by Van © 2018
		Chapter 4

So... kidnapped in my jammies in the middle of the night by a couple of my alleged friends.

Maybe it happens all the time and I've just been moving in the wrong circles, but somehow I didn't think so.  I was scared, but much to my surprise I wasn't terrified.  I was neither overwhelmed nor underwhelmed.  I was simply... whelmed.

The situation didn't fit any of the movie/TV kidnapping scenarios with which I was familiar.  I wasn't the girlfriend, wife, or cute sister of a Hero Cop, Super Spy, or Crusading Reporter.  Nor was I, myself, a Hero Cop, Super Spy, or Crusading Reporter.  And as far as I knew, Fern and Libby weren't the brutal and/or highly trained minions of a criminal enterprise or sinister foreign power.  They were a Trickster and a Mean Girl, respectively, and I was just... Molly.

So...  What the hell was happening?  And why wasn't I a hysterical wreck?

My kidnappers had "explained" that they were inviting me to a come-as-you-are party, and actually, this wouldn't be my first such impromptu shindig.  I'd participated in a surprise come-as-you-are pancake breakfast when I was a Girl Scout, but ball-gags and bondage weren't involved (and robes and slippers had actually been required).

And speaking of ball-gags and bondage, my gag was black and black (ball and strap) and it was doing an outstanding job of filling my mouth, keeping me quiet, and containing drool.  Oops.  Strike that last part.  A dollop of saliva slid from the left corner of my mouth, dripped down my chin, and splashed my chest, above my cord-framed breasts and between the front panels of my disheveled sleep-shirt.  As for the cord bondage, it was tight without being punishing.  I noted that Libby and Fern's thin cords had a different feeling from Winnie's brown ropes but were just as inescapable.  I think the stuff is generally referred to as "parachute cord".

Also, one of my kidnappers had mentioned an "initiation" of some sort, which only added to the mystery.

Anyway, we motored through the night with Libby's hand still resting on my right thigh.  Increasingly toasty air was now blowing from the SUV's backseat registers, so my bare feet and legs were no longer cold.  In fact, my all-of-me was getting hot... hot and bothered.

"Mrrrk?" I inquired.

"Soon, Molly," Libby reassured me.  Her words were reassuring, anyway.  Her Mean Girl smile was not.

I could see where we were going, meaning what streets Fern was using.  Late night traffic was light, but we passed other vehicles on a regular basis.  The side windows of the SUV were heavily tinted, something I'd noticed back at my place during the initial phase of my abduction.  In any case, none of the drivers or passengers in the passing cars gave any sign of noticing my ball-gagged and wide-eyed self peering at them from the back seat of the SUV.  At one point we even passed a police cruiser, but no flashing blue and red lights or high-speed chase ensued.

After a while we entered one of the wealthiest (if not the wealthiest) neighborhood in town and rolled past big houses on big lots, meaning hedges and tall fences with automated iron gates.  We slowed as one of the automated gates in question rumbled open, then turned onto a long, tree-lined driveway.  It was dark and the trees were in the way, but I could see we were approaching a genuine mansion.  Light was shining through a few of its windows, and the driveway itself had tasteful subdued lighting, but I still couldn't see much detail.  I think the place was Victorian, or maybe Gothic.  Anyway, it was big, elegant, and unmistakably a Grand Estate.

"Welcome to Stately Locke Manor," Fern chuckled from the driver's seat, apparently for my benefit.

I blinked and swiveled my head to stare at Libby.  'Locke Manor'??  I was being spirited away to Mean Girl World Headquarters??

"Just park," Libby purred, a wry smile curling her gorgeous lips.

We'd been waiting for one of several garage doors in what was obviously the huge mansion's huge attached garage to open.  It had, so we pulled forward and Fern parked the SUV at the end of a row of luxury sedans and at least one sports car that was too far away for me to determine the make and model.  I could see that it was red, however.  Big surprise.

Libby released my lap-belt while Fern opened the back door.  Together, they helped (dragged) me out of the SUV.  The concrete floor had some sort of fancy coating with embedded plastic flecks in several colors, but it was concrete and was cold under my bare feet.  Fern led the way towards a set of steps leading up to a closed door.  With a firm grip on my left arm, Libby encouraged me to follow.  Once we climbed the steps Libby stepped forward and entered a code into a keypad and there was an audible bleep, accompanied by the simultaneous click of a lock, and we entered Locke Manor proper.

By the simple surroundings I surmised we'd entered through a service door and were in a back hallway.  There were no furnishings to speak of, no art on the walls, and the floor underfoot was spotlessly clean and highly functional tile.  The periodic overhead lights were giving off a power-conserving nighttime glow.  The general ambiance was rather sinister, but to be fair, that may have been just me, given the context.  To non semi-clothed, bound, and gagged kidnap victims, it would probably be just a dimly lit service hallway in a big mansion.

Anyway, eventually we entered a largish room with two doors, not counting the third door through which we'd just entered.  The two doors were normal, meaning the sort of thing you'd expect to find in a rich mansion: wood, possibly walnut, possibly antique brass doorknobs and hinges.  And once it closed behind us, door number three, our door, was revealed to be more... subdued.  There was no visible door frame and the door itself was a flat panel painted to match the walls.  The doorknob and hinges were likewise painted to match.  It wasn't a bona fide secret door, but like I said, it was subdued.

Opposite the subdued door was a row of freestanding wooden lockers.  They matched the wood of the non-subdued doors and, in my not at all antique-savvy opinion, were Victorian, the sort of lockers one might expect to see in the fancy dressing room of a Victorian gym or spa.

Without prompting, Fern strolled to the first locker, opened its door, and undressed.  That's right, she hung up her messenger bag, then removed her sneakers, socks, hoodie, jeans, black t-shirt, and white bikini-panties and bra!  Everything went in the locker, and now she was naked!  Not surprisingly, she had the same all-over tan and nipple-rings I'd noticed during The Second Session.

Libby had followed Fern to the locker, and the nude Trickster smiled at me with her big, brown, amazing eyes as the fully clothed Mean Girl opened Fern's messenger bag and pulled out more of the black cord binding my sleep-shirt-clad self.

I considered opening the closed and unlocked subdued door behind me and escaping back into the hallway, but I knew they'd quickly chase me down and drag me back.  Instead, I watched (blinking behind my glasses) as Libby proceeded to tie up her fellow (and now naked) kidnapper!

End result: Fern was "box-tied."  A harness of cords pinned her upper arms against her sides, passed above and below her breasts and yoked her shoulders.  Her arms were folded behind her back and her wrists raised and bound to the harness just below her shoulder blades, and Libby had added cords that bound her thumbs and crossed her palms.  In my opinion the thumbs-and-palms thing was just plain old fashioned overkill, more evidence that Libby was a Mean Girl, but nobody removed my ball-gag and asked me.

Naked and box-tied with thin black cord, Fern winked at me, then batted her big, brown, amazing eyes for Libby's benefit.  "Oh, Mistress," she sighed, squirming her upper body, testing the box-tie, and biting her lower lip.  "I am sooooo helpless.  What are you going to do to me?"  She stole a glance in my semi-clothed, bound, and gagged direction.  "What are you going to do to us?"

Sarcastic?  No, ya think?

"Wise ass," Libby huffed (still smiling).  "So, you're in one of your moods.  In that case, all bets are off."

Just for a moment, Fern's "distress" appeared to be genuine, then she batted her eyes again and nodded in my direction.  "Don't scare the initiate," she said in a near whisper.  "You'll ruin everything."

Yeah, don't scare me, I thought, quickly followed by:  No!  Wait!  I'm already scared!

"If I want your opinion," Libby said to Fern, "I'll whip it out of you."

She was just kidding, of course.  Wasn't she?

Libby removed her hoodie, revealing a black tank-top, and hung the hoodie in the second locker.  She then walked to one of the non-subdued wooden doors, took a skeleton key down from a tiny hook next to the door frame, unlocked the door, and pulled it open.  Whatever was beyond was obscured in darkness.

"You first, Wise Ass," Libby said as she pocketed the key.

"Woe is us," Fern sighed, grinned, and padded through the door.

Libby motioned to me.  "Next."

Who, me?  After a gagged gulp—Gulp!—I padded in Fern's wake.  Libby closed the door behind us, and I found myself in a black corridor, but my eyes adjusted and I began seeing a glimmer of light up ahead.  We continued forward and I realized the dim light was shining through a prison-style barred gate!

Hah!  You think you're scaring me with this semi-clad, bound and gagged, barefoot journey to your Mean Girl Dungeon?  Hah!  The joke's on you.  I'm already scared!

Libby stepped past me and unlocked and opened the barred gate, using the same skeleton key.  Fern crossed the threshold and started down a set of stairs.  Again, I briefly considered making a run for it, but instead heaved a gagged sigh and carefully followed Fern down the stairs.

"Careful," Libby advised as she closed and locked the barred gate.

Oh, nice, now she's worried about my safety, as she leads me down to her hypothetical Mean Girl Dungeon.  The stairs bottomed out in the middle of a long, narrow space.  To our front was a wall of iron bars with another barred gate in its center.  A row of canisters set in the concrete ceiling over our heads emitted a dim light.  The walls at our back and to either side were stone blocks, or possibly concrete blocks made to look like stone blocks.  The floor underfoot was concrete and warm, so there must have been sub-floor heating.

Beyond the bars was a very dark space.  There was just enough light to suggest that it was occupied by... things... furnishings.  And the space itself was larger than what I now surmised was our current barred alcove.

Libby stepped to an electrical panel mounted on the back wall and flicked a series of switches.

In the space beyond the iron bars, a series of spotlights winked on, illuminating what I assumed would be the site of the promised come-as-you-are sleepover party/initiation.

As Libby unlocked the barred gate, my eyes popped as wide as the proverbial saucers, my heart began pounding, and I screamed through my gag!  "MRRRMPFH!!"

Instead of staring through the bars at what I'd bravely and mockingly presumed would be a Mean Girl Dungeon, I was staring through the bars at a genuine Mean Girl TORTURE CHAMBER!!  Honestly, the place was something out of a Vincent Price and/or Basil Rathbone Hammer Studios horror movie!  I recognized a rack, a horse, a bondage chair, a bondage table, a pair of whipping posts, and other stuff!

Needless to say—"MRRRMPFH!!"

Fern padded over to my shivering, wide-eyed self.  "Don't be scared, Molly," she said, nudging my bound arm with her bound arm.  "It's just a playroom."

A playroom?  A PLAYROOM??  A playroom has fun puzzles, bouncy balls, and cuddly stuffed animals.  Nothing beyond the bars was fun, bouncy, or cuddly!  To the inventory of "furniture" already mentioned, I added two different iron cages, one cubical and a little more than three feet on a side, and one tall, narrow, upright, and hourglass shaped, to follow the contours of the human (female) profile.  Also, one of those "X"-shaped things with lashing points at all four corners.  Also, wooden racks holding dozens of coils of brown rope and assorted whips and floggers!

I'm unschooled in the art of carpentry, but to my terrified eye, everything was top-of-the-line, constructed from heavy, hardwood timber with clever joinery.  There was no decorative carving or fancy flourishes, but the basic designs were elegant, efficient, and stylishly functional.  Medieval?  Arts & Crafts?  None-of-the-above?  I really don't know furniture styles, but I was impressed (and terrified).  I think the hosts of This Old House (that home improvement show on PBS) would have been impressed.  Disapproving, but impressed.

By this time Libby had the gate open.  She also had a grip on my right arm and was dragging me through the gate—"MRRRK!"—and into the "playroom."

"Settle down, Molly," Libby chuckled.

"Hey, numb-nuts!" Fern huffed as she surged forward and bumped Libby with her shoulder.  "Show a little sensitivity.  Can't you see she's scared?"

Scared?  Who, me?  DAMN STRAIGHT I was scared!

Libby glared at Fern, then smiled at me.  She still had a firm grip on my arm.  "Oh, Molly, it's just my Mom's playroom.  There's no need to be scared."

Need!  Need!  I was staring at genuine torture engines and was not reassured!

Meanwhile, Libby had released my arm, closed and locked the gate, and was pocketing the key.

I blinked in distress, then something Libby had just said percolated to the fore of my horrified brain.  'My Mom's playroom?'  Who is 'Mom'?  Libby's mom?  Obviously, but... 'My Mom's playroom?'

"We know you're new to Winnie and her ropes and are having fun, Molly dear," Libby purred, "so we assumed you'd think this sort of thing would also be fun."

My heart was pounding and I was blinking and panting through my gag.  'Fun?'

"You're not helping," Fern sighed, obviously for Libby's benefit, then padded forward and nudged my shoulder with her shoulder, again.  "Nobody's gonna torture you, Molly," she said with a sly grin.  "I know it's scary, but it's scary fun.  Really."

I might have been reassured if Libby had been the one naked and tied up and Fern the one in sneakers, black jeans, a black tank-top, and with the key to Mom's Playroom in her pocket.

"Okay, that does it," Libby muttered, then pointed to the center of the Playroom.

Fern heaved a sigh and padded to the position indicated.  I noted she was still smiling.

Libby had strolled to one of the walls and started turning the handle of a small windlass.  As Fern and I watched, a light chain with a clip dancing at its end quivered and shook as it lowered from a pulley set in the ceiling directly over Fern's head.  Libby stopped cranking when the clip was even with Fern's big, brown, amazing eyes.  We also watched as Libby strolled to a small, wall-mounted cabinet, opened the door, and reached inside.  I caught a glint of steel, but couldn't see exactly what was now in Libby's hand.

The blond Mean Girl strolled in front of Fern and now her gorgeous, black-clad body blocked by view.  Seconds passed... then Libby returned to the hand-crank and I could see exactly what she'd taken from the cabinet and exactly what she'd done with it!  "Mrrrk?"  A tiny clip attached to a light chain now captured Fern's right nipple-ring, the chain passed through the slightly larger clip at the end of the slightly heavier vertical chain, and a second tiny clip at the other end captured Fern's left nipple-ring!

Inexplicably (in my frantically blinking, gagged opinion), Fern was still smiling.  Libby was also smiling.  She turned the hand-crank and the vertical chain shortened... and shortened... until Fern's heels left the floor and she had no choice but to go up on her toes!  Libby gave the crank one last click, then engaged the locking mechanism and strolled back to Fern.

From my position—cowering with my bound arms and shoulders pressed against the bars of the closed and locked gate—I could see that Fern's breasts and nipples were now slightly stretched.  Also, her calf muscles were tense.  It was as if she was standing in invisible high-heel shoes that were keeping her from hanging by her nipple-rings!

Libby smiled in my direction.  "I can rig a similar arrangement with clover-clamps," she purred.  I continued panting and blinking.  "You know, clover-clamps?  Oh, that's right, you're our newbie."  She strolled in my shivering direction.  "Clover clamps are spring-loaded and tighten when you tug on their connecting chain.  No nipple-rings required."

"You really suck at the whole reassuring-the-novice thing," Fern chuckled.  "Really.  It's sad."  There was now the slightest hint of strain in her voice, but she was still smiling.

Libby rolled her eyes, spun on her heel, and strolled to a different wall-mounted cabinet.  She opened it and produced a ball-gag.  She then closed the cabinet and strolled in Fern's direction.

Fern eyed the approaching gag dangling from Libby's right hand.  "You know my constructive and entertaining criticism all come from a place of love, don't you?" she purred, batting her big, brown, amazing eyes.

"Oh, right back at ya, sweetie," Libby chuckled as she stepped behind Fern, popped the ball in her mouth, and buckled the strap at the nape of her neck, under her long, straight, raven-black hair (with bangs).  "Now, let's get on with Molly's initiation, shall we?"

They both turned and smiled in my direction.  Yes, now Fern was ball-gagged, like me, but her big, brown, amazing eyes were definitely smiling.

I pressed by back against the bars as, once again, Libby strolled in my direction.  Gulp!

"Okay, Molly," Libby chuckled as she took my arm and led (dragged) me forward, "since there will be no more kibitzing from the cheap seats, we can, indeed, get on with your initiation."

"Mrrrk?"

"Yes," Libby purred.  "I quite agree."

She easily overcame my backpedaling resistance as she took me on what I quickly realized was a tour of Mom's Playroom.

First on the agenda was the horse.  A wedge-shaped construction of heavy timbers, it was in no way equine.  The base was rectangular, the two ends triangular, and the horizontal top ridge a triangular bar of black iron.  The bar wasn't what you could call sharp, but it certainly wasn't an inviting saddle.

For those of you unfamiliar with this particular meaning of the word "horse," it describes a medieval torture device in which the victim straddles and rides the thing's horizontal ridge with a leg to either side.  Sometimes weights were attached to the victim's ankles, sometimes the ankles were tied to the base in some manner (Libby's horse had rope-ready iron rings set in its base), and sometimes the simple awkwardness of the position and lack of traction for the feet is enough to keep the rider in place.  In any case, the victim's full weight rests on the narrow ridge!  I assumed that would hurt, and I certainly didn't want to find out!

Libby gave my wide-eyed, panting, and now sweaty self a critical gaze.  "Hmm... I think not.  Not for round one, anyway.  You are our darling little nerdy-novice, after all."

The second stop on the tour was the rack.  It was also heavy timber—like everything else in the playroom—and its table-like, horizontal surface was smooth and about the size of a twin bed.  At one end was a set of stocks with ankle holes padded with fleece.  At the other end was a wooden drum with massive iron gears and oar-style crank-handles.  A pair of brown ropes were wound on the drum, and each had a wide, fleece-lined leather cuff dangling from the end.  The cuffs were attached via iron rings and the sort of fancywork sailors use for splicing or finishing the free ends of ropes.  (It's funny the details one notices at times of stress.)

Anyway, the rack was a rack.  The victim is stretched with his or her ankles in the pillory and his or her wrists in the cuffs.  It looked unpleasant.  I didn't want to play.

Apparently, Libby could read my thoughts.  "Still too much?" she sighed.  "Well, lets see what else we have."

Suddenly we heard a new alto, feminine voice.  "Ahem."

Fern, Libby, and myself turned towards the gate and beheld a forty-something blond woman standing on the other side of the iron bars.  I noticed a striking resemblance to Libby.  Also, whoever she was, it was quite clear that she was not happy.

Libby's eyes were now as wide as my own.  (Fern's eyes are always kinda wide.)

"Mother!" Libby yelped.

That explained it.  Of course.  The newcomer was Libby's mom, and—Gulp!—that meant we were in her playroom!

"I thought you were vacationing in Lucerne until next week," Libby said (nervously).

"That was the plan," Libby's Mom said as she produced a key from the jacket pocket of her stylish and no doubt hideously expensive traveling suit (heels, hose, skirt, turtleneck, and jacket), and unlocked the gate.  "Plans change."

I noted that she had her own key.  But then, of course she had her own key.  It was her playroom.

"Father?"

"Your father will be in Zurich for at least the next week," Libby's Mom answered.

"Business?"

"Business."

Mother and daughter shared a commiserating sigh.  Then, Libby's Mom looked from Fern (who blushed and smiled), to me (Gulp!), then back to her daughter.  "You know the Playroom is off limits," she said evenly, "especially when I'm traveling."

Now Libby was blushing as well.  That made three of us.

By the way, any fool could see where Libby got her gorgeousness genes.  If anything, Libby's Mom was even more gorgeous.  Of course, I'd yet to see her naked, but she was a looker... a looker-and-a-half!

"Uh..."  Libby nodded in my blushing direction.  "We're initiating Molly into the club and this is the perfect place, so... I thought..."

Libby's mom rolled her eyes, stepped forward, smiled at me, then returned her suddenly unsmiling gaze to her wayward and apparently trespassing daughter.  "Manners," she purred.

"Oh!" Libby gasped.  "Mother, allow me to introduce Molly Schmeck."  She turned to me.  "Schmeck, right?"

"Mrrrf," I nodded in the affirmative.

Libby turned back to her mom.  "Molly lives across the street from Winnie."

"So you took it upon yourself to kidnap her and drag her to my private playroom," Libby's Mom muttered.

Libby nodded at Fern.  "Fern helped."

Fern chortled through her gag and nodded.  Obviously, while Libby was intimidated by her mother's arrival, Fern was not.  In fact, Fern was completely at ease... in a naked, bound, gagged, heels off the floor, up on tiptoe, and almost dangling by your tethered nipple-rings sort of way.

Libby's Mom rolled her eyes, again, then smiled and kissed me on my blushing cheek.  "Pleased to meet you, Molly.  I'm Libby's mother.  Please call me Irene."

"Mrrf," I nodded politely (still blushing).

"Excellent," Irene responded, then strolled to the windlass controlling Fern's tiptoe predicament, released the ratchet, and played out sufficient slack for Fern to come down off her toes and stand flatfooted.  She then focused her unsmiling gaze on her daughter.  "As for you, young lady," she said quietly, "strip."

Blue eyes wide and tragic, Libby sighed, then pulled her tank-top over her head and dropped it to the floor.  Her bra followed.  Next, she kicked off her sneakers, removed her gym socks, and unzipped and peeled off her jeans.  Her bikini panties were last, and Libby was nude.  I surmised that the Locke household had a strict dress code, at least with respect to wayward daughters in Mom's Playroom.

"Rack," Irene ordered.

Libby swallowed nervously, then padded to the rack, gracefully hopped up onto the hard wooden table/bed and stretched out on her back.  Irene strolled to the foot of the rack and lifted the top half of the stocks.  Libby helpfully (and reluctantly) placed her ankles in the fleece-padded half openings and Irene closed the stocks and engaged a heavy-duty latch that made sure the two halves would remained closed.  She then strolled to the head of the rack, took Libby's right hand, lifted her arm, wrapped the right cuff around her daughter's wrist, and buckled the cuff's wide retaining strap, securing its double-tongued buckle.  She then stepped around the rack and did the same to her daughter's left hand.  That side of the rack was also the location of the rack's hand-crank.

Mother and daughter locked eyes as Irene began slowly turning the handles.  A ratchet and pawl mechanism clicked as the ropes were drawn onto the drum.  "Click-click-click-click..."

"Bad girls get put to bed without any supper," Irene purred.

"I already ate," Libby admitted.  She was now what I would characterize as stringently stretched.  Her breasts were too generous to be flat, but they were trying.  Her abdomen was flat—flatter than usual, anyway.

In my opinion, Libby wasn't in a great deal of physical distress, and possibly no real physical distress; however, she was definitely helpless.  She also didn't seem to be in emotional distress.  Obviously, this was a game—some sort of weird family game.

I glanced at Fern, and the big-eyed, ball-gagged scamp actually winked at me.  Of all the nerve!

Irene left her stretched, naked daughter on the rack, and strolled behind Fern.  She unbuckled her ball-gag, resecured the gag's strap on its first hole, then stepped around Fern's body and released the clamp tethering her nipple-rings to the vertical chain.  However, she didn't release the light chain connecting the nipple-rings.

Fern expelled the ball-gag's ball from her mouth and it fell to bounce against her saliva-splattered chest.  She worked her jaw and licked her lips.  Then, her big, brown, amazing eyes flashing with mischief, leaned forward and kissed Irene's smiling lips.  "Thank you, Mrs. Locke," she said, then scampered to the rack, turned her head, and smiled in my direction.  "Come look, Molly," she chuckled.

Who, me?  I blinked a few times... then padded across the Playroom to Fern's side.  I did not scamper.  And just for the record, my heart was still beating like a hammer.

Fern smiled and nodded down at Libby's naked, stretched form.  "You see, Molly?  It's not so bad.  There's no need to be scared."

Yeah, right, it's not bad 'til somebody starts turning the crank!  I gazed down at Libby's tan, smooth, stretched body... and drooled a little.

"Look up," Fern suggested, and I did so.

An iron rail was mounted on the ceiling, centered over the rack.

"There are clamps in one of the cabinets that can be used to attach pulleys and rings to the rail," Fern explained, "so you can entertain the occupant of the rack with those clover-clamps Libby told you about, wire baskets full of dripping ice, all sorts of stuff."

Libby was staring daggers at Fern, her smiling, naked, and bound friend.

"There's also this rectangular steel framework thing that holds something like twenty or thirty long-burning candles at odd angles.  It's sort of the world's worst designed candelabra," Fern's grin widened, "unless its true purpose is to drip hot wax on whoever is stretched on the rack."

Libby continued glaring.  She didn't make any threats.  She didn't have to.  The tables might have turned, but even I knew they'd probably turn back at some point.

"The only problem is cleanup," Fern sighed.  "You have to scrape off all the wax that misses the occupant's body without damaging the wood."

I blinked in surprise.  The solution was obvious.  "Drop cloth," I suggested.

"Excuse me?" Fern chuckled.

"Drop cloth," I reiterated.  Granted, thanks to the ball-gag it came out as "Urrp arrf," but still, it was obvious.

"Good idea, Molly," Irene chuckled.  She was in the process of gathering, folding, and bundling her daughter's discarded clothes, and I noticed that during the process she'd pulled the Playroom gate key from the pocket of Libby's jeans.  The bundle of her daughter's black, kidnappy clothes under her left arm, she strolled over to stand beside Fern and myself.

"Huh?"  Fern inquired.

"Drop cloth," Irene purred.

"Urrp arrf," I confirmed.

Fern's smile returned.  "Oh, drop cloth.  Of course."

Irene gazed down at the rack (and her glaring daughter).  "Hmm...  Rubberized canvas?"

"Maybe just plain rubber," Fern responded.  "That would really be... sweaty."

Libby locked eyes with her mother.  "Mom!" she complained.

"Hush, dear," Irene chuckled.  "You're being punished."

"Want to use my gag?" Fern suggested.  She rolled her shoulders to make the ball-gag in question bounce and slide against her chest.  I noticed that her boobs also bounced, and the drooping chain still connecting her nipple-rings quivered and shook.  "I'm done with it."

Irene favored Fern with a sinister smile.  "Well, maybe I'm not done with it."  She unclipped the left clamp from Fern's left nipple-ring, threaded the open handle of the Playroom key through the connecting chain, and reconnected the clip.  "Hold this for me," she purred, then let the key drop.  The skeleton key wasn't particularly big or heavy, but was heavy enough to make the chain hang between Fern's boobs in a "V," as opposed to its former "U."

"Yes, Mrs. Locke," Fern said with a smile.  She didn't appear to be bothered by the dangling key.  Go figure!

"Come," Irene suggested (ordered), then spun on her expensive designer heels and headed for the Playroom gate.

"Mother!" Libby complained.

"Told ya so," Fern said.  "She never knows when to shut up."

"Not to worry," Irene chuckled, "this entire level is soundproof.  Even the air conditioning ducts have sound baffles."

"So no one will hear her?" Fern inquired with a grin.  "Even if she screams?"

"Come," Irene reiterated.

"Just you wait," Libby whispered, still staring daggers at Fern.

Fern winked at the naked, stretched, and helpless Mean Girl, then winked at me, then spun on her bare heel and padded after Irene.

I blinked a few times, then padded in their wake.

Irene used her key to unlock the gate, we crossed the threshold into the antechamber, and Irene closed and locked the gate behind us.

"Good night, Mother!" Libby called from back in the Playroom.  "Welcome home!"

"Good night, Pumpkin," Irene purred as she turned off the lights.

And with that, we headed up the stairs, leaving Libby to languish on the rack, locked in her mother's torture chamber.

So, Irene was resplendent in her hideously expensive traveling suit.  Fern was naked, bound, and not gagged.  I was in my sleep-shirt and panties, bound, and gagged.  I had questions, but they'd just have to wait.