Chattel Mountain Lodge Tales of Chattel Mountain Lodge
 by Van © 2003
 Chapter 3: CRANKY ARE WE?
To see the actors the author would cast in a CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE mini-series (on premium cable, of course) please follow the
link below, and use your browser's "Back" feature to return to this page.  New cast members are added as they appear in the stories.

Robyn came awake when the overhead lights snapped on and she heard the key rattling in the chamber door's dead bolt lock.  She pulled her hobbled feet under her straitjacked body and struggled to her knees.  By the time she was able to stand, the bolt had been thrown and the door was squealing open on its rusty hinges.  The prisoner had spent a hungry, miserable night; unable to stomach the pellets of "Primate Chow" in one stainless steel bowl, humiliated to be lapping water like a dog from the other, and even more humiliated when she'd been forced to use the steel bucket as a toilet.  The cage's mattress was filthy, musty and covered with gray dust, and now, so was Robyn.  The air in the chamber was stiflingly hot, and Robyn had been sweating all night, especially within the tight confines of the canvas and leather jacket.  Her bare feet and legs were soiled and glistening.  She couldn't see her face, of course, but she knew it had to be equally smudged and streaked with greasy dirt.

During the long night, lying awake in her filthy prison between fitful catnaps, helpless and frightened, Robyn had rehearsed her arguments, preparing the speech she hoped would get her out of this mess... but found herself struck dumb by the sight of her captor.

Frieda was in gleaming black leather from head to toe: knee-high riding boots, skintight catsuit, tightly cinched corset, and gloves.  Her long, raven hair flowed to her shoulders and down her back in elegant waves.  The catsuit had a scoop front, and the upper halves of her large, firm breasts were revealed by its generous décolletage.  The heels of her boots tapped as she strolled forward, a seductively evil smile on her face, her pale blue eyes staring at her cowering captive with laser intensity.

Robyn took an involuntary step back, and came up against the wall of her cage.  Incredibly... she felt a thrill of desire at the sight of her polished, gleaming, elegant and graceful nemesis.  She... she can do anything she wants to me, Robyn realized; then shuddered and shook the tousled red curls out of her face.  The spell broke as  Frieda unlocked the cage door.  "I-I didn't do anything," the terrified captive stammered, "and I can prove it.  Get me to a computer and I can access the files and—"  Frieda had entered the cage and was pressing her right index finger against Robyn's lips.  (Robyn could smell the leather of her captor's glove... It was... intoxicating.)

Her eyes still locked with her captive, Frieda nodded down, towards the bowls of food and water.  "I suppose I was delinquent in explaining the house rules," she said, a cruel, mocking smile curling her lips.  "We don't waste food at Chattel Mountain Lodge.  We're at the end of a very long, very expensive logistical pipeline here.  You'll eat what I give you, when I give it to you.  We can't have you losing weight, can we?  You're skinny enough as it is."

Robyn's fear evaporated (as did any lingering arousal caused by the appearance of her captor), and was replaced by a burning, righteous anger.  "You bitch!" she found herself saying.  "You have no right to—m'mmpfh— M'MMPFH!"

Frieda's right hand was over Robyn's mouth in a tight hand gag, and her left cupped Robyn's sex.  The captive squirmed in her straitjacket, her back to the bars, and tried to knee her tormentor in the crotch, but Frieda had taken the precaution of stepping on the leather strap connecting Robyn's hobbles.  "Naughty girl," Frieda scolded, and began a gentle massage of her prisoner's labia.  "You're cranky this morning, aren't you, Naughty Girl.  It looks like I'm going to have to make sure you get your nourishment."  Her left hand left Robyn's nether lips... and reappeared before the writhing captive's wet, angry, glaring eyes with the leather padded hoop of a ring-gag in her gloved fingers.
Robyn squirmed in her bonds, mewing angry, well-muffled complaints past the apparatus Frieda was clamping in place over and in her ring-gagged mouth.  She had been marched down a dirty, narrow hallway and into this tiled chamber; slammed into a rigid chair of bent pipes, leather straps, and minimal padding, and secured in place.  Her hobbles had been removed and her splayed ankles and knees and her straitjacked upper body strapped to the chair, leaving her in a semi-reclined pose.  In addition, her head was pinned back by a strap across her forehead, and Frieda was making final adjustments to what she referred to as a "feeding machine."

The machine was some sort of stainless steel hopper and motor-driven mechanism on a tall stand.  A very short vertical tube attached to a large funnel slid through Robyn's ring gag and an attached rubber shield sealed her lower face from chin to nose.  As a final (alarming) touch, Frieda pinched Robyn's nostrils closed with a padded clip.  "I've ground up your Primate Chow pellets and dissolved them in water, making it almost liquid," Frieda explained, "and a mist blows into the funnel with each dollop, providing even further lubrication.  The machine delivers a heaping teaspoon of... umm... shall we say... yummy nourishment... every thirty seconds."  She tightened the final clamp and moved her head slightly, so she could smile down into Robyn's glaring eyes.  "Your choice is simple," she explained.  "Either swallow each dollop as it's delivered... or discover how difficult it is to breath with your mouth packed with soft, wet, gravy-soaked gorp."

There was a quiet chime, a geared mechanism turned, and a slug of slimy brown "yummy nourishment" plopped into Robyn's involuntarily open mouth.  The helpless captive shuddered in disgust.  "Primate Chow" wasn't as terrible as she feared, but it was definitely an acquired taste.  Having no choice (other than suicide by Primate Chow suffocation), Robyn swallowed the wet mass, relieved to find it was possible, despite her ring-gag.  Several seconds later there was another chime, followed by another plopping dose of brown sludge.

"Well, I'll leave you to enjoy your breakfast," Frieda announced.  "I have to rinse out the 'number one' you did in your bucket last night.  I'll be back in about a half hour... to give you your enema."
An hour later, after breakfast and the promised enema, Robyn was stomping down a dimly lit corridor, her captor directing her travel with irritating but not particularly painful taps from a black leather riding crop.  The angry redhead's ensemble had been changed back in the tiled chamber.  She was finally free of the straitjacket, but it had been replaced with what Frieda called her "work clothes".  Her wrists were locked in stainless steel manacles, her ankles in steel shackles, a steel "belt" was locked around her waist, and a steel collar was around her throat.  Each element of her new restraints had a single steel ring on a ball and socket joint, and a steel chain joined them all, sliding freely (and noisily) through each ring.  The length of the chain was carefully adjusted to restrict Robyn's range of motion, yet allow her to fully extend any one limb.  Standing erect (as now), the only way for the captive to gain sufficient slack to allow her to walk (as now), was to hold her hands close to the belt.

She would have complained (in a spectacularly vulgar manner), but a rather large ball-gag was strapped in her mouth.  In addition, her head was encased.  It looked like a black latex gas mask, but Frieda called it a "dust hood".  Robyn's angry green eyes were clearly visible through its broad, curved face plate; but her nose, gagged mouth, and chin were covered by the hood's conforming breathing mask with its attached filter canister.  The skintight, overlying rubber hood was stretched, zipped, and padlocked over her head, her red curls emerging from a generous hole in the rear and cascading down her bare back.

Except for her chains and hood, Robyn was completely bare, not counting the patina of greasy dirt soiling her legs and feet.  Her torso, breasts, arms, and shoulders glistened with sweat as she shuffled down the dirty, narrow, overheated corridor.

They came to an iron gate.  It was unlocked and Robyn clattered through.  Frieda tossed a broom and large feather duster at her captive's feet, then closed and locked the gate.  "I'll be back for you in a few hours," she explained.  "I expect the overhead pipes to be dusted, the cobwebs cleared, and the floor swept from here to the far gate, including the side corridors.  If you slack off or do a poor job... I'll have no choice but to punish you... severely."  The smiling, catsuited, raven-haired beauty then spun on her booted heel and gracefully walked away.

Robyn screamed a muffled protest at Frieda's disappearing back, and was ignored.  The naked, chained, and hooded captive stamped her dirty feet in frustration, then stooped and examined the broom and duster.  Both had long, rather flexible rubber handles, making them difficult tools for their designed tasks; but more importantly, rendering them utterly useless as weapons.  Robyn screamed again, in frustration and anger, then picked up the duster, planted her feet together to gain sufficient slack in her chains to lift her right arm, and began dusting the overhead pipes.  A cloud of dust and old cobwebs descended, including several dead (and a few not so dead) spiders.  Robyn shuddered in disgust and continued her labors.  Just you wait, she fumed.   My time will come.  Just you wait.
"She's entered the 'Anger Phase'," Frieda announced as she walked into the main kitchen.  

Joelle was flipping the last of a stack of perfectly browned pancakes.  She was dressed in boots, jeans, and sweater, her usual everyday clothes.  "All hail the Leather Bitch Goddess," she muttered, turned off the griddle, and carried the platter of pancakes to the breakfast nook.

Frieda smiled and executed a graceful curtsey (a rather incongruous gesture in her kinky leather garb), then settled into her chair.  Orange juice, coffee, and bacon were already waiting.  Plates were loaded as Frieda recounted the morning's events down below.

"I hate that damn machine," Joelle mumbled as she poured syrup over her pancakes, "and I really hate Primate Chow."

"I do too," Frieda agreed, "but it's important to demonstrate complete and total control of every aspect of the bottom's life.  I'll make her meals more palatable... once she's learned her place."

"She's a prisoner, not a bottom," Joelle pointed out.

Frieda's smile turned decidedly coy.  "Oh... I think Ms. Tolliver's more than a little of both."  She chewed and swallowed a mouthful of pancakes, then continued.  "Or will be, if I play her correctly."  Joelle raised a skeptical eyebrow as Frieda sipped her coffee.  "I have an instinct about such things," the catsuited beauty explained.

"Instinct!" Joelle snorted.  "More like a delusive pride.   Do you still want me to meet our new guest after lunch?"

Frieda nodded, smiling sweetly.  "I have the perfect costume all picked out," she purred.

"I'm sure you do," Joelle muttered, "and speaking of costumes; finish your breakfast and get up to the solarium.  I don't want to miss the morning light."

"What's the rush?"

Joelle sipped her juice and smiled at her model.  "I'm almost finished, and I need you out of that catsuit and especially that corset as soon as possible.  We have to allow time for the marks they leave on your pasty white skin to fade."

Frieda paused, a slice of bacon poised before her smiling lips.  "You do that on purpose," she accused, "just to goad me into doing cruel and unusual things to your pretty brown body.  Admit it."

"I don't know what you mean," Joelle answered innocently.  "Now hurry up!  You can do some push-ups and sit-ups once you strip down.  That'll shorten the fade time on the marks... and I don't mind waiting for the resulting flush to fade."
Robyn had been cleaning for hours.  She'd dusted and cleared the cobwebs from what had to be fifty miles of pipes, conduits, and ductwork.  Well... it feels like fifty miles, she fumed.  Her arms and shoulders ached, as did her back and neck, from having to strain back against the stiff collar of her "Filter Hood" in order to see what she was doing.  A veritable cloud of very fine dust hung in the air, and Robyn was filthy from neck to toes.  She was also growing desperately thirsty, continuing to perspire in the close heat as she worked.  Robyn blinked sweat out of her eyes (unable to wipe them, of course, because of the hood).  She'd finished dusting (not that anything would stay clean in this gray fog), and had moved on to sweeping.

Robyn had sublimated her anger, concentrating on her cleaning labors for two reasons: the obvious, to avoid punishment; and the not so obvious (she hoped), to lull her captor into complacency through her apparent surrender.  The pile of dirt (and spider carcasses) at her feet was quite substantial, and ever growing.   She was debating starting a second pile, when she noticed movement in the distance.

Frieda was walking down the passage towards her, and at her side was another woman!  ...a stranger!  ...a naked, chained stranger!  The newcomer was carrying a steel bucket, and was dark-skinned; her body toned and athletic.  Her dark hair was streaked with bronze, and her smooth, coffee skin glistened in the heat.  Her chains were identical to Robyn's, but in place of a Filter Hood she was wearing a disposable paper dust mask (as did Frieda).  As the stranger came closer, Robyn could see that her almond-shaped eyes were a deep brown... and they were smiling.

Robyn's green eyes blinked behind the dusty, streaked glass of the hood's face plate.  Then, before she knew what was happening, Frieda had stepped behind her and was buckling leather cuffs around her upper arms.  She mewed and complained, stamping her dirty feet and rattling her chains, but could do nothing to prevent Frieda from pulling the connecting strap taut and thus pulling her elbows together behind her back.  She was also forced to her knees (and directly into the pile of dust she had been sweeping), something was done to her chains, and she was unable to rise.  Her fellow captive set down the bucket, and Robyn could now see it contained a dustpan, a large container of sports drink (citrus flavored), and a plastic bottle.

Frieda removed the newcomer's paper mask.  Underneath, a large ball of translucent red rubber filled her mouth and was held there by a narrow strap of black leather with a tiny padlock securing the buckle.  Frieda fitted an equally tiny key, opened the lock, loosened the strap to its first hole, and resecured the buckle and lock.  She then pulled the ball from the unmistakably smiling newcomer's mouth and let it dangle around her steel-collared throat.

"Thank you, Mistress," Robyn's fellow captive whispered, licking her dark lips with her pink, wet tongue.

"You're welcome, Jet," Frieda answered.  "This is my newest acquisition," she added, nodding down at Robyn.  "She's untrained, but I think she'll make a fine addition to the stable.  I've been calling her 'Red', but I'm sure I'll think of a better name... eventually.  Yes, it's nice to have a strawberry roan... but she's more a strawberry sorrel, don't you think?"  Frieda paused, reached into a side pocket of her catsuit, and pulled out a small vibrating pager.  She thumbed a switch (the vibrating stopped), and she squinted at the device's small display window.  "Curious," she muttered, then walked back the way she'd come.  "I want her watered," she called back over her shoulder, "and you have my permission to welcome her to the stable."

"Jet" and "Red" watched Frieda round a corner in the corridor; heard the far gate being opened, closed, and locked; then their heads turned and Joelle's smiling brown eyes locked with Robyn's worried green eyes.
Joelle pulled the sports drink and plastic bottle from the bucket, popped the bottle's cap, and filled it with about a quart of the orange drink.  She then attached a second cap with a long, dangling, clear plastic tube; hung the bottle from a convenient pipe bracket, and thumbed a clip at the tube's far end.  Robyn watched bubbles rise in the bottle overhead and orange liquid slowly fill the tube.  As it neared the end, Joelle snapped the clip, then reached for something on the front of Robyn's Filter Hood.

Robyn flinched at the contact.  "Easy, Red," Joelle whispered with a reassuring smile.  "I'm just attaching to the drinking tube built into your mask.  You'll be able to suck through the hole in your ball-gag.  There... All done."  She snapped the clip again, then sat on the floor (apparently very much at home in her chains), put her back to the concrete wall, and pulled Robyn into her lap.  The hooded, filthy captive complained, then shuddered with delight as her mouth filled with a delicious, wet, lemon-orange flavor.  She sucked on the pliant rubber filling her mouth as Joelle settled her in a semi-reclined position.  (In her now closely chained condition, she couldn't offer any real resistance... even if she'd wanted to.)

Joelle hugged her "fellow captive" close, and let her hands wander over the squirming redhead's helpless, naked body.  The passage of her strong, dark hands was eased by the sweat glistening on their skins.  "Don't let Frieda get your goat with her 'stable' talk," Joelle said.  "It's merely one of her several games.  Being Mistress... she gets to play however she wants."  Joelle's hands cupped Robyn's breasts, then began gently toying with her nipples.  Robyn continued squirming, and sucking on her gag.  Despite the distraction of what "Jet" was doing to her captive, unwilling body, her thirst required at least part of her attention.

"What a filthy thing you are," Joelle whispered, continuing to caress Robyn's now erect and sensitive nipples, then she let her hands wander down Robyn's abdomen, smearing and streaking the greasy film of dirt covering the shuddering redhead.  Her hands continued to Robyn's sex, and the helpless captive screamed through her gag in alarm.  "Shhhhh..." Joelle whispered.  "Easy, girl...  Easy...  Let me make it all better."  Her fingers caressed Robyn's labia, and gently probed her flushed, glistening slit.

Joelle smiled.  Her "fellow slave's" sex was wet, despite her continuing struggles and gagged protests.  "Hush, Red," she cooed.  "You can't do anything to stop me, and it feels so good."  She found Robyn's clitoris (already firm and flushed) and the helpless prisoner squealed through her gag and hood.  Joelle settled into a slow, steady rhythm of teasing massage.  Robyn fought her bonds... bit down on her gag... and shuddered with delight.  Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of helpless, humiliating, wonderful, manipulation... she climaxed.

Exhausted, relaxed for the first time since her capture (and more than a little confused), Robyn lay against her fellow captive's warm, firm body... continued sucking on her orange-flavored gag... and gazed into her lover's kind eyes.

Joelle smiled.  "You're welcome," she cooed.  "And welcome to Chattel Mountain Lodge."
Frieda entered the Lodge office, wondering what Chandler Warburg wanted to talk about with such urgency.  She'd taken the time to towel the dust from her catsuit and boots and scrub her face, but her hair was a dusty mess.  She'd have to have "Jet" shampoo it for her.  I'll leave her in chains, she mused.  I like playing Queen, being waited on by naked, helpless slave girls.

She settled into her desk chair, stabbed the button for the secure (encrypted) line, then stabbed the appropriate speed dial button.  It took several seconds for the call to connect, then (surprisingly) Chandler Warburg herself was chattering on the line.

"Slow down, slow down," Frieda said.  "Yes, the 'new guest' is settled in and I've started working my way down your checklist... No, I'm not very far down the list; why?"  Seconds passed as the Chandler's tinny voice continued rattling in Frieda's earpiece.  The catsuited beauty sat upright in her chair.  "Say that again," she growled.  "What?   WHAT??"  Her blue eyes flashing, Frieda held the handset against her side, breathing deeply and staring out the window at the far peaks.  Chandler continued speaking, and was ignored.

Finally, Frieda put the handset back to her ear and spoke clearly and calmly.  "Get your ass on a plane and get out here," she ordered.  Seconds passed as Chandler's voice responded... and Frieda's calm evaporated.  "I don't care what party you were planning on attending or what new gown you bought just for the occasion!  Get your skinny ass to the airport...  Plunk it in a seat on a Warburg company jet... and GET IT OUT HERE!!"

Frieda slammed down the handset and continued staring out the window.  "Innocent... innocent all along," she muttered under her breath.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 4