Across the Junn-Junn Wastes ...by
by Van ©2011


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Naked, her wrists crossed and lashed behind her back, George tiptoed down the dark tunnel.  She turned a corner and found an oil lantern flickering beside an elaborately carved wooden door.  She approached, and even in the dim light she could see that the artisans had done a magnificent job crafting the portal.  The style was naturalistic, with a mostly botanical motif.  Books and scrolls were the only items of human manufacture represented.

Suddenly, George saw light bobbing in the distance, from farther up the corridor.  It was a torch, and whoever was holding it was coming closer!  The fugitive groped for the latch with her bound hands and eased the door open.  The space beyond was dimly lit by a pair of lanterns sitting on a large, cluttered table.  It appeared to be uninhabited.  George eased across the threshold, silently closed the door, and engaged the latch.  She listened at the thick portal, but could hear nothing.  Then... voices.  A quiet conversation grew louder... began to fade... and there was silence, once again.  An amazon guard patrol? George wondered.  There was no way to know, other than to open the door and inquire.

George turned to survey her surroundings in greater detail.  The table was quite large, a conference table, and was surrounded by what appeared to be quite comfortable chairs.  The chair frames and table legs were ornately carved, like the door.  Something like a dozen glass-enclosed lanterns were distributed along the table's length, but only the two she had noted earlier were lit.  They were on either side of a large, unrolled map, its corners held down by piles of books.  Scattered on the map's surface were a pair of dividers, a magnifying glass, an ink well, a carved cup filled with quills, and a small knife in an ornately beaded leather sheath.  The blade was probably intended for sharpening the quills, but it should be just the thing for George to sever her bonds.  The problem was, the knife was on the far side of the map, more or less in the middle of the table.

George moved to the closest chair to the map.  It was only as she came near that George realized most of the books atop the map were hers.  They'd been taken from GWENDOLINE.  "How rude!" she muttered under her breath.  In any case, she could worry about the unauthorized borrowing from her traveling library after she'd freed herself.  If she climbed up on the chair, sat on the table, then wiggled forward—

"Would you care for some tea, my dear?" a voice inquired.

George spun around and found a woman—an elderly, white-haired woman—approaching from the darkness.  She was wearing a simple shift and carrying a wooden tray.  Her actual age was... difficult for George to discern.  Her features suggested she was over sixty and her frame was slender, even wiry; however, she moved with the ease of a fit, Luropean woman in her forties or fifties.

"You would be Miss Georgetta Congreve," the woman stated.

"Uh, yes ma'am," George acknowledged.

The woman set down the tray.  It held a tea pot and a single, simple stoneware cup.  Both were brown and glazed, and like the woodcarving and furniture design, were in a style unlike anything George had ever seen—and they were beautiful.

"I am Bindra," the woman said.  She pulled back a second chair and sat.

"Pleased to meet you," George responded.  She climbed down from the chair seat and used it as intended, planting her naked rump in the soft cushion.

"I'm afraid there's only the one cup," Bindra said, smiling warmly.  "We'll have to share."  She lifted the pot and filled the cup, then lifted it to her lips and took a cautious sip.  "Perfect," she sighed, then presented the cup.

George took a sip, as well.  "Ahh, delicious!" she sighed.  "I've never tasted anything like it."

"Our own mix of indigenous flora," Bindra chuckled.

"Uh, forgive me," George said, "but you don't speak in the manner of the others."

Bindra laughed.  "Bindra read Luropa books and newspapers.  Bindra not speak to Luropa-girls often."  George blushed and Bindra laughed, again.  "Forgive me, child.  In all seriousness, I am attempting discourse in the manner of your people.  How am I doing?"

"Uh, excellently," George answered, then accepted another sip of tea.  "This really is good," she sighed, then yawned.  "Excuse me."

Bindra smiled.  "It's late.  Please don't be embarrassed."

Embarrassed, George thought, her cheeks burning.  Naked and bound.  I can't even cover an impolite yawn.  How can I not be embarrassed?

"I find I don't need as much sleep as I did in years past, Georgetta," Bindra said, then indicated the map.  "I've been matching your journals to our maps.  Very accurate note taking."

"Thank you, and please call me George."

"George," Bindra purred.  "A boy's name.  Do you share Miss Plantuckett's suffragette opinions?"

George blinked in surprise.  "How do you—"  She noted the folded newspapers beside the books and journals.  "Oh.  Don't believe everything you read in the papers.  Not even the Times."

Bindra's smile widened.  "That said..."

"Yes," George admitted, "I share Bonnie's feelings about female emancipation and enfranchisement."

"Emancipation," a new voice muttered, from the direction of the door.  "Does that mean wiggling away like a Little Trout?"

George turned, and sighed.  It was Bondara the Queen, and she was still as naked as when George had "escaped" from the bath.  Apparently, the palace dress code was very casual.  A set of iron fetters with a two-foot connecting chain was draped around her neck, as was a small key dangling from a leather thong.  George stood and bowed her head (and blushed).  "Your Majesty."

Bindra stood, as well, and executed a courtly bow in the Iberian manner, lifting the hem of her shift.  "You Majesty," she purred.

"Bah!" Bondara huffed, then stepped forward and kissed Bindra's lips.  "Don't mock me, Mother," she muttered.

Bindra returned the kiss, then smiled at George.  "I speak and act in the manner of our guest, for courtesy's sake."

"Bah," Bondara reiterated, then lifted George by the waist with effortless ease and sat her back down on the table, next to the map.  She then sat in the now unoccupied chair, pulled the fetters from around her neck, and lifted George's left foot.

George sighed, again, as the steel cuff clicked around her ankle.  "You're the Queen Mother?" she asked Bindra.  Then, her blush deepened.  "Forgive my impertinence."

Bindra laughed and shook her head.  "Mother is a title of respect among the Sand Amazons, earned by not dying before one's hair turns gray."

"All Old Women are Mother," Bondara said as she locked George's right ankle in the remaining cuff.  "Mother is also Mother," she added, then stifled a yawn.  "I mean..."

"I understand," George said, stiffling a yawn of her own.  She watched as her now fettered feet were lifted, the Queen leaned close, and she rested her bare soles against the Royal Bosom.  "Your Majesty!" she gasped in an embarrassed whisper.

"What?" Bondara demanded as she used the key dangling from her neck to lock the fetters.  "Little Trout not want to wear irons, Little Trout not wiggle away."

George speculated the fetters closed with spring-loaded internal clasps and were secured by screw-type locks.  Clever design, she mused, with close tolerances.  The amazons are skilled metalworkers.

"Little Trout," Bindra chuckled.  "Charming."  She leaned close and kissed one of George's red cheeks, then reached behind the naked prisoner's back and began untying her wrists.

"Mother!" Bondara complained.

"Hush," Bindra chuckled.  "You're not too old for me to warm the Royal Backside."

Bondara smiled.  "Yes, Mother."

George pulled her arms from behind her back—Finally!—and rubbed her wrists.  "Thank you, Mother—Oh!"

Bondara had stood and lifted George into her arms.  "We go back to bed, and this time we stay."  She focused on the smiling Bindra.  "You sleep too."

Bindra leaned close and kissed Bondara's lips, then did the same to George.  "In a while."

Bondara turned and headed for the door, taking her diminutive "guest" with her.  "I bring Little Trout to talk after breakfast," she said as she awkwardly thumbed the latch and opened the door.

"Good night," George called to Bindra.  "It was a pleasure making your acquaintance!"

"A pleasure shared, my dear!" Bindra chuckled as the door closed.

Bondara carried George down the dark corridor, towards the bathing chamber from which she had escaped.

"I can walk, you know," George pouted.

"Quiet," Bondara ordered, then smiled down at her burden.  "You a lot of trouble."

"I won't apologize for trying to escape," George huffed, then sighed, closed her eyes, and rested her head against the Royal Breasts.

Bondara's smile remained, but she didn't speak.  The short journey back to the bath and its waiting bed of cushions continued.

Across the Junn-Junn Wastes

Bonnie didn't get any breakfast, not even a drink of water.  In all fairness, Trussa, her captor, didn't eat or drink upon rising, either, nor did the raptors.  Bonnie (and the raptors) watched as Trussa stood, stretched, and donned her boots and loincloth.  Bonnie remained box-tied, frog-tied, and cleave-gagged as Trussa cleaned the cooking pot with dry sand and quickly returned the cave to its original condition.  It would be ready for its next occupants once the supplies were replenished.  The raptors were harnessed and saddled, Bonnie's legs were untied, and she was lifted onto her mount's saddle.  The amazon is strong for her build, Bonnie thought.  She watched as Trussa bound her ankles to the stirrups, then led her captive self and their mounts out of the cave, pausing only to unlock and open the the iron gate, then latch it behind them.

The day was dawning hot and bright.  Big surprise, Bonnie sighed as Trussa vaulted into her saddle and they began to descend the giant staircase, returning to the level of the dry lake bed.  Riding a raptor with no control as it leaped from stone slab to stone slab at breakneck speed was decidedly more exhilarating than the trip up.  Bonnie knew the average Luropean female would have been screaming in terror through her gag in her place, but Bonnie Plantuckett was made of sterner stuff.

Trussa turned in the saddle and watched Bonnie's reaction.  Whether she was concerned her prisoner would somehow escape or was fascinated by the way Bonnie's boobs were bouncing was unclear, and moot.  What was clear was the irritating, gloating, leering smile curling the amazon's lips.  Bonnie could do nothing but endure, that and maintain a proper seat to keep her mammary oscillations to a minimum.

They reached the margin of the dry lake, turned, and headed down the canyon on the northern side of the butte.  The stony passage rapidly narrowed until it was barely wide enough for the two raptors to pass abreast.  At the same time, the trail began to twist and turn in response to vertical ridges jutting across the valley floor.   Bonnie could tell that at least some of the obstructions were man made—or in this case, amazon made.  The baffles mimicked the natural strata, but from close up it was clear that they were masonry.  Bonnie looked up.  The canyon rim was hundreds of feet overhead and the brilliant, turquoise-blue sky was becoming an increasingly narrow ribbon.

"Big honkers not come this way," Trussa explained, "even when chasing food."  Her voice echoed from the canyon walls.  "They not like places where it hard to turn around."

That makes sense, Bonnie reasoned, and so did the twenty foot palisade of stout, sharpened logs they encountered when once again the canyon began to widen.  The barrier had vertical, horizontal, and diagonal elements, presenting a bristling array of massive spikes to any predator, large or small, that had decided to negotiate the twists and turns.  The defenses were manned by amazon guards armed with rifles, carbines, and long pikes.  "Hail Trussa!" they shouted in greeting as the riders approached.  Some waved their weapons and some began turning a heavy windlass.  Massive counterweights fell on heavy chains and two interlocking sections of the palisade opened, forming a narrow entrance.

"Luropa girl not look tired!" one of the Amazons said as Trussa and her captive passed.  "Trussa losing her touch?"  The guard force laughed.

Trussa laughed, as well.  "This one strong.  She wear out all of you, then steal your weapons, charm your mounts, and escape."

"She start new tribe and we all join!" another guard shouted and the laughter continued.

Bonnie's eyes were on a pillbox up ahead, set into the side of the canyon and positioned to cover the palisade.  The business end of a high velocity cannon protruded from its narrow slit.  They're prepared for almost anything, she thought, even an armored walker assault.

Trussa waved back at the guards as they continued into the canyon.  Bonnie was mildly surprised to find evidence of an extensive human presence.  They passed cave entrances and walled compounds, all in the same "camouflage" style of construction as the baffles beyond the palisade.  All lines followed the natural strata, and there were no regular shapes.  What actual doors and gates Bonnie could see were rectangular, but they were all set back and shaded by overhanging slabs that mimicked the geology.  There were also terrace farms built into the canyon walls, lots of terrace farms, and the crops were all in mixed plantings, presenting an almost natural appearance.

Aerial camouflage, Bonnie realized.  Are they worried about 'dragons?'

They passed amazons, singly or in small groups.  All were attired like Trussa, some with bra-tops and some without.  The variable seemed to be the volumetric endowment of the individual in question.  Boob bouncing, Bonnie surmised.  They wear bras only if they decide they need them.

And then, they passed the first male Bonnie had seen since entering the Junn-Junn.  He was in his late forties or early fifties, with long, brown hair streaked with gray and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.  He was in uncommonly good shape, uncommon for a Luropean man not a soldier, laborer, or dedicated athlete, that is.  He was also more-or-less naked, wearing only scuffed boots, a broad brimmed straw hat, and a narrow loincloth of natural, coarse-woven linen supported by a leather belt, and on that belt was a long-bladed knife in a leather sheath.  It was almost a short sword.  Many Iroquoian hunters carried similar blades.

Trussa reined in her mount and Bonnie's stopped, as well.  "Ho, Born," she addressed the man.  "Crops look good?"

Born bowed, an amused smirk was on his tan face.  "Like I told you last week, sub-Queen.  This year, plenty.  We need to clear out the oldest jars from the storage caves or it will all rot."

"That's my Born," Trussa chuckled.  "Always looking for an excuse to feast."

Born laughed.  His eyes were on Bonnie's naked, bound and gagged form, bringing a blush not caused by exposure to the sun to her cheeks.  "The Luroper-girl?"

"No, new type of little honker," Trussa answered with a grin.

Born grinned back, then bowed, again.  "Later, sub-Queen."

"Later, Master Farmer."  Trussa clicked her tongue and flexed her knees and both raptors stepped off.

Bonnie looked back over her shoulder.  Born had resumed trudging along the valley floor.  'Sub-Queen?'  'Master Farmer?'  Bonnie was accumulating a lot of questions, not the least of which was—What the hell have they done with George?

Across the Junn-Junn Wastes

Answers were not forthcoming.

The journey continued for another mile as the canyon widened, narrowed, then widened, again.  Bonnie stopped even trying to estimate the number of amazon and male passersby when her tally reached three hundred.  She was in the heart of a thriving amazon city.  The population might very well be in the thousands, depending on the depth of what, by the number of entrances, was an extensive cave system.  In any case, it was obvious that at least this part of the Junn-Junn wasn't as empty as Luropean geographers supposed.

The valley narrowed again, made a left turn, and trees began to appear.  At first they were scraggly and interspersed with thorny bushes, but gradually they became a bona fide coniferous forest.  Rust-red needles carpeted the canyon floor and the scent of fresh pine filled the air.  Nice, Bonnie thought, reveling in the dappled shade and relative coolness under the green canopy.

They continued through the forest for a quarter-mile, passing more cave entrances and terrace farms, then came to a walled compound set against the sheer face of one side of the canyon.  An amazon was lounging against one of the compound's gateposts.  She was dressed like the others in boots, loincloth, and bra (and she supported Bonnie's theory that the optional wearing of bras among amazons was governed by individual endowment); however, her costume was more decorative than the norm.  Her top and belt were festooned with feathered and fringed tassels mounted on bone or shell discs and strings of beads dangled down the front of her loincloth.  Like other Sand Amazon females, and none of the males, her eyes were banded by a mask of blue and purple paint.

Trussa halted the raptors about twenty yards from the compound, leaped from the saddle with acrobatic grace, and strolled towards the gate.  Bonnie glanced at Trussa's carbine, still tucked in its saddle-scabbard, then sighed through her gag.  Box-tied and with her ankles lashed to her mount's stirrups, the weapon might as well have been racked in the rifle cabinet of Bonnie's London townhouse.

A pair of
          QueensThe two amazons exchanged a hug and kiss, then turned to regard Bonnie and the raptors.  They were having a discussion—Trussa and the other amazon, not the raptors—and Bonnie could tell she was the main topic.  Trussa made some sort of hand gesture and the warriors laughed.

Bonnie glared at the amazons in frustration.  The leering, gloating smiles of her captors were infuriating, but she could do nothing about it.  All things considered, Bonnie thought she was handling herself pretty well (even considering the way Trussa had handled her).  In her place, George would have swooned from acute discomposure.  Still, it was frustrating to be the amazons' prisoner.

And speaking of George, Bonnie watched as Trussa opened her belt pouch and produced George's polychromatic, stereoptical, polarizing, and magnifying goggles.  She handed them to her fellow amazon and they began a detailed discussion of the brass, glass, and leather accessory.  (The goggles were functional, but everything George wore was part of her fashion statement and thus qualified as an "accessory.")

Finally, with a parting hug and kiss, Trussa strolled back to the raptors and her large breasted friend disappeared through the compound gate.  She had kept George's goggles.

"M'mmpfh!" Bonnie complained as Trussa vaulted into the saddle.

Trussa smiled.  "That was Queen," she explained.  "You meet her later."

"Nrrr!" Bonnie huffed, shaking her head.  She wanted to ask about George, but the gag was making communication difficult, to say the least.

"Queen busy," Trussa purred.  "You wait."  Whether she was deliberately misconstruing Bonnie's efforts was unclear.  Bonnie's frustration was not.

They continued down the canyon and through the forest for another quarter-mile, then stopped at a cave entrance.

Bonnie blinked in surprise.  Like the other caves they had passed, there was a gate of heavy timbers set a few feet back under the overhang; however, the lintel of this particular portal had a prominent bas-relief carving, a lewd depiction of a man and woman in the act of coitus.  That is, they were engaged in sexual union!  The style was somewhat impressionistic, but the subject still quite unmistakable.  Also, although it might have been an attempt to portray bodily decorations, both partners appeared to be bound with rope.

"Mrfh?"  The "question" escaped her gag before Bonnie could stop herself.  Trussa's only answer was a rather enigmatic smile.

The gate opened and three amazons appeared.  Bonnie's eyes widened even further.  Every amazon she had seen since leaving GWENDOLINE had been physically fit, but these three were exceptionally well-muscled.  They were also unusually tall, all three being over six feet in height.  Also, while their style of dress was amazon standard, the colors was not.  Other amazons' loincloths were brown, tan, gray, or some other desert tone.  The three "she-giants" were wearing green loincloths piped with metallic gold thread.  They had the usual blue and purple masks, but rather than paint, their masks were cloth and covered most of their upper faces, as if they were bandits hoping to hide their identities.

 The center amazon bowed.  "Hail Trussa."  She was blond.  The other two also bowed.  They were brunettes.

"Hail, Sisters-of-the-Circle," Trussa responded, returning the bow.

The blonde's blue eyes were on Bonnie.  "We were told to expect this one.  Old Women say she watch."

"Yes," Trussa purred, her eyes also on Bonnie.  "Bondara says they want her to learn Sand Amazon ways."

Old Women? Bonnie wondered, looking from face to face.  Who are these Old Women?  And what is it they want me to watch?

"We have a pretty pair on the roster," the blonde said.  "First time for both."  She made a gesture and her companions stepped forward, untied Bonnie's ankles, lifted her from the saddle (like she was nothing), then led her towards the gate.

"Feed her before show," Trussa said.  "Plenty to drink."

"She does look water-soft," the blonde said with a smirk.

Trussa shrugged.  "Luroper-girl.  They all water-soft."  With that, she clicked her tongue and rode away.  Bonnie's now empty mount followed, of course.

The green-loinclothed she-giants hustled Bonnie through the gate and into the cave beyond.

Across the Junn-Junn Wastes

Bonnie blinked in the sudden dim light.  The air was cool and actually humid, unless it was her imagination.  They crossed a junction and she heard the distant splash of water echoing from down a side passage.  Underground river?  They entered a wide tunnel with a row of heavy timber doors on either side.  All were carved in the style of the front lintel, and with the same subject.

There was a pause as the blonde used a key to unlock one of the doors.  Bonnie gazed at the risque—nay, pornographic carving.  What the hell is this place?  ...some sort of brothel?

The door opened and Bonnie was led into a large chamber half occupied by—a giant machine?  She'd been expecting (dreading) a large bed, not a massive contraption with gears the size of small wheels and cannonball-size counterweights dangling from heavy chains.  "Mrrfh?"

Off to the right was a vertical timber post.  It was padded with gleaming brown leather and had a peculiar shape, with bulges and indentions of no obvious purpose.  Bonnie was hustled to the post and pressed against the padding, her back to the post and front facing the center of the room, and the mystery was solved.  The padding was designed to accommodate a box-tied captive.  The blonde held Bonnie in place while her companions deployed and tightened a series of broad, thick leather straps.  Soon, Bonnie found herself melded to the post, with bands of leather dimpling her skin above and below her breasts and across her waist, thighs, and ankles.

Without a word, Bonnie's tall handlers turned and left.  The door closed and Bonnie struggled against her bonds.  Since they included her old rope bonds which she already knew were inescapable, the only issue was whether or not she could somehow wiggle out of the straps and be "free" to explore her latest surroundings.  Fat chance.  After about a minute, she sighed through her gag and gave up.  She could hardly move, but between the padding and the broad, tight straps, she had good, well-placed support and was relatively "comfortable."

Bonnie examined what she could see of the machine.  Her engineering expertise told her its operation would result in some sort of repetitive motion, like with an automated trip hammer or loom.  A large pendulum and nest of entrained gears provided governance and main power would come from a horizontal wooden shaft, which at the moment was as still as the rest of the device.  Also—

The door opened and the blonde entered, carrying a waterskin and a cloth bag.  She went straight to Bonnie, untied her gag and pulled it from her mouth, then unstoppered the waterskin and held it to her lips.

Bonnie drank and drank.  Water escaped her lips and dribbled down her chin to splash her breasts.  The towering blonde seemed amused by the "Luroper-girl's" thirst, but Bonnie could care less.  "Thank you," she gasped when the skin was pulled away and restoppered.

"Most captives not so polite," the blonde chuckled.  "Most captive's whine or threaten.  I think you strong one."

"Where is George?" Bonnie demanded.  "Where is my friend?"

The blonde smiled.  "The little pale one with short hair?"

"Yes!  What's happening to her?"

The blonde laughed.  "Oh, very horrible!  She with Old Women and they talk.  They talk all day."


The blonde shook her head.  "I rather muck out baby raptor pit than talk with Old Women all day.  She your jûb-jûb jolly friend?"

"I don't understand," Bonnie responded.

The blonde cupped Bonnie's breasts and gave them a gentle squeeze.  "You and little pale one.  Jûb-jûb jolly?"

Bonnie blushed.  "Uh, if I understand your meaning—certainly not!"

The blonde shrugged, reached into the cloth bag and extracted a cloth bundle.  She opened the cloth and produced a rolled piece of flat-bread.  "Eat," she ordered, and thrust the end of the roll into Bonnie's mouth.  "Goat cheese and kala-kala leaves."

The bread was warm and crunchy, the cheese savory and soft, and the "kala-kala leaves" crisp and tangy, reminiscent of arugula.  Also, Bonnie was starving.  She tore off a bite, chewed, and met the Blonde's leering gaze as her jaw worked.  She swallowed, then accepted more.  The roll was consumed in four bites, and afterwards, the blonde gave her another drink.

"When can I see George?" Bonnie asked.

The blonde shrugged.  "That up to Queen and Old Women.  Now, you learn why Sand Amazons keep men around."

Bonnie frowned.  "What?"

"Old Women decide who breed," the blonde continued.  "Some volunteer and some are asked.  Great honor to be chosen."

"You... breed yourselves?"

"Quiet," the blonde.  "Questions later."  She reached back into the bundle and produced a folded linen cloth and a thin leather strap.

Bonnie watched with dread as the blonde shook out the cloth and bunched it into a distressingly large wad.  "Please, just take me to my friend and—No!  M'mmpfh!"

"No worry," the blonde purred, "I make it fit."  She tamped and tucked the wad and did just that.  Bonnie's cheeks bulged in response.  The blonde then stretched the strap across Bonnie's mouth and the protruding rag and buckled it tight over the rumpled cloth.

"M'ff!"  Bonnie was now as effectively gagged as she had ever been in her life, and the blonde wasn't finished.  She pulled out another folded cloth and what appeared to be a leather muzzle.  The cloth was placed over Bonnie's stuffed mouth and the muzzle buckled at the nape of her neck.  It cupped her chin and pressed the folded cloth as firmly against her mouth as a hand-gag.  Bonnie glared at the tall, smug blonde.

"You be quiet, now," the blonde said, "and not disturb couple."

The door opened, as if on cue, and the two brunette she-giant handlers wheeled two objects into the room.

Bonnie's eyes popped wide and she stared in utter astonishment.


Across the Junn-Junn Wastes