Much to her relief, after
precisely twenty-seven "days" Jamie was transferred to new
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:
was clearly a painting studio, with easel, stool, and a small
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.
● A generous
sleeping alcove with a queen-size platform bed;
● 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.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
THE BIG APPLE
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
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.
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
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
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!
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?" 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?"
"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
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
"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
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.
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.
NEAR THE CAMPUS OF
LEWIS & CLARK UNIVERSITY
first met Penelope "Penny" Parr in the epilogue of Fit
2B Tied. Beebe had recruited her young
distant cousin as her new minion, now that Suki
had been promoted to full partner. Penny is eager to
begin her training, but Beebe (and "Aunt Suki") insist
that she complete her higher education before becoming a
full-time apprentice. And now, Dr. Bondage &
Suki have been "redeemed" by the Sisterhood! And
Penny doesn't even know about it! Poor kid!
happen to her?
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...
#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.]
#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
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
[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
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.
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
"Wait!" Penny called.
Her hand on the doorknob, Gwyn turned back. "Yes?"
"Does that offer to spend the Summer at your place still stand?"
Gwyn's smile widened. "Your planned hook-up with your
relatives fell through?"
"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
"Hamburger Helper," Gwyn reiterated as she sashayed back to the
"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
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
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