by Van ©2019
		Chapter 1

Joan Watson stepped from the yellow taxicab and found her eyes drawn almost involuntarily upwards.  Looming in front and especially above her was a typical glass, steel, and concrete wonder of Manhattan architecture, a skyscraper rising into the blue sky and catching the sun about halfway up its 1,000 foot-plus height.  It was Joan's destination, specifically Cælestis, an exclusive restaurant near the very top.  She'd never eaten in the establishment in question, but knew its reputation for tasteful modern decor, spectacular views of the skyline, cutting edge, overpriced cuisine, and above all, guaranteed customer privacy.

It was an open secret that Cælestis was the place for the elite to hold meetings that never took place, including trysts with mistresses, gigolos, or coworkers, tête-à-têtes between whistle-blowers and reporters, and planning sessions with bitter rivals who were actually secret allies.

Joan smiled.  Cælestis probably counted Morland among its regular customers, when he was in New York.  It was the perfect setting for Sherlock's notorious father to expedite his latest morally and/or ethically and/or legally questionable business scheme; however, Joan wasn't responding to a summons from the hyper-wealthy, hyper-powerful Morland Holmes.  At the moment, both Morland and Sherlock were supposedly in Mindanao, working together (under a no doubt very uneasy truce) to unravel an incredibly complex and problematic criminal/political mare's nest with the assistance of Interpol, MI-6, the CIA, and various operatives of Morland's global network.  Sherlock and Morland had expressly forbidden Joan from getting involved in whatever it was they were doing, not even via the internet from New York.  She wasn't happy about it, but had little choice.

In any case, Joan's visit to Cælestis had nothing to do with the Holmes family.  Today, she was responding to a summons from Jordan Shaw of the FBI.

Joan had never met the Special Agent face-to-face, but Jordan was semi-famous, an up-and-comer at the Bureau who had closed numerous high profile cases. 

Also, the invitation (summons) had come as a welcome surprise.  With Sherlock overseas, possibly for weeks, and with Joan frozen out of whatever the hell he was working on, she needed a diversion.  At the moment it was her bad luck that there were no interesting cases at the 11th Precinct.  Captain Gregson had promised he would give her a call if something worthy of her talents turned up, but so far the Major Case Squad was purring along without her.  Also, no private clients with interesting puzzles had emerged since Sherlock's departure.  Finally, Sherlock would pout like a spoiled brat if he returned home to find she'd tidied up the brownstone and disturbed his "collections."

Joan was bored.

All things considered, meeting Special Agent Shaw was a welcome diversion at a time when Joan needed one.  At the very least, meeting the inimitable Jordan Shaw would widen Joan's network within the Bureau.

And adding a hint of mystery to the occasion, most meetings with the FBI took place at their New York Field Office.  The choice of a venue like Cælestis was unusual, as was the invitations' emphatic admonition that Joan should tell no one where, when, or with whom she would be meeting.  Joan supposed there had to be a good reason for all the cloak and dagger, but it was intriguing.

Joan entered the skyscraper's main lobby.  Her burgundy and black dress blended in well with the expensively dressed men and women coming and going from the banks of public elevators and the exclusive ground floor shops.

Tucked discretely in one corner of the lobby was a counter under a prominent Cælestis sign, and behind the counter was what was clearly a private elevator and an attractive, 30-something blonde.

The blonde smiled as Joan drew near.  "May I help you?"  Her gold name tag read "Chrissy."

"Joan Watson, to meet Jordan Shaw," Joan explained, smiling back.

Chrissy consulted a touchscreen display built into the counter-top, then tapped the screen.  "Ms. Shaw has already arrived," she announced, then gestured to the elevator.  As if on cue, a chime sounded and the doors opened.  "Your waitress will meet you at our sky lobby," Chrissy explained.

"Thank you," Joan said as she entered the elevator.  The doors closed and what turned out to be a very long ascent began.  Very subdued, almost subliminal music emerged from speakers built into the car's ceiling.  Joan recognized the melodious chimes of a Balinese Gamelan orchestra.  She was impressed... or more precisely, she wasn't annoyed.

The car slowed and stopped, the doors opened, and Joan found herself facing a brunette waitress with her hair pulled back in a tight bun and dressed in a black pencil-skirt and a long-sleeve, white blouse with a Cælestis name-tag that read "Fiona."  Her pale blue eyes smiled from behind a stylish pair of designer glasses and Joan had no choice but to admit the waitress' dimpled smile and girlish features were quite attractive.

"Welcome to Cælestis, Ms. Watson," Fiona purred, then gestured down a nearby hallway.

Joan looked into the main restaurant.  There were the expected tables and chairs, half of which were occupied by well dressed clients, as well as servers dressed like Fiona.  A window-wall provided the famous Cælestis view of Manhattan.

"Ms. Shaw is in one of our private dining rooms," Fiona explained, repeating her gesture.

"I see," Joan answered, then followed Fiona's lead.  The restaurant had other doorways providing glimpses of other narrow hallways.  Joan surmised they led to other "private dining rooms."

It was a short hallway with one left turn.  Fiona pulled back an opaque drape, revealing an open sliding glass door.  Beyond was a cozy, well-appointed room with a table and two chairs, and sitting opposite the glass door was Jordan Shaw.  Joan recognized her from her official FBI portrait, as well as photos in newspaper and magazine articles about her various law enforcement triumphs.  Jordan smiled, set down the Cælestis menu she'd been reading, and stood.  She was dressed in an elegant brown sheath-dress, rather than the conservative business attire (the FBI "uniform") Joan might have expected.
 
Jordan Shaw was strikingly attractive, with auburn hair, even features, green, intelligent eyes, a fair complexion, and a dimpled smile.  Irish good looks, Joan mused.  As she'd been trained by her partner, Joan continued her "casual" assessment.  Jordan's dress was obviously expensive, but not terribly out of line with an FBI salary.  Joan knew that Jordan had a husband and teen-age daughter, and the husband in question was a high-ranking lawyer with the Securities and Exchange Commission.  His success explained the exquisite champagne pearl necklace around Jordan's neck.  It was a gift.

Joan stepped forward and shook Jordan's hand.  "Joan Watson," she introduced herself.

"Jordan Shaw," Jordan responded.

Joan and Jordan sat as Fiona poured ice water into the glass at Joan's place setting.  A menu was already waiting atop her plate.

"May I bring you a cocktail?" Fiona inquired.

"Water is fine for now," Joan answered.  "Thank you."

Fiona bowed and backed out of the room, slid the glass door closed, pulled the curtain, and Joan and Jordan were alone.

Joan began reading her menu.

"I'm very glad to finally meet you, " Jordan said as she sipped her water.  "As I'm sure you're aware, your partner has both his fans and detractors in the Bureau, but I've yet to meet a Joan Watson detractor."

Joan smiled.  "That's very kind, but I know a few of your colleagues who might fall into that category."

"Not anyone important, I assure you," Jordan replied with a sincere smile, then opened her menu and resumed reading.

"I confess I'm surprised you asked to meet at Cælestis," Joan remarked.  "I hope the Bureau will be picking up the tab."

Jordan lifted her gaze from the menu.  "Excuse me?"

"This place is expensive," Joan clarified.  "I hope you'll be able to put it on your expense account."

Jordan set down her menu.  "That's not an issue; however, I believe it's you who invited me to lunch at Cælestis."  She was still smiling, but now her gaze was penetrating.

Joan locked eyes with Jordan.  "I received a message from jordanshaw@nyfo.fbi.gov requesting a meeting here and now.  Are you saying you didn't send it?"

"Are you saying you didn't send me a similar message?" Jordan countered.

Joan nodded and her smile faded completely.  "I think we should find the maître' d or owner and ask a few polite but pointed questions."

"I agree," Jordan muttered.

Joan and Jordan pushed back their chairs and began to rise... then sat back down, rather heavily, and blinked at each other in surprise.

"I... I'm suddenly dizzy," Jordan said.

Joan struggled to focus.  "I smell a trace of... halogen.  Bromine?"

Jordan opened her mouth to answer... but said nothing.

Joan blinked twice more, then...

Both women slumped in their chairs, eyes closed and heads lolling.  Jordan slowly slid to the side and dropped limply to the floor.  Joan pitched forward onto the table, nearly upsetting her water glass.  Clearly, both the consulting detective and the FBI agent were unconscious.

More time passed, possibly a minute.

Then, the curtain beyond the glass door opened, the glass door itself opened, Fiona reentered the room, then quickly closed the curtain and door behind her.  She had added a gasmask to her waitress ensemble.

At the same time, a second door opened, admitting a tall woman who was also wearing a gasmask.  Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she was dressed in a rather frumpy, dark-blue coverall with the word "MAINTENANCE" embroidered above the left breast and in large letters across the back.  The second door in question wasn't exactly a "secret door," but had been carefully decorated to blend into the wall.  Joan and Jordan could be forgiven for not noticing it earlier, or more probably, for dismissing it as a camouflaged closet or service entrance.

Fiona and the newcomer worked quickly.  The blonde produced a pair of hypodermics and gave Joan and Jordan injections in the sides of their necks.  Next, both gasmask-wearing women used milky-white "plasticuffs" to bind Joan and Jordan's wrists behind their backs and their ankles together.  They then stuffed balls of pink, medium-density foam into their mouths and applied taut, 3" x 7" strips of off-white Elastoplast medical tape to seal their lips and smoothly cover most of their lower faces.  Finally, one at a time, Joan and Jordan were lifted, carried through the "hidden" door, and deposited inside the padded interior of an approximately 4' x 4' x 3' plastic shipping container with sturdy, dark-gray walls.  It rolled on four wheels and had a hinged lid with a pair of strong, locking latches.

Fiona and the blonde made sure Joan and Jordan were "comfortably" arranged inside the container, closed, latched, and locked the lid, then made a quick and careful search of the private dining room, making sure they were leaving nothing behind.  Jordan and Joan's purses, phones, and the single black, high-heeled pump that had slipped from Joan's right foot during her capture all went into a black day-pack which Fiona settled onto her right shoulder.

They closed and locked the hidden door, then retrieved the small canister of anesthetic gas and long length of clear, flexible plastic hose they'd rigged to flood their targets' private dining room.  They then wheeled the container and its bound, gagged, and unconscious contents down what was clearly a service corridor and began a circuitous journey to the nearest service elevator.

This was far from the first time one of the special private rooms at Cælestis had been used for a clandestine meeting/liason.  Nor was it the first time the anonymous patrons and guests of such a meeting had made a discrete and unobserved exit via the restaurant's labyrinth of back corridors.  It wasn't even the first time the restaurant had agreed to have its wait staff replaced by the outside "security personnel" of one or both of the participating parties (for the appropriate consideration, of course).  However, this very well might be the first time Cælestis was being used to perpetrate a double-kidnapping without the knowledge of the owners or staff.

Several feet down the corridor, the blonde removed her gasmask and handed it to Fiona, who removed her gasmask and placed both inside the nylon daypack.  The waitress also removed her Cælestis nametag and zipped it inside the pack's front pocket.

"Easy-peasy" the waitress-who-was-not-a-waitress purred.

"Suki, darling," the blonde-who-was-not-a-maintenance-worker said, rolling her eyes, "what have I told you about tempting fate?"

"Sorry, Dr. B," Suki chuckled.

After an elevator ride down to the skyscraper's loading docks, Dr. B and Suki approached a white rental van.  Soon, Suki and their containerized cargo were in the back and Beebe (aka "Doctor Bondage") was behind the wheel, wearing sunglasses and a black baseball cap.  They pulled up to a booth housing a very bored security guard, Beebe presented the paperwork authorizing her presence, the security gate lifted, and the van pulled out onto the street.

They took their time exiting the City, doubling back through various boroughs to make sure they hadn't acquired a tail.  Actually, neither Beebe nor Suki were truly worried.  They were old hands at this sort of thing and had planned the mission with the usual due diligence.

Once the operation was over and "Target #1" (Joan Watson) and "Target #2" (Special Agent Jordan Shaw) were released back into the wild (as Suki was fond of joking), the authorities would find no meaningful evidence linking them to Cælestis or leading away from it.  The van would be returned to the rental agency spic and span and clue-free (and sporting its original plates).  Finally, the various disguises and costumes they'd employed while making their arrangements would make identifying the perpetrators impossible.

The contract was for a five day sequestration.  That is, "Dr. Bondage Incorporated" was to keep the targets off the streets for exactly five days.  They were free to "indulge" themselves during that period, of course, but their anonymous client had been emphatic that no permanent harm would come to either subject!

Of course, Beebe and Suki wouldn't have accepted the commission otherwise.  They were kidnappers who liked to play, not assassins for hire.  Why five days?  And why Watson and Shaw?  Beebe and Suki had no idea.

Anyway, thanks to the false messages and carefully worded texts they'd already employed, their targets' absence probably wouldn't be noted for at least two days, and there was an outside chance the hunt for their kidnappers wouldn't begin until after Joan and Jordan had already been released.  Beebe and Suki were well aware that they were kidnapping both a valued NYPD consultant and the Special Agent supervising the futile flailing around their own ever-growing FBI case file.  Whenever they got around to it, both agencies would be investigating the mistreatment of their own.  It would be personal.  Beebe and Suki had been (and would continue to be) ultra-cautious.

The van pulled into a supposedly abandoned warehouse in the jungles of wildest New Jersey, the door rumbled closed behind them, and Dr. B, Suki, and their cargo had arrived at their home for the next five days.

"One more hour, right?" Suki demanded as she wheeled their containerized guests from the back of the van.

"I swear," Beebe chuckled as she began unbuttoning her coverall disguise, "you're always like this."

"Like what?" Suki pouted.

"Like a four-year-old on Christmas morning," Beebe purred.  "Is it morning yet?  Is it morning yet?  Can we open our presents?  Pleeeeease-please-please-please!"

"Very funny," Suki huffed.  "As if you don't want to play with the exquisite Dr. Watson and the delectable Special Agent Shaw.  And I behave like an eight-year-old.  Not a four-year-old."

"A precocious four-year-old," Beebe chuckled.  She'd nearly finished peeling off her coveralls, revealing a very sexy bra and panties combo.  Both were "nude" in color.

"Well?" Suki demanded.

"Between the 'sleepy gas' and the injections," Beebe answered, "yes.  We do, indeed, have at least one more hour before the sleeping beauties awaken."

"Sleepy gas," Suki purred.  "Is that what they call that stuff at doctor school?"

"My 'sleepy gas' is a proprietary mix," Beebe responded, "as you well know."  Beebe had removed her boots and socks and was now dressed only in her underwear.

Suki smiled at her senior partner's toned, feminine, athletic curves.  Not for the first time, Suki reflected that Beebe would have made a perfect Viking shield-maiden... just as she made a perfect professional kidnapper and ex-physician.

"Go double-check the perimeter," Beebe ordered as she padded to a nearby clothes rack and deposited her "work clothes" in a laundry bag.

"Oh, yes, Your Highness!" Suki gushed, bowing and taking three groveling steps backwards.  She wasn't really upset about being dismissed.  At this point in any operation Suki would have made a security sweep of the warehouse and surrounding area.  She pointed at the plastic prison-on-wheels containing their targets as she sauntered past.  "No cheating," she admonished.  "I want to be here for the unveiling."

"By which you mean the stripping and initial binding," Beebe purred.  She'd been sorting through the garments hanging from hangers on the rack, trying to decide what to wear... then turned and beamed at her partner.  "Would I do that to you, Suki-darling?"

Suki couldn't decide whether to roll her eyes or shiver with delight, so she did both, then abandoned Beebe to sort out her fashion dilemma on her own.

The rack held "normal" outfits, such as jeans, slacks, blouses, jackets, skirts, dresses, and a tan raincoat, but also full-length, long-sleeved variations on the theme of "catsuit," and it was the catsuits that held her interest.  One was all leather, black with burnished stainless steel buckles and zippers, and the rest were black spandex with panels, stripes, or trim in various dark, subdued colors.  Beebe called them her "Peelers," after the scandalous and kinky outfits (for the time) worn by Diana Rigg in the role of Mrs. Emma Peel on The Avengers, Beebe's favorite TV show as a child.  She'd had to explain the reference to Suki.

Beebe decided on a black spandex catsuit with blue-gray piping that would complement her blue eyes.  She was lifting the suit on its hanger when—

"Very pretty," a melodious baritone voice announced, "but don't put it on.  You'll only have to take it off again."

Beebe froze in place.  She didn't visibly flinch, but instantly shifted into combat mode, both mentally and physically.  She slowly let the catsuit and its hanger drop back in place.  Then, using her body to shield her actions from the unknown male intruder somewhere behind her, Beebe "casually" reached between a pair of hanging catsuits for a leather body harness that was also hanging from a hanger.  The harness included, among other skulking essentials, a shoulder holster with a Glock 17—only the handgun wasn't there.

"Nice try," the intruder said.  "Face me."

Beebe raised her arms and slowly turned.  She found she had four visitors, all male, and all dressed entirely in black, including boots, gloves, and ski-mask-type hoods.  #1 was on her far left and was covering her with a MAC-11 machine-pistol.  #4 was on her far right, and was armed with an H&K MP 5K.  As for the pair in the middle, one held a mini-Uzi equipped with a silencer, and the other was holding a tazer against the side of Suki's head!

Suki was bound and gagged.  That is, a wide strip of silver-gray duct tape was plastered across her mouth and lower face, her hands were behind her back, and her pale blue eyes were as wide Beebe had ever seen them.

Also, the intruders were professionals.  Beebe could tell by the way they were deployed, the way they handled their weapons, and the way the one with the tazer was handling Suki.  They were all six-feet tall, or taller, and obviously in excellent physical shape.  Also, they weren't cops or feds.  Beebe could tell.

So, it finally happened, Beebe thought, despite all our careful research and meticulous precautions.  Is this the end?

Beebe smiled sweetly (with everything but her eyes).  "Can I help you?"

"Yes, you can."  The speaker was the black-clad intruder holding (and threatening) Suki.  "Take two steps forward and strip."

There was no point in arguing.  Smiling a winning smile (that still didn't reach her eyes), Beebe padded forward the two ordered steps.  She then reached behind her back, unclasped and shrugged out of her bra, and tossed it aside.  Her panties were next.  She hooked her thumbs in the waistband over her hips, pulled them down her legs, stepped free, one foot at a time, sighed, and and began to toss them after the bra.

Suki's handler shook his masked and hooded head.  "No, in your mouth."

Beebe's smile faded.  Then, she compacted the silky mass with her fingers, opened her mouth, and stuffed it inside.

The intruder with the silenced mini-Uzi next to the spokesman reached behind his back, produced a pair of black plasticuffs, and tossed them at Beebe's feet.

"Around your ankles," Suki's handler (and probably the group's leader) ordered, "then kneel and place your hands atop your head with your fingers interlaced."

At which point you'll pull out another set of cuffs, steel or plastic, and bind my wrists, Beebe thought.  She locked eyes with Suki, who gazed back with equal parts bravery and terror.  It broke Beebe's heart, but there was nothing she could do.

Beebe settled her naked rump on the cold, concrete floor and picked up the black plasticuffs.  They were by the same manufacturer as the off-white cuffs binding Joan Watson and Jordan Shaw, and had the same improved feature.  The weakest part of most plasticuffs (and cable-ties, for that matter) was their locking mechanisms.  All had small flanges that snapped into one of the many slots on one side of the main straps.  But with the proper technique, careful pressure could be applied in just the right manner to snap the base of the flange.  Not so with this particular model.  It had steel flanges set in steel brackets molded into the plastic housings.  Instead of being weak points, the locking mechanism were as strong, if not stronger, as the straps themselves.

Beebe slid her feet through the plasticuffs joined loops and pulled on the ends, vripping the loops closed around her ankles.  Then, as ordered, she lifted herself off her butt and onto her knees, placed her hands atop her head with her fingers interlaced, and lifted her chin to stare at her captors (and Suki, her fellow captive).  Beebe could have spat out the panties crammed in her mouth, but now was not the time for pointless displays of defiance, not with Suki helpless and in danger.

The black-clad intruder with the mini-Uzi slung his weapon, stepped behind Beebe, pulled her hands behind her back, and vripped a second set of plasticuffs around her wrists.

Beebe's and Suki's capture was complete—or rather—their captors had made a good start.

Several things happened over the course of the next hour.

Beebe became convinced there were more than four intruders in the warehouse; however, they were all male and identically dressed in black from head to toe, including the same boots, gloves, and ski-mask hoods, and they came and went one or two at a time.  At one point there were clearly five individuals present, but while she strongly suspected there were more, it was impossible to get a firm count... not that it made a lot of difference.  Beebe and Suki were already bound, gagged, and helpless.

The intruders removed Joan and Jordan from their gray plastic container and laid them out on the concrete floor.  They were still unconscious and still fully clothed, with the exception of Joan Watson's missing black high-heeled pump.  They were also still bound with the same milky-white plasticuffs, wrists behind their backs and ankles together, and still gagged with foam balls stuffed in their mouths and their lips sealed with off-white Elastoplast tape.

Two of the intruders wheeled a pair of gurneys into view, comfortably padded metal stretchers on wheels with retractable legs.  They then lifted first Joan and then Jordan and placed on the gurneys on their backs and bound arms.  Wide canvas restraining straps were stretched across their arms and torsos, then cinched and buckled tight.  Identical restraints were cinched and buckled across their thighs.

Another intruder stepped forward (and this was the point when Beebe realized there were at least five intruders present) and used a stethoscope and penlight to give the drugged captives a quick examination.  Beebe could tell he was a trained medical professional of some sort.  He placed a small, blue-painted gas cylinder on each gurney, strapped clear plastic breathing masks over his "patient's" noses and tape-gagged mouths.  Nitrous oxide, Beebe thought.  They're going to abscond with my targets... and are keeping them unconscious while they do it.  Bastards!

Confirming Beebe's deduction, the warehouse vehicle door rolled up and a medical transport van backed into the warehouse.  With admirable efficiency, Joan and Jordan were wheeled into the back of the van, accompanied by the medically-trained intruder with the stethoscope.  Suki's day-pack was tossed in the back and the doors slammed.  The van's engine purred to life, it drove away, and the warehouse door rolled down.  Beebe (and Suki's) kidnap victims had been kidnapped!

Three of the remaining intruders converged on Beebe.  One held her hair atop her head while a second stretched and wound silver-gray duct-tape around her head, mummifying her lower face from just under her nose to the tip of her chin.  Beebe's panties stuff-gag was no longer "voluntary."

Meanwhile, the third intruder lifted Beebe's hanging clothes off the clothes rack and haphazardly tossed them on the floor.  The rack in question was sturdy and utilitarian, the kind used in the clothing trade behind the scenes, as opposed to the equally sturdy but often gold-tone and "fancy" rolling racks used to move a guests' luggage between the hotel lobby to their room.

Next, and working together with practiced competence, the trio lifted Beebe's arms over the clothing rack's horizontal top-bar, settled her armpits against the cool steel, and let the rack take the majority of her weight.  This was decidedly uncomfortable, but two of the intruders were supporting her body and keeping her from falling while the third was busily mitigating her condition, after a fashion.  That is, he was using coil after coil of hemp rope to craft an elaborate torso and thigh harness, distributing her weight between the rack's top bar and side supports on the left and right.  Adding insult to incapacitation, Beebe recognized the ropes in question. They were from the large store of conditioned hemp Beebe and Suki had purchased and intended to use to "entertain" Joan and Jordan.

As soon as the clear majority of Beebe's weight was supported by the ropes, the two intruders who had been supporting her body stepped away and left the third to complete Beebe's predicament.  The manhandling Beebe had endured, the gloved hands clutching her naked body, had been unpleasant (and humiliating); however, Beebe had to admit that her anonymous male handlers had behaved like gentlemen (within the limits of the exercise).  They had treated and were treating her like a job of work, rather than a beautiful naked woman.  (Beebe was well aware of her physical attractiveness.  It was a potent weapon in her arsenal.)  There had been no "unnecessary" groping or rudely intimate placement of gloved hands.  For that she was... grateful?  Not really, but she wasn't fuming.

The behavior of the remaining intruder, the one still tightening rope around Beebe's body, had been and continued to be professional, but Beebe could tell he was enjoying his work... and was a highly skilled rigger.  In fact, she suspected he might be a trained practitioner of Kinbaku-bi.  His continuing efforts to spread her weight among the growing pattern of cinched and wrapped ropes binding her to various parts of the rack was symmetrical and elegant.  And as hitch followed hitch and were cinched tight, her weight was, indeed, being more evenly supported.

Not all of her rigger's efforts involved rope and were in service of "the beauty of tight binding."  Some might best be described as overkill, the sort of things Beebe herself might do to make one of her targets feel a degree of helplessness beyond inescapable bondage.

Beebe was still bound by black plasticuffs, but the Master Rigger added ropes to unnecessarily reinforce her wrist and ankle bonds.  He added hemp bindings to capture her feet and big-toes, and to lash them to the base of the rack.  Then, he lashed her elbows together, anchoring the elbow-bonds to the torso-harness above, and by means of ladder-tie-hitches to her wrists, below.  Finally, he used the same silver-gray duct-tape mummifying Beebe's lower face to mummify her bound arms from her upper arms to her fingertips.  Beebe supposed the flopping ends of the plasticuffs must be protruding from the tight shroud, but it was all behind her back.

There she was, naked, hanging in midair with her armpits still resting on the top-bar and in a semi-kneeling position, with a veritable spider's web of hemp pinning her in place.  She was more than helpless... but the artist of the composition that was Beebe-and-the-Rack wasn't finished.

Beebe gazed into the intruder's masked face as he threaded the center of a long, doubled length of hemp through the harness ropes above, and below her breasts and pulled out the slack, bringing the ropes together to form an "X" and squeezing her breasts.  He then tied a hitch to maintain the tension.  He's going to bind my breasts, Beebe realized.

Through the holes in his mask Beebe could see her binder's brown eyes.  They had epicanthic folds and she surmised he was Asian, an unusually tall, muscular Asian.  His hands were strong, and under the circumstances, gentle... if gentle was the right word.  Let's just say he has a skilled touch, Beebe decided.

Beebe's rigger separated the rope and tightened loop after loop of single-strand hemp around the base of her left breast.  She counted a total of twelve loops.  They were followed by twelve loops around her right breast.  Her rigger brought the ends together, crafted an elaborate hitch through the harness ropes, and tied a final square-knot.

Beebe gazed down at her breasts.  They bulged like the proverbial melons, and were flushed pink.  Her nipples were flushed even darker, and were semi-erect.  Could be worse, she realized.  Could be much worse.  A truly sadistic breast-bind would have left her girls purple and hurting, with bulging veins.  This was only... unnecessarily mean.

So, there she was, naked, totally helpless, and in a perfect position to watch the unfolding floor show.

His work accomplished, Beebe's rigger began assisting the other two intruders in handling Suki, and arguably, they required his assistance.  Beebe's partner was putting up a fight.

Beebe sighed through her gag.  Oh, Suki, you brave little idiot.

Suki was already bound hand and foot with black plasticuffs, of course.  Nonetheless, she kicked and squirmed and twisted and fought and forced well-muffled but no doubt very rude noises past her head-wrapping and multi-layered tape-gag.  Unfortunately, none of her efforts impeded her handlers from drawing razor-sharp knives and carefully using them to slice and rip Suki out of her clothing, all of her clothing, including her bra.  (As Beebe had already surmised, Suki's panties had been removed at the time of her capture and were stuffed in her mouth.)

Now totally nude, like her watching partner, Suki was made even more helpless.  Also like her watching partner, the rigging went well past the point of overkill.

First, the intruders used duct-tape to mummify Suki's fingers, hands, plasticuffed wrists, forearms, elbows, and upper arms.  The result was more or less a silver-gray single-sleeve armbinder, with her elbows touching and the ends of the plasticuffs protruding like a pair of flopping antennae.  Next, they tied a hemp body-harness, pinning her mummified arms to her upper-body and waist.  This included a crotch-rope, of course, that both cleaved and pinched Suki's labia.  More duct-tape was used to mummify her thighs, as well as her lower-legs, but her knees were excluded, allowing Suki to bend her legs, at least a little.  Next, they lifted the now very weakly squirming but still angrily mewling Suki and deposited her inside the gray plastic container the partners (and now prisoners) had used to transport Joan and Jordan to the warehouse.  Finally, the container's lid was closed and latched.

Beebe knew that even if she was completely unbound, Suki would be inescapably trapped inside the gray plastic container.  There were breathing holes, but she'd be trapped.  Only Suki wasn't unbound.  She was very much bound.  As Beebe watched, the container shook a little... just a little.

And then, the intruders left!

There was no gloating, no standing around and leering at Beebe.  They simply... melted into the shadows.  Beebe heard various side doors open... and close.

A minute passed... and then two... and Beebe realized they'd been abandoned to their bound and gagged fate.

Left behind were the white rental van Beebe and Suki had used for the original kidnapping, a jumble of discarded or ruined clothing, several unused coils of hemp rope, several partially or completely expended rolls of duct-tape, a racked and helpless Beebe, and a boxed and helpless Suki.

The otherwise deserted warehouse was as silent as a tomb.