Kitty Wynter


  The Damsel Vanishes by Van ©2016

  Chapter 6



Bertie opened her eyes... but found it didn't do her much good.  She was in total darkness.  She was also naked, tied up, and gagged.  Her bonds were rope and her gag tape of some sort, possibly a wide strip of medical plaster, like Elastoplast.  There was also stuffing in her mouth, something smooth and silky, possibly panties... possibly her own panties, but she was hardly in a position to confirm that suspicion.

Bertie wiggled and squirmed, testing her bonds, then heaved a gagged sigh.  Again, she fumed, silently.  I've stepped in it again!

She took a more detailed inventory of her condition.  As bondage went, the ropes were pretty superficial.  Her wrists were crossed and tied behind her back, her ankles were also crossed and tied, and more rope yoked her shoulders and passed around her torso, above and below her breasts in a kimono-tie harness, and the harness' final few feet had been looped and tightened through her ankle and wrist bonds, enforcing a strict, no nonsense hogtie.  Pretty superficial.  Kitty would have gone for something far more restrictive—as would Lady Arabelle or her dominatrix employees—as would that beastly "Dr. Bondage" woman or her Goth sidekick, Suki.

The crucial question, of course, was whether or not Bertie's bonds were inescapable.  Simplicity aside, any competent rigger could have presented her with an insurmountable challenge by placing the key knots well beyond the reach of her fingers.  That said, Bertie Finch was fit and flexible—practicing yogini fit and flexible—and she certainly got plenty of practice honing her escapology skills.  Granted, Bertie was seldom successful escaping from Kitty's ropes, unless they were trying something new and it was a learning experience for both of them, but she had plenty of experience trying.

Bertie put all thoughts of bondage aside, for the moment—even though the ropes didn't put her aside—and concentrated on her environment.  The darkness remained total, even though her eyes had to be dark adapted.  She was on a carpeted surface.  Specifically, her breasts, tummy, and thighs were on a carpeted surface.  She listened for any ambient sounds... and could hear nothing.  "Mrrrpfh!"  Her attempt to add noise to the environment suggested she was in an enclosed space, possibly a small storeroom or closet.  This was reinforced by a slight musty, moldy odor, with a hint of mothballs.  None of it was enough to make her sneeze, thank goodness, but it was there.  Closet, she decided, possibly a storage closet for winter clothing.  If there were wool coats hanging from hangers overhead, they were more on the order of jackets, otherwise their bottom hems would be touching her toes.

Bertie heaved another sigh, then settled in for some serious wiggling, squirming, and groping, possibly with a little rolling, if the closet walls weren't too close.  Just once, she groused silently as her fingers groped for any available knots, just bloody once, I'd like to not have to wait around to be rescued.  Kitty called Bertie her 'squirmy little English Muffin,' and she fully intended to live up to the epithet.
The Damsel Vanishes  meow
 Chapter 6
Kitty reflected that the empty townhouse was well named... or designated... or whatever.  After defeating the rather elementary alarm system supposedly protecting the front door, she'd conducted a quick sweep of the entire building, from attic to basement, and turned up nothing.  The effort had been to clear the place, to make sure she was alone, rather than a thorough search.  The thorough, actual search came next, but it also turned up nothing.

Kitty reflected that the townhouse was actually a nice place.  It could use a little fresh paint, some polish on the wainscoting and other woodwork, but it was nice, if you were into turn-of-the-last-century blah architecture, which Kitty wasn't.  The cleaning service Bertie had mentioned was doing its job.  There were no cobwebs or accumulated dust, not even in the corners.  Even the drapes had been cared for.  They were a little faded, but they were clean.  The service had neglected to dust the furniture, but that was because there was no furniture.  Not a stick.  The porch light was on a light sensor set to turn it on at sunset and off at dawn, and the ceiling fixtures in the front parlor and one of the upstairs rooms were on similar, separate timers, but they were set to turn the lights on and off after dark to simulate occupancy and fool the casual observer (meaning any burglars who might be casing the joint), but that was it.

As for subtle clues... nothing, nada, zip, zero, bupkis.  Kitty hadn't expected to find a written note detailing where to find Jessie Maitland carelessly discarded on a hallway floor or tacked to a bulletin board in the kitchen, but she'd hoped to find something.  Discovering Jessie herself, bound, gagged, and tied with a big red bow, would have been way too much to hope for, but Kitty diligently checked all the closets, just in case.

The basement was last, meaning the last space on Kitty's thorough search itinerary.  This time, she even looked inside the obsolete washing and drying machines, peered into the bone dry deep sink nearby, and shone her flashlight into every nook, cranny, and corner.  The cleaning service hadn't been quite as diligent down below as they'd been up above, but the basement was reasonably clean.  And like the rest of the building, devoid of clues.

'Red Herring Mansion,' Kitty decided.  That's what I'll call this place.  The search had been a complete waste of her time.  She decided her next order of business would be to hook up with Bertie and see what she'd learned from her interview of Angelique Porter, then track down Athena Zavros and let her know exactly how much Kitty Wynter enjoyed chasing false leads.  And no more Miss Nice Kitty!  Kitty's claws would be out.

Standing near the stairs, Kitty gazed at the back wall of the basement.  Somewhere beyond and at least one story up, Bertie would be charming the pants off Miriam Holden's kid sister—figuratively, of course—no doubt over tea and cookies, or "biscuits" as Muffin was wont to call them.  Kitty heaved a sigh, turned to go—and paused.  Something was not quite right.

Kitty twisted the lens cover of her flashlight to focus its light into a narrow, ultra-bright, blue-white beam.  She played the light across the wide wall, widened the beam, and repeated the process—then smiled and stepped forward.  Between two vertical seams in the concrete, fossil remnants of the forms used during construction, was a rectangular stretch of concrete that was not concrete.  The color and texture very closely matched the actual concrete walls to either side, but were off just enough to stand out, at least under the cold, LED light of Kitty's flashlight.  Also, the rectangle was less three dimensional.  That is, it was smooth and painted, camouflaged to resemble its surroundings.  Kitty used the butt of the flashlight to give the panel a quiet tap.  Steel, she confirmed.

There was one other minor detail.  The rectangular area in question was about the size of a typical door.  There was no apparent door frame, unless one counted the vertical expansion seams to either side and the thin, suspiciously straight horizontal "crack" about seven feet above the floor.  And now that Kitty noticed, where the panel met the floor there was another "crack."

Next, Kitty used the flashlight to examine the surrounding wall, especially the areas at hand height.  She noticed something to the right of what she'd decided to start thinking of as "the secret door."  There was a thumb-sized, roughly teardrop-shaped flaw in the concrete, as if during the pouring of the concrete wall a bubble had formed around a slightly oversize pebble in the aggregate.  Also, the pebble was shiny, just a little, but too shiny, as if it had been repeatedly rubbed.  Kitty drew her Glock, placed her left thumb on the pebble and pressed with firm pressure, then took a step to the side.

There was a click, a brief pause, then the camouflaged door opened, swinging inward on well-oiled hinges.  Beyond was a short, narrow passageway, something like ten feet in length.  Its floor, ceiling, and walls were more of the ubiquitous concrete, and set in its far wall was a conventional steel door set in a conventional steel frame, the sort of door designed to be a serious impediment to forced entry.  An industrial lighting fixture had automatically turned itself on and the corridor was brightly lit.

Kitty noticed footprints and wheel marks in the dust on the floor.  Obviously, the secret passage was not listed on the cleaning crew's work order, and Kitty had no doubt whatsoever that was exactly what she'd found: a secret passage connecting Red Herring Manor and Angelique Porter's townhouse.

Cautiously, Glock at the ready, Kitty stepped into the passage.  The means of operating the secret door was anything but a secret from the inside.  A hefty electric motor with gears and a lever-arm was mounted near the ceiling and served to open and close the portal.  Also an electrical box with a pair of buttons labeled "OPEN" and "CLOSE" was mounted beside the door frame.  The second steel door, the door Kitty assumed led to the basement of Angelique's townhouse, had a simple pull handle, shaped like an oversized staple, and there was also a deadbolt lock, a J-series Schlange by the look of it.  Kitty was confident she'd be able to handle it without difficulty.

Kitty holstered her Glock and pulled out her lock pick set.  Once she had the door open she'd send a text to Bertie to warn her she was coming, then they'd both confront Angelique and demand to know the whereabouts of Jessie Maitland.

That was the plan.  What actually happened was that when Kitty was a foot from the far door, the secret door behind her slammed shut with a loud bang.  Simultaneously, the overhead light winked out, plunging the corridor into total darkness.

Also, things started getting... strange.

Kitty cursed and fumbled for her flashlight.  She heard a loud hiss, like there was a serious gas leak.  There was no rotten eggs smell or sudden wave of humid heat, so whatever was flooding the corridor wasn't from a gas or steam main.  Kitty's ears popped, and there was a sudden chill in the air, and the air in question was moving, as in wafting, as in... moving.  Also, Kitty was suddenly feeling euphoric... in an oh-m'god-I'm-being-gassed sort of way... but euphoric.

Also...  Kitty had tried simultaneously pocketing her lock picks and pulling out her flashlight, but found she'd suddenly developed a serious case of the butterfingers.  The lock picks and their case fell to the floor with a cacophony of pings and clatters.  Glock!  The problem was, Kitty was finding it increasingly difficult to think about the lock picks, the flashlight, and her weapon at the same time.  She shook her head and decided to concentrate on the flashlight.  She could use it to find her lock picks and put them back in their case... after she found the case.  As for the Glock, there was nothing for her to shoot, not at the moment, anyway.  The thing was, even focusing on just the flashlight was proving difficult.  Kitty finally succeeded in pulling it out... meaning the flashlight... but found it didn't work.  Then, Kitty remembered she needed to turn it on... meaning the flashlight... so she did.

The passage was exactly the same... except for the light... meaning the overhead light.  Also, she'd dropped her lock picks... but she already knew that.

Kitty's head began spinning.  Not literally, of course, but... spinning.  She placed her free hand on the wall, to steady herself... then settled to the floor.  Sitting down had suddenly seemed like a good idea.  As for her Glock... she reached behind her back, under her jacket, and pulled the weapon from its holster.  It really was a nice pistol.  Kitty still didn't see anything that needed shooting, but she decided her Glock really was a nice pistol.  It needed a name.  'Glockie?'  No, she decided, that's stupid.

Just then, the door to Angelique's townhouse opened, the overhead light clicked back on, and a nurse entered the corridor... a nurse in a gasmask.  She was dressed in surgical scrubs, red surgical scrubs.  No, mauve, Kitty decided, or dark rose, or pink-burgundy.  Is that a color?  Anyway, scrubs, like a nurse... wearing a gasmask.  Why does a nurse need a gasmask? Kitty wondered.  She slowly, carefully lifted the Glock... and pointed it in the nurse's general direction.  She didn't intend to shoot the nurse—it wasn't Kitty's policy to go around shooting nurses—but it become a moot point, anyway.  The nurse in question had lifted the weapon from her hand... Kitty's suddenly limp, weak, useless hand.

Maybe she's a doctor, Kitty thought, or some sort of therapist or lab tech, but that still doesn't explain the gas mask.

Kitty was finding it increasingly difficult to focus... or concentrate... or focus.  The nurse, the one in the gasmask, had pulled a syringe from her pocket and was preparing an injection.  This was perfectly reasonable, of course.  She was a nurse, after all, and nurses were always giving people injections.  Then, the nurse stepped close and gave Kitty the injection, in the side of her neck, which was a surprise.  Kitty was the only other person in the corridor, of course, but that didn't explain why she needed an injection.

And then, Kitty closed her eyes and went to sleep.
The Damsel Vanishes  meow
 Chapter 6
Jessie needed a whiteboard, a big whiteboard.  She also needed to have someone untie the several meters of rope and cord lashing her in a tight, hogtied bundle and suspending her in mid air, but mainly she needed a whiteboard.  She was sure she wouldn't forget the equations buzzing around in her head, and she was absolutely certain she'd never forget the concepts, the actual math.  The equations were just scribblings, the shadows on the wall of Plato's cave, but documenting the process was important.  It would be a lot easier for others to grasp what she'd discovered—meaning the relationships that had revealed themselves—if she documented the process.

Not being bound, gagged, and utterly miserable would be an added benefit.

Just then, Jessie heard a quiet, metallic, squealing noise.  At first the rhythmic sound was very faint, but it slowly grew to something of a crescendo.  It never became what Jessie could characterize as loud, but it was increasing in volume.  Finally, Angelique came into Jessie's rather limited range of vision.  She was still dressed in scrubs, but now she was pushing a stainless steel table, the sort of table used to transport corpses in a morgue.  It was probably the same table Jessie had been strapped to earlier, but it had a new occupant.

On the table was the limp form of a brown-haired woman dressed in leather jacket, pants, and knee-boots.  The unknown woman was reclined full-length on her back, and had a beautiful face, in Jessie's opinion.  She couldn't tell if the brunette was alive or dead... then noticed the slow, slight rise and fall of her bosom.  The woman was alive and unconscious.

"Just look, Dr. Maitland!" Angelique gushed.  "Instead of one plaything, I have three!"  She stepped into the shadows, threw a switch, and spotlights directly over the table suddenly blazed with glaring light.  Angelique returned to the table and smiled at Jessie.  "There's this one," Angelique said, indicating the unconscious brunette with a graceful gesture, "and a cute little blonde upstairs.  Three playthings!  What can it mean?"  Gazing at the brunette, Angelique reached down and gently caressed the side of the woman's relaxed, beautiful face.  She then combed an errant strand of the beauty's long, brown hair from face and tucked it behind her ear.  "What can it mean?" Angelique reiterated.  "No playthings... and now three."

With the added light of the spotlights shining down on the table Jessie could see more of her general surroundings—not that there was much to see, only concrete walls painted flat black and a few conduits and pipes overhead, also painted black.  There was nothing that told Jessie anything useful and certainly nothing that would help either herself or the brunette on the table.

Angelique stepped beyond Jessie's range of vision... then returned, now wheeling a steel frame supporting a black plastic bag.  Angelique unzipped the brunette's left boot and pulled it from her foot, then tossed it in the bag.  The right boot followed.  "Oh, where are my manners?" Angelique exclaimed, then indicated the now bootless brunette with another wave of her hand.  "Dr. Maitland, allow me to introduce Miss Kitty Wynter, private detective."  She then leaned close to Kitty's left ear.  "Kitty, this is Dr. Maitland, the whore being screwed by my sister's husband."

Jessie was hardly in a position to deny the charge of adultery.  Nor, apparently, was Kitty in any condition to hear said denial.  All Jessie could do was watch as Angelique proceeded to strip the unconscious detective to the skin.  Socks, leather pants, scarf, leather jacket, tank-top, panties, bra...  one by one the garments were removed and tossed in the hamper-on-wheels.

Jessie's assessment of Kitty remained unchanged.  The detective was beautiful.  She was also shapely and athletic, a real stunner... a stunner who at the moment was stunned... as in unconscious.

Angelique wheeled the trashcan/hamper away... then returned with a steel lab cart, and on the cart Jessie could see several neat bundles of white rope and cord, the same kind of rope and cord excessively binding her own hogtied, suspended, and naked body.  There was also a roll of duct-tape, a second roll of some sort of white medical tape, and what appeared to be a fist-size ball of pink foam, probably a child's Nerf ball.

Smiling her dimpled, disturbing smile, Angelique picked up the duct tape and stripped a generous length free of the roll.  "Unfortunately," she said to her helplessly bound, gagged, and suspended audience-of-one, "I only have one pair of mittens like the pair currently depriving you of the use of your slutty fingers and hands.  I only planned on entertaining one plaything at a time.  Therefore..."  She ripped the tape from the roll and lifted Kitty's limp, right hand.  "I'll have to improvise."
The Damsel Vanishes  meow
 Chapter 6
Kitty assessed her situation.  She'd managed not to telegraph the fact that she'd regained consciousness... as far as she could tell.  She remained perfectly still with her body relaxed and her eyes closed... and listened.  Nothing.  Her hands were behind her back and her wrists were bound together.  Likewise, her upper arms.  In fact, her elbows were more-or-less touching.  Her fingers and hands were wrapped into tight, useless bundles, possibly with tape.  Her knees were bound, and so were her ankles... as were her big toes.  Bitch! she fumed.  I hate it when they bind the toes.  All of this she could tell without moving.  Oh by the way, something large and pliant was stuffed in her mouth, probably a sponge or a ball of foam, and her lips were sealed by a wide strip of tape.

There was one more minor detail worth mentioning: Kitty was naked, as in nude, as in starkers (as Muffin would say), au naturel, without clothes, in her birthday suit.  And she was in a semi-fetal tuck on her right side on something smooth and hard.  Kitty continued listening.  Still nothing.  And while she listened...

Bertie!  Kitty was worried about her partner, wondering if she was also in trouble, but she was hardly in a position to do anything about it.  Kitty decided it was best to worry about herself, then Muffin.

Cautiously, Kitty opened her eyes... and found herself staring at a concrete wall.  It was painted flat black.  Bright lights were shining from somewhere above, and the hard surface under her naked, bound, and gagged body was glaring stainless steel.  Cautiously, not wanting to roll off the table or whatever she was on and thereby land on the floor with what would no doubt be a very painful and possibly injurious thud, Kitty rolled onto her left side... and found herself staring at more black-painted walls, as well as something much more interesting: Jessie Maitland.

The hot nerd was missing no longer.  She was also naked, bound with white rope, ball-gagged, and hanging from a web of more white rope in a suspended hogtie.  Actually her condition was best described as a combination hog-tie, frog-tie, and box-tie.  Someone had gone all out.  In addition, Jessie's hands were encased in tan leather mitten-cuffs and her ankles bound by matching leather cuffs, and the leather accouterments were incorporated in her rope bondage.

Whoever the rigger might have been, he or she had done what Kitty had to admit was a competent job.  Jessie was not going to do any escaping anytime soon.  Of course, with her fingers and hands encased in leather, the ropes could be sloppy as hell and tied with loose bows and she would still be helpless.  That said, nothing looked like it was going to shift or loosen if she decided to start squirming.  Also, and it was no small thing, Jessie's weight appeared to be evenly supported and she wasn't in any danger from loss of circulation, as far as Kitty could tell from the table.

For no specific reason upon which Kitty could lay a tape-wrapped finger, she decided the rigger in question was a talented novice.  There was just something about the arrangement of Jessie's bonds, some subtle element of style, that suggested a lack of experience.  It gave Kitty hope.  Maybe the rigger—Kitty assumed it was Angelique Porter—had made a mistake with Kitty's bonds.

What did not give Kitty hope was the general cruelty of Jessie's condition.  Not only was the gorgeous mathematician bound as noted, but her hair had been braided and incorporated in the hogtie, and the same was true of her big toes.  The piggies in question were lashed together and linked to her other bonds using thin, taut cord.

Kitty looked back over her right shoulder to examine her own bonds.  Her fingers and hands were wrapped in silver-gray duct-tape.  She recognized the good stuff: fabric-based duct-tape with a powerful adhesive, not the cheap-ass plastic crap that might be susceptible to loosening with determined struggling.  As for the tape sealing her lips, Kitty suspected it was Elastoplast or some other brand of microfoam medical tape.  The highly distorted reflection of her lower face in the steel table was white, reinforcing her conclusion.  The rope was white braided nylon, the same stuff binding Jessie, her toes—their toes—were tied with the same kind of thin, white nylon cord.

With respect to her fellow prisoner, Kitty noticed one more detail: Jessie's nipples were covered by circular band-aids, and telltale bulges suggested her nipples had been pierced and now sported a pair of dumbbell posts.  Bitch! Kitty fumed, referring to Angelique, of course, assuming she was the sadistic bitch responsible. And there was no sign of Bertie!

"Good, you're awake," a soprano voice intoned.

Kitty shook her head to clear several strands of tousled hair from her face and watched as a petite, smiling brunette in surgical scrubs pushed a stainless steel cart into the light.  Angelique Porter, I presume, Kitty glowered.  Obviously, the newcomer was the nurse in the gasmask who had given her the injection, back in the secret passageway.

"I'm Angelique," the nurse confirmed.  "I introduced myself earlier, but you were sedated at the time.  We're all going to have so much fun."

Kitty watched as Angelique pushed the cart near the table.  The top was covered by a green cloth, but various bumps and bulges hinted at objects underneath.

"Mrrrpfh-nrr-rrrf!" Kitty complained. squirming atop the table and kicking her bound feet.  Gaglish-to-English translation: "Bitch!  I'm gonna kick your ass!" (or words to that effect).

"Now, now," Angelique chuckled.  She stooped and lifted a coil of white rope from the cart's bottom shelf, then stepped forward and knotted one end through Kitty's wrist bonds.

Kitty bucked and kicked, determined to make whatever enhancement of her condition Angelique might have in mind as difficult as possible.  Then—"MRRRK!"—she froze in her bonds.  A powerful and painful electric shock had just been delivered to her right butt-cheek!

Angelique held a compact taser before Kitty's tape-gagged, wide-eyed face.  "I'm sure I'll find your struggles and reactions very entertaining once we begin playing," the smiling brunette purred, "but right now, I need you to let me get you ready?  Will you do that for Angelique?"  She tapped a button and a blue spark arced between the copper studs at the business end with a loud snap.

Kitty response was an angry glare, but she did stop struggling... for the moment.

With a redundant hitch, Angelique finished tying the rope to Kitty's wrist bonds.  She then went up on her toes and, with some difficulty thanks to the height, passed the other end of the rope through a ring dangling from a short chain near the table.  She then threaded the rope through Kitty's elbow bonds, back up to the ring, back down to her wrist bonds, then up and through the ring.  She then heaved on the rope, pulling out the slack.

"Mrrrpfh!"  Kitty's arms were being tugged upwards.  Also, Angelique had grabbed her bound legs at the knees was dragging her off the table.  Kitty had no choice but to let herself slide, brace herself as best she could, and plant her feet on the concrete floor.  "Mrrr!"  It hadn't been what she could call either a graceful or gentle transition.  Fortunately, it hadn't come close to dislocating her shoulders, but it had been painful. "Mrrrfflfph!"  Kitty's bare feet were now flat on the floor with her arms raised behind her, but Angelique was still hauling on the rope!  All too soon, Kitty was in a classic and stringent strappado, bent forward at the waist with her arms raised behind her—and her wrists continued rising!  "NRRRRF!"

"There, there, Miss Wynter," Angelique chuckled.  She continued taking in rope until Kitty's heels left the floor and she was up on her toes.  The smiling brunette that tied off the remaining rope in a flurry of knots.  "I know this is uncomfortable, but nurse knows best."  She then gathered Kitty's hair into a loose ponytail and tied it behind her head with a length of cord.

Kitty stared daggers—several varieties of sharp, lethal daggers—at Angelique as she disengaged the locks on the table's wheels and rolled it away.  The bitch had neglected a few strands of Kitty's hair while tying the ponytail and they dangled in front of her gagged, glowering face, but she still had a perfect view of her smiling captor.  She also had a perfect view of what was waiting on the cart when Angelique removed the cloth.  Kitty managed to conceal her reaction, but it was a ominous array, including:
  1. Several blunt steel probes, all arranged in a neat row.
  2. Five different versions of the Wartenberg Wheel, each one a disk or multiple disks of needle-sharp points spinning on steel handles.
  3. Several different tweezers, forceps, specula, and spreaders, also neatly arranged.
  4. Three sets of self-tightening nipple- or labial-clamps, each pair connected by a light steel chain,
  5. Multiple cylindrical steel weights, no doubt for use with the clamps.
  6. An open plastic case containing a violet wand apparatus with several different attachments.  Just the thing for "electrical play."
  7. Several glass cylinders and domes next to a syringe-like manual suction device.  Some were nipple size, and some were obviously intended for entire breasts.
  8. A glass Petri-dish containing a fresh ginger root, and next to the dish were a paring knife and a vegetable peeler.
"Oh, you noticed the ginger," Angelique purred, then picked up the dish and held it directly under Kitty's nose.  "Doesn't it smell divine?"  Angelique returned the dish and its contents to the cart.  "You are familiar with the practice of 'figging' or 'gingering,' aren't you, Miss Wynter?  An appropriately sized section of ginger root is peeled and inserted in the anus and/or vagina?  The sensation is said to be... remarkable."

Kitty continued her hostile stare.  Her heart and breathing rates were slightly elevated, but she was controlling her reaction to Angelique's ominous array of tools.  At least that was what Kitty hoped.  She didn't want the Angelique-bitch to enjoy her fear.  And as for the ginger, yes, Kitty knew all about "figging."  She didn't consider it to be her cup of tea, so to speak.

Angelique stepped forward, reached down, and gently squeezed Kitty's right breast.  "Very nice, Miss Wynter," the smiling nurse said as she continued squeezing, releasing, and squeezing, again and again.  "Firm, perfect shape and volume, and they're even attractive hanging like a couple of dugs on a sow... like now."

"Mrrr!" Kitty growled through her gag.  Sow?  When I get out of these ropes, I'll show you 'sow,' you bitch!

"I have plans to use all of this on Dr. Maitland," Angelique continued.  She also continued squeezing Kitty's breast... then shifted to teasing her nipple.  "But since you and your partner have volunteered to play, that means she'll get to watch while I practice on you.  Informed anticipation.  What a delicious element to add to Jessie's ordeal.  Don't you agree?"

Kitty did her best to ignore Angelique's hand.  Her nipples were both now erect, but she stoically hung in her bonds, ignoring her increasingly sore shoulders, toes, and calves and stared straight ahead at the black, light-absorbing wall.

"Well, enough indulgence," Angelique sighed, then released Kitty's nipple.  "I suppose I should go upstairs and invite your cute little blond partner to join the party."  She turned and strolled into the darkness, but her voice carried back into Kitty and Jessie's chamber.  "And now that I think, with added guests I'll need to do some shopping.  Let's see..."  Her voice was fading, but Kitty could just make out Angelique's words as she composed her shopping list.  "Dog food, a dozen more rolls of duct-tape, and more ginger root, of course."

Kitty heaved a gagged sigh. She was worried about Bertie and Jessie... and herself.  Miriam Holden was crazy, but her sister took things to a whole new level.  Apparently, sadistic bitchiness ran in the Porter family.  Kitty shuffled in a circle on the balls of her bound feet and tied toes—Ow! Ow! Ow!—swinging in her strappado bonds until she could see Jessie's suspended form.  The equally helpless, equally naked nerd stared back at her through glazed eyes, but wasn't struggling.  Neither was Kitty.  There wasn't much point.

Bertie!  If she makes me watch while she tortures Bertie...  A wave of panic coursed through Kitty's hanging, suffering body, and was carefully, deliberately suppressed.  But what can I do to stop her?  Kitty heaved another sigh.  We are so screwed.
The End of...
The Damsel Vanishes  meow
 Chapter 6

Chapter 5 meow Chapter 7