||FROM THE CASE FILES OF KITTY WYNTER|
| by Van ©2011
|OUR STORY CONTINUES
Bertie was pouring herself a cup of coffee when the outside door to the office opened. Kitty had returned. She smiled and reached for a second mug—white stoneware bearing a cartoon of a hissing cat and the inscription "Kitty has claws"—filled it, as well, and set it on the desk. "Any luck?" she inquired.
Kitty peeled off her leather jacket and hung it in the closet before answering. Her remaining costume was a pair of black cowboy boots, skintight leather pants, also black, and a tight, sleeveless top the color of old blood. It was obvious, even to the casual observer, that she was not wearing a bra. Her dark hair was combed back and captured in a tight ponytail, and her Glock was holstered at the small of her back. "A little," she muttered as she slouched back in her desk chair and picked up the mug. "Liesl Zirner's supposed boyfriend, the married investment banker, is well connected, like the shyster said. It's still not clear why the cops can't find his Fräulein for him. If they're trying as hard as claimed, they're using an uncharacteristically light hand."
"I made a few calls and may have something on that," Bertie responded. She sat in a visitor chair and crossed her stone-washed jeans-clad legs. Her sneakers du' jour were lo-top, salmon-pink, Chuck Taylor All-Stars. Her top was a canary yellow tank over a black bra, and a long, striped, silk scarf in a rainbow of pastel shades was draped around her throat. "Apparently, Liesl Zirner is into the kinky side of city life, and her boyfriend is too. They've been seen together at Club Knotty."
Kitty shrugged. "Old news. How does that explain the sudden incompetence of the cops?"
Bertie smiled. "Three weeks ago, the last time she was seen at Club Knotty, it was without the boyfriend. And, she spent most of the evening talking to one of Lady Arabelle's girls."
Kitty sipped her coffee before answering. "Lady Arabelle."
Bertie nodded. "Liesl's boyfriend might be connected, but well enough to take on Lady Arabelle?"
Kitty sipped her coffee, again. "Nobody's better connected than Arabelle," she muttered. "Supposedly, her client list reads like a Who's Who of the city's movers and shakers. You sure about this?"
Bertie shrugged. "It's from a good source, and it fits. The cops learn Lady Arabelle is in the picture. Suddenly... the trail goes 'cold'."
Kitty nodded. "And meanwhile, the shyster's connections keep pressuring her. What's an up and coming ADA to do but go outside the establishment to her 'old friend' Kitty Wynter? It fits. In any case, I suppose it's possible Arabelle or one of her girls might know where Fräulein Zirner is hiding... or what happened to her."
"So, what to do?" Bertie pondered, sipping her coffee.
"It's obvious," Kitty answered. "I knock on Her Ladyship's door and ask."
Bertie's eyes popped wide. "You're kidding, right?"
"She's not a gangster."
Bertie shook her head. "Nobody messes with Lady Arabelle."
Kitty smiled. "Allow me to clarify. I knock on her door and ask for a job."
|| Chapter 2
Liesl was naked and bound with hemp rope—carefully conditioned, triple-strand, hemp rope.
Her arms were behind her back and wrenched upwards in a stringent reverse-prayer. Neat bands pinned her arms to her torso, yoked her shoulders, and were carefully, tightly cinched at strategic junctures to insure nothing could shift, no matter how she struggled. The key knots lashing her wrists against her spine were several inches away from her fingers and well out of reach, even without the added awkwardness of the palm-to-palm position of her hands and the hemp twine lashing her thumbs and fingers.
Liesl's right leg was raised with her ankle lashed to her right thigh and bands of hemp pinning her knee against her upper body. In addition, her right foot was on pointe, enforced by rope tied around her instep and hemp cord binding her big toe.
Her left leg was not bound by rope or cord in any way; however, rather than being free, it was fully committed to supporting her weight. Multiple taut strands of hemp stretched up from her torso and knee bonds to various lashing points overhead, and she could let them share the load, but only at a terrible price. If Liesl came down off her toes, a knotted crotch rope, alone, would take the great majority of her weight. The other vertical ropes would simply steady her in her current pose. She had tried giving her left foot a break by "resting" on the crotch rope, but it hurt. It hurt a lot.
In addition, Liesl's red hair was plaited in a ponytail braid and the end doubled back and lashed around a steel ring. The ring, in turn, was tied to the end of the steel hook tucked inside her anus. The round, one-inch knob at the business end of the hook prevented injury, but the tightness of the connecting rope lifted her chin, pulled her head back, and locked it in place. She could rock from side to side, ever so slightly, but anything else was met with marked disapproval by her scalp and hind end.
Any complaints she might have wished to lodge were muffled by the rubber ball filling her mouth and the strip of Elastoplast tape plastered over her lips and lower face.
Finally, a "silver bullet" vibrator was tucked under the crotch rope, inside her pussy, and snugged up against her clitoris. The pressure of the crotch-rope and a tiny cable-tie held it in place.
An uncomfortable pose, to be sure, made more so by the passage of time, and Liesl had been in the clutches of gravity and her bonds for hours. How many hours, she wasn't sure. There were no external clues and the vibrator made it very difficult to concentrate. It varied in intensity, sometimes humming at full power and sometimes barely making its presence known. There seemed to be no pattern to the changes, but it was always on.
Spotlights bathed Liesl's straining body, including her face, but beyond the glare was featureless darkness—the flare of the overhead light, a few feet of the vertical strands of rope—and beyond, darkness.
Since being placed in her predicament, Liesl had passed through stages of stoic resistance, simmering anger, and finally, acceptance. Now, and for some time, she had simply had enough. Her pale, freckled body glistened with sweat and the muscles of her left calf and foot felt like they were on fire and threatened to cramp. More and more often, she found herself giving her foot rest breaks, even at the expense of punishing her crotch, but she couldn't take the pain for very long, especially when the vibrator was buzzing at full power. She knew the time was coming when the pain in her foot and the pain in her pussy would reach parity. And beyond that, her leg and foot muscles would reach exhaustion and she'd find herself riding the rope, nonstop.
Sweat beaded her forehead and tears streaked down her bulging cheeks. The vibrator was building to one of its periodic crescendos. A moan escaped her gag—then, suddenly, the vibrator stopped! A few seconds later, Liesl heard the staccato click-click-click of approaching heels. Her moan became a whine. She blinked back tears, but could see nothing.
"Are you crying, Liesl?" a soprano voice inquired.
Liesl sobbed and tried to nod—but it hurt. Her body quaked, causing the vertical ropes of her bondage to shake.
"It's all right, Liesl," the voice said. "I didn't tell you not to cry. If it helps, by all means, cry."
Liesl continued weeping. Then whined when a gentle hand cupped her left breast.
"You've reached the limit of your strength, haven't you, liebschen?"
Liesl sobbed and tried to nod, again.
"As I told you," the voice purred, "you don't know your limit. I'm going to show you your limit."
"Mrrrrf!" The hand squeezed... then was gone. Gentle fingers stroked the erect nipple... and disappeared, as well. Liesl heard the click-click-click of the heels tapping away. "Nrrrrf," she sobbed through her gag. Seconds passed—then the vibrator buzzed back to life.
Liesl continued to weep—trapped in her bonds—her pale, freckled skin shining with sweat. The expertly applied ropes were as inescapable as ever.
|Bondage, My Sweet|| Chapter 2
Kitty was lookin' good! Black leather knee-boots, black pantyhose, a charcoal gray skirt—short, but not too short—a dove-gray turtleneck, and a charcoal leather jacket. A black leather sling purse was slung on her shoulder and a matching model's portfolio was tucked under her arm. Her lustrous brown locks draped her shoulders and framed her tastefully made-up face. Kitty was lookin' good!
Unfortunately, Kitty was feeling naked. Her Glock was back at the office, tucked in its usual resting place in the desk drawer, next to its cleaning kit and not comfortably nestled against the small of her back. Even worse, neither her derringer-sized backup piece nor her stiletto were tucked in her boot tops. She had her formidable unarmed combat skills, of course, but she'd still like to be packing, on general principles. However, lethal weaponry would be difficult to explain at an interview for a possible dominatrix gig.
The plan was simplicity, itself. Kitty would quite literally walk in cold and ask for a job. She was known in the local BDSM community. In fact, a couple of years back, one of Arabelle's girls had actually tried to recruit her. Lady Arabelle's was the city's premium establishment for safe, kinky fun, but there had to be staff turnover. It was probably common for her "girls" to work a few months or years, then move on and set themselves up in other cities, hoping to emulate Arabelle's success.
They'd know better than to remain in town and directly compete with Her Ladyship. Everyone on the street knew that messing with Arabelle meant the bum's rush to the city limits, at best—arrest and a trip up the river, at worst. Arabelle wasn't into rough stuff—not counting what happened in her "dungeons", of course—but anyone hassling her people, dealing drugs, or otherwise lowering the tone of the neighborhood found themselves receiving a great deal of official attention.
Anyway, Kitty Wynter asking Lady A for a position was entirely plausible. Kitty would look around, ask a few questions... maybe learn a few tricks she could try on Bertie... then quit. It was a sure bet Arabelle knew she was a P.I., but if the topic came up, she'd simply say she'd decided rope-work was her true calling, rather than shadowing cheating husbands. Kitty could be very persuasive, even if the person she was trying to convince of something wasn't naked and tied up.
Bertie knew exactly where she was. The little blond Brit would continue working her contacts and wait for her call. What could possibly go wrong?
|Bondage, My Sweet|| Chapter 2
Lady Arabelle's establishment was in one of the glass and steel towers generally referred to as downtown. Her building was shared by high-priced medical practices, brokerage firms, law offices, corporations and limited partnerships of unknown purpose... the usual riffraff. Kitty consulted the directory and found her destination: "ARABELLE CONSULTING SERVICES—3701." Kitty smiled as she watched the expensively dressed men and women crisscrossing the crowded lobby. It was a good guess that few, if any, of the scurrying business-types knew what happened—allegedly—in the offices of "Arabelle Consulting Services." Kitty made her way to the elevators.
She stepped off on the thirty-seventh floor and found herself in a corridor, facing a set of double doors Beyond was a very tasteful, very elegantly appointed waiting room with comfortable couches and chairs, coffee tables with stacks of magazines, potted plants, attractive if somewhat generic art hanging on fabric-covered walls, etc. Nothing about the space could even remotely be called kinky. Behind a long desk waited a pretty blonde in a business suit. "May I help you?" she inquired with a friendly smile.
Kitty turned on the charm. "I was wondering if Lady Arabelle is hiring."
The receptionist continued smiling, but her expression changed, subtly. As intended, Kitty's use of "Lady" Arabelle was telling.
"Are you expected?" the blonde asked.
Kitty's smile never wavered. "No, but I'm sure someone will see me." She produced a business card—one of her many different business cards.
The receptionist accepted the card, ran it through a scanner, then handed it back. She then gestured towards the waiting area. "Please, have a seat. Would you care for some coffee or tea?"
"No, thank you." Kitty settled into an easy chair and thumbed through an issue of Condé Nast Traveler. She'd already noted the contacts of the alarm system protecting the doors, as well as the mirrored plastic hemispheres set in the corners that almost certainly concealed security cameras.
The receptionist's phone chirped, she picked it up and had a brief, hushed conversation, then stood and smiled at Kitty. "This way, Ms. Wynter." She gestured towards one of the three doors leading off the lobby.
She led Kitty down a long corridor, past darkly stained wooden doors with brass plates bearing room numbers. The decor was the same as the lobby, but the wall fabric was darker Also, the generic art had given way to framed photographs of nude men and women—all very tasteful, assuming you weren't a hopelessly repressed prude, of course. The plate on the double doors at the end of the hall bore the single letter "A." The blonde knocked, then opened the doors without waiting for permission. "Ms. Katerina Wynter, Mistress," she announced, and stood aside for Kitty to enter.
Kitty found herself in an expensively appointed office; however, all doubts as to whether or not Arabelle Consulting Services had a kinky side were instantly dispelled.
One wall was entirely of glass, and looked out on the buildings across the way and the boulevard far below. Kitty knew the windows of this building were all mirrored, one-way glass. The remaining office walls were padded with shining black leather. There was a conversation area with sofa and easy chairs, modern in style and very expensive.
There was also a desk, but it was a bit out of place, style-wise. It was nothing more than a thick slab of polished granite with rough granite columns as legs. In the two corners Kitty could see, heavy iron rings were set in the columns. She considered it highly probable there were rings dangling from the two corners she could not see. The dark slab was more sacrifical altar than desk. There was nothing on its surface but an open laptop computer.
In front of the desk (or altar) were a pair of unpadded, sled-style visitor chairs with tubular steel frames. Behind the desk was a throne-like, very comfortable looking chair, and seated in that chair was a very beautiful woman who could only be Lady Arabelle. If she isn't Arabelle, Kitty thought, if this is one of Arabelle's minions, Her Ladyship must be a literal goddess.
She was a redhead, whoever she was—dark, russet, luxurious waves of hair—with blue eyes and ruby-red lips. Her voluptuous curves were squeezed into a corset-dress of black leather and her arms in black leather opera gloves. Also, she had breasts, and whether they were large or small, the tight leather was doing wonders. The vision in leather stood and walked around the desk, offering her right hand.
"I'm Lady Arabelle, Ms. Wynter," she said, confirming her identity. "Your reputation precedes you."
Kitty was amazed (and abashed) to find her heart hammering. Kitty was a Top, but Lady Arabelle was a TOP. She was a force of nature. Kitty realized her gaze had dropped to Her Ladyship's tightly laced boots. Cruel shoes, indeed, Kitty mused, then lifted her chin and locked eyes with Arabelle. It was too late, of course. She'd lost the first round. "Thanks," Kitty answered. She could think of nothing clever to add.
Lady Arabelle's smile widened. "I understand you're interested in employment." She took the portfolio from Kitty's hand, gestured towards a visitor chair, and returned to her throne—her chair—her office chair. She sat and opened the portfolio.
Kitty watched as Her Ladyship flipped the plastic-clad pages.
"Examples of your rigging," Arabelle purred.
"Yes," Kitty answered.
Arabelle's eyes locked with Kitty's.
Kitty swallowed. "Yes, Mistress," she amended, mentally kicking herself for committing the faux pau of not addressing Arabelle by her proper title.
Arabelle's gaze was back on the portfolio. "And here are examples of your modeling."
Kitty nodded. The later pages showed Kitty in various forms of bondage, clothed and unclothed.
"What manner of employment piques your interest, Kitty?" Her full, red lips curled. "May I call you Kitty?"
"Of course, Mistress." Kitty swallowed, again. This is ridiculous. Why am I reacting like this? A worshipful slave laces up her thigh boots one leg at a time, just like everybody else. "I'm interested in dominatrix work."
Arabelle smiled. "You wish to start at the 'Top', so to speak."
Kitty smiled back. "I realize I'll have to learn your rules. I don't object to acting as a rigger-assistant until I've gained your confidence."
"Until you've learned the ropes." Arabelle's gaze remained on Kitty. "You have no interest in becoming one of my stable of Bottoms? Not all my clients are interested in being on the receiving end."
"No interest whatsoever, Mistress."
Arabelle nodded. "What if I told you that all my ladies begin as Bottoms, regardless. I believe the only way to understand a client's needs and limits is to have walked in their shoes."
"Their cruel shoes," Kitty mused aloud. "As a means of learning your way of doing things, Mistress, that's acceptable."
Arabelle nodded, then closed the portfolio and dropped it on her desk. "When can you start?"
Kitty swallowed, again. "Immediately, Mistress."
Arabelle nodded. "Excellent. Strip."
Kitty blinked. "Uh... Mistress?"
"Leave your purse on my desk," Arabelle ordered, "go to the center of the room, and strip. There's a basket next to the sofa. Fold your clothes and place them inside, jewelry included. Do you have any piercings?"
"Very well," Arabelle purred. "Once you're completely nude, stand in front of my desk in position one—legs apart, back straight, hands on top of your head with your fingers interlaced, and your eyes on the carpet. Do you understand?"
"What are you waiting for?"
Kitty scrambled from the chair and hurried to comply with her new employer's orders.
|Bondage, My Sweet|| Chapter 2
Kitty stared at the carpet... and her bare feet and toes. She was nude and standing in the center of the office, in the manner her "Mistress" had ordered... and she was being ignored. All of Arabelle's attention was on her laptop. Kitty had no idea what Mistress found so interesting on the screen, but she knew exactly what was happening. Arabelle was showing Kitty Wynter who had power, and who did not. Okay, Kitty fumed, I get it.
Kitty suppressed her anger, and a smile. She could play this game. Leather ÜberBitch hotness aside—Arabelle strumming Kitty's strings aside—the dominatrix wasn't, in fact, a goddess. She didn't have supernatural mind control powers. At some point, Kitty would get a tour of the facilities, meet the staff, and see what she would see. Tonight, back at the office, she'd laugh about this with Bertie. She wouldn't tell the little Brit exactly how hot she thought Arabelle was, of course, but she'd tell her something.
Finally, Arabelle rose from her desk, opened a drawer in the credenza behind her, and pulled out a coil of rope. She walked around the desk and presented the coil. "Describe," she ordered.
"Three-strand, four-millimeter hemp, Mistress," Kitty answered. "More cord than rope. I prefer six or eight-millimeter." She leaned close and gave the coil a sniff. "Natural, conditioned hemp, and the ends are whipped with what appears to be cotton thread. The overall length is in the neighborhood of fifteen feet, Mistress."
"Very good, Kitty," Arabelle purred, then stepped behind Kitty and gathered her hands behind her back.
Kitty heard the thump and slither of the coil being released. Then, hemp loops captured her thumbs and were cinched tight. Over the next few minutes—and with surprising speed, in Kitty's expert opinion—Arabelle bound her arms from wrists to shoulders. She seemed to be using mostly single-strand loops and diagonal hitches—many, many single-strand loops and diagonal hitches. The final knot was tied at the nape of Kitty's neck.
"Evaluate," Arabelle ordered.
Kitty's arms touched for very nearly their entire length, pulling her shoulders back and sticking out her tits. With her thumbs joined, twisting her arms under the hemp lattice wasn't really an option. "Inescapable without the use of an external aid, Mistress. No pressure points are compromised. My circulation is unimpaired. Mildly uncomfortable for the novice. Increasingly so with time, Mistress."
Lady Arabelle stepped to the front. "Inescapable?"
"The key knot is at the very top," Kitty responded. "No amount of struggling will produce slack. Inescapable, Mistress."
Arabelle nodded, picked up the basket holding Kitty's boots and clothes and strolled back to her desk. Kitty watched as the basket, as well as her portfolio and purse, were placed in the lower credenza. The cabinet doors were then closed and locked. Arabelle then opened the same drawer as before, pulled out another coil of hemp, and returned.
"Eyes straight ahead and feet a little further apart," Arabelle ordered.
Kitty complied. Her feet were now separated by about twenty-four inches. Arabelle embraced her from the side with her arm around her bound arms and body and hand flat on her stomach. Her other hand reached between Kitty's legs and caressed her labia. Kitty flinched and a tiny gasp escaped her lips. Her cheeks flushed. The slip, her obvious lack of control, was embarrassing. A true pro wouldn't have reacted to the gentle pressure of Arabelle's leather gloved fingers in any way... and wouldn't have found her warm, close presence so alluring... or the scent of her perfume so intoxicating.
"You're wet, Kitty," Arabelle whispered in the naked captive's ear. "Do you cum easily?"
"Uh... about average, Mistress," Kitty whispered. Arabelle's breath was warm against her neck and ear.
The gentle massage continued, and Kitty struggled to remain still. She noticed her breathing was a little rapid, as was her heart rate. She tried to relax, but it was hard... like her nipples.
Arabelle took a step away. "Semi-lotus," she ordered.
Kitty settled to the floor and crossed her legs. Arabelle knelt in front of her, something Kitty was mildly surprised to find was even possible wearing that particular pair of thigh-boots. She positioned Kitty's feet sole-to-sole, then uncoiled her rope and set to work.
Kitty watched as her big toes and feet were bound. Then, Arabelle looped the doubled rope around her waist and pulled out the slack until her knees were bent, her calves pressed against their respective thighs, and her heels almost touched her pussy. The waist-cinch became a crotch rope, cleaving her buttocks and labia. Finally, the free ends were knotted through her foot bondage.
Arabelle stood, spun on her spike heels, and returned to her desk. "You have one hour to escape, Kitty," she said. "If you fail, you will spend a very uncomfortable night."
Kitty blinked in surprise. "Mistress?"
"I wish to gauge your skills as an escape artist," Arabelle added. A sinister smile curled her ruby lips.
Kitty swallowed. "Uh, I assumed this was a day job, Mistress."
Arabelle's smile widened. "You told me you could start, 'immediately,' did you not?"
"Uh, yes, Mistress, but we haven't talked about compensation, health care benefits, vacation time—"
"Silence!" Arabelle barked. She didn't actually raise her voice, but the ring of authority was unmistakable. She opened another credenza drawer, pulled something out, and strolled around the desk.
Kitty's eyes popped wide. Shit! Dangling from Arabelle's hand was a ball-gag, with a black leather strap and a bright red, two-inch ball, probably of medical silicon. She debated making some sort of objection—but it quickly became a moot point. Arabelle stepped behind her and thrust the ball into her mouth. She pulled until the ball snapped behind Kitty's teeth, then cinched the strap tight until Kitty felt her cheeks bulge, and secured the buckle. Finally, Kitty heard and felt the click of a small padlock. Shit!
Arabelle returned to her desk and settled into her chair. "One hour," she purred, "and I better see some sweat."
Kitty watched Arabelle's gaze return to the screen of her laptop. She sighed through her gag, then began to struggle. It was hopeless, of course, but she might as well. Her schedule was free.
Maybe she's kidding, Kitty thought. Maybe she'll let me go in an hour... or in the morning... and maybe in a week or so Bertie will get tired of waiting for me to call, barge in here, all kung-fu and cute, and clean everybody's clock. She struggled some more, ignoring the bite of the thin rope cleaving her hoo-haw. And maybe I'll escape... or levitate out the window. She glanced at the window-wall. Cancel that. The windows don't open.
Outwardly oblivious to her new employee's fruitless efforts, Arabelle continued reading the screen and tapping the keys of her laptop.
|The End of...
|Bondage, My Sweet||Chapter 2|