by Van ©2019
		Chapter 2

Beebe was triply helpless, in that she was bound with plasticuffs, duct-tape, and conditioned hemp rope.  Adding insult to injury, the targets of Beebe and Suki's current commission—Joan Watson and Special Agent Jordan Shaw—had been bogarted by heavily armed men dressed entirely in black (with hoods).  Beebe was naked and dangling from the clothing rack that had formerly held the selection of the spandex catsuits she'd selected for her "Terrifying Bitch Goddess" costumes for this particular phase of the kidnapping gig.  Her armpits rested on the rack's top-bar, and a web of neatly hitched and cinched hemp rope suspended her in place in a half-sitting position.  Her wrists were plasticuffed behind her back, her arms mummified in duct-tape from her mid-upper arms to her fingertips, her ankles bound with plasticuffs, her panties stuffed in her mouth, and her lower face mummified under tight, overlapping layers of duct-tape.  She was triply helpless.

As for Suki, she was also naked and bound with plasticuffs, duct-tape, and hemp rope and silenced by a panties-and-duct-tap-gag, but rather than being semi-suspended, she was stuffed inside the heavy-duty, gray plastic shipping container they'd used to transport Joan and Jordan to their current location.  The container's lid was closed, latched, and locked, of course.

That had been the status quo at the New Jersey warehouse for the last... five hours?  Beebe had a pretty reliable internal clock and was sure she and Suki had been racked and boxed, respectively, for something very close to five hours.

So far, Beebe wasn't in a lot of pain.  She supposed her "comfort" was something of a testament to the technical skills of the Man-in-Black intruder who'd done her rigging.  Her weight was well distributed between the top-bar and the various thigh and torso ropes.  Beebe's problem wasn't her bondage.  Her problem... their problem, as Suki was also inescapably helpless... was thirst.  Thirst was their existential problem.

Four days.  They had something like four days.  Six at the very most.  As far as Beebe could tell, their only real hope was their captors would show mercy and make an anonymous call to the cops.  Beebe knew she certainly wasn't going to wiggle out of the plasticuffs... or duct-tape... or hemp bonds.  And the same went for Suki.

All was quiet inside the darkening warehouse.  It was early evening and the sun was definitely beginning to set.  Now and then (infrequently) Beebe could hear the distant sounds of traffic rumbling down the surrounding side streets.

Beebe closed her eyes.  She might as well try and get a little sleep.  Either they were going to be rescued... or they weren't.  Hysterics were unproductive.

Just then... Beebe frowned and opened her eyes.  She was hearing a quiet buzzing noise, as if a bumblebee or really big fly was loose in the warehouse.  I hope it's not a horsefly or deerfly, she thought.  They were known to bite, and Beebe was in no condition to shoo anything away should it try and alight on her exposed skin.

BzzzZzzz...

There was definitely something roughly the size of a bumblebee flitting around the warehouse.  It was up near the ceiling, weaving in and out of the rafters, and Beebe could see it, clearly.  It swooped close until the lens of its minuscule video camera was half a meter from Beebe's tape-gagged face... then hovered in place.

It wasn't a bumblebee or fly at all.  It was a quadcopter drone—a tiny quadcopter drone!

Obviously, the tiny flying machine was very advanced hardware, worthy of the NSA or CIA.  Maybe the NYPD had a couple of such machines undergoing technical evaluation, but the New Jersey State Police?  No way.

The drone continued hovering a few inches in front of Beebe's tape-gagged face... then dropped down so its camera could scope out her rope-bound breasts... then lifted back to the level of her face.  Beebe's best guess was the black, quiet, technological wonder was about the size of a small walnut.  She could hear its twirling rotors, but that was probably because there was almost no ambient noise.  The thing was undeniably stealthy... under normal conditions.

And then, as quickly and unexpectedly as it had appeared, the quadcopter zoomed away and once again all was quiet in the warehouse.

Seconds passed... and became a minute.

Then, Beebe heard the click, click, click of approaching footsteps, probably a pair high-heeled shoes.  The clicking grew louder... and a beautiful woman in a black suit (and black high-heeled pumps) stepped out of the shadows and approached Beebe and her rack.

Who the hell are you? Beebe wondered.

If the newcomer was a cop or federal agent of some sort, her arrival would have been preceded by a squad of heavily armed officers or agents in body armor, an "entry team."  The lack of such a team was both puzzling and uninformative.  If the hypothetical cops or agents were NYPD, NJSP, FBI, DEA, ATF, etc., their black uniforms and armor would have been emblazoned with their affiliation in block letters.  (Of course, if the hypothetical SWAT team outfits had been completely unlabeled, that would have meant they were NSA.)

As for the newcomer, she was definitely a she—a hot, very fit, 40-something she.  Her totally black outfit was business attire, probably a designer label and custom tailored.  The way she moved suggested a dancer, acrobat, or martial artist.  Her features were even, her lips full, her eyes pale blue, and her gleaming brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

The woman strolled forward, smiling and gracefully stepping around Suki's box.  She continued forward and walked a slow circle around Beebe and her rack.  When she returned to Beebe's field of view... she stopped and smiled at Beebe's tape-gagged face.

Beebe locked eyes with the woman.  She really is remarkable, Beebe thought.  A rare beauty.

"Dr. Bondage, I presume," the woman purred.  "My name is Bondarella."

Joan opened her eyes—then quickly closed them again.  A bank of bright lights were hovering overhead and shining directly in her face.  It would take time for her eyes to adapt.  She also realized she was recovering from some sort of sedative, which would also take time.

While Joan waited for her body to return to normal she considered her situation.  She was lying on her back on some sort of padded surface.  A bed or a gurney?  No, the padding was too thin.  Her arms were at her sides and her feet about twenty inches apart.  She was fully clothed... except for her missing shoes.  Something was stuffed in her mouth and a strip of tape sealed her lips.  Some sort of padded cuffs encircled her wrists and ankles.  Stout straps stretched across her upper arms and torso, just below her breasts, and across her thighs, pinning her down.

Avoiding the glaring lights directly overhead, Joan opened her eyes a slit and lifted her gagged head.  Her restraints were old-style medical restraints, medium-brown leather with off-white, nylon padding, the sort of things that might have been common in a hospital or mental health facility a few decades in the past, but had long since been replaced by more humane Posey or Segufix-style canvas or nylon restraints.

Her eyes finally adjusted, Joan continued her examination/evaluation.  She decided she was in some sort of medical clinic, possibly an outpatient surgical suite.  Stainless steel cabinets lined the walls, some with glass-front doors and some all steel.  The spotlights overhead were certainly suitable for a surgery.

The only truly incongruous feature of the suite was a wall-mounted, large-screen, HDTV.  It was dark at the moment, but perfectly positioned for Joan's hypothetical viewing from the padded table.

And speaking of the table...  Restrained on her back, Joan's perspective was limited, but she could tell the table was fully adjustable, with articulated and probably motorized joints, the sort of table used for orthopedic surgery.  Ominously, given the circumstances, this particular table included articulated versions of the steel troughs and stirrups commonly used for gynecological exams and/or operations.

As far as Joan could see and/or feel, her burgundy and black dress was intact, as were her pantyhose, panties, and bra.  As for her high-heeled pumps, they remained absent.  Damn, she thought.  I like those shoes.  She hoped she'd get them back at some point.

Joan realized her thoughts were what Sherlock would call disgracefully disorganized, her attitude towards her captivity far too casual, and her demeanor inexplicably calm, but she suspected all of that was probably the fading effects of the sedatives she'd been given.  Only too soon the waking nightmare of her situation would become all too real.

Joan's eyes popped wide.  Jordan!  There was no sign of Jordan Shaw!  Where was Jordan?  And who had done this to her, to them, assuming Jordan was also captured and restrained... somewhere.

As the seconds ticked by, Joan's heart hammered and she drew deep breaths through her nostrils.  Panic began fluttering at the edge of her thoughts.  It was time to assert control of the only thing she could control, at the moment: her emotional state.  Joan stilled her thoughts and found her center.  Her pulse steadied, her breathing rate calmed, and the threatened panic evaporated (for now).

Joan began systematically examining her restraints, as Sherlock had taught her.  She twisted her wrists and tugged on the padded cuffs.  Extracting her hands would be impossible, even at the expense of damaging her skin.  As for the rest of the restraints, struggling was pointless.  There was no way she was going to wiggle out from under the horizontal straps or somehow slither and slide her way off the table.

Suddenly, Joan realized she wasn't alone.  Someone was standing in the shadows at the head of the table.  She lifted her head and looked back over her left shoulder, as best she could.  Whoever was there, they were female and blond.  And then, she took several steps forward and came into Joan's full view.

Joan's eyes widened and her heart began hammering, again.  Standing before her helpless, bound and gagged form and smiling her trademark quirky smile was—Jamie Moriarty!

Jamie Moriarty, the woman Sherlock first met as "Irene Adler."  The love of his life.  "The Woman."  She'd lured him into an intimate relationship, then faked her own death, causing Sherlock to spiral into addiction.  Genius.  Sociopath.  International criminal mastermind of a web of illicit organizations with global reach.  But a captured criminal mastermind!

Jamie was in federal custody!  She was at an "undisclosed location," being interrogated by the best-and-brightest of various federal and international law enforcement/intelligence services.  She'd been in custody for more than a year!  She certainly wasn't wandering around free and kidnapping people... like Joan Watson!

"Hello, Joan," Jamie purred.  Continuing to smile, her blue eyes locked with Joan's, she reached out and placed the back of her right hand against Joan's tape-gagged face.  She was wearing a stylish but unremarkable black dress and her hair was loose about her shoulders.

Joan flinched in response, but quickly tamped down any further reactions.

Jamie gently stroked the side of Joan's face, then placed her first and second fingers against Joan's right carotid artery.

"Your heart is going pitapat," Jamie noted.  "Understandable... I suppose."

Joan blinked and stared at Jamie's face.  Her mind was racing.  Moriarty had escaped?  Obviously.  How?  She was supposed to be the most closely held prisoner in federal custody!  Discovering and dismantling her various organizations was of the highest priority to the Department of Justice, MI-6, and the International Criminal Court at the Hague!  Jamie Moriarty didn't just... escape.

"I know you have many questions," Jamie purred, "but first..."  She lifted a tablet computer and tapped the screen.

The bank of spotlights overhead dimmed—motors in Joan's table hummed to life, and it rearranged itself into a recliner, taking Joan with it, of course—and at the same time, the screen of the wall-mounted HDTV began to glow.  "There's something I'd like you to watch," Jamie purred.  "In fact, I insist."

The screen resolved into a crisp image of a naked woman hanging from her wrists!  "Mrrrfh!"  And that woman was Jordan Shaw!

Joan could tell instantly it was Jordan.  She was tape-gagged, like Joan, so her mouth and lower face were covered by a tight strip of medical tape, but Jordan's auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail providing an unobstructed view of the rest of her visage—as well as her bare breasts, flat stomach, thick pubic bush, and firm thighs.

"Remarkable, isn't she?" Jamie sighed.  "Have you ever seen a more attractive federal agent?  Male or female?  Perfect skin and muscle tone.  Outstanding physical condition.  Near ideal feminine proportions.  Firm breasts with minimal sag, even considering her age."  Jamie tapped and stroked the tablet screen and the camera capturing Jordan's captive image panned back, then lowered and focused on her bare feet.

Jordan was standing on her toes.  Her ankles were bound together in padded leather cuffs, similar to Joan's ankle-cuffs, and attached to the floor by a taut leather strap.  As Joan watched, Jordan slowly shifted her weight.  The camera panned upwards... from Jordan's shins... to her knees... thighs... crotch... stomach... breasts... chest and armpits... her glowering, tape-gagged face... her stretched arms... to her leather-cuff-bound wrists and clenched hands.  Jordan was naked, helpless, awake, and not happy.  She glowered at the camera lens.  Her breasts bobbed (just a little) as she panted through flaring, angry nostrils.

Joan tore her gaze from her fellow captive to their captor.  "Mrrrpfh!"

"Yes," Jamie nodded.  "I knew you'd feel empathy for Special Agent Shaw, even though you'd only just met."

Joan turned back to the screen and the image of the Special Agent in question.  Jordan's smooth, bare skin was flushed and glowing.  Apparently, wherever she was, the air was somewhat overheated.  Come to think of it, Joan was also flushed and shining with sweat, just a little.  Emotional distress might be a factor—and probably was for Jordan as well—but still, if someone offered to dial down the thermostat a few degrees, Joan wouldn't say no.

"I knew this experiment would work best if I had some means of encouraging your cooperation," Jamie continued, "other than pain, of course."  She resumed gently stroking the side of Joan's tape-gagged face.

Joan flinched at the contact, but her eyes remained focused on the screen and Jordan Shaw's nude, helpless, stretched body.

"Holding the welfare of another hostage to your good behavior is the obvious answer," Jamie purred, "but kidnapping a family member or close friend would have complicated the emotional matrix considerably."  Jamie's hand slid lower and cupped Joan's right breast.  "I know you would automatically admire and respect a person like Jordan Shaw, but since you don't know her personally, that makes it a matter of general empathy.  Much simpler from my point of view.  Do you see?"

Joan shivered as Jamie gently squeezed her breast, then turned her head and glared at her smiling captor.  "Mrrrpfh."  Joan noted that as usual, Jamie's quirky and attractive smile didn't reach her eyes.  They were as cold as blue glacier ice, as uncaring as a shark's.

Jamie released Joan's breast, took a step back, and began unbuttoning her dress.  "It's a little too warm in here, don't you think?"

As Joan watched, Jamie removed her dress, leaving only a skimpy, lacy, nude-colored demi-bra and a matching pair of bikini-panties.  Joan couldn't help but be impressed by Jamie's physique.  Objectively, the psychopathic genius was quite attractive, but Joan wasn't in the mood to appreciate feminine pulchritude.  She tugged on her restraints and struggled to control her emotions.

"I can tell you also find conditions a tad toasty," Jamie purred, then wheeled over a steel tray-table covered with a medical-green cloth.  "Allow me to make you more comfortable."

Joan's eyes popped wide when Jamie flipped aside the cloth, revealing a scalpel, a small and large pair of bandage scissors, and a pair of ratcheting bone-sheers.  "Mrrrf!"

Still smiling her simultaneously charming and predatory smile, Jamie selected the large pair of bandage scissors, then set about the task of removing Joan's dress, starting at the lower hem, between her legs, and slicing vertically up her stomach and between her breasts.  Joan couldn't help but shiver as the cool steel of the scissors' blunt tip slid across her flesh.  The horizontal leather strap pinning Joan to the table offered no real impediment.  Jamie was easily able to pull the fabric out from under the taut leather as required.  Next, Jamie severed the dress' left and right shoulder seams, then pulled the ruined garment from Joan's body and tossed it into a free-standing laundry hamper.

Joan continued glaring, mewling through her tape-gag and squirming her now semi-clothed body, but to no avail.  She was helpless, just as Jordan Shaw was helpless.  Joan had no choice but to endure the humiliation of being stripped naked—assuming, of course, that Jamie intended to remove her pantyhose and underwear next.

She did.

Jamie sliced down the length of Joan's pantyhose from her right hip to her right foot... then did the same on the left.  Again, the table's horizontal thigh strap presented little impediment to the process, and the ankle-cuffs was only slightly more of an obstruction.  All too soon the ruined pantyhose joined the ruined dress in the hamper... followed by Joan's bra... followed by her panties.

Now totally nude, strapped to the table, and tape-gagged, Joan continued staring daggers as her captor.

Jamie smiled down at Joan's nude, captive form for several long, humiliating seconds.  "Like most concepts of any degree of importance," she said finally, "I've always considered the idea of beauty, male and female, to be multivariate, defying simple formulae.  Ethnic or societal considerations aside, I believe there is no true ideal."  She reached out and rested her left palm on Joan's smooth, bare stomach.  "You are very beautiful, Joan.  I knew that before, of course—before stripping you naked—but I must say... I find you perfect in every way.  Could your breasts be bigger?  Yes.  But that wouldn't make them any more perfect, only different.  Your complexion, skin tone, and muscular development are superb.  Combined with your remarkable intelligence, you truly are a rare individual, Joan."

Jamie squeezed Joan's left breast, and Joan squeezed her eyes shut and tugged on the restraints with all her strength.  "Mrrrpfh!"

"I find you intriguing, Joan," Jamie purred.  "An object of fascination."  She gently massaged Joan's left nipple between her index finger and thumb.  "I always have.  Imagine my surprise when Sherlock fell in love with you almost immediately, despite his natural resistance to becoming involved with... shall we say... 'normal' human beings."  She continued toying with Joan's nipple.  "There has to be a reason you two were drawn together... or is it a particularly sterling example of the universe's perverse sense of humor?"  She released Joan's nipple and returned her palm to Joan's stomach.  "I simply must learn more about you."  She gave Joan's tummy a gentle pat.  "And perhaps you'll learn a few things as well."

"Now..."  Jamie shifted her smiling gaze to the HDTV screen and the stretched, naked, bound, and gagged form of Jordan Shaw.  "Returning to the topics of empathy and obedience, I've arranged a little demonstration for your edification, something to insure you and I are on the same page in these matters, so to speak."  She flipped the green cloth back over the scissors, shears, and scalpel on the rolling steel tray, then rolled the tray away.  "Let's hope this is the first and last time that what you're about to witness will be necessary."

"Mfff?"

Joan was looking back over her bare shoulder at Jamie as she strolled towards a steel door... then made her exit without further comment.  Joan turned back to the screen.  The image of Jordan's naked helpless was unchanged.

Demonstration? Joan thought, and tugged on her wrist-cuffs.

A full minute passed... then became two.

Abruptly, the camera slowly pulled back until all of Jordan's stretched, semi-suspended body was visible on the HDTV screen... and a female figure entered the scene.  Joan was absolutely sure the newcomer was female.  Her figure was undeniably feminine and athletic, the svelte body that of a dancer or martial artist; however, none of her skin or hair was visible.  The woman was covered from head to toe in a Zentai suit of royal-blue spandex, including gloves (with fingers), integrated slipper-boots, and a full-head, faceless-hood.  The only thing marring the stretched, skintight, shining material was a "utility belt" of matching, royal-blue nylon festooned with various pouches and small holsters.

Jordan lifted her tape-gagged face, focused on the strange newcomer, and her green eyes widened.

"Mrrrf?"  Joan could hear Jordan's gagged inquiry quite clearly via the television's speakers.

Oh-by-the-way, Joan was quite positive the woman-in-blue wasn't Jamie Moriarty.  The newcomer was too slender and her breasts too modest.  It was possible Jamie had bound her breasts and laced herself into a corset, but Joan didn't think so.  A cursory kinematic analysis confirmed that the woman-in-blue walked with a different gait.  Graceful and feminine?  Yes, but not the same gait as Jamie Moriarty.

Joan noticed one additional detail: the woman was wearing translucent latex gloves over the blue gloves of her Zentai suit.

As Joan tugged on her bonds and watched, the blue woman placed her anonymous body intimately close to Jordan's right side, reached behind the captive's back, and took a firm grip on the prisoner's ponytail with her left hand.  She then began slowly, gently sliding her blue and latex doubly-gloved right hand up and down Jordan's squirming body.

"Mrrrf!"

Jordan heaved a gagged sigh.  It was an infuriating and demeaning experience for poor Jordan.  It had to be.  The nude, shining, bound, and gagged Special Agent squirmed and did her feeble best to avoid the attentions of the blue woman, but the stringent, stretched pose imposed by her inescapable bonds rendered all resistance futile.

The woman-in-blue's massage of Jordan's glistening skin continued... and Joan had no choice but to watch.

And then, the blue woman opened a holster on her belt and withdrew what Joan recognized as a "Wartenberg Wheel," a stirrup-like pinwheel of needle-sharp spines spinning on a steel handle!  It was a neurological diagnostic tool, but its potential as an instrument of torture was obvious.

"Mrrrpfh!"

Jordan's futile struggles reached a new level of impotent intensity as the woman began running the wheel up and down Jordan's torso, between her breasts and navel.

Joan tugged on her bonds.  Onscreen, the camera zoomed in to a closeup of the needle-sharp points as they dimpled Jordan's tan, shining skin.  The ordeal continued, and the scope of the wheel's torturous track enlarged to include Jordan's breasts... nipples... armpits... her taut tummy... and her thighs.

Joan realized she was blinking back tears.  Intellectually, she knew it was in no way her fault Jordan that was being tortured, but how could she not feel some degree of responsibility?

The blue woman continued running the wheel over Jordan's body... Jordan continued mewling and squirming... and tears continued streaming down Joan's tape-gagged face.

Suddenly, the blue woman returned the wheel to its holster with an elegant flip of her blue and latex-clad wrist.  She then released Jordan's hair and took three steps back.  At the same time, the camera pulled back so both blue-clad torturer and her nude, panting, shining victim remained in the frame.

Jordan glared at the woman-in-blue, her spirit unbroken.

The woman-in-blue paused for several seconds... as if staring back from behind her featureless blue mask... then spun on her heels and padded away.

Jordan heaved a sigh, let her head tilt forward until chin touched her shining chest, and closed her eyes.

Joan sighed as well.  The camera pulled in and began slowly panning over Jordan's body.  The Special Agent was now dripping with sweat and her skin remained flushed, but Joan could see no evidence that the woman-in-blue had used the Wartenberg Wheel to cause any actual damage.  There were no tracks of angry pinpricks or minuscule drops of blood.

Suddenly—Whack!—something filled the screen, then instantly disappeared, leaving behind a pink blush on Jordan's right breast!

The camera pulled back, revealing a woman in a scarlet-red Zentai suit wielding a multi-tailed flogger of red leather!  Blow followed blow as the hooded, gloved, red-clad woman delivered carefully metered punishment to Jordan's writhing body.  Breasts.  Stomach.  Thighs.  Between Jordan's legs.  Rump.  The backs of her thighs.  Jordan's calves.  Her back.  Her breasts, once again.

The red woman was slow, deliberate, and systematic, punishing Jordan's helpless form in methodical detail, but she was careful to exclude the naked prisoner's tape-gagged face.

Blow followed blow.  Every square inch of Jordan's body received repeated attention, especially her breasts and butt.  Joan realized she was crying again.  She couldn't help it.

And then, the red woman clipped the flogger to the right hip of her red nylon utility belt, reached over to her left hip, and detached a riding crop of red leather.

"Mrrr," Joan whined in sympathy.

Jordan herself was stoic, glaring at the blank mask of her red-clad torturer as the woman flexed her shoulders.

And then, the woman-in-red woman used the crop to repeat the punishment she'd inflicted on Jordan's body with the flogger.  Again, blow followed blow followed blow.  Business-like smacks rained down on Jordan's flinching, writhing, sweat-dripping, flushed body.

Joan continued crying as Jordan suffered.

Finally, the red woman took two steps back.

Jordan panted and hung in her bonds.  Her body was not only wet and flushed, but was now covered with patches of angry rose-pink.  Again, there was no blood and no broken skin.  There weren't even distinct stripes or bruises.  Joan had to admit the woman-in-red was a perverse artist.  She'd delivered pain without apparent damage.

Abruptly, the mistress-of-the-whip spun on her red heel and was gone.

Again, Jordan heaved a sigh and rested her chin on her shining chest... and panted.

Tears dripped down Joan's tape-covered cheeks as she watched Jordan's breasts bob up and down.  Enough, she thought.  You've made your point.  Her thoughts were directed at Jamie Moriarty, of course, not her Zentai-clad minions.

And then, Joan's eyes popped wide.  "Mrrrf!"  A third Zentai-clad woman had appeared!  Her suit was deep purple, as was her nylon utility belt.  Like the red-clad woman, she was wearing latex gloves over her purple Zentai gloves.

Jordan had noticed the purple newcomer as well.  Her eyes widened, then quickly narrowed to a glowering stare of scathing disdain.

She's so brave, Joan thought.  She was proud of her fellow captive.  How could she not be?  She was also filled with dread.  (How could she not be?)

The purple woman stepped forward and embraced Jordan from the side in the same intimate, unwelcome manner as the blue woman before.  Jordan attempted a head-butt, but the purple woman gripped her hair and held her head back, also like the blue woman before.  She then reached into a long, thin holster on the right hip of her purple utility belt and produced... a dildo clad in purple rubber!  She clicked a switch on the side of the dildo, and it began to buzz.

A vibrator! Joan realized.

"Mrrrf?"  Jordan had reached the same stunningly obvious conclusion.

The woman-in-purple touched the tip of the dildo to Jordan's right nipple... then began a slow, circular massage, encompassing more and more of her right breast.

The teasing massage continued... and enlarged to include Jordan's left nipple and breast... followed by her stomach... her thighs... and finally... her labia!

"Mrrr!"

The woman-in-blue had been expert in the use of the Wartenberg Wheel—the woman-in-red had been expert in the application of the flogger and crop—and the woman-in-purple was proving equally expert in the extraction of involuntary orgasms!  She was taking her time, frigging Jordan's private part... then backing off... then attacking again!

Joan wasn't weeping any more, but she was anything but happy.  She relaxed in her bonds, as best she could, and watched the purple woman "entertain" Jordan's nude, shining, flushed, and doubly punished body.

Eventually, inevitably, Jordan screamed through her gag—her helpless body went rigid—then she relaxed and hung limply from her wrist cuffs.

Joan was afraid Jordan had fainted, but the Special Agent mewled through her tape-gag, stood erect, opened her eyes, and glared at the woman-in-purple—or rather, she would have glared at the woman-in-purple if the Zentai-clad woman in question hadn't already spun on her heel and left the scene.

"Mrrrf!" Jordan huffed, then sighed and closed her eyes, again.

As Joan watched, a single tear rolled down Jordan's right cheek, then continued down the smooth surface of her white, Microfoam gag.  Damn you, Moriarty! Joan fumed.

And then, the HDTV screen slowly faded to black... as did the bank of spotlights over Joan's head... as did all the lights in her medical clinic prison.  The motors of her articulated table hummed to life and returned to the fully-reclined position, taking Joan with it, of course.

Naked, bound, and gagged... in total darkness... without even the whisper of air circulating through the ventilation system... Joan willed herself to relax.

Does anyone even know we've been kidnapped? Joan wondered.  Is anybody even looking for us?  She tugged on her inescapable wrist-cuffs in frustration.  Damn you, Moriarty!