, dark brown hair was cropped in a classic pageboy and a friendly smile was on her beautiful features.
"Where is the Pirate Queen?" Captain Sangria inquired as she stepped onto the pier. "Where is Petra?"
The woman in the catsuit produced an ID holder and held it for the captain's inspection. "Petra La Roque is otherwise occupied," she purred. "I'm taking charge of your prisoner."
By this time Edith was also on the pier. She could see that the ID holder held a photo-ID and a badge of some sort, but before she could get a good look at either, the woman returned the holder to her belt and took hold of Edith's leash.
"But... I'm to take her to the Queen," Captain Sangria objected.
"Not anymore," the woman-in-black chuckled, then nodded towards the castle. "My colleague is waiting to take your statement."
Captain Sangria looked towards the open gate leading from the pier to the interior of the fortress. Another woman in a black catsuit was waiting, hands on hips. The Captain smiled, nervously. "Of course," she said quietly, then walked towards the gate.
"You're with me, Dr. Stanton," the first woman-in-black said to Edith, and led her towards the opposite end of the pier.
Edith had no choice but to follow. As if things weren't crazy enough, now something else was going on. Even the pirates were amazed. Edith decided to just... go with it.
Waiting at the end of the pier was a military utility vehicle of some sort. It was vaguely similar to a Humvee, but was "cab forward" with the engine in the rear. It had no markings, but was camouflaged in several different shades of green, suitable for the island's jungle environment.
The woman-in-black opened the vehicle's back door and helped Edith climb up and into the back seat. "I'll get you out of those chains when we reach our destination," she reassured Edith as she secured her lap and shoulder belt.
Great, Edith thought as the woman closed the back door, walked around to the driver's side, and climbed behind the wheel. More mystery.
The engine purred to life and they were off. Edith looked back over her shoulder. The Horny Merman dwindled into the distance... then the road took a turn and they were surrounded by green on all sides, even directly overhead. The jungle canopy stretched all the way across the sandy track.
Apparently, Edith's visit to The Pirate Queen's Castle wasn't going to happen―not today, anyway.
to Damosel Island
Annika was running on the beach. She'd also gone for a swim, but the peach-pink bikini she was wearing had long since dried, as had her short-cropped, sun-bleached, blond hair and bronze skin. She glanced at her Apple Watch. The scientists were busy putting their Orgasmatron prototype and the nosy reporter through their paces. For Frankie, it was day two. For the machine... Annika had no idea, but with respect to test subjects it was probably well into two figures. The American snoop might be the Orgasmatron's first reluctant test subject, but there had been many others, albeit all supposedly volunteers.
Anyway, sometime in the next hour the dweebs ought to be ready for her to return what was left of Frankie to her cell. Up ahead, the beach directly in front of the semi-camouflaged lair was coming into view. It took a practiced eye to make out the picnic shelter tucked into the palm trees and the trail leading to the beach-side entrances, including her own apartment, but Annika was up to the challenge.
And then, she noticed something unexpected. Leaning against the trunk of a palm near the trail was a woman in black. She was wearing a tropical-weight catsuit, boots, and armed with what was probably a combination tranquilizer-dart and 9mm pistol. The woman raised her right hand and waved. Even at this distance, Annika recognized the tactical hand signal for "friend."
Annika continued jogging until she was just out of swing-kick range of the smiling newcomer.
The woman-in-black was a fellow Sisterhood operative, obviously, but Annika didn't recognize her, and she knew all of Petra's security employees.
The woman smiled. She had a pretty face and was Chinese, if Annika wasn't mistaken. Her hair was long, black, and pulled back in a ponytail. "Agent von Luger," she said, "I am Agent Zhi."
"A pleasure," Annika responded with a polite nod. "And your first name?"
"Yin, Annika," the woman answered. "Zhi Yin." She placed her surname first, in the Chinese manner.
"I'm afraid we have a bit of a conflict situation," Zhi said.
Just then, Annika's Apple Watch beeped. She glanced at the tiny screen and found a simple symbol, an owl holding a snake in its beak. Annika tapped the screen, and information began to scroll. It included a photo of Agent Zhi and a series of code words.
"So," Annika sighed.
"A pleasure," Annika reiterated.
"Yes," Yin nodded. "The Action Directorate has complete confidence in you; however, you are involved in the current situation and you are also a senior employee of the principal subject of our investigation."
"As you said," Annika said quietly, "a conflict situation. Due diligence requires that I be interrogated."
"Just so," Zhi said with a bow. "The Directorate believes there is a excellent chance that when this situation is resolved you will retain your secondary employment with Senior Sister La Roque, but it would probably be a good idea to give her no reason to doubt your personal loyalty. Your continued service as an agent of the Sisterhood is a given, of course. So... would you prefer a dart, followed by a nice nap, or will you surrender?"
"It would be an excellent training opportunity for a team of junior agents to attempt to capture me using unarmed combat skills alone," Annika purred.
"Yes," Yin agreed, "but all members of the team I brought to the island are otherwise occupied. Let us say I assembled them, a mighty battle ensued, several were injured―none seriously, of course."
"Of course," Annika agreed.
"You were eventually subdued," Yin continued, "and secured for interrogation."
"So stipulated," Annika chuckled. "How would you like to proceed?"
Yin smiled and nodded at the black duffel bag at her feet.
In a matter of minutes, Annika was bound hand and foot on the sand. To be specific, her fingers and hands were mummified palm-to-palm by black Mylar tape with a strong adhesive and her wrists bound with black nylon cord. More of the same cord pinned her upper arms to her sides, yoked her shoulders, bound her elbows a few inches apart, encircled her waist and forearms, and dove between her legs to cleave her labia and butt-cheeks and anchor her wrists and tape-shrouded hands against her butt. Additional cord bands lashed her legs together, passing around her thighs, above and below her knees, around her shins and calves, and finally her ankles, feet, and big-toes. All elements of Annika's bondage were well-cinched and joined by a web of vertical and diagonal cords.
Oh-by-the-way, Yin had taken the precaution of confiscating Annika's bikini. After all, who knew what sort of escape aids might be sewn into the fabric of the skimpy top and bottom. Her prisoner secured, Yin sat in the sand and cradled Anniks's head and shoulders in her black spandex-clad lap. She smiled, cupped Annika's cord-framed breasts, gave them a gentle squeeze, and began toying with the Teutonic amazon's nipples.
"What is this?" Annika demanded, smiling up at her fellow agent.
"When you regale Sister La Rogue with the sad tale of your capture and interrogation," Yin explained, "erotic details might distract her from any doubts she may have as to your loyalty."
"I see," Annika said, shivering in her bonds as Yin's hands continued playing with her breasts. "How very devious."
The massage and nipple-fiddling continued for several minutes, during which Annika did her best not to purr like a cat. "I hope the occasion arises when we find ourselves at a Directorate base at the same time," she said, finally. "I would like nothing more than to meet you in the training arena and show you how to do this sort of thing... properly."
Yin giggled, delicately, then leaned close and kissed her prisoner's smiling lips. Annika returned the kiss, with enthusiasm. Finally, they came up for air and Yin began stroking Annika's short, tousled hair. "I would also like nothing better," the cat-suited agent said. "Naked? With our skin oiled?"
"Of course," Annika agreed.
"Excellent," Yin said, then reached into the duffel, produced a large ball of black foam, and crammed it into Annika's mouth. She then used more of the black Mylar tape to first cleave Annika's lips, securing the ball in place, then to mummify her lower face from nose to chin, stretching smooth, taut layers of tape completely around Annika's head. She then returned the roll of tape to the duffel, tossed in Annika's bikini as well, zipped it closed, and stood.
Yin hefted the duffel onto her left shoulder by its strap, then smiled down at her helplessly bound, well-gagged, and totally naked captive. "I'm afraid I'm going to be busy for a while," she said, then squinted up at the sun. "I won't bind you in place so you can squirm and wiggle across the sand and remain in the shade as the day progresses. Thank you for your cooperation, Agent von Luger." And with that, she strolled away, towards the main lair.
Annika lay on her side and watched her fellow agent gracefully stroll away. She squirmed and twisted and tested her bonds, but Yin had done things by the book. Annika knew herself to be completely helpless. Agent Zhi Yin, she mused. Until we meet again.
to Damosel Island
Agent Zhi entered the Orgasmatron Project's control room and went immediately to the bank of one-way observation windows. There, she joined one of her fellow agents, a redhead with a short-cropped, pixie haircut who was clad in the same boots, catsuit, and equipment belt. Agent Zhi stood next to the redhead and assumed the same hands-on-hips pose.
"Agent Tierney," Yin said.
"Agent Zhi," the redhead replied. She had green eyes and an abundance of freckles, but her hair was more a reddish brown than ginger.
Down below, two more black-clad agents were releasing Frankie Dekker from the chair. With the trained professionalism expected of trained agents of the Sisterhood's Action Directorate, they were taking no chances, using black rope to secure Frankie's limbs as quickly as the straps came away. Truth be told, either agent could have handled Frankie with ease, as easily as Agent von Luger had handled Frankie since her capture. Clearly, Frankie was a sweaty, flushed, exhausted, post-orgasmic mess. In any case, Agent Zhi, the team leader, had assigned two agents to the task because both were novices. One was only on her second special operation. Zhi took no chances.
Once the agents below had led (meaning carried) Frankie from the chamber, Yin spun on her heel and faced the rear of the control room.
Standing side-by-side were Doctors O'Hara and Hyde-Goode. Both were gagged with foam balls and tight, multiple, head-encircling bands of black Mylar tape. They were dressed in their usual work clothes: sneakers, cargo shorts, T-shirts, and lab coats. More precisely, they had been dressed in their usual work clothes. The top buttons of the lab coats were undone and the coats had been pulled off their shoulders. Also, their T-shirts had been lifted over her their heads and back, further baring their upper bodies. Black rope pinned their upper arms to their half-naked torsos, passing above and below their fully-naked breasts, yoking their shoulders, and linking the nexus of ropes behind their backs to heavy pipes crossing the ceiling overhead. In addition, their ankles were bound with more of the same rope.
Andi and Effie weren't going anywhere. Fear was evident in their widened eyes, but for the moment they were in control of their feelings, if nothing else. The air conditioning in the chamber was quite efficient and had been cranked up to cool the many banks of instruments and racks of computer servers. Perhaps that was why the nipples of their bare breasts were somewhat erect.
"The data from the session has been safeguarded?" Yin inquired.
"We waited until they'd ended the session and the system automatically archives the results," Agent Tierney confirmed. She spoke with a lilting Irish accent and her green eyes sparkled. "Technical Assistance at Salamandras International, the prime contractor for all of this... stuff, has confirmed by remote link that Ms. Dekker didn't 'suffer' in vain."
"Breasts," Yin noted, gesturing towards the captive scientists.
"Yes, I believe they are called breasts," Agent Tierney confirmed.
Agent Zhi turned her head and favored her fellow agent with an even stare.
"What?" Tierney asked with an innocent smile. "It's standard procedure to search detainees for hidden weapons."
"And you decided to examine their breasts in extra special detail," Yin purred.
"It's called due diligence," Tierney said in perfect seriousness.
"Put them away for the evening," Yin ordered, "and don't forget to feed them."
Agent Tierney affected a wounded pout. "Please. I'll take very good care of the Brainiacs. I've always liked the natural sciences. I had a killer bug collection when I was a wee bairn."
Yin rolled her eyes and left the control room.
Agent Tierney remained behind, smiling at the bare-breasted, bound and gagged, visibly nervous scientists.
to Damosel Island
Petra La Roque luxuriated under the steady, monsoon-level downpour of hot water. The shower was more a large alcove than a stall. Its walls and ceiling were smooth, polished concrete that could easily be mistaken for single slabs of marble and its floor was covered with inch-square matching tiles to provide sure footing in the wet, soapy environment. Petra could have afforded the finest marble from the Trivoli quarries, but she liked hiring talented people and letting them push the envelope of materials design. The concrete was a unique blend. There were very subtle "discolorations" that suggested different patterns, depending on the time of day. Like all elements of Petra's Island Estate, the shower was a fully functional work of art.
Damosel Island has two active venues for guests, the Native Village and the Pirate Queen's Castle, and a third venue was planned―but there was also Petra's Estate. It was separated from the Village and Castle. Granted, roads and tunnels connected all three, but a wandering "pirate" or "native" guest wouldn't even know the estate was there. It was screened by the interior mountains and the roads and trails were guarded and monitored. Also, while the Horny Merman or one of the village war canoes could sail or paddle past the estate and its towers and spires would be clearly visible, they never did. Petra liked her "privacy," and getting away from her Manhattan tower or one of her other estates and escaping to the Island with only a couple of hundred servants and lackeys was always a treat.
The Post-Modern, difficult to categorize structures that comprised Petra's island getaway had started as shining white concrete, but then Mother Nature decided to remind Petra who really owned Damosel Island and moss and algae began to grow. Within a couple of years, the white walls and soaring spires had taken on a green tint, dark in some places, a mere suggestion in others. Initial efforts to keep the concrete clean had met with limited results, so Petra made the decision to go with the flow.
Whenever she was absent, workers had been gradually spraying rock dust foam over the concrete, giving the buildings a texture that matched the island's native rock. They were also adding long, angled planters that mimicked the local strata and the gardening staff were adding additional plantings to the many plazas and balconies. The transition was more than half complete and only the tops of a few towers were still a dazzling white (with greenish discolorations). This time next year, from a reasonable distance at sea or on land, the estate might easily be taken for an unusual grouping of rock spires and cliff walls, festooned with vegetation. And in only a few more years―given the frenetic pace of growth in the tropics―the illusion would be complete.
For now, Petra was happy with her Tomorrowland-half-swallowed-by-the-jungle "vacation home."
Petra stepped from the shower, it automatically shut off, and she reached for the fluffy, jade-green bath-sheet that should have been waiting on a nearby towel rack. It wasn't there. It had been there when she entered the shower, Petra was sure, but it wasn't there now.
Petra sighed and combed back her sopping wet, short, blond hair with her fingers. She'd left her beloved, diminutive body servants, Hime and Kiera, in Manhattan. Both were due for promotions, and Petra had staff looking for the perfect position in her global empire for the delightful and loyal little pair of lovers to continue their careers. Petra would miss them, but was looking forward to "interviewing" the candidates that would be their replacements.
That was all well and good, but who had taken the towel? It had been there when she entered the shower, so where was it now?
Petra used her hands to strip water from her smooth, tan skin, then proceeded into the main bedroom. She was leaving wet footprints on the carpet, but they could easily be dealt with by the beetle-like, automatic robots that did most of the cleaning. Some of the cleaning was done by beautiful, naked young women in slave-chains, of course, but the robots would probably be the ones to deal with the carpet.
Melissa, the maid from the local staff assigned to be Petra's handmaiden for this visit, was nowhere to be seen, and Petra's gown for the evening had not been laid out. Petra frowned, staring down at the giant, circular, neatly made bed. Unless she had a very good reason, Melissa would be spending the rest of Petra's visit naked and in slave-chains, and the petite brunette with the big blue eyes would sleep on the floor, collared and chained to the foot of the bed so she didn't wander off again.
Petra enjoyed being a Wicket Tyrant, and surrounded herself with servants and assistants who allowed her to indulge herself. But with great power comes great responsibility. Servants who tried topping from the bottom had to be dealt with in a harsh manner. Not harsh as in genuine cruelty, of course, but harsh. The only way to prevent a tit-for-tat cycle of disobedience and punishment from taking hold was to nip it in the bud. It also helped to make sure none of her servants were genuine masochists. Spicy games were one thing, but Petra La Roque was not The Bloody Countess. She enjoyed topping her subservient servants, but she was not cruel. Not truly cruel.
"Melissa!" Petra shouted. "You'd better have a very good reason for―MRRRPFH!"
Petra had been grabbed from behind! A hood of some sort, probably leather, dropped over her head, something was stuffed into her mouth, and a strap was buckled to keep it there! A zipper sounded, and the hood became skintight! Her captors, her multiple captors, had her in their tight grips and firmly under control. Petra was blind, gagged, and helpless! Not to mention naked and wet!
Restraints―probably more leather―tightened around her limbs and body. Petra's adrenaline-charged brain cataloged an upper-body harness, elbow-cuffs, wrist-cuffs, ankle-cuffs, and straps around her calves and shins, above her knees, and her upper thighs. Soon, despite her most energetic struggles, Petra's hands were behind her back, her arms pinned to her sides, and her legs together.
"M'mpfh!" Petra squirmed and twisted, fighting her bonds with all her strength. Who were her captors? How the hell had they gotten past her security? And were they invisible? Where had they come from? She'd seen no one in the bedroom before the attack! "Mrrrfh!"
"Senior Sister Petra La Roque," a voice intoned―a voice unknown to Petra―"by the authority of the Great Mothers, you are under arrest. The charge is misfeasance of high office."
What? "Mrrrk? MRRRK!" Something had stung Petra in her right butt-cheek. She realized it was a needle and she'd been given an injection. Immediately, she heard a buzzing sound, almost as if her brain was vibrating. At the same time, colored flashes began lighting the darkness before her blindfolded eyes. And―
The largest member of the team of Action Directorate Agents lifted Petra's unconscious, naked, bound, gagged, and hooded body onto her shoulder and carried her away. The agent was African―Nigerian, to be precise―was well over six feet tall, weighed in the neighborhood of 300 pounds, and it was all muscle. Her fellow agents followed.
Several seconds later, a small, flat robot rolled from under the bed and made a beeline for the large damp spot on the carpet that was the only evidence of Petra's capture. Motors whirred and the robot began sucking up the excess moisture. It then continued into the bathroom, sucking up wet footprints as it went.
Nearby, on the floor of the bedroom's expansive walk-in closet, a naked and stringently and elaborately hogtied Melissa, the missing maid, squirmed and struggled for her freedom, mewling through the panties stuffed in her mouth and the Mylar tape sealing her lips. She wondered how long it would be before someone on the staff started wondering where she was and came looking for her.
|Welcome to Damosel
|◄||Chapter 5||☻||Chapter 7||►|