by Van ©2019
		Epilogue(s)

Epilogue 1
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

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Much to her relief, after precisely twenty-seven "days" Jamie was transferred to new quarters.

And by "day," Jamie meant sixteen-hours of full illumination followed by eight hours of near-darkness with only a handful of LEDs feebly glowing overhead.  Her highly reliable internal clock agreed with the timing, so she supposed that if her jailer was attempting to disorient her through temporal manipulation, it was an extremely subtle effort.

Anyway, a panel opened in one of the walls of her boring, nearly featureless cell and the voice of Sigourney Weaver (who insisted upon being addressed as "Sally") ordered Jamie to enter the closet-sized space revealed.  It was one of the four "doorways" in the cell's gray paneling, none of which had ever opened before while she was conscious.  Jamie complied (why not?) and found that the closet was actually an elevator.  An upwards ride of about twenty seconds ensued, with the car smoothly and rapidly accelerating and decelerating.

The door whisked open... and Jamie padded out into a large, pleasant apartment with an abundance of natural light.  The decor was Modern/Asian Fusion, with bamboo paneling and attractive furnishings with clean, functional lines.  It was... nice... a far cry from the totally empty cell that had been her home since her capture/recapture.

The space had an open floor plan and included:

●  What was clearly a painting studio, with easel, stool, and a small paint-stand/table;

●  A generous sleeping alcove with a queen-size platform bed;

●  A well-equipped kitchen;

●  A sitting area with comfortable looking sofas and easy chairs;

●  A home gym alcove with a stationary bike, resistance machine, and a treadmill for running;

●  A bathroom with a washbasin, commode, Japanese-style soaking tub, and a large, open shower stall.

There were no screens or partitions.  There were end-tables and a coffee-table in the lounging area, but no lamps of either the standing or table variety.  The bed had nightstands on either side, but also lacked lamps  Overhead was a hanging grid supporting several clustered mini-spotlights and LED lighting strips.  There were no knickknacks or small art objects in any of the spaces—nothing she could throw or wield as a weapon.

Jamie managed to control her elation at being released from the subterranean cell.  She strolled to the nearest window-wall and gazed out at what lay beyond.  The glass was thick and slightly tinted.

Her new, much more pleasant, even luxurious apartment was situated atop a two-acre mesa that towered above a sun-blasted jumble of winding canyons and jagged hills, the sort of rugged terrain that is generally referred to as "badlands."  What vegetation she could see might be sagebrush.  It was all very distant, little more than a dispersed pattern of green dots.

Somewhere in the American Southwest, Jamie decided, or possibly Northern Mexico... or Southern Mongolia or Northern China for that matter.

Beyond the glass was a patio area with a small café table and chair, as well as bench seating sculpted into a few of the nearby boulders.  Access would be via a closed, sliding door without an apparent handle.  A nearby touch-screen glowed red when she touched it.

"Not right now, Jamie," Sally said.

"Even if I promise not to do a naked swan dive off the mesa?" Jamie inquired dryly.

"It's uncomfortably hot outside this time of day," Sally responded.  "Perhaps tonight.  The forecast is for clear skies.  It will be chilly, but the stars will be magnificent."

Jamie turned her back on the sere, majestic landscape, padded to the studio area, and gazed at the canvas on the easel.  It was the naked Kinbaku portrait of Joan Watson she'd been finishing at the time of her capture/recapture.

"Once you finish the background and sign your name," Sally's disembodied voice announced, "I'll see that it gets to Sherlock... under the appropriate circumstances, of course."

"That's very kind," Jamie purred, "but why?  I know my motivation for wanting Sherlock to see it, but what is yours?"

"It will be... interesting," Sally replied.

'Interesting,' Jamie thought.  "You want to see his reaction?"

"I've modeled his most probable reactions and responses," Sally answered, "and I'm curious to see if my predictions are accurate.  Also, consider it part of your ongoing correspondence.  It's been decided you'll be allowed to continue exchanging letters."

Jamie nodded, then padded to the kitchen.  She took down a mug from a cabinet and placed it on the pad of what was obviously an automated beverage dispenser.  A touchscreen began to glow and gave her three choices: "Coffee," "Tea," and "Cocoa."  She tapped "Tea," and the screen flashed to three more choices: "Earl Grey," "Oolong," and "Breakfast Tea."  She chose "Breakfast Tea," and the screen presented a third menu: "Milk," and "Sugar."  She tapped both and the mug began to fill.

"The menu will simplify once the system learns your preferences," Sally explained, "and feel free to make verbal requests if you desire a change."

"Thank you," Jamie drawled, then took a sip of her first cup of tea in nearly a month.  It was perfect.  "Brilliant," she whispered under her breath, without even a hint of sarcasm.

Jamie noted the mug was plastic but had the heft and weight of something ceramic, and she strongly suspected it was indestructible.  Also, it seemed to have the required thermal properties.  It also had a pleasing shape and was doing a credible imitation of a glazed ceramic.  She supposed the mug could be used as a potential weapon, as could the plates and bowls in the same cabinet and the eating utensils no doubt waiting in one of the kitchen drawers, but they would be poor weapons, and the punishment for throwing a pointless tantrum or attacking a hypothetical visitor would probably be loss of tea privileges, at the very least.  Best to behave like a model prisoner... for now.

Sipping her tea, Jamie padded from window to window.  Badlands.  Nothing but badlands.  No highways, houses, power lines, or communication towers.  Not even a dirt road.  The proverbial middle of nowhere. 

"Clothing?" Jamie inquired, remembering that she was still nude.

"Unnecessary," Sally replied.

"I assume I still have questions to answer," Jamie sighed.

"Of course," Sally answered, "although the bulk of your network is largely isolated and its various elements in the process of being dismantled or repurposed."

"And when the last of what I've built is no more?"

"Then, you'll begin a new career as a Sisterhood consultant," Sally answered.  "You'll be our intellectual asset, as it were.  I'll bring specific problems to your attention and suggest important research projects you might wish to pursue.  I seriously doubt you'll become bored.  You'll also have your paints, of course."

"Of course," Jamie muttered.  Wonderful.  I'm to be a think tank of one in the employ of the most powerful organization of do-gooders on the planet.  Wonderful.

"And always remember," Sally said, "bad girls get time-out in the cell down below."

Jamie's marginal smile changed to a marginal frown.  "Visitors?"

"Infrequent."

Jamie padded to the studio, opened the drawer in the small table next to the easel, selected several tubes of paint, and began preparing her palette.   She noted the jar waiting to be filled with mineral spirits so she could clean her brushes was clear, heavy acrylic, as opposed to glass, and the palette knife was semi-flexible plastic, suitable for mixing paints but nearly worthless as a weapon.

Hmm... Jamie thought, noting the stack of new, blank canvases leaning against a wall, I wonder if I can pull off a credible naked Kinbaku portrait of Sigourney Weaver.  Sigourney in the nineteen-eighties.  Sigourney after Alien.  Ghostbusters Sigourney.  Year of Living Dangerously Sigourney.  Hmm...  "Internet?" she inquired as she selected a brush and began mixing dabs of paint.

"Supervised browsing only," Sally answered.  "No e-mail, except on a dedicated Sisterhood intranet."

"I see," Jamie said as she began dabbing at the nearly completed background of Joan's portrait.  Good, she mused.  I'll be able to browse for reference images.  As I recall, Sigourney has nude bathing scenes in Half Moon Street.  I'll be able to realistically capture her proportions, skin tone, muscle tone, and breasts... so to speak.  Jamie's lips curled in a crooked smile as she took another sip of tea.  As I recall, her breasts are modest but... intriguing.  The triumph of quality over quantity.

Epilogue 2
THE BIG APPLE

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Joan had been back in the brownstone for two full days when, without warning, Sherlock returned from his excursion to London and parts unknown.  Joan still didn't know anything about the secretive case that had required his absence—not surprising as MI-6 was involved—other than it had been important.  As far as Joan could tell, Sherlock was totally ignorant that she'd been abducted by Moriarty and rescued by "Bonderella" and the "Sisterhood," and she very much wanted to keep it that way.

During a careful visit to the 11th Precinct, Joan had already explained (lied) that she'd left town on a brief "vacation" to visit a branch of her extended family, so Captain Gregson and Detective Bell were also ignorant of her ordeal.  Jordan Shaw had emphatically agreed that neither of them should discuss their experiences as Moriarty's prisoners with anyone.  Buried in the files of the FBI was a record of Special Agent Shaw's debriefing, but neither of them could do anything about that.

Meanwhile, Joan relaxed and caught up on her reading and enjoyed the occasional run.  She also stumbled upon a newly opened neighborhood bistro that served a delicious French Onion Soup.

Two more days had passed without Holmes and Watson being summoned to a crime scene and without a potential client ringing their front doorbell.  Joan knew that eventually Sherlock would start getting antsy—he always did during prolonged periods of inactivity—but she wasn't worried.  Inevitably, someone interesting would murder someone interesting in an interesting manner for interesting reasons, and the game would be afoot.

Anyway...
 
Four days after Joan's return to New York, the hour grew late and she changed into a set of her typical pajamas: panties, loose-fitting cotton shorts, and a t-shirt (this one with a cute-but-not-overly-cute image of a spotted leopard curled up on its front), and retired for the night.  She climbed between the oh-so-comfortable covers of her oh-so-comfortable bed, closed her eyes, took several deep breaths and performed her usual pre-slumber meditation routine... and drifted off.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ zzzzzzz ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Joan opened her eyes, tried to move, and...

What the HELL? 

Joan was still in her bedroom and still lying on her bed, but—she struggled, furiously—her pajamas were gone, and in their place she was wearing a canvas and leather straitjacket!

It hugged her torso like the proverbial second skin!  Her arms, hands, and fingers were completely and tightly encased, folded across her stomach in the traditional self-embrace, and the ends of the sleeves buckled together at the small of her back!  A vertical leather strap pressed her forearms against her tummy and the jacket's front—a horizontal strap pinned her upper-arms to her sides and encircled her arms and torso above her mildly compressed breasts—and finally, a pair of diagonal straps passed between her legs, to either side of her naked genitalia!  The "crotch straps" anchored the bottom of the jacket, making it impossible for her to raise her crossed arms and shrug the garment over her head—not that such a maneuver would have been even a remote possibility without the crotch-straps.

All the straps passed through wide, carefully positioned, canvas retaining loops sewn in the jacket, ensuring they couldn't slip or slide—something that was impossible anyway, thanks to everything's collective tightness—and all the free ends trailing from the buckles that she could see disappeared into similar canvas retaining loops to keep them from flopping around as she struggled.

Who had done this to her?  (As if there was any question.)  Joan frowned, sat up in bed (awkwardly), blew an errant strand of her long, straight, tousled hair from her irate face, and shouted at the top of her lungs!
 
"SHEEER-LOOOCK!"

The bedroom door opened almost immediately and her infuriating, socially challenged partner entered.  "Excellent.  You're awake.  How do you like your new jacket?  That model was suggested by one of my 'irregulars' who is knowledgeable about such things.  Personally, I would have gone with a more interesting color, perhaps claret or carmine, but unfortunately, only 'natural' was in stock in size naught."

"Get me out of this thing!" Joan demanded, continuing to struggle, "so I can kill you!"

Sherlock settled into the easy chair Joan sometimes used for reading.  "Sorry, but that would defeat the purpose of the exercise."

"Exercise?" Joan huffed as she twisted and squirmed and fought the jacket with all her strength.

"How many times have I told you that you require training in the art of escaping from elaborate restraints?" Sherlock stated.

"Like handcuffs?" Joan muttered.

Sherlock shook his head.  "Our periodic handcuff exercises are as much about locksmithing as escape.  As I clearly stated, the topic at hand is escape from elaborate restraints."

Joan remembered that she was naked under the jacket, and completely naked from the hips down.  She blushed and squirmed on the bed, pressed her knees together, and folded her legs away from her partner.  That left her right butt-cheek more-or-less fully exposed, but that was better than the alternative. 

"How did you manage this without waking me up?" Joan demanded as she willed herself to stop blushing (without success).

"I used a mixture of anesthetic gasses.  First, I supplied puffs of gas in the proximity of your nostrils, to coincide with your inhalations.  Then, after the initial dose, I used a conventional breathing mask to insure you received a full dose and were completely unconscious.  After that, the disrobing and subsequent robing presented little challenge."

Joan continued blushing, and stared daggers at her partner.

"I assure you that I had, and have, absolutely no prurient interest in your body, as exemplary and comely an example of the feminine ideal as it might be.  My irregular, 'Mistress Bondarella,' insisted that full nudity is de rigueur for such activities, and I hold her opinions in such matters in the highest regard."

Joan continued struggling—then froze in place, blinked in alarm, and turned her head to face Sherlock.  "Mistress who?"

Sherlock frowned at his helpless partner.  "Mistress Bondarella.  And there is only one Bondarella.  Did you really think you could be abducted by Moriarty, rescued by the Sisterhood, then waltz back to the brownstone and I'd be none the wiser?  Have you learned nothing of my methods?  Have you developed no appreciation of the extent of my deductive faculties?"

Joan heaved a sigh, then flopped back down on the bed (keeping her legs tucked to the side to shield her private parts).  "How long?" she sighed.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock inquired.

Joan turned her head and glared at her Escaping From Elaborate Restraints Instructor.  "Use your 'deductive faculties'," she hissed through clenched teeth.  "How long are you going to make me wear this damn thing?"

"Language, please," Sherlock chided his student.  "You will wear your new jacket until you escape."  Sherlock sprang from the easy chair.  "Or, until I decide enough time has passed to justify acceptance of your failure."  He strolled to the bedroom door, stopped in the threshold, and turned back to face the bed and its indignant occupant.  "It would be counterproductive to give you a fixed time-frame.  You might decide to simply languish, rather than thoroughly test your new garment with the due diligence it deserves."

"Killing you isn't good enough," Joan growled.  "I'm going to have to think of something worse."

"Next time," Sherlock continued, "we'll repeat the exercise with a blindfold and headphones.  You'll find that elaborate bondage is an excellent adjunct to listening to audiobooks.  Restraint and sensory deprivation greatly enhance the power of auscultation.  Also, on those occasions when she has business in New York and has time to spare, Mistress has volunteered to lend her Kinbaku skills to the curriculum."

Joan struggled to escape her "new jacket" and formulate a snappy comeback—then realized it was too late.  The door was closed, Sherlock was gone, and she was alone.

Joan stared at the back of her bedroom door.  For some time she'd been meaning to reinforce the hinges and add a deadbolt lock, perhaps replace the wooden door with steel.  In short, she intended to convert her bedroom to a safe-room.  Joan heaved a sad sigh.  She suspected Sherlock would find a way to defeat whatever countermeasures she deployed to frustrate his periodic nighttime intrusions.

Also...

Bondarella tying me up, Joan mused, imagining herself naked and kneeling in Bondarella's embrace while loop after loop of conditioned hemp methodically tightened around her limbs and torso.  That could be... educational.  Bondarella is not Moriarty.

Epilogue 3
NEAR THE CAMPUS OF
LEWIS & CLARK UNIVERSITY
Go Explorers!

---

Frowning at the world in general and the vagaries of fortune in particular, Penny Parr trudged up the front steps of the townhouse she shared with her two housemates and fellow students.  She'd just returned from checking the letter-box she kept under an assumed name at a storefront private post office on the far side of the L&C campus.  It was one of several means she used to covertly communicate with her mentor and soon-to-be employer, the legendary Dr. Bondage.  Only two more years.  All she had to do was finish her Junior and Senior years, cross the stage, and she could begin her dream career!

Until her graduation, Dr. B and Aunt Suki had made it crystal clear that Penny would not be participating in any of their commissions, meaning she wouldn't be allowed to help kidnap beautiful women and/or "entertain" them (in the manner specified by their client) and/or help release them back into the wild.  Penny could visit with her future mentors/employers during the holiday and Summer breaks (when possible), but until she showed up with a sheepskin she was to concentrate on her studies.

Penny couldn't really argue.  Not only was her beautiful, blond, semi-elderly cousin her boss, but Beebe was paying for her tuition, books, and housing.  There was also a generous stipend she could use on food, clothing, and other essentials (like rope and duct tape).

So, Penny had nearly completed her Sophomore year (with solid grades, no less) and was looking forward to three months with her patron.  (Patrons, plural, if you count Aunt Suki, which she did.)  Penny's long, dark-blond curls were tucked under a ball-cap and she was wearing sneakers, jeans, a white t-shirt, and a reversible navy-blue/heather-gray hoodie.  She'd made her way to the private post office, using all the "spy-craft" she'd been taught to insure she wasn't being followed, opened her letter-box, and was elated to find a letter waiting inside.

She then made her way to a nearby McDonalds, ducked into the bathroom, removed her ball-cap and tucked its bill under her waistband at the small of her back, reversed her hoodie from navy to gray, then left the McDonalds, trudged to a Starbucks three blocks away (checking for tails all the way), ordered a Tall Carmel Ribbon Crunch, and settled into a chair in a back corner to read Beebe's letter.

So... what challenging little mini-adventure would Penny be required to complete to make her way to Beebe's current hideout?  Her cousin always made a big deal about secrecy, ensuring Penny wasn't leading law enforcement to the notorious Dr. Bondage by requiring her to complete some sort of elaborate wild goose chase without leaving a paper or electronic trail to her ultimate destination.

Penny sucked the straw of her Frappuccino, read the letter... and all her tentative, vague hopes and plans for the coming Summer came crashing down (tentatively and vaguely).

Beebe was busy with important matters and Penny wouldn't be able to visit this Summer.  Maybe in the Fall.  Maybe not.  Sorry.  Good job with her grades!  Suki sends her love.  Ciao!

Penny read the letter three times.  It appeared to be on the up-and-up.  It was written in Cousin Beebe's hand, and none of the prearranged code-words that signaled coercion had been used.  Finally, a trio of faint, precisely positioned and spaced water-stains on the bottom margin of the paper authenticated the message.

Well... damn, Penny sighed, stuffed the letter back into the envelope, folded and stuffed the envelope into the back pocket of her jeans, left the Starbucks, and made her way "home" to the townhouse, slurping her Frappucinno as she stomped down the street (and checked for tails).  Damn.

The townhouse in question had been a real find, as had its two other scholar/residents.  Penny had met her housemates midway through her Freshman year.  They were...

Housemate #1: Gwyneth Roget.  5' 2".  She had long, glistening, dark-brown (nearly black) hair she usually wore loose about her shoulders, framing her seriously pretty face.  Penny had nicknamed her "Sweet," as in "Sweet Gwyneth," which referenced John Willie's "Sweet Gwendoline."  Okay, Penny didn't really call her housemate "Sweet" on a regular basis, but the fact that she'd made the joke when they first met and Gwyn had gotten it immediately spoke volumes, and had been a real plus.

Gwyn's mom was incredibly wealthy and the Roget family owned the townhouse.  Surprisingly, Gwyn was decidedly not a snooty rich-bitch.  She was nice (in a semi-Goth, Wednesday Addams sort of way).

[The part of "Sweet" Gwyneth Roget is played by Gracie Gillam.]

Housemate #2: Amanda Byrne.  She was a statuesque 5' 6".  Okay, technically, 5' 6" isn't "statuesque," but in the townhouse, "Mandy" had a solid lock on looming, towering, and tallness in general.

By the way, Penny had graduated from high school a diminutive 5' 0", but had put on a serious growth spurt in the intervening twenty-two months and was now a comfortable 5' 1½".  Last Summer, Aunt Suki had offered to continue her growth spurt by means of regular and prolonged stretching on the rack, but Penny had politely declined.

Anyway, Penny's nickname for Mandy was "Ginger," and with the prerequisite fair skin (with propensity to freckle), green eyes, and long, wavy, copper-red hair, Mandy lived up to the moniker.  In Penny's opinion, Mandy was a looker, and everyone she knew seemed to agree.

Mandy had been Gwyn's BFF since their exclusive prep school days at the "Saint Priggette Academy for Girls" (which was, no doubt, a very priggish place, but somehow that quality had failed to rub off on either the "normal sized" brunette or the "overly-tall" redhead).

[Mandy "Ginger" Byrne is played by Annalise Basso.]

All three housemates and scholars were athletic, with trim, fit figures and a commitment to exercise.  That included running, swimming at the campus pool, and yoga classes (as their studies allowed.)

They also had other interests in common.

Penny entered the townhouse, locked the deadbolt behind her, and made her way to her designated bedroom.  She removed her hoodie, ball-cap, and sneakers, gave her hair a quick brush, then announced her presence by the established method.

"AH-ROOOOO!"

Being proper young ladies, wolf-howls were the means by which Penny, Gwyn, and Mandy located each other inside the townhouse when not in line of sight.

An answering howl came almost immediately, but slightly muffled and at lower volume.  "Ah-rooooo!"

Penny couldn't tell if the reply was from Gwyn or Mandy, but it seemed to be coming from Mandy's bedroom.  Penny stepped down the hall to the bedroom in question, opened the door, crossed the threshold, smiled, and closed the door behind her.

Mandy was present, but it was obvious she wasn't the one who had given the answering howl.  The redhead was reclined on her back on her bed.  She was wearing Daisy Dukes (a pair of worn, faded jeans converted to short-shorts) and a white, sleeveless top.  Her arms were spread and her wrists neatly, expertly, and inescapably tied to the upper bedposts with white cotton clothesline.  Her ankles were also neatly, expertly, and inescapably tied, but together, and were also lashed to the bed's foot-rail, cushioned by a folded towel.  In short, Mandy was "half-spreadeagled" on her bed in the "Y" position.

Finally, Mandy was howling, but something substantial—a scarf, bandana, sock, panties, whatever—had been stuffed in her mouth and a wide strip of off-white microfoam tape covered her lips and most of her lower-face.  It—the stuffing and tape-gag—were muffling and containing most of her attempted vocalizations.  Her green eyes were wide with horror and she was not happy.  Penny could tell.

Gwyn was also present.  Obviously, she was the author of the full-throated and un-gagged wolf-howl reply.  The smiling brunette was sitting cross-legged in Mandy's office chair, which she'd wheeled over from Mandy's study/computer desk.  Also, she was using a black primary flight feather donated by a crow to tickle Mandy's bare, bound feet.  The perpetrator of this outrage was dressed in black jeans and a black tank-top.  No shoes.  Her hair was pulled back and tied with a black ribbon.

"Hey," Gwyn stated.

"Hey," Penny replied.  She padded over and stood next to Gwyn, then focused on Mandy's wiggling feet.  She noted Gwyn had made them less of a moving target by tying Mandy's big toes together with a length of white paracord, then linking them to Mandy's ankle-bonds, leaving zero slack and permanently pulling Mandy's pale, lightly freckled feet as far back as they could go.  In Penny's educated opinion, it was an excessively cruel, mean, and eminently practical arrangement, just the thing for prolonged tickle-torture.

"Doesn't Ginger have studying to do?" Penny inquired, nodding at the books and computer on the hysterically struggling and mewling redhead's desk.

Gwyn shrugged.  Her smiling face remained focused on Mandy's stretched, pink soles, wiggling, non-tied toes, and lightly freckled feet.  The black feather continued twirling and teasing.  "Who studies before dinner?"

Penny also remained focused on Mandy's feet.  They were very nice feet, in Penny's opinion, especially when their owner was bound, gagged, and helpless.

"Isn't it your turn to cook?" Penny inquired.

Gwyn stopped tickling Mandy's feet (to the redhead's infinite relief), then climbed from Mandy's chair and handed the feather to Penny.  "Hamburger Helper," she said, announcing the evening's main entree, then turned and padded towards the bedroom door.

"Wait!" Penny called.

Her hand on the doorknob, Gwyn turned back.  "Yes?"

"Does that offer to spend the Summer at your place still stand?" Penny inquired.

Gwyn's smile widened.  "Your planned hook-up with your relatives fell through?"

Penny nodded.

"Gee, I don't know, Pens," Gwyn sighed, then focused on the bed and Mandy's bound, gagged, panting, glowing, and weakly struggling form.  "With that one also hogging a guestroom, we might not have room."

Penny knew Gwyn was rattling her cage (so to speak).  Gwyn had stated (bragged) on numerous occasions that her mother's mansion was "obscenely ginormous," and Mandy (not being bound and gagged at the time) had nodded in agreement and added "mucho gigando" to the description.  Penny raised an eyebrow and waited for Gwyn to continue.

"Of course you can come," Gwyn said finally, padded forward, and the housemates exchanged a warm hug and pecks on the cheek—the housemates not gagged and tied to their bed, that is.

"Hamburger Helper," Gwyn reiterated as she sashayed back to the door.

"Yum," Penny responded (without enthusiasm) as the door closed, then sat in Mandy's office chair, twirled the crow feather between her fingers, and smiled.

Mandy stared at the twirling feather with sad, worried eyes... then at Penny's lightly freckled, smiling face... then the feather... then Penny's face.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

"Well," Penny said, still twirling the feather and smiling, "we're going to have a lot of fun this Summer, don't ya think?"

Mandy's answer was to continue panting, sweating, and staring at the black feather.

"It really sucks when it's your turn," Penny purred, "doesn't it?"

Mandy tugged on her bonds but didn't even try and answer.  "Sucks" didn't even begin to cover it, but the question was rhetorical, given her gagged condition.

"Let's lighten the mood," Penny suggested, leaned close, and drew the blade of the feather up Mandy's right sole... then down her left.

Mandy shivered, whined through her gag, and squeezed her green eyes tightly shut.

Penny began tickling her ginger housemate's toe-tied feet in earnest.  Prospects for the Summer were definitely looking up.

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Chapter 6

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