Chattel Mountain Lodge Tales of Chattel Mountain Lodge
 by Van © 2006
 Chapter 4: Run, Robyn, Run!
To see the actors the author would cast in a CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE anthology/mini-series (on premium cable, of course)
follow the link below, and use your browser's "Back" feature to return.  New cast members are added as they appear in the stories.


NOTE:  This is the second in the series Tales of CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE.

Robyn opened her eyes, then quickly squeezed them closed again.  Bright!  Seconds passed, and she tried again.  She was in a hallway, in the Lodge, and light was streaming through a window.  It was the hallway between the main kitchen and the residential wing, and—her eyes popped wide and she screamed—"M'MMF!!"

The memory of her capture came flooding back.  Frieda's ringing phone—being grabbed from behind—the drug-soaked cloth over her mouth and nose—then darkness!

She struggled awkwardly to a sitting position.  Some kind of tape was plastered over her mouth.  No stuffing, but when she tried to move her lips and jaws, she could tell the strip was broad, wide, and well-adhered to the skin of her lower face.  Her wrists were bound behind her back with—her fingers groped and wrists twisted—plasticuffs?  She pulled her wrists to one side and craned her neck.  Yes, plasticuffs, of a milky, translucent plastic.  They were specifically made to be restraints, as opposed to normal cable-ties pressed into service.  The stiff, free ends of the linked bands flopped and rattled together as she flexed her wrists.  She could just see the slip-lock mechanism that secured the bands, and it was a heavy-duty design, with steel teeth that locked the ridges molded into the bands themselves.  She pulled her wrists as close as possible, and could see what appeared to be steel wire, three strands in each band, embedded in the plastic.

These are going to be a bear to cut off, she realized.

Her uniform was rumpled, half unbuttoned, and falling off her left shoulder.  She struggled to her feet, shrugged and twisted her upper body, but couldn't restore the proper drape of the garment.  Her shoulder and most of her bra-covered breast remained exposed.  Her white heels remained on her feet, thanks to their ankle straps and the cute little pair of heart-shaped padlocks securing the buckles.  Her hair was a tousled mess, and her nurse's hat was on the floor at her feet.

So, what now?  Robyn looked around.  Other than herself and her hat, the hallway was empty.  She looked around in panic—then, abruptly, her fear evaporated.  Frieda was the author of her predicament, of course!  No doubt the Grand High Phoobah-Mistress of the Entire Frakkin' Lodge was putting her through another of her stupid tests, or was simply venting some of her general bitchiness.

Okay, I'll play along, she decided, not that I have much choice... not that I ever have much choice...  But just you wait, Mistress, 'til the next time it's my turn on top!  

So, what were the rules of this game?  Obviously, she was expected to free herself.  Robyn took the two steps necessary to push her shoulder against the kitchen door, and discovered it was solidly locked.  Her keys were missing from her pocket, so somehow getting them out of her pocket and unlocking the dead bolt was not an option.  Robyn sighed in mild frustration.  All those knives and scissors and even a pair of chef's bone shears, just on the other side of that door...   So near, yet so far, to coin a phrase, she thought, then gave the door a half-hearted kick in frustration.

Okay, options...  She glanced at the one window in the hallway.  The sun was just beginning to set, and would be behind the far peaks in a matter of minutes.  I've been out for hours, she realized, and her empty stomach supported this conclusion.  There was a door to either side of the window.  On the right, it led to the residence levels.  To the left, down to the stables.  Robyn gave each door a tentative nudge, and found both to be locked.  She knew the other end of the hall turned and led to a solid steel door, trimmed and painted on this side to match the decor of the Lodge.  Behind that door, a set of stairs led down to the Sanitarium levels.

Robyn sighed and walked towards the bend.  The steel door was always kept locked, like the periodic barred gates that closed off the various wings of the levels below.  She rounded the corner, and blinked in surprise.  The door was locked, but it was locked open.   All the security doors and gates had this feature, latches set in the walls that allowed them to be secured in the open position, but they were hardly ever used.

So... the only move for poor, pathetic damsel-in-distress moi is to flee into the darkness below, Robyn observed.  I ought to just sit here and make her come to me... but why piss her off?  Robyn sighed, and started down the stairs.
Robyn was getting increasingly frazzled.  Her heels were sexy as hell, but they weren't made for hiking, and thanks to their ankle straps, fully functional "jewelry" padlocks, and her missing keys, she wouldn't be kicking, shaking, or prying them off her aching feet any time soon.  And there seemed to be no end to the maze Frieda was making her explore.  So far, every level she'd dragged her semi-helpless ass through had been nothing but locked doors and gates.  On every level, exactly one clear path had been left to the next set of stairs, leading ever downward.

Robyn still checked every door and gate she passed.  What if her keys were waiting down one of the dead end corridors, or a knife, or a set of cutters?  It would be just like Frieda to make this a live-action, quest-style video game, and to punish her if she didn't reach the "final level" with the "Magic Keys" and the "Sword of Bond-cutting" or whatever.

And maybe Frieda had made a mistake, had forgotten to lock one of the rooms that contained a sharp tool or object.  It was unlikely.  There weren't that many such rooms on any of the lower levels.  Most rooms down below were either torture chambers or cells, ranging in theme from medical nightmare to snake pit madhouse to medieval dungeon.  Robyn knew where most of the items useful for escape would be waiting, and so far, as expected, they were all waiting behind locked doors.

The air in the lower levels was just on the comfortable side of stifling, as usual.  Robyn had developed a healthy glow, and a mild thirst had joined her growing hunger.  There better be an orgasm or two waiting at the end of all this, she fumed as she tried yet another locked door.

After hours... it felt like hours, but might have been just one... Robyn found herself at the door of "TREATMENT ROOM #7".  There were lots of sharp objects in there, of course, as well as a very helpless, and no doubt very pissed off, Tess Ambrose.  The door would be locked, of course.  Robyn had locked it herself when she'd left, all those hours ago, before lunch... the lunch she'd never had.  (Her stomach growled.)

Robyn tried the door anyway—and to her surprise, it was un-locked!

Okay, what now?  How should I play this?  If Tess was still inside, helplessly bound to the medical frame as Robyn had left her, she wouldn't be able to see Robyn or her helpless condition as she entered; but she would see "Nurse Goodbody's" helplessness when Robyn made for the instrument cabinets to find something with which to free herself.  It was going to look... unprofessional, no matter how she played it.  Is that part of the game, to see how I can improvise in front of a client?

Robyn sighed through her gag.  Freedom first, then improvisation, and if it ruins Tess' fantasy, that's too damn bad!

She swung the door open, and the frame was empty.  Tess was gone.  The clamps and pillory were locked closed, and the frame itself was in its most compact configuration, as it was normally kept when not in use.  The wheeled table on which Robyn had left a full array of toys for Tess to worry about was pushed against the far wall, and was also empty.  Robyn moved around the room, checking the cabinets.  All were locked.

Okay, very clever, Mistress, Robyn fumed.  One more dead end in the maze, and no cheese for the mouse.  (Her stomach growled again.)  She left the treatment room and continued her quest.  Wherever Frieda had moved Tess and whatever she was doing to her, it was no longer Robyn's problem.  Her problem was getting free of these damn plasticuffs and finding a way back up to the Lodge, for a bath, dinner, and a soft bed—her stomach growled yet again—not necessarily in that order.

Tess was pissed off!  Okay, granted, she was here for a medically themed, submissive fantasy, and so far, her capacity for torment and titillation had been tested; but this was not the sort of creative and deliciously horrific ordeal she'd come to expect from a Chattel Mountain Lodge "vacation".  It was hardly arousing to be stretched out on this armature or rack or whatever the hell it was, to be restrained to the point that she could barely wiggle, gagged to the point she could barely even hum, and then just... abandoned.  Okay, the classic "staring at the instruments of torture" thing had been a diversion for a while, but now she was more than ready for whatever was coming next.  The least the "nurse" could have done was rig a vibrator or something, for intermittent or randomly timed teasing, with the occasional peak to provide "tension relief therapy".  But, to just leave her here?  It was too much!  Or, to be more precise, it was too little.

Suddenly, she heard the rattle and click of the door being unlocked.  Finally! Tess fumed—then shivered in dread.  Which one is it, and what's she gonna do to me?

The door opened... but there was no click-click-click of heels on the concrete floor.  "Nurse Goodbody" always wore those sexy, white, "uniform" heels, of course, and when "Doctor Payne" made her rounds, she usually wore a leather mini-skirt, silk blouse, a white lab coat (one size too small, of course, to accentuate her narrow waist and generous cleavage), and either black heels or boots.  She'd tap in, showing lots of tit, her black hair in a tight bun, glasses framing her blue eyes, a stethoscope around her neck, an evil, condescending smile on her face... and then she'd do things to her... horrible, wonderful things!

So... what's the delay now?

Suddenly, a strange figure entered Tess' limited vision!  It was a woman in a mottled, skin-tight costume, wearing an equipment harness, boots, gloves, mask, hood, and a pistol in a holster on one hip.  She moved with easy, athletic grace, and as she came closer, Tess could clearly see a pair of gorgeous brown eyes peeking through the slit of her mask!  It was a total stranger!  It certainly wasn't Joelle, the only other resident of the Lodge with brown eyes.

What the hell?

The stranger wheeled the cart Robyn had left for Tess' "entertainment" against the far wall, unlocked a cabinet, tossed the cart's contents inside, and locked it again.  She then stepped from view, and Tess could feel the cuffs confining her ankles being released; first the right, and then the left.  Her arms and wrists were next, then the pillory was unlocked and lifted from her neck.  Finally, the hoops and clips trapping her breasts and nipples were released.

Wincing behind her gag, Tess shuddered, flexed her aching muscles, then slowly, without assistance from her mysterious rescuer, climbed off the rack.  Her hands went to her tingling nipples.  They were flushed and sensitive, but none the worse for their ordeal.  Her breasts were ringed by circular indentions where the frame's hoops had squeezed them, but the marks were already fading.

Tess arched her back and stretched her arms, then reached for the buckles of the natural rubber straps securing her custom-made gag in her mouth.  Her fingers tugged on the flush-mounted flanges, but they wouldn't open.  It was moot, anyway.  She was sure she couldn't extract the rubber denture-pads propping her jaws open and filling her mouth, even if the straps weren't there.  Without the key that opened and closed the gag's pear, it was in to stay.

Meanwhile, the masked woman had thrown a series of switches on the rack and stomped on a treadle.   There was a quiet, hydraulic hiss, and the various parts of the frame telescoped inwards and folded on themselves.  The result was a compact, vaguely cubical configuration.

Tess took a timid step forward, and forced a questioning sound past her gag.  She pointed at the hateful appliance and tugged on the rubber straps of the head cage.

"You would be Tess Ambrose," the masked woman said.  Her voice was a pleasant alto.

Tess nodded and pointed at her gag, again.

Without warning, the masked woman seized her, spun her around, and bent her over the rack, face down.  Her arms were pulled behind her back and plastic bands tightened around her wrists with a dry rattle.

Plasticuffs! Tess realized.  Her new captor stepped back, and Tess lifted herself off the rack and turned.

"We can talk later," the masked woman said.  "Right now, I want you to patter on your pretty feet up to the Lodge.  Do you understand?"

Tess blinked in surprise.  Up to the Lodge?  Was she being kidnapped for real?  Where was Frieda?  Mistress is supposed to protect me!

The masked woman stepped forward, and gently caressed Tess' right breast with one gloved hand.

Tess flinched at the contact, then shivered as the caress continued.

"Resistance or disobedience on your part won't even rise to the level of inconvenience, as far as I'm concerned.  It will, however, earn you punishment.  I can cause you a great deal of pain, for a very long time, without damaging your pretty skin.  Do you believe me?"

Tess slowly nodded.

"Good," the woman said, continuing her massage.  "I want you to walk one pace in front."  Her hand stopped.  "Wait, let's do this right."  She stepped back to the cabinets, unlocked the one in which she had dumped the contents of the cart, and pulled out a riding crop.  She locked the cabinet, then returned to her captive.

Tess' heart was beating like crazy, and she knew her eyes were wide with fear.  She couldn't help it.

"Does Mistress Frieda still insist on her clients walking in invisible high heels wherever they go?" the woman asked.  Tess nodded.  "Well then, who am I to interfere with tradition?  Up!"

Tess went up on her toes.  The woman slowly raised the crop until the leaf-shaped tip was in inch from Tess' face.

"I'll keep this simple," the woman announced.  "A smack on your right flank means left turn.  A smack on the left, right turn.  You turn away from the whip.  What could be simpler?  Understand?"  She waved the tip of the crop, and Tess nodded.  "Good.  Try to escape, and when we get to our destination, you'll get a hundred, like this."  She delivered a stinging blow to the side of Tess' right breast.

Tess whined behind her gag, fell back off her toes, and steadied herself with her bound hands against the side of the rack.  She looked down at the red mark on her breast, then locked eyes with her captor.   God!  This isn't a game!  Is it?  The masked woman's eyes were cold... and beautiful.

"Did I say you could walk on your feet like a person?" the woman asked.

Tess went back up on her toes.  A single tear trailed down her bulging left cheek until it met the top of her gag.

"Start walking," the woman ordered.

Tess turned towards the door, and they were off.
They traveled by a path Tess had never used before, up into the residential levels.  Their final destination was a luxurious bedroom suite.  The masked woman pointed towards the huge, four-poster bed with her crop.  Tess flopped onto its firm surface, then rolled over onto her side.  She watched as her captor walked around the suite, checking that all the windows were locked.

Tess glanced around the room, and an oil painting opposite the bed caught her eye.  It was one of Joelle's—no surprise there—and the theme was female bondage—also no surprise.  The model was bound, Shibari-style, with yard upon yard of hemp rope, and suspended from the ceiling.  The background was an array of sheer drapes, lit from behind, casting a complex, indirect light on the model and her bonds.  The woman depicted had brown hair, a well-tanned complexion, and the lithe, defined muscles of an athlete.  Her form was supported by at least two dozen ropes, most of them vertical, but a few traveling to unseen lashing points at various angles.  The bonds themselves were tight, symmetrical, and incredibly complex.  It must have taken hours from the tightening of the first loop to the tying of the final knot.  The subject's hair was braided with rope, neat bands wrapped as a blindfold over her eyes, and a braided ball of rope filled her mouth.  These bonds worked in concert to cradle her head, and together with a few dangling strands of hair not captured by rope, obscured her face.

A fraction of the bondage would have made her inescapably helpless.  The totality of the complete tableau was overpowering... and erotic.

I wonder if it's for sale? Tess wondered, then flinched as the masked woman tossed something onto the bed.  It was a canvas and leather jacket of some sort.  Here we go, Tess sighed.  The woman hauled her to her feet, pushed her against one of the bed's posts, then buckled a strap around the post and her neck.  Next, leather cuffs separated by a hobbling strap were buckled around her ankles.

Tess found her fear was fading.  If this was a genuine kidnapping, surely her captor wouldn't be messing around with elaborate restraints in what she was coming to suspect was one of the Mistress' bedrooms.  She'd be on her way to a waiting helicopter or humvee, to be whisked away to a distant hideout.  This was another game, which was making her wet.  The problem was, it wasn't the game she'd asked for when she booked her visit to the Lodge, which was ticking her off.  Suddenly, her captor leaned close and spoke in her ear.

"I noticed you admiring my portrait," she whispered.

Her portrait? Tess wondered.  Obviously, she meant the painting of the Shibari-bound woman.  That's her portrait?

"Frieda spent half a day binding me in those ropes, then, by the time she was finished, Joey decided the light wasn't right, so I spent the night hanging from the studio ceiling."

Tess shuddered in a mixture of sympathy, arousal, and fear.  This was a level above her usual games.  Twelve to eighteen hours bound in that manner would be genuine torture.  She—she wouldn't do something like that to me... would she?  And could I stand it if she did?

"I'm going to release your wrists," the woman announced, "and you're going to let me help you into Frieda's 'bandolero straitjacket'.  You're going to wiggle your fingers into the neoprene mitten-gloves in the end of the sleeves, allow me to tighten the corset buckles, the harness, the upper arm cuffs, the forearm binder, and the collar.  In short, you're going to be no trouble whatsoever, are you?"

Tess grunted through her gag and shook her head, as best she could.

"Good girl.  Here we go."

In a short time, the process was complete and Tess was "dressed".  The jacket was unbleached canvas, its leather straps and fittings were a gleaming tan, and the multitude of buckles, rivets, and rings were stainless steel.  It was skintight, especially the corset section, with its dozen or so tiny straps, and had cutouts that left her shoulders and breasts exposed.  Her arms were folded behind her back, box-tie style, with her forearms sheathed and strapped against the small of her back, her upper arms strapped to her torso, and the rings at the tips of the sleeves clipped to the sides of the corset.  An overlying harness, its stout straps periodically passing through channels sewn in the canvas, added an unnecessary reinforcement to Tess' helplessness.

The strap around the bedpost and her neck was unbuckled, then Tess felt her captor releasing her gag.  The natural rubber bands went slack and flopped about, one by one, until the dental appliance/pear in her mouth was the only thing keeping it in place—but, as she'd feared earlier, it was enough.  She did her best to expel the hateful plug, but it was hopeless.  Her captor inserted the key in the front of the gag, gave it several counter-clockwise turns, and the pear contracted.  The gag was pulled from her mouth, and Tess worked her jaws and licked her lips—then shrieked when she was given a shove and landed on the bed.

"Who are you?" Tess demanded.

"I'm not going to gag or tether you," her masked captor said, ignoring the question, "so you can shuffle into the 'little damsel's room' for water, or to tinkle.  The fixtures are all automatic, with motion or infrared sensors to turn them on and off, so you won't have to lap water from the toilet."  She made a graceful, all encompassing gesture with one gloved hand.  "The room is locked down, nothing even remotely useful for escape is available, the windows are triple-pane and shatter-proof, and the door, of course, is steel.  You might be able to make a mess, but you'll still be here when I get back, and I'll punish you if things aren't nice and neat... and god knows what Frieda will do to you if she finds out you trashed her place.

This is Frieda's bed!  Tess watched as the woman walked towards the door.  "Wait!  W-what's going on?"

"Shhh," the woman scolded, a gloved finger against her masked lips.  "Be quiet.  Take a nap, have a good cry, whatever."

Tess' fear evaporated and she glared at her captor.  "I don't cry," she growled.

The masked woman paused.  "Is that so?"  She walked to the bed, and pounced.

"M'mmpfh!" Tess found herself pinned on her back, her captor straddling her corseted waist, her left hand clamped over her mouth, and her right hand had her left nipple in a tight pinch.

"You don't cry, do you?" the woman whispered.  "You cried down below."  She squeezed the nipple and her captive shuddered and mewled in distress.  She released the nipple, reached behind her back, and cupped Tess' sex.  "You think you're strong?  You don't know the meaning of the word."  She began a slow massage of Tess' labia.  "You rich bitches are all alike.  I don't know how Frieda can stand you."  Her massage became deeper.  Her skilled finger brushed against her victim's clitoris, and probed deeper still.  "Keep your legs straight and as far apart as your hobbles will allow."

Tess did as she was ordered, then gasped as the woman released her hand gag.  "Please..."

"Shhh.  Be quiet."  The woman's now free hand began gliding over her left breast.  This time the contact was gentle.  "You're a weak little rich bitch, aren't you?"

Tess squirmed under the woman's weight, her arousal building as the woman's gloved hands continued their work.  Her nipples popped firm, and she moaned through flushed lips.

"Answer me," the woman commanded.  "You're a weak little rich bitch."

"Yes," Tess answered.

"Say it."  The woman's fingers continued their magic.

"I-I'm a weak little rich bitch."  Tess knew she was close.

"Say it again."

"I'm a weak little rich bitch!"


"I... I'm a—aah-M'mmfh!"  The woman's hand was back over her mouth, and Tess was cumming.  She bucked and squirmed.  The woman's hand was still inside her sex.  She shuddered, and her entire body went rigid.  She whined through her captor's hand—then went limp.

The masked woman climbed off her prisoner and the bed, and strolled into the bathroom.  Water ran, briefly, then the woman returned, drying her gloved hands with a towel.  She walked to the bed, and wiped Tess' sex with the damp terry cloth.  "You drip musk like a weasel," she remarked.

Tess squirmed and squeezed her eyes shut.  Her labia were flushed and sensitive, and her nipples tingled.  "I hate you," she whispered, tears dripping down her blushing cheeks.

"So, you do cry," the woman purred.

"I hate you," Tess repeated.

The woman dropped the towel on the bed, then strolled back to the bedroom door.  "Take a nap, and make sure you rest that tongue.  It's got a lot of work to do, tonight."

Tess blinked in surprise.  "What?"  The door closed, the key turned the lock, and Tess was alone.  "I hate you!!" she shouted, and twisted in her bonds in frustration.  "I-I hate you," she repeated in a sobbing whisper.  Her cheeks glistened with tears, and her nipples and sex continued to tingle.  She squirmed onto her side, rested her head against a pillow, and stared at her captor's portrait, on the far wall, framed between the posts of the bed.  "I hate you," she whispered, again, and closed her eyes.

Robyn was seriously flagging.  Her shoulders were sore from having her wrists bound behind her back, but especially from straining to lift her hands to the side so she could test door after door after locked door.  She'd rested now and then, leaning against the concrete walls, steel doors, and barred gates.  In the process, she had thoroughly soiled her uniform and skin with the lower level's dust and cobwebs.  She looked a mess, no doubt, her tousled red locks hanging in dirty curls, her gagged, freckled face smudged and greasy.

The final steel portal was several yards ahead.   Only one door to go, and if it's locked...  Robyn decided she'd just curl up on the filthy floor and have herself a nice cry.

The heavy bolt was thrown back and locked in the open position, a hopeful sign.  She knew the room beyond was quite large, with a high, domed ceiling.  She'd only been in it once before, in the company of Frieda, during the exhaustive tour of the facilities Mistress had insisted they conduct, early in Robyn's appointment as Junior Dominatrix in Training.

Robyn gave the heavy steel a shove with her left shoulder, then pushed with all her strength.  The door resisted... then swung inwards.

Okay, time for the endgame, I guess, Robyn reasoned.  No doubt Frieda would be lounging inside, waiting for her to enter, and they'd get on with it, whatever it was.  She stumbled across the threshold—stared into the room beyond—and screamed through her tape-gag.


Frieda and Joelle were in the room, but they were hardly lounging.  They were lit from above by bright spots, and both were naked, with suspension cuffs on their wrists and ball-gags with rubber panels filling and covering their mouths.  They were about ten feet apart, arms stretched over their heads, and perched, precariously, on concrete blocks, one under each foot.  Their cuffs were clipped to chains that passed through pulleys in the ceiling, then stretched down to electric winches mounted on the walls  The blocks under their feet were each about eighteen inches apart, and the shortness of the taut chains forced them up on their toes.  Their muscles were corded and well defined as they strained to maintain their positions.

Frieda and Joelle lifted their chins and looked at Robyn.  Their hair was coiled atop their heads in tight buns.  Their toned, glorious bodies were dripping with sweat, and by the look in their eyes, they were exhausted.

Robyn began to rush to their aid, not that she knew exactly how she was going to render said aid with her wrists bound behind her back—when suddenly her hair was grabbed from behind and she was held, stutter-stepping on her white heels.  She squirmed and twisted her head to the side, and focused on her captor.  It was a female, and she was dressed head-to-toe in camouflage.  Her face was masked.

"So, Robyn-with-a-'Y'," the stranger purred, "you've finally decided to join the party."