by Van ©2016
		Chapter 7

"What a grubby little girl," Grace announced in an amused voice.

June woke with a start to find her smiling mentor standing in the open doorway of the cell.  She was dressed as before in heels, skirt, and a sleeveless blouse.  The dream of Wicked Lady Gracelyn and her Equally Wicked Maid Charlotte was still vivid in June's half-awake mind, and as Grace strolled in her direction, June realized four things:

(1)  She was, indeed, "grubby."  Her naked body was smudged and soiled with dirt from the dusty floor, exacerbated by her trips to the corner shower-and-drain "drinking fountain" to quench her thirst.  Getting wet and then rolling in a layer of fine dirt was not a recipe for cleanliness.  And it didn't help that the cell was somewhat overheated and semi-copious amounts of sweat had been added to the mix.

(2)  Her shoulders ached from the single-sleeve arm-binder incarcerating her hands and arms behind her back; but surprisingly, even now, after unknown hours of wear, it wasn't that bad.

(3)  It was rather late in the day.  A large, irregularly shaped section of the cell's glass and steel wall was glowing with a bright, yellow-orange light.  Apparently, the sun was nearing the horizon and was shining directly down the full length of the cave Grace had said was on the far side of the glass bricks and steel bars.  Lucky me, June thought.  It probably doesn't do that every day of the year.

(4)  She had to document every detail of the dream in her journal—right now!

Grace was carrying a pair of slippers, which she dropped to the floor near her dirty, naked, helpless protege.  "For you, darling.  We can't have your grubby feet soiling my freshly cleaned carpets, now can we?  Let's get you upstairs and into the shower."

June was still thinking about item number four, her journal, and found recording her thoughts had risen to her first priority—and she wasn't above using a little subterfuge to get her way.  June winced as she sat up, as if in great pain (which she wasn't).  "Ow!"

"What is it. darling?" Grace inquired.  The smile still curling her lips suggested she wasn't buying June's act.

"I think I've dislocated by shoulders," June hissed through clenched teeth.

"I very much doubt that," Grace chuckled, then helped June to her feet.  "You'll survive 'til I get you upstairs."  She pointed to the floor.  "Slippers."

June stepped into the slippers in question, then focused the awesome power of her most profound, pathetic Pout-of-Agony on her smiling mentor.  "Now?  Please?"

Grace rolled her eyes, then stepped behind her protege and began the process of unbuckling, unlacing, and removing the arm-binder.

"Hurry," June urged with a delicate shudder of false suffering, milking her advantage for all it was worth.

"I know you're faking it," Grace purred as she made quick work of the remaining lacing and pulled the loosened conical sheath down June's arms.

June stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders.  "Arrrg that feels good.  And you're right, I was faking it."  She planted a quick kiss on Grace's smiling lips, then scampered through the open door.  "See ya upstairs!" she shouted back as she raced down the corridor.

"Ten demerits for lying to your mentor!" Grace's clearly amused voice echoed after her naked, grubby, fleeing protege.  "It's a good thing there's an emergency code, nine-nine-one-one, for all the doors between here and upstairs!"

"Thank you!" June shouted back.  A quick look back confirmed that Grace was following at a stately walk.  June hurried down the corridor, up the stairs, and through the Bungalow to her bedroom.

June revised her plan en route.  First order of business was now a quick shower.  Once she was squeaky clean and refreshed, June toweled herself dry, including her hair, rigged a quick towel-turban—not wanting to waste time with her hairdryer and brush set—and hurried to her writing desk.  She powered up her laptop, opened her Dream Journal, created a new sub-file named "Scanlon House," and began to type.

All the details of June's kinky, evil Victorian-themed dream poured out onto the screen, in semi-grammatical outline form, of course, and with copious side notes.  She typed and typed... then typed some more.

"Here you are," Grace chuckled.  "You should be in the sauna, followed by the massage table."

June turned to find her mentor standing in the bedroom door.  "Later," she muttered, and returned to typing.

Grace smiled, strolled forward, and began reading the words scrolling onto the screen.  She did so for several seconds... then turned and walked away.

June continued typing.  Now and then she paused to review her last several lines... changed or added a few words here and there... then resumed typing.

At some point June noticed that a plate with an enormous club sandwich and a bottle of Sam Adams Light had magically appeared to the right of her keyboard.  At her grumbling stomach's urging, she paused to wolf a generous bite from the sandwich, followed by a swig of beer, followed by a second bite from the delicious sandwich... then resumed typing.

Over the course of the next few hours—  Was it really that long?  —the format shifted from a detailed journal entry to preliminary notes and thoughts for a new novel, and June's fingers continued tapping the keys with breakneck (breakfingers?) speed.  Also, bite-sized chunk by bite-sized chunk, the sandwich evaporated... as did the contents of the bottle... as did the empty plate and bottle themselves.  It was all very mysterious.

Some time after dark June noticed that Grace had reappeared, this time bringing a laptop of her own with her.  Mentor and protege exchanged comments, criticisms, and suggestions as they typed.  June paused to save her work, then published it to the Bungalow server so Grace could download the file, Grace did the same with what she was typing, and what had become a collaborative brainstorming session continued.

"Tomorrow, remind me to begin looking into a good groupware program," Grace said absently, "so we can do this right."

"Tomorrow," June answered, also somewhat absently.

"Tomorrow," Grace agreed, and the typing continued.

"Enough," Grace pronounced, then saved her work, published it to the shared folder, and shut down her laptop.  It was well after midnight.

"Almost done," June muttered, continuing to type.

"You can barely keep your eyes open," Grace chuckled.  "And most of what you've written in the last hour will need rewriting in the morning.  Enough."

June paused to read her last several lines.  "You're right," she sighed, did a save-publish-shutdown of her own, then yawned, stretched, stood and faced her mentor... and blinked in surprise.  "When did you change?" she demanded.

Grace had, indeed, changed.  No longer wearing her heels, skirt, and blouse, the forty-something, honey-blond beauty was wearing a sheer, white, lace-trimmed baby-doll nightie—and nothing else—not even matching panties!

"Some time ago," Grace answered.  "Talk about 'target fixation.'  When you get in the zone, nothing matters but the story."

June blushed.  "Well, yeah."  Was that a compliment? she wondered.  I'll take it as a compliment.

Grace stepped forward, gave her naked protege a kiss on the lips, then pointed to the bathroom.  "Get ready for bed."

"Okay."  June retrieved the towel from the floor that had formerly been her hair-drying turban—at some point it had come loose and fallen to the floor—then dragged herself to the bathroom.  Teeth brushed, hair brushed, and bladder emptied, she returned to the bedroom to find Grace standing by the bed.

"Down," Grace ordered, pointing to the taut, smooth bedspread.

June yawned again, then smiled.  "No turn-down service?" she quipped.

Grace's lips curled in a tolerant smile.  "Down," she reiterated.  "On your back, on top of the covers."

June's pussy posited that the ordered position might be the prelude to her mentor climbing onto the bed and between her legs so they could continue the love-making lessons of the previous evening—that is, it tingled.  June concurred.  She climbed onto the bed, lay on her back with her head comfortably resting on the bedspread-covered pillows, and smiled up at her mentor.

Grace smiled back, sat on the bed, then picked up a small, black, nylon duffel-bag from the floor, dropped it on the bed, and unzipped its main closure.

"What's that?" June demanded, propping herself up on her elbows and peering inside the duffel.  All she could see was a tangle of black nylon straps.

"Your sleeping costume," Grace purred, then reached into the duffel and pulled out a black nylon cuff.  It was about three inches wide, was well padded with black fake-fur, and had a long, stout strap of braided nylon attached.

June smiled.  "Unavailable in red?" she inquired.

"Cheeky monkey," Grace chuckled as she wrapped the cuff around June's left wrist and secured it by means of a flush-mounted snap-buckle.  She then took the end of the attached strap, stretched June's arm above her head, and somehow secured it to the bed platform's baseboard, down near the floor.

June watched as Grace worked her way around the bed, wrapping, snapping, and securing her left ankle... right ankle... and right wrist, leaving her in a loose spread-eagle.  June tugged on her new restraints and found that she had three or four inches of slack for each limb, but was, in a word, helpless.  "Behold, the Vitruvian Damsel," she dramatically declaimed, referring to da Vinci's classic illustration of the proportions of the human body.

"Clever," Grace chuckled as she sat down and reached back into the duffel, "but you're still a cheeky monkey."  She produced a wide roll of black tape and a pair of bandage scissors.  "A cheeky monkey who lied to her mentor."

June watched as Grace stripped six or seven inches of tape from the roll, snipped it free with the scissors, then returned the roll and scissors to the duffel.  Grace took the strip of tape in both hands and prepared to seal her pouting protege's lips.

"Wait," June said, causing Grace to pause.  "We have to talk about boundaries.  Specifically, what sorts of cruel tortures you'll be allowed to visit upon my innocent person on any given occasion, and for how long.  Also, I've decided 'Vitruvian' is my safe-word."

"Vitruvian," Grace chuckled.  "Clever girl, but not tonight.  No discussions tonight.  Lips together."

"You have a real mean streak," June pouted, "you know that?"  She did follow Grace's order, however, putting her lips together in a fierce moue that signaled her Profound Disappointment in the face of her mentor's Extreme Cruelty.

Grace took advantage of the opportunity to press the taut strip home until June's cheeks bulged from the pressure.  She then gently smoothing her fingers over the shining ebony panel, ensuring the adhesive had achieved its maximum grip.  "Very pretty," she sighed.  "I can see the shape of your lips.  Very pretty."  She then zipped the duffel closed and dropped it on the floor.

June tugged on her wrist cuffs and tried kicking her feet.  She had significant wiggle room, as she'd previously noted, but knew she was totally helpless... again.

Grace smiled, reached out her left hand, and gave June's left breast a gentle squeeze.

June froze in her bonds.  Her eyes were wide and locked with her smiling Mentor's.  Also, her heart was pounding and her nostrils flaring as she panted for breath.  As for her pussy... it was Thrill City south of her pubic bush and north of her splayed thighs.

"Do you know why I gagged you, protege?" Grace inquired, continuing to gently knead June's breast.  "After all, the entire Bungalow is virtually soundproof, inside and out, and there's no one around for miles to hear your screams.  So... why the gag?"

To make me feel even more helpless, obviously, June thought.

"To make you feel even more helpless," Grace purred.

June made a mental note to remind her mentor that the Socratic method loses a lot of its punch when the teacher tape-gags her student.  She also continued panting and squirming as Grace's hand left her breast, slid down her abdomen, and cupped her pussy.

"Hmm," Grace purred, "wet, I see."  Her smile broadened.  "I guess we have time for one quick lesson before retiring."  And with that, she climbed between June's legs, settled onto her stomach, used her fingers to spread her protege's labia, and set to work with her lips and tongue.

The lesson plan was unchanged from the previous evening, as was the result: a crashing multiple orgasm for the naked, spreadeagled, and tape-gagged June.  And she still couldn't take notes.

The Beach Bungalow routine continued.  That is...

Daily exercise.

June's new "Hobbit-runners" arrived, and they were a perfect fit.  Now she was able to run the Bungalow Trail at her mentor's side in the proper manner, with her toes wiggling in individual, independently movable pockets.  The shoes were ridiculous—although June would never share that opinion with Her Grace—and they took a little getting used to.  However, after a few days of careful running, followed by foot-soaks and foot-massages delivered by Grace's talented hands, June became a convert to near-barefoot running (although she still thought the shoes looked ridiculous).

By the way, Grace did require her protege to run naked, wearing only her Hobbit-runners.  It was embarrassing and humiliating in the extreme.  Also, kinky, naughty, and wicked.  June's pussy was decidedly pro-naked-running, and made its feelings known via low-level tingling sensations.

And it wasn't like June had any choice.  Grace always tied her wrists or slapped her in handcuffs during their runs.  Her hands were usually behind her back, but now and then Grace mixed things up by binding or cuffing June's wrists in front but with the addition of elbow-bondage behind her back.  Her elbows weren't bound so closely that they touched, of course, but they were bound.  The combination of wrist and elbow bonds rendered June just as helpless as the wrists-behind-the-back option.

Other exercise choices available were swimming, treadmill-running, and the use of Grace's other exercise machines—but always with June naked and in some way bound.  All the machines had adjustable attachment points for leather and/or nylon straps and/or cuffs.  June hadn't noticed them before, but they were there, and in plain sight.  That is, they were obvious once Grace secured her in place, programmed the machine-of-the-day's computerized controls, and strolled away.

June continued getting in better and better shape—not that she hadn't been in good shape upon arrival—and she was developing a deep, overall tan, as Grace had decreed.  Naked sunbathing and laptop typing at poolside or on her bedroom's balcony saw to that.

Writing.

June continued working on her novel, and she was making rapid progress.  Soon, she was actually writing, meaning she was writing actual chapters, as opposed to massaging her notes and outline.

Also—and it was a HUGE deal—the collaboration June had begun with her mentor following the Languishing in Cell #7 Exercise and concomitant Scanlon House Dream continued.  June's first novel took priority, and Grace was working on a new novel of her own, but now and then they got together and worked on what had evolved into a co-authored novel.  At first it was a sort of Victorian Gothic Romance send-up, but then the first airship appeared, followed by a clockwork robot, and it—as yet untitled—became a Steampunk Victorian Gothic Romance send-up.

Exercises.

Several days a week, June became the focus of another Exercise, or, what she had come to characterize as one of Grace's "Bondage Brainstorms."  June learned about elaborate Japanese rope bondage.  Much to her surprise, "Kinbaku" turned out to be a recognized art form in the Land of the Rising Sun, and Grace dabbled.  Who knew?  Also, while some rich people collect classic cars, some fine art, and some rare books, Grace collected bondage equipment.  Not vintage bondage equipment, but custom designed original bondage equipment.

And then there was Grace's "workshop."

June entered Grace's workshop for the first time and took a timid look around.  For some reason, she was nervous.  Also, she was naked and Grace had used a meter-long length of thin, red, braided nylon cord to bind her crossed wrists behind her back.

Grace was right behind her naked, bound, and adorably uneasy protege, dressed as usual in expensive heels, pencil skirt, and cotton designer blouse.  She paused to close the solid steel door behind them, then turned to watch her protege explore her tinkering domain.

June padded from workstation to workstation: general purpose work bench, drill press, router table, band saw, jigsaw, belt sander, etc.  There was also a computer workstation, with a high-end desktop scanner/printer and off to one side was a cubical machine about the size of a small refrigerator.  June was ninety-percent certain it was a 3D printer.  There was also an actual small refrigerator, a single-cup coffeemaker, and a tiny sink and dish rack.  All the comforts of home, including state-of-the-art air filtration for dust control and a built-in vacuum system for cleanup.  LED strips for general lighting and countless spotlights focused for task lighting were mounted over the various stations.

"Impressive," June stated, "not Tony Stark impressive, but impressive."

"What am I missing?" Grace chuckled.

"Industrial robots, of course," June answered.

"They're scheduled for the next upgrade," Grace purred.  She strolled to the computer workstation.  "For complicated items I usually start the design process here, or upstairs, then—"  She indicated the 3D printer  "—produce a prototype and start the refinement process.  When I'm satisfied, I send the results out for fabrication."

June frowned.  "You use a 3D printer to make prototype arm-binders and... stuff?"

"No, darling," Grace chuckled.  "Excellent leather products are available from a variety of skilled artisans, if you know where to find them.  I use my machine friends to make the clamps and devices required to attach interesting things—"  She favored her naked, wrist-bound protege with a leering grin.  "—like naked proteges, to my furniture.  I've put a great deal of effort into decorating the Beach Bungalow.  It wouldn't do to have permanently attached straps, manacles, and shackles ruining the lines of my chairs and sofas, don't you agree?"

June nodded.  Her eyes were on the 3D printer.  "Architectural Digest might cross you off their list of potential cover stories."

Grace smiled.  "Exactly."

June turned back to her mentor.  "You don't dress like that when you work down here, do you?"

"What's wrong with dressing properly?" she purred.

June rolled her eyes (and twisted her bound wrists).  "Even you aren't rich enough to do actual work in fancy designer clothes."

"It's not a matter of wealth, protege," Grace chuckled, "but aesthetics.  When I come down here to accomplish actual work, I change into—"

"Wait!" June interrupted.  "Let me guess.  Turn around."

Grace smiled, gracefully spread her arms to either side, and executed a slow, graceful pirouette.

June regarded her mentor with a thoughtful moue.  "Hmm...  I'd say a full-length, skintight body-stocking, in ballistic spandex.  Probably in... shining black?  Oh, and with a full hood to keep your hair out of the way, goggles for eye protection, and a breathing mask.  Am I right?"

Grace shook her head.  "Ridiculous."

"It would look great," June countered.  "I bet all the great designers would love selling you different versions.  They'd be like classy Star Trek uniforms, or Star Trek wet suits, or Star Trek modern dance outfits, or—"

"Enough!" Grace laughed.  "I wear jeans and an old blouse when I work."

"How boring," June sighed.  "Now..."  Off to one side was a rather large... something... covered by a dust cloth.  June only gave it a quick glance, then made a show of giving everything else in the room another once over.  Her nervousness had returned.  "This is all very nice, but why did you drag me down here?"  She watched as Grace's smile turned sinister, the way it did before she did something deliciously naughty to her helpless protege.  This did nothing to alleviate June's nervousness problem, but it did send a frisson of delight rippling between her legs.  Greedy thing, she silently admonished her pussy.

Grace strolled to the covered object, smiled, and slowly removed the dust cover.

June found herself staring at what appeared to be a comfortable recliner.  It was brown leather, more or less the same texture and shade as June's favorite sling purse, and wouldn't have been out of place among any of the easy chairs, sofas, or love-seats upstairs in the main Bungalow—except for one minor issue.  Broad bands of heavy-duty nylon webbing crossed the recliner at various locations, and attached to the bands were padded nylon cuffs of various sizes, waiting to bind the ankles, thighs, waist, wrists, upper arms, and neck of whoever decided to pad over to the recliner and take a seat.

June mustered her best nonchalant smile (knowing all the while that her best smile was nowhere near good enough).  "I suppose that's so I can get comfortable and watch you work?"

"Yes... let's go with that," Grace answered, continuing to smile.  She nodded towards the recliner.

June swallowed nervously, then padded to the recliner, sat, and watched as Grace secured her ankles... and then her thighs, just above the knees.  The cuffs were more-or-less medical restraints with an aesthetic upgrade.  Their closures were steel snap-buckles, but with a black matte finish and locking tabs.

"Lean forward," Grace purred.

June did so and Grace untied and removed her red cord wrist-bonds.  June leaned back and watched as Grace secured her waist... followed by her left and right wrists... her left and right upper arms... and finally, her neck.  This gave June an excellent opportunity to gaze down the front of Grace's blouse and visually examine the tops of her mentor's bra-clad breasts... and to take a deep breath and savor Grace's perfume and natural scent.

The collar now buckled around June's neck was wider than the other cuffs, but just as comfortable as the rest.  It wasn't particularly tight or restrictive, not one of those things June believed was referred to as a "posture collar."  It did, however, more-or-less restrict her head to the immediate area of the headrest.  Also, while the other restraints kept her pinned in the chair, her wrists had a lot of wiggle room, and it was obviously a design feature, not a flaw.  The wrists cuffs weren't rigidly attached to the underlying straps, as was the case with the others, but each included a short "leash" that gave her cuffed hands two or three inches of freedom of motion.  There was no way June could use that "freedom" to free herself, but it was there, and it was curious.  She continued struggling and exploring her condition.  "Comfy," she purred, smiling up at her mentor.

"And not going anywhere," Grace suggested.

June gave her bonds another courtesy struggle.  "Can't say you're wrong," she sighed, then tugged on her wrist-cuffs.  "Why the loose hands?"

"So you'll be able to operate the controllers, of course," Grace chuckled.

June frowned.  "Controllers?  What controllers?"

Grace strolled to a cabinet and returned with two game controllers attached to curved, stainless steel bracket-arms.  She slid the end of one of the brackets into a hitherto unsuspected socket somewhere under the right armrest, then the controller slid forward until there was a solid click.  She did the same with the left controller and armrest.

June found the familiar buttons and touchscreens were in the perfect positions for her fingers.  And while the devices weren't any brand-name product with which June was familiar, they were ergonomic and full-feature.  Assuming they were compatible with whatever gaming platform Grace planned on using, June was sure she'd have no trouble figuring them out.

"I have other, specialized controllers in the pipeline," Grace said, "but these should do for now."

"Others?"

Grace smiled, then returned to the cabinet and returned with a plastic box.  "I have friends in the gaming industry who are discretely allowing me to piggyback on some of their R&D efforts."

June watched as Grace lifted a small, flat, crescent-shaped object from the box, peeled off its paper backing, then applied it to June's left breast, just to the left of her nipple.  This was followed by a second crescent that was applied to the right of her left nipple.  June's right breast received similar decorations, and now a pair of black crescents framed each of her nipples, held in place by some sort of adhesive.  Next, Grace snapped tiny electric contacts into tiny sockets in each of the crescents, then plugged the attached wire leads into unseen sockets on the left and right sides of the recliner.

"What are those for?" June huffed.  Actually, June had a pretty good idea exactly what the crescents and wires were for.  She squirmed in the chair, causing her breasts to bob and bounce, just a little, and the oscillations weren't nearly enough to dislodge what she feared were the "nipple-zappers" now riding her breasts.

Grace's smile was her only answer.  She returned the plastic box to the cabinet... then strolled back to June and the recliner holding what was unmistakably a wand vibrator with a doorknob-style head.  Dangling from the wand were a long power cord and several black nylon straps with steel snap-buckles.

June heaved a sad, truly tragic sigh as Grace tucked the wand between her thighs and used the straps and buckles to secure it in place.  "You're going to be mean to me again," she whined, "aren't you."

Grace took a step back and watched as June executed the required courtesy struggle.  The head of the vibrator was firmly pressed against her protege's now slightly squashed labia, and there was quite obviously nothing June could do to squirm away and break contact.

"Mean?"  Grace plugged in the vibrator somewhere behind the recliner before continuing.  "Not at all, protege," she purred.  "You mentor is being kind."  She strolled to the front of the recliner, crossed her arms under her breasts, and smiled.  "I know you enjoy video-gaming, so I've arranged for you to be able to play a few classic games.  Is that mean?"

June tugged on her bonds and stared daggers at her smug, gloating mentor before answering.  "While getting my tits zapped and my pussy buzzed?  Yes, that's mean.  That's very mean, and... classic video games?  What classic video games?"

Grace managed to contain the fit of laughter struggling to erupt from between her smiling lips.  June's expression had morphed from a heartbreaking pout to... concerned interest.  It was adorable.  June was beautiful, nude, inescapably bound, and intrigued...  Adorable.

Grace returned to the cabinet.  "Well, the choices available were limited, but I believe the first games my friends sent me are are PC versions of Space Invaders, Battlezone, Centipede, and Pac-Man."

June blinked in surprise.  "That's classic, alright," she muttered.  "That's about as classic as you can get, but—"  June blinked again, this time in alarm.  Grace was approaching the recliner, and the ball-gag in her hands was approaching June's open mouth!  "Grace!  Mrrrpfh!"  Too late.  The ball was in her mouth, and her mentor was securing its strap.

Grace finished buckling the ball-gag, straightened June's tousled hair, then resumed her smiling, cross-armed stance in front of the recliner.  "My friends also made a few enhancements.  I understand it wasn't particularly difficult, as the actual source codes for the different titles were available, so—"

"Er'ar'rrh?"

"Yes, dear," Grace chuckled, "enhancements.  I know the details vary depending on the context of the game, but in the most general terms, and from the player's point of view, you know how something 'bad' happens it triggers a 'sad' noise, and when something 'good' thing happens it triggers a 'happy' noise?  That will still be the case, but in addition, the electrical contacts on your nipples will provide additional negative feedback and your new best friend between your legs additional positive feedback."

"Nrrrrr!"

"Don't have kittens, darling," Grace chuckled.  "If things are calibrated correctly, nothing will rise above the level of irritation or frustration, not until you win or lose the game, of course.  Then, you should get either a nice orgasm... or a brief punishment period.  A rest interval will follow, and then you will play again."

June watched with wide eyes, tugged on her bonds, squirmed in place, and watched as Grace strolled to the cabinet, yet again, and returned with what June recognized as a virtual-reality headset with stereo headphones.  The Prisoner of the Recliner supposed she could have tried to make her collared and ball-gagged head a moving target, but why bother?  June fumed and mewled complaints as the goggle-like headset settled over her eyes and the headphones over her ears.  Straps tightened, buckles snapped, and the deed was done.

June found she wasn't in total darkness.  The upper two-thirds of her field of vision were as if she was looking through a very dark pair of sunglasses, but the lower third was more or less clear.  She could see her wrist-cuffs, hands, and the controllers.  Grace was still standing in front of her, but between the padded collar, the recliner's headrest, and the very dark upper field of the VR headset, all she could see was most of her mentor's exquisitely and expensively dressed body, her lower face, and her sinister (exquisite) smile.

And then... after a brief opening title sequence... a round of the game Space Invaders began.  June scrambled to sort out the controls, how to make her missile launcher slide left and right, and which button fired the thing.  She lost a part of her second shield during the process—and received her first tit-zap—but soon she was in the groove.  Grace had been telling the truth.  The tit-zap was more an irritation that a jolt of pain.  She destroyed her first few invaders, and learned that the requisite "rewards" from what Grace had called her "new best friend" were equally low key.

Game play continued.

It had been a very long time since June had defended the planet in this manner, and the most classic version of the game, the arcade version, was before her time, but she was holding her own.  Oh-by the way, with each row of invaders she destroyed, the vibrator ticked up a notch!  And the same went for the tit-zapping power of their bombs or missiles or whatever the damn things were firing.  They weren't moving faster or causing more damage to her shields, but the intensity of the negative feedback was increasing... slowly.  None of the rewards or punishments were spectacularly intense, but as the game wore on, the zaps and buzzes became increasingly distracting.

Finally... June won the first game.  Her field of vision went completely dark, there was a brief pause... and the vibrator began to buzz... and this time it was more than feedback... meaning it didn't stop.  The intensity slowly increased, and there was variation.  Vibratory pulses came in modulated waves... but they were relentless!

June squirmed and struggled, mewled through her gag, and shivered in response.  No doubt Grace was watching.  No doubt Grace was watching with sadistic glee as her helpless, innocent, naked protege was "tortured" by the vibrator and its controlling computer.

Finally, inevitably, June's body went rigid—she resumed struggling with all her strength—then went rigid again.  June was in the throes of a crashing orgasm... and then it was over.  However, the vibrator continued to buzz... which wasn't exactly a good thing.  It was on the verge of becoming a very bad thing as it vibrated against her now very sensitive and decidedly moist labia... but finally, it stopped.

June panted through her gag, her breasts heaved, and enjoyed the lingering ripples of the orgasm's aftermath.

Rest period.

June's breathing stilled and she wondered if she'd be allowed to take a brief catnap.

Suddenly, the lower third of her field of vision returned, as did the alien invasion.  Round two had begun.

Several rounds of Space Invaders later, the surface of the earth had not been bombed to a sea of molten lava by the alien hordes.  However, the Fearless Defender of the Big Blue Marble, June the Triumphant Warrior, had paid the price.  That is, she had "suffered" many, many orgasms.  How many orgasms?  At some point, the best efforts of the vibrator pressed against her flushed, moist pussy had become as much of an irritant as the shock-pads adhered to either side of her nipples.  June was tuckered out, too tuckered out to count orgasms.

Things happened... and June realized the VR headset and headphones had mysteriously vanished, the crescent-shaped pads had evaporated from her boobs, the vibrator had disappeared, all of her restraints had spontaneously sprung open, and Grace was helping her to her feet.

June was, in a word, funky, and she felt funky.  She was also slightly unsteady on her bare feet.  Grace was still holding her left hand.  The naked protege favored her mentor with her best wounded (tired) pout.  "I hate you," she croaked.  "You're mean."

"Yes, yes, I know, darling," Grace chuckled as she led June from the workshop.  "Take a dip in the pool while I fix us some lunch."

"Okay," June sighed, "I mean, no.  I hate you."  By this time she was steadier on her feet, but she didn't release Grace's hand.  "The outdoor pool?  I'm not gonna swim in the indoor torture tank."

"Yes, the outdoor pool," Grace purred.  They'd reached the stairs and were starting up.  "You know where the poolside towels are kept, of course."

"Yes, that cabinet next to the shower," June confirmed.  "I mean, no.  Shut up.  You're mean."

Grace smiled as she opened the door to the kitchen.  "Yes, dear."

"I think you broke my pussy," June huffed.  "You're mean."

Grace lost it, quaking with laughter as they crossed the kitchen and headed for the exercise area.  "Stop!" she begged.

"Mean, mean, mean!"  June pressed her momentary advantage by leaning close and tickling her chortling mentor's ribs.

"Stop!" Grace wailed.

June did stop.  She was too exhausted for a wrestling match.

By this time they were in sight of the door leading out to the pool deck and Grace stopped.  "Go."

June smiled as she continued forward and Grace doubled back towards the kitchen.  Her pussy wasn't actually broken, of course.  In fact, it was purring.  Also, June wasn't really mad at Grace.  It was very thoughtful of her to go to all that trouble, June thought as she opened the door, stepped out onto the deck, and into the sun.  Not every mentor would go to the effort to torture their protege with their favorite pastime in such an imaginative, meticulously planned manner.

Proper pool protocol called for June to shower before entering the water, but that sounded like work.  So, sweaty, funky body and all, June executed a graceful overhand dive into the cool, liquid, aqua depths.

I wonder what's for lunch? June wondered as she kicked for the surface.  And what's gonna happen after lunch?