| by Van ©2013
& CLARK UNIVERSITY
A WEEK BEFORE FALL
Rook House is a modest, even
cozy structure with a small front garden and a picket
fence. It has a complex, steeply pitched roof line, and
its style might best be described as English Country Cottage
meets Arts & Crafts. The BFFs were walking towards the
front porch with a suitcase, duffel, or garment bag in either
hand. Both were wearing sneakers, jeans and cotton
blouses. It was still too hot for jackets or
sweaters. The rest of the girls' possessions designated
for their new accommodations were waiting in the trunk and back
seat of Gwen's car.
"So, is this place on or off campus?" Gwen asked.
"I assume you mean officially," Clem responded. "You'll
have to ask Administration." Clearly, all the structures
on this side of the block had been built as private homes, but
now all appeared to have something to do with the
University. Subdued and tasteful signs listed various
scholarship organizations, academic foundations, or departmental
affiliations. They'd have to take a stroll through the
neighborhood and sort things out.
In any case, what was unequivocally the main campus was directly
across the street. The two nearest buildings—Bishop Hall,
shared by the Mathematics and Physics Departments—and Stanton
Hall, the exclusive domain of the Philosophy Department—were
visible through an arm of the Environmental and Forest Science
The front door opened as the girls reached the porch and they
continued across the threshold and into the entryway.
They'd visited Rook House early in the summer and already knew
their student IDs were the only keys they'd need as long as they
were residents. They didn't even have to take them out of
their pockets. The security system's sensors pinged the
cards' transponders automatically.
"Welcome, Clem. Welcome, Gwen." They were being
greeted by the Rook House avatar, "Sally," and she (it) spoke
with the voice of Sigourney Weaver.
"Hey, Sally," Clem answered.
"Yeah, Hi," Gwen added, then whispered to her BFF. "Are all
smart-house avatars named Sally, and do they all sound
like Siggy Weaver?"
Clem shrugged. "Salamandras Corporation. I think Dr.
Pappas said it's the default setting."
"The others are in the basement," Sally continued.
"Updating. Siri is coming to meet you."
Seconds later a smiling
blond appeared wearing sneakers, jeans, and a knit top.
She was Clem's height, or maybe a little taller, and had
a slender build, attractive face, laughing blue eyes,
and a quirky smile. Her straw-colored hair was fine,
straight, and long. She extended her right hand.
"Hi, I'm Siri Nesbitt, Design major."
Clem smiled, dropped her bags, and shook the offered hand.
"Clem Ricci, English." She noted Siri's strong grip.
"Gwen Percy," Gwen said when it was her turn to pump the blond's
hand. "English and Drama."
"As in drama queen," Clem muttered under her breath.
"Shut it!" Gwen snapped at Clem as Siri giggled. She
turned back to the smiling blond. "Siri? Like the
Siri sighed before answering. "Yeah, my real name is
Sigrid, but I've always gone by Siri. I'm thinking of
suing Apple for defamation and emotional damage."
"I would," Clem chuckled as she exchanged a grin with
Gwen. So far, so good.
"I'll help you move in," Siri offered. "Sally said you
guys already chose your rooms. But first, you need to meet
Rory. C'mon." She turned and walked away without
waiting for a response.
Clem and Gwen shared another grin, then hurried after.
They had chosen their rooms on their first visit, but
the selection had been largely arbitrary. All four
residents would have their own private bedrooms with full-size
beds, a comfortable reading chair, and study nooks. There
was one common bathroom, but it had two washbasins, two enclosed
toilet stalls, a huge communal walk-in shower, a
separate bath tub for soaking, and a large dry
sauna. There was also a dedicated, fully-equipped exercise
room, a common lounge with a wall-sized HDTV and
state-of-the-art audio system, and a kitchen that would make
Rachael Ray squeal and cum in her pants.
It turned out Rook House was not just subsidized housing for
scholarship students, it was also an ongoing R&D project for
Salamandras International. Smart-house features were added
or upgraded on a regular basis, and the girls' use of the
various subsystems was passively and unobtrusively monitored and
the data uploaded to the project research team on a regular
basis. Sally had explained all this during Clem and Gwen's
Whatever the case, living at Rook House looked to be the very
definition of a sweet deal and the girls weren't about to
They'd reached the kitchen and Siri stopped and faced her new
housemates. "Uh, by the way, Dr. Pappas stopped by
yesterday and casually explained a few things."
Clem and Gwen exchanged a frown. "Like what?" Clem asked.
Siri wet her lips before answering. "Well..." Her
smile brightened. "Tell ya what. Let's go downstairs
and meet Rory and all will become clear." She turned,
again, opened a door, and headed down a set of stairs.
Clem and Gwen shared a shrug and followed.
|Oh, the Humanities!
was unremarkable, at least in terms of construction and
decor. The only improvement was a suspended ceiling of
acoustic tiles in a metal framework. The walls and floor
were sealed concrete with a clear, satin finish and the
electrical panel and plumbing tie-ins were along one wall, as
were a large washer, an equally large dryer, and a table for
folding clean laundry. Natural light streamed from
window-wells widely spaced around the periphery and artificial
light from cans recessed in the ceiling tiles.
"Only the best for Rook House," Siri explained as she let the
way across the basement. "Radiant heating underfoot,
programmable LED lighting, geothermal heat-pump, flash heaters,
photovoltaic roof shingles, the works." They were
approaching a ceiling-to-floor folding partition running in a
metal track from wall to wall.
"Flash heaters?" Gwen inquired.
"There's a holding tank for the heat-pump, but no hot water
tank," Siri explained. "Instant hot water on demand.
It's more energy efficient. All our rooms have
work-stations that would make a Computer Science major turn
green." She thumbed the latch on the partition and began
sliding it open. "And this is my design studio."
The studio space was half the size of the main basement, with
the same sealed concrete and acoustic ceiling ambiance.
There were more window wells and more of the recessed
cans. In addition, there was a small track-lighting system
with adjustable mini-spotlights centered over a large work table
and a very modernistic sewing machine, one of those
super-expensive deluxe models with a computer
touch-screen. Shelving, cabinets, and clothing racks were
spaced around the room, cluttered with bolts of cloth, rolls of
synthetic leather, and binders of swatch samples.
"I won a design competition my senior year in high school," Siri
explained, "and it led to a summer internship at La Roque's
Pacific Rim Headquarters in Seattle. That led to a
full scholarship. She pointed at the sewing machine.
"That was developed in partnership between La Roque Special
Projects and Salamandras R&D. It's a sewing machine and
CAD station linked to a rapid-prototyping system in a
Salamandras lab about two miles from here. I can lay out
and sew something, all or in part, using any material with the
required thickness and tensile properties, then refine the
design using Salamandras expert systems software. When I'm
satisfied, the lab turns out the actual garment with the
specified colors and finishes and it's delivered to the house
the next day. Right now I'm working on—"
Siri noticed she'd lost her audience. Clem and Gwen were
staring across the studio with wide-eyed amazement. Siri's
studio and the La Roque/Salamandras machine were fascinating,
but what Clem and Gwen beheld across the room was truly fascinating.
Set in the far wall was a small, closet-like alcove,
approximately five-feet by five feet, enclosed by a steel door
that was mostly a grid of thick wire. It was like a secure
storage space or a small holding cell, exactly like a
secure storage space or small holding cell, and inside the
space/cell was a young woman about their age with long,
straight, ginger hair, a fair, peachy-pink complexion, and a very
attractive face. The face in question held green eyes, a
button nose, dimpled cheeks, and coral lips, which at the moment
were curled in a decidedly embarrassed and blushing smile.
"Oh, where are my manners?" Siri made a sweeping
gesture. "Clem, Gwen, allow me to present Rory Macy, the
fourth resident of Rook House."
"Uh, hi," was all Clem could manage in response.
"Hi," Gwen added.
"Hi," Rory answered, then glared at Siri. "I am so
going to kick you in the muffin basket when I get out of here,"
she muttered. Rory was dressed in jeans and a cotton
tank-top and was holding her arms and hands behind her back.
"I'm making a leather jacket for the Fox," Siri explained with a
grin, "and in return she's helping me with one of my other
design projects." She pointed to one of the clothing
racks. "Actually, the jacket's finished. It's the
"Ooooh, pretty!" Gwen gushed as she rushed to the rack.
The jacket was a deep, golden tan, and the leather richly
textured and slightly distressed. The hardware was dark
bronze and included several small buckles and closed rings
joining the various straps and curved panels comprising the
jacket's sleeves, shoulders, waist. A serene smile curling
her lips, Gwen caressed the smooth leather. "It'll go
great with Rory's complexion and hair," she purred. "Or
mine," she added in a whisper.
Clem smiled, her BFF was lost in "consumer-bliss" and it would
be up to her to break the trance. "Gwen!" she
Gwen favored her friend with a scathing scowl. "Bossy
much?" she muttered as she stomped back to the others. She
turned to Rory and smiled. "Hi."
"Hi," Rory repeated. She was still blushing.
Clem turned to Siri. "Uh, 'other' design project?"
Siri turned to the cage and its mortified occupant. "Show
us," she ordered.
Rory sighed, then shuffled 180°, presenting her back to her
audience. Her fingers and hands were encased in sheathes
of the same butternut leather as the jacket on the rack.
In addition, a long, skintight sheath pressed her forearms
together from wrists to elbows. Finally, broad cuffs were
strapped around her upper arms. The buckles and rings of
the various components were dark bronze, also like the jacket on
"The mitts are separate," Siri explained with a proud
smile. "The arm sheath closes with a zipper and then five
straps snug it up tight. The above-the-elbow cuffs are
also separate and more straps and buckles lock everything
together. It's part of a flexible, mix-and-match system
I'm developing. Next comes the corset/bustier, then the
collar, body harness, leg sheathes, a leg harness, and—"
"That's what Dr. Pappas 'casually explained' when she was here
yesterday," Clem interrupted. "She told you Gwen and I are
also into this kinda stuff."
"Yeah," Siri nodded. "By the way, Pappas and Dr.
Whelan will be over tomorrow to go over the house rules, now
that we're all here."
"She's my aunt," Rory said. The group gave the captive
redhead their full attention and her blush deepened.
"Megan Whelan. She's my aunt."
"So," Gwen asked, "is this Rook House... or Bondage
Siri giggled before answering. "If we changed the signage
we'd probably get a lot of strange looks, but... yeah."
She nodded towards Rory. "We met last year in the dorm
and... we play. No big deal, it's all just for fun."
Rory affected a sad pout. "Unless you're the one she
decides to use as the guinea pig for her latest kinky project
and you find yourself locked in one of her cages."
"And you always put up such a fight," Siri
giggled. "Anyways, I have to test the final designs, don't
I? And you can't have a controlled test without...
"Wait," Gwen frowned. "Cages, plural?"
Siri took several steps to the side and pulled a dustcover from
a large rectangular object. Revealed was a stainless steel
cage with vertical, closely-spaced bars set in a cubical
frame. "It's a meter on a side," Siri explained, "and the
lock is electronic and controlled by Sally." She nodded
towards Rory, again. "Same as the Fox cage."
Gwen rushed to the cubical cage, pulled open the door, and
peered inside. The floor was a grid of shining bars, like
the walls and roof, but was cushioned by a thick pad covered in
smooth, textured black leather. "It looks like a close
fit." She then proceeded to crawl inside, turn until she
was facing the others, and pull the door closed. "It is
close," she observed.
Clem rolled her eyes and smiled at Siri. "You've heard of
curiosity and the cat?" She waved a vague hand towards the
small cage. "Meet curiosity and the twerp."
"Oh, very funny," Gwen huffed as Siri and Rory
giggled. She opened the door—or rather, she tried
to open the door. The steel bars didn't even rattle in the
"Controlled by Sally, remember?" Siri purred.
"Oh," Gwen said primly. "Sally, open the door,
please." She pulled on the door, again, with the same
non-result. She spoke in a louder voice.
"Sally! Open the cage door, please!"
An electronic chime sounded, then Sally's voice answered.
"Special protocols will remain on interim settings until Doctors
Pappas and Whelan brief all residents on the house rules.
The object relationship designated 'lock-slash-small cage' is
under the exclusive permissive control of Resident Nesbitt."
Gwen heaved a huge sigh and directed a forlorn smile
"I call that her Sad Puppy Face," Clem chuckled.
"Shut up," Gwen huffed, then, once again, focused the awesome
power of her sad, pathetic smile on Siri.
"Sally," Siri said, "please transfer control of the small cage
to Clem, okay?"
Bong! "Exclusive permissive control of the small
cage is transferred to Resident Ricci," Sally intoned, "pending
the formal reset of all house protocols."
"I wouldn't want to intrude on your relationship," Siri
"That's sweet," Clem smiled. Her eyes were on the small
cage, and its pouting occupant's eyes were on her. "Gwen
and I don't have what you'd call an actual relationship,
other than our mutual, uh, hobby." She shifted her smile
to Siri. "But I appreciate the thought. Why don't we
chat while I move our stuff up to our rooms?"
"Sounds like a plan," Siri giggled, and the brunette and blond
headed for the stairs. "I'll help carry," she added.
"Hey!" Gwen called from the cage. "Don't you dare!
Clem and Siri didn't even turn around.
"Clem Ricci!" Gwen screamed at the disappearing backs of
her traitorous BFF and new housemate. By this time they
were climbing the stairs and were deep in giggling
conversation. "Hey, Four Eyes!" Gwen
screamed. It always got a rise out of Clem when she called
her Four Eyes... but not this time. The door at the top of
the stairs closed and Gwen and Rory were alone, locked in their
Gwen watched as Rory heaved a Pathetic Sigh and sat cross-legged
on the concrete floor of her cage. She's nearly as
good at that as I am, Gwen noted. I like her.
"So," Rory said. "You and Clem?"
Gwen got as comfortable as she could in the Cruel Confines of
her Tiny Cage. "Uh... yeah, I suppose. You and
Rory nodded. "I suppose."
Silence stretched for several seconds... and was finally broken
by Gwen. "Dr. Whelan is your aunt? I met her once,
but I didn't know it was her. I was blindfolded
and..." She noted Rory's confused expression. "It's
Rory smiled. "I know about complicated."
I do like her, Gwen decided. "I'll tell you
my story if you tell me yours. Mine involves a secret
room, hidden underground passageways, and a mysterious phantom."
"I've got wicked relatives with a fully equipped dungeon," Rory
Gwen's eyes widened. "Wow."
"Wow," Rory agreed. "A phantom?"
"A mysterious phantom," Gwen confirmed. "I guess
I'll go first. Early last year, Clem stumbled across an
unused attic room in Nicholson Hall."
Gwen continued telling her story and Rory listened with rapt
|Oh, the Humanities!
SOMEWHERE IN THE CARIBBEAN
Inga tested her bonds.
More precisely, she continued testing her bonds. Escape
was impossible, but her employer had ordered her to make the
attempt, and she had to try... or else.
Inga was naked. In fact, she hadn't worn clothing for more
than three months, not since the night of the party at Kim
Pappas' house. Upon returning to her Lair she'd removed
her gown before retiring, not knowing she was about to be
abducted and that clothing would be a privilege not yet granted
by her new employer.
The memory of the way she was manhandled by her camouflaged,
masked amazon captors—the enemas, the insertion of the catheter
and butt-plug, the callous ease with which she was strapped
inside the "transport sarcophagus," the terror she'd
felt as the lid of the coffin-like container closed and sealed
with a dry hiss—the memory of all that was quite vivid; however,
the actual transport was not. She suspected drugs were
involved, as well as the continuing distractions of the
vibrators, the quiet voices whispering vague, half-understood,
erotic warnings, and the kaleidoscope of disturbing images
flashing across the video-visor strapped over her staring
eyes. In any case, after a journey of indeterminate
length, she'd awakened to find herself naked and in chains in a
dark, plain cell. And her employment had begun.
Food, water, exercise—a regular routine developed.
Inga was handled by one or more of several different tall,
strong women, all clad in bikinis or exercise togs, and all very
beautiful. She suspected at least some of them might be
the same amazons who had abducted her, now without their
urban-camouflaged, skintight, catsuit uniforms, but there was no
way for her to be sure. They were of every race and
color—Nordic, Mediterranean, African, Asian—and all moved with
the athletic grace and self-assurance of martial artists.
They spoke little, allowed Inga to speak less, and enforced
discipline with shock batons, riding crops, and painful,
joint-straining punishment holds. Further punishment took
the form of bland food, predicament bondage, and
floggings. Rewards for cooperation included gourmet
food, a comfortable bed at night, minimal restraint, and orgasms
extracted by various humiliating but quite effective
Exercise took the form of extended jogs down jungle trails and
across the sands of tropical beaches, swimming in either a small
exercise pool or the turquoise waters of a shallow lagoon, grueling
sessions strapped to various exercise machines, and personalized
power-yoga classes that were as much one-sided wrestling matches
as instruction. Inga's efforts were always closely
supervised, and with the sole exception of the yoga lessons,
some manner of inescapable restraint was always involved.
The regimen had already begun to have an effect. Inga had
always been fit, but now she was in the best shape of her
life. Her skin had taken on a deep, "beach-bunny" tan, and
her body was increasingly lithe and well-toned. Finally,
she received regular full-body massages from the ultra-skilled
hands of her handlers.
Her employer had decreed other changes to Inga's
appearance. Soon after her arrival, Inga's long, blond
hair had been expertly cropped into a short, shaggy, boyish
pixie. She'd been strapped to a well-padded chair at the
time, with a broad strip of tape sealing her lips. She
remembered weeping bitter tears as her tresses were cut and the
feathered bob had taken its place. She'd continued weeping
as her pubic hair was trimmed with a buzzing electric razor,
shaving cream applied—"soothing" menthol shaving cream—and the
residual stubble gently removed with a safety razor.
And all the while her employer had watched, a gloating smile on
her beautiful face. Her smooth, strong fingers and hands
had gently inspected the final results, sliding across Inga's
smooth crotch... then through the short locks of her new
coif. Then, she turned and left, leaving Inga in the care
of her handlers.
The "little girl" look of her shaved pussy was something Inga
could do without, but she had to admit she looked good as a
blond Audrey Hepburn or post-Hermione Emma Watson.
Truth be told, her captivity wasn't quite the horrific
ordeal it might seem to an objective observer. Her "new
colleagues" might be dedicated, no-nonsense types—or, without
mincing words, professional slave-handlers—but Inga could tell
they also cared about her—and she was sure she wasn't
coming down with Stockholm Syndrome. When Inga was
rewarded for good behavior, when she was pampered and petted
(and especially when they tied her down, diddled her
silly, then cuddled 'til dawn) she could sense genuine affection
on the part of her handlers. She was sure of it. The
game might be sadistic, but it wasn't being played by sadists.
Mistress, her new employer, was another matter. Inga was
not at all sure she wasn't a true sadist, at least
to some extent, and her next two personal encounters with
Mistress only reinforced this impression.
The first time, Inga was marched down a jungle trail and into
the interior of the island. Her wrists were crossed and
lashed behind her back, her lips taped, and a rope leash around
her neck. Her handler of the day was a Latina with long,
black hair and a stunning body clad only in a minimal
string bikini of tan, chamois-thin leather. After a hike
of some distance they came to a small clearing overlooking a
spectacular valley with a waterfall falling into a small,
natural pool. Set in the green turf was a vertical post of
weathered wood, possibly teak, about nine feet in height and
rounded at the top.
Also in the clearing was Inga's employer, comfortably reclined
in a folding camp chair and being served high tea by her
personal maids: a petite redhead with her face hidden behind a
mask in the stylized form of a fox, and an equally petite,
fair-skinned girl with long, black hair and her face
hidden by a traditional Japanese Noh mask. Both
were naked and in serving chains. The all-over freckles in
the case of the redhead and slight coloring but lack of
tan-lines in the case of the raven-haired maiden suggested an
unfamiliarity with clothing similar to Inga's current condition.
Inga's new boss rose from her chair, straightened the front of
her light, airy sundress, and smiled.
With the Latina enforcing cooperation, Inga's wrists were
untied, then crossed and retied behind the post. And then,
her employer added more rope—a lot more rope—until Inga
was lashed to the post from ankles to throat. The bondage
was intricate and tight and its application required most of an
hour and several yards of well-condition, five-twist,
quarter-inch jute. When her employer pulled the final
hitch and tied the final knot, Inga could barely move. The
neat horizontal bands and diagonal strands tightened and made
their presence known with every breath or attempt to squirm and
find some modicum of relief from their relentless grip.
Even her fingers and toes were included in her bondage.
Her mistress smiled, kissed Inga's tape-gagged lips, cupped her
bulging, rope-framed breasts, and gave them a gentle
squeeze. She then turned and left the clearing.
While she'd been binding Inga to the post the maids had packed
away the chair, its accompanying table, and the hamper of tea
service and the remaining tidbits. They made their
departure as well, followed by the grinning Latina.
And Inga was alone in the jungle, as helpless as she had ever
been in her entire life.
An hour passed, during which Inga's only companions were the
occasional buzzing insect or brightly colored parrot gliding
from tree to tree across the valley below—that and the
relentless ropes. The waterfall thundered into the pool,
churning the surface and generating distant water music.
The air in Inga's clearing was still, hot, and humid.
Then, Inga noticed movement. Her employer and the two tiny
maids-in-chains were at the pool, and the captive duo were
helping their mistress undress. Soon, as naked as Inga and
her servants, Mistress dove into the clear water of the pool and
enjoyed a no doubt cool and refreshing swim. Minutes
passed, then she climbed from the dark, clear waters, the maids
toweled her dry and dressed her tan, exquisite body, and they
Inga was alone, again.
Afternoon turned to evening. The sun set, night fell, and
still Inga was alone, bound and helpless.
In the morning the Latina and a second handler appeared, a
Viking amazon with a deep tan and long, sun-bleached hair so
pale it was almost white. They released Inga from the
post, then retied her wrists behind her back and her ankles
together. The blond lifted her onto her shoulder in a
fireman's carry, face down and legs and bare feet to the front,
and she was hauled back to Mistress' estate. She was fed
and watered and allowed to recover for the rest of the
day. A few of the rope-marks crisscrossing her tan skin
turned into faint, linear bruises, but they faded completely
after three days.
Inga's second personal encounter happened in a dungeon cell with
stone walls and a vaulted ceiling. In the center was a
simple table constructed of heavy timbers. Dozens of iron
rings dangled from iron spikes hammered into its periphery and
Inga recognized a classic "bondage table." Suspended
several feet over the table and stretching from wall-to-wall was
a taut, horizontal net of iron chains, like the orb-web of some
large, fantastic, steampunk spider.
That day Inga had three handlers, and they held her down on the
table while her employer bound her wrists together in
front. Then, the handlers flipped her onto her stomach and
lifted her arms behind her head. Mistress wound rope
around her neck, snug but not tight enough to restrict her
breathing, and a harness was tied linking her wrists, throat,
and upper arms. Next, her ankles were lashed to their
respective thighs and she was turned over, leaving her on her
back with all four limbs folded and bound. Mistress wove
rope through and around her crooked elbows and bent knees, then
lashed the free ends to the four corners of the table, enforcing
what might be called a bent-limb spread-eagle. More rope
followed, hitched around Inga's waist, torso, thighs, and arms
and further lashing her to the table.
Thin cord was next. It was looped around her breasts and
tightened until they bulged and took on a pinkish-mauve
blush. Then, more cord was used to lash her big toes and
link them to her other bonds and the table.
All the while a ring-gag was strapped in Inga's mouth. She
stared up at her employer as she worked, pulling pass after pass
of rope and cord, tightening hitch after hitch and making her
progressively more helpless. Inga tried to keep the fear
and distress from her eyes, but knew she was failing. She
could tell by the wicked curve of her employer's sadistic
smile. This was going to be a bad session.
Lashed down and barely able to squirm, Inga watched as the
amazon minions lifted wire baskets with blocks of ice and hooked
them to the chain web, carefully positioning them over her
helpless, naked, rope-dimpled flesh. Beyond the web Inga
had already noticed the staring lenses of at least two video
cameras mounted on iron brackets. Mistress would be able
to enjoy her ordeal from her office or other venues as she went
about her daily routine. Why loiter in a dreary dungeon
when she could watch high-definition video of Inga's exquisite
suffering from any monitor on the island?
The dungeon's barred gate closed with a clang, a bolt was
thrown, and a key turned in a lock. Then, with a dry
scrape, a slab of rough-faced granite slid closed across the
door beyond the grid of heavy iron.
And Inga was alone.
Soon, as was inevitable in the hot, humid cell, the ice began to
melt. Frigid drops began to pelt Inga's forehead, armpits,
bulging breasts, flat tummy, thighs, feet, and pussy; and more
drops fell into her open, ring-gagged mouth. Drop followed
drop followed drop. She squirmed and wiggled, but the
ropes only seemed to grow tighter. Inga knew that was in
her mind. Her employer was far too skilled a rigger to
make such a mistake. Her bonds enforced total immobility
but would not strangle her. It was her imagination
that was making them constrict.
The ordeal lasted at least two hours past the melting of the
last of the ice blocks. Finally, thankfully, the
minions returned and Inga's ropes melted away, but she found she
couldn't move. As limp as the proverbial wet noodle, Inga
was carried to a comfortable bed in a small cell. Sometime
later she received a therapeutic massage and that was followed
by a gourmet meal... with wine. That night her
handler-of-the-day, a tall, well-muscled brunette with brown doe
eyes, was unusually gentle and generous. The amazon licked
and sucked Inga's pussy as she lay on her back with her legs
splayed and her hands gripping her ankles. She wasn't
bound, but it didn't matter. Her lover was strong,
Mistress' dungeons were inescapable, and Inga needed the relief.
Tropical days continued grinding into steamy weeks. There
was more exercise, and sometimes the crushing boredom of being
chained in a dungeon cell. Alternatively, there was the
joy of being bound to a tree in the jungle or a post on the
beach, in which case her bonds would be inescapable but far
less elaborate than anything Mistress would have crafted.
Inga was also subjected to the "ordeal" of being diddled by one
or more of the beautiful amazons. She suspected these
occurrences were diversions for her handlers, rather than for
her benefit. Inga was also forced to lick and suck an
array of amazon pussies, a task she sometimes shared with
various anonymous captive maidens who appeared and disappeared
at the whim of her handlers.
And now she was in the intimate embrace of her employer's ropes
a third time—and Inga feared if said employer didn't reappear
and release her soon, she would lose it, and Mistress would
finally succeed in breaking her spirit.
Three jargon terms described her predicament. (1)
Box-tie. Inga's wrists were crossed and pinned against her
spine and just below her shoulder blades, with neat bands of
rope binding her upper arms to her sides, yoking her shoulders,
and framing her breasts. (2) Frog-tie. Inga's knees
were bent and her ankles lashed to their respective
thighs. And finally, (3) Hogtie; however, Inga's ankles
were not lashed to her wrists. It was a suspended
or flying hogtie, with a dozen vertical runs of rope conspiring
with gravity to lock Inga's body into the classic, back-arching
position. She hovered in the still, humid air about six
feet above the abstract, naturalistic mosaic decorating the
floor of a tower of Mistress' island estate.
Inga was shielded from the direct sun by the tower's conical
roof. The structure was supported by widely spaced steel
columns and the open sides provided a near 360° panorama of the
island's central mountains, the surrounding waters, and the
estate's other towers, some of which were festooned with
satellite dishes, whip antennas, or microwave repeaters. A
squall was building on the eastern horizon, but at the moment
not so much as a hint of a breeze stirred the hot, humid air,
not even at this height, meaning the height of the tower and
Inga's hovering suspension. Her smooth, tan skin glistened
with sweat and the occasional string of drool dripped from the
ball-gag imperfectly plugging her mouth to collect in a grouping
of dark spots on the mosaic below.
A taut, doubled strand of rope was looped through a D-ring sewn
into the back of the gag's strap, and Inga was grateful for its
assistance. Okay, "grateful" was a bit generous, but she
was glad her neck muscles alone weren't being asked to support
her head. The rest of her body was cradled by wide, tight
bands carefully engineered to evenly support her weight.
In some ways, Inga recognized her current predicament as
"simple" Shibari, far less elaborate than the bondage of her
first two sessions with her employer. Her bonds were neat,
symmetrical, and elegant, with the suspension points supporting
her contorted body with uniform tension and no restriction of
her pressure points. Even without being able to visually
examine the final result, Inga was certain her employer had
transformed her into a work of art, a study in helpless beauty
worthy of a world-class bondage artiste.
Time was another issue. Inga had been hanging in her
employer's open air gallery for hours. Her muscles were
threatening to cramp and even her yoga-trained joints were
beginning to file grievances. "Less is more" was taking on
a new and insidious meaning.
And then she appeared, rising like a tan, blond Valkyrie as she
rose into Inga's view, climbing the tower's spiral
staircase. Mistress had returned.
|Oh, the Humanities!
Petra Le Roque strolled towards her latest
acquisition. She was dressed in a light, gauze-thin
leopard print gown, a queen's ransom in jewelry, and gold-toned
sandals. Petra hesitated to think of Dr. Inga Berg as her
slave. A large number of her employees qualified as slaves
in all but legal status, and that included Mercy Dench, her
senior executive assistant. Yes, she thought,
Mercy is the Alfred to my Bruce Wayne, the Pepper Potts
to my Tony Stark, and she's also my slave... but Inga
is not... not yet. Note to self: see if Gwyneth Paltrow
is available for another 'island vacation.' Dr.
Berg definitely had slave potential, but it was
premature to think of her as such. Inga's ultimate
position in the La Roque hierarchy and the Sisterhood
might be very different.
Petra's smile broadened. Inga had made absolutely no
progress whatsoever in escaping her ropes. Every strand,
hitch, and macramé-like knot was exactly where Petra had placed
them. She knew this from memory and from
monitoring Dr. Berg's diligent but ineffectual efforts via the
cameras hidden in the rafters. Exquisite.
Inga's tan, toned body was still tightly clutched in the embrace
of her bondage. Her smooth skin glistened in the still
heat and her blue eyes begged for release. The captive
didn't wiggle or moan, but the message was clear. Inga had
had enough. Her days as a Feisty Damsel and Proud Prisoner
were over, and Petra hoped she hadn't taken things too far.
"I have good news," Petra purred as she stood before her
prisoner's sad, gagged face. She reached out and
straightened Inga's sweat-dampened bangs before
continuing. "The initial phase of your executive
orientation is over. I'm quite pleased, my dear. You
haven't run with scissors, not once." She leaned in until
her smiling face was inches from Inga's, then slid her right
hand along the captive's glistening body, pausing to lightly
caress her left breast, gently squeezing the hanging globe of
tan flesh, then continued down her flat, taut abdomen to stroke
her flushed labia. "Now we'll see if you play well with
others, like a truly good little girl."
Inga glared at her employer and shivered in her bonds.
Excellent. She isn't broken after all.
Petra continued her slow, gliding caress of Inga's pussy.
"Your resident colleagues in Long Range Development are most
anxious to meet you in person. They've all read your
dissertation and are bursting with questions." She slid
her index finger between Inga's labia and continued her
massage. Inga quivered and a mewling moan escaped her
gagged mouth, accompanied by a dripping rope of saliva.
"Of course, as junior member of the team you'll start at the
bottom, but I'll be very surprised if you aren't one of the
leaders in no time... three or four years at most."
Inga continued squirming and her eyes were clenched tightly
"Phase-I of the resort's Pirate Queen's Castle venue is more
than 90% complete," Petra said. It wasn't at all clear
whether or not Inga was listening. "It should be ready for
our first guests in about six months. [Author's
note: Petra's plans for her private island resort are
discussed in the later chapters of The Amazing Amanda.]
"The final outfitting will take an additional year, but the
guest dungeons, torture chambers, feasting hall, and kitchens
are finished. Finished enough, that is." She
used her right hand to tease Inga's rigid, pointing
nipples. "La Roque International aside, I see a great
future for you in this branch of the Sisterhood, Inga; not
simply as one of our academic contributors, but as an
intellectual leader, working with the best of our
technologists, artists, and celebrity personalities. A great
Petra's hands continuing working their magic, and Inga continued
"There is one final test," Petra whispered in Inga's left ear,
"one more hurdle to pass before you can move on. No matter
what I do, do not cum. If you cum without
permission, I'll tear up your report card and you'll begin your
orientation all over again, from the very beginning." She
tickled Inga's clitoris and gently tugged on her right
nipple. "Do not cum, Inga."
Inga went rigid in her bonds. She was trying her best not
to quiver and cum... trying her best. The ordeal
continued, and Inga began panting and whining softly through her
gag with every breath.
"Good girl," Petra whispered, continuing to frig Inga's
pussy. "And now... you may cum."
Inga's whines rose in crescendo and she writhed and
convulsed in her bonds, in the throes of an obvious, crashing
"Isn't that cute," Petra chuckled. "Did you know you
squirt when you cum?" She kissed the tip of Inga's button
nose. "Just a little. Very cute." She
then turned and strolled towards the spiral staircase.
"Welcome to the ranks of La Roque International's Special
Projects Division, Doctor. Career Development personnel
will arrive an hour before sundown to prepare you for
dinner. I have an interesting salon planned, a
distinguished group of artists and authors who are most
anxious to meet you. Excellent food, fine wine, and
sparkling conversation, followed by an evening of celebratory
sex, of course." She paused on the first step to smile at
the still panting and sweating captive. "Hmmm... no
clothing... and golden chains, I think. No clothing for
the rest of the week, Doctor. After that—" She
started down the stairs. "We'll see."
Petra paused again, when only her head and shoulders were
visible from Inga's hovering perspective of her rope
cradle. "Oh, and call Kimberly Pappas tomorrow, please.
She's been pestering me incessantly, demanding to know what I've
been doing to her 'favorite student.' And I don't
think it was purient interest. Anyway, call her."
Inga smiled behind her gag. That's sweet.
Petra continued down the stairs and soon was gone... and Inga
was alone... helpless and hanging in Mistress' inescapable
ropes. I wonder how soon Mistress will let me invite
Kim out to the island for a 'consulting visit?'
The wind ahead of the approaching squall had arrived in the form
of a gentle breeze and Inga sighed through her gag. Her
new job was a nightmare—and everything she'd ever hoped
it would be.
|Oh, the Humanities!
|...& the story entire