aka "Dr. Bondage," sat in her nearly featureless cell, stared
into infinity, and reviewed recent events.
It had been a routine operation for Dr. Bondage & Suki
Incorporated (if any of their operations could be called
"routine"). They had been commissioned to kidnap Dr. Joan
Watson and Special Agent Jordan Shaw of the FBI and hold them
captive for a minimum of five days. It was assumed and
expected the sequestration would involve nudity, bondage, and
erotic "entertainment," but no physical harm would befall the
targets. As for exactly why their anonymous "patron"
wanted Watson and Shaw off the streets for a full work week,
Beebe and Suki had no idea, but they'd accepted commissions with
similar profiles before, and in this case (as with every case)
they'd done their due diligence. That is, they'd tried
(discretely) to discover who might be behind the operation and
had taken measures to ensure even their patron wouldn't know
exactly where they'd be taking Joan and Jordan, and intended to
remain off the grid until the targets were rescued on day
six. Obviously... they'd failed.
Complete failure was a first for Beebe & Suki.
Watson and Shaw were gone, kidnapped from their kidnappers by
unknown kidnappers in the form of the mysterious "men-in-black."
And now, Beebe and Suki were also gone. They'd been
rescued by unknown women-in-black—supposedly led by the
legendary "Bondarella"—or more precisely, they'd been rescued
and arrested. However, whether their "arrest" was
in any way official was not at all clear.
Immediately after identifying herself, Bondarella was joined by
a dozen or more women, all dressed in black spandex catsuits
with boots, knee and elbow pads, body harnesses and utility
belts, and armed with handguns (which they kept
holstered). They were as professional as the men-in-black
who had stolen Joan and Jordan, acting with well-drilled
efficiency, and (Beebe noticed) without any overt direction from
"Bondarella." Unlike the masculine invaders, the females'
features were fully exposed. No hoods. And as far as
Beebe had been able to tell, just about every human skin tone
and hair color on planet earth was represented.
The women-in-black released Bee from the clothing rack and extricated
Suki from the shipping container, but their plasti-cuff,
duct-tape, and hemp rope restraints remained intact and in
place. The kidnapped kidnappers were deposited
side-by-side on the concrete floor, naked, bound, and gagged.
A red-haired woman-in-black stood beside Bondarella, smiled down
at the captives, and conversed with quiet voices. The
distance was too great for Beebe to hear precisely what was
being said, but she managed to make out a few words, like
"forensic team," "perimeter sweep," and "local cops."
Then, two of the women-in-black knelt and slapped transdermal
patches on the sides of Beebe and Suki's necks, then pulled
black spandex hoods over their heads.
Beebe's final memories of the warehouse were Suki mewling
unintelligable but no doubt rude and abusive remarks through her
tape-gag (and whatever was stuffed in her mouth), as well as the
taste of garlic on the back of her tongue. Beebe
recognized DMSO, a solvent used to deliver drugs through the
skin (as in the case of transdermal patches).
Then came oblivion.
Beebe woke to find herself in a jail cell. There was
nothing else she could call the place. However, it was a
rather modern, even hi-tech, jail cell. The walls,
ceiling, and floor were smooth, hard, sealed concrete. She
was lying on a thick pad of memory-foam enclosed in an envelope
of gray, microfiber cloth, and facing a featureless steel panel
she assumed was the cell door. In one corner was a
stainless steel commode and a combination drinking fountain and
washbasin. Overhead was a rectangular grid pattern of tiny
holes, each with a single shining LED. They provided more
than enough light for Beebe to examine her condition, which was:
Beebe lay back on the
foam slab and stared up at the ceiling. Obviously...
somehow... and with Suki's experienced, trained, and highly
intelligent help, they'd managed to screw the proverbial
pooch. That was obvious, but for the life of her Beebe
couldn't figure out exactly where they'd gone wrong.
- Naked. Her
blond hair was loose about her shoulders, but was clean and
had been combed and brushed.
- Cuffed but not
bound. That is, her wrists and ankles were locked in
wide, thick, stainless-steel cuffs padded with some sort of
synthetic material; however, none of the cuffs were attached
to each other. They were close-fitting, well-rounded,
smooth, and without apparent keyholes. Beebe suspected
the use of radio-controlled and/or magnetic locking
- Thirsty and
hungry. Beebe roused herself and drank deeply from the
drinking fountain, but her stomach remained empty... and
- Alone. There
was no sign of Suki or their rescuers/captors.
Suddenly, the featureless steel door disappeared into the wall—"Snick!"—Star
Three women-in-black entered the cell. The first was
Asian, possibly Japanese, the second was tall and blond, a
classic Nordic shield maiden, and the third was African, her
curly hair very short and skin so dark as to be nearly indigo
under the cool, blue, LED lighting.
"Breakfast is served," the African announced. She spoke
with a trace of a melodious accent. "Hands behind your
Beebe smiled, stood, and followed the order. The prospect
of being fed made compliance easy. She just hoped the
promised "breakfast" would be equally palatable. Not to
Beebe's complete surprise, there was a quiet click and
her wrist cuffs locked together. Obviously, the manacles
were, indeed, magnetic. At least the ankle-cuffs remained
unattached. Beebe would be able to walk to breakfast
without being dragged, carried, or forced to hop.
As soon as Beebe exited the cell, the shield maiden and Japanese
women-in-black took hold of her upper arms and the African
pulled a black spandex hood over her head.
"Is this really necessary?" Beebe asked with an unseen smile,
but the question went unanswered. She decided not to press
Beebe was led down a corridor... a long corridor.
They took a left turn... followed by a right turn... then did
even more walking. There was a brief pause punctuated by a
melodic chime, they entered a close space (obviously an elevator
car), then rose several stories. (Either that, of the
elevator was glacially slow.)
Finally—"Ding!"—they left the elevator and the journey
continued; however, the floor underfoot was now carpeted and
Beebe could hear others passing in what was, apparently, an
office hallway. No one said anything to Beebe or her
escorts. Apparently, wherever Beebe now found herself, the
sight of naked and hooded prisoners being led to breakfast was
The journey continued... then someone (probably the African, in
Beebe's opinion) knocked on a door and they entered the space
beyond. Beebe was plunked into a padded chair, her legs
pulled apart, her ankle-cuffs placed against the legs of the
chair, and they magnetically locked into place. Then, the
hood was jerked from her head and whatever was linking her
wrist-cuffs together released itself.
Beebe was in a small, elegantly appointed dining room. The
furniture was French Provincial, there was a table with a white
linen table cloth formally and expensively set for two, and a
window-wall providing a scenic view of forested valleys with
snow-capped mountains in the distance. Beebe might be in
any of a number of locations, but decided she was probably still
in North America, specifically, the northern Great Basin or the
southern Canadian Rockies. It they were in China,
Southwest Asia, or the foothills of the Andes, it would have
taken time to get there, and Beebe was sure she'd be starving,
as opposed to merely very hungry.
Oh-by-the-way, opposite Beebe was a second chair, and seated in
that chair was the stunningly attractive, 40-something woman who
had introduced herself as Bondarella.
Bondarella's costume was smart, expensive business wear, similar
to what she'd been wearing at the warehouse; however, it was
off-white linen, rather than black. She smiled at Beebe,
lifted a silver coffeepot, and filled the eggshell-thin,
exquisitely beautiful cup at Beebe's place. "Cream or
sugar?" she offered.
"Black, thank you," Beebe answered, lifted the cup and saucer,
and took a delicate sip. "Delicious."
"Thank you." Bondarella took a sip of her own black
Beebe's smile became carefully coy. "Are you really the Bondarella?
Or are you The Dread Pirate Roberts?"
Beebe's hostess smiled. "I am, indeed, the Bondarella,"
she answered, "or rather, I was." She sipped her coffee,
again. "Bondarella has retired, or more precisely, she has
decided upon a change of career. I still use the name, on
occasion. I find it useful."
Beebe nodded, then glanced down at her empty plate.
Bondarella chuckled softly, lifted a tiny silver bell, and gave
it a shake.
Immediately, a door opened and four 20-something women
appeared. They were dressed as waitresses in black
high-heeled pumps, pantyhose, and pencil-skirts, white
long-sleeve blouses with wing-collars, and black bow-ties.
In point of fact, they were waitresses. The lead
pair deftly replaced the empty plates in front Beebe and
Bondarella with plates fully-loaded with fried eggs, diced and
sauteed potatoes, crisp bacon, and browned sausages. The
trailing pair positioned toast, butter, fruit preserves, and
plates of fresh sliced fruit and berries within Beebe and
Bondarella's easy reach.
The food was a traditional American breakfast, fresh, hot, and
most welcome (on Beebe's part).
The waitress who delivered Bondarella's plate was a freckled
redhead with green eyes. Her ginger locks were tied back
in a tight bun and she was adorable. Beebe was
very hungry, but not so hungry she couldn't summon the energy to
imagine the red-haired cutie bound, gagged, and writhing on the
floor... and then she was gone, as were the other
waitresses. Once again, Bondarella and Beebe were alone.
"Please," Bondarella purred, indicating Beebe's plate with a
graceful gesture as she picked up her fork.
Beebe noted that everything was prepared just the way she liked
it. How did her captors know she preferred her eggs fried
(with runny yokes) and her bacon crisp? Satisfying her
curiosity (and in the process gathering intelligence about her
hostess) was important, of course, but not as important as
filling her empty stomach.
That said, Beebe managed to eat in accordance with the normal
rules of etiquette. Her hostess was equally polite, and
they ate in silence. Apparently, Bondarella was content to
leave what Beebe was sure would be a detailed interrogation
until after they were finished. Beebe and her "hostess"
cleared their plates.
"My compliments to the chef," Bebe purred as she dabbed her lips
with her napkin.
Bondarella smiled and nodded. "Would you like seconds?"
Beebe smiled back. "That depends. Will there be
Bondarella's smile turned coy. "Certainly. Subject
to good behavior, of course."
"Of course," Beebe agreed. "In that case, I'm quite
full. Thank you."
The service door opened and a pair of waitresses appeared, one
of whom was the freckled ginger. They cleared the table
with quiet efficiency.
Beebe sat back in her comfortable chair (with its inescapable
magnetic ankle clamps) and watched the ginger's freckled hands
gather her used flatware and place it on the now empty
plate. The redhead's wrists were slender, like the rest of
her. Once again (and despite her captive circumstances)
Beebe imagined binding and gagging the adorable waitress, then
sitting back and sipping coffee as the 20-something beauty
writhed on the dining room floor.
A third waitress arrived with a replacement coffeepot.
Beebe assumed it was full of fresh coffee. At this point,
only the pot, cups, saucers, stirring spoons, and the rest of
the coffee service remained on the table. All three
waitresses departed, and once again Beebe and Bondarella were
Bondarella refilled both coffee cups.
"Thank you," Beebe said quietly, then gazed out the window-wall
at the natural view. She could see a microwave tower on a
nearby hilltop off to her left, but otherwise there were
absolutely no signs of human habitation, all the way to the
mountainous horizon. Were they on the edge of a
wilderness, or was the unspoiled vista pure happenstance?
Beebe shifted her gaze to her hostess. "Suki?"
Bondarella shook her head. "I make no promises. At
the moment there are too many variables. I feel
comfortable promising a reunion at some point, but I
don't see it happening in the immediate future."
Beebe frowned and opened her mouth to lodge a pro forma protest,
but was preempted by the service door opening and the
reappearance of the ginger waitress. This time, she was
carrying a tablet computer and a long, wide belt of white
leather. Beebe's frown deepened. A belt?
The ginger bowed and handed the tablet to Bondarella, then
stepped behind Beebe's chair.
Beebe sat perfectly still as the redhead knelt, slipped the belt
around the chair-back and arranged it across her narrow waist,
then pulled out the slack—all the slack. Beebe's
eyes momentarily widened as the belt dimpled the flesh of her
tummy and was buckled tight, but she otherwise hid her reaction
(or tried to, anyway). She remained impassive (and faintly
amused) as the redhead lifted her left hand and placed it on the
armrest of her chair. There was a quiet snap and
the cuff was now locked in place, like her ankles. Beebe
supposed a "courtesy struggle" was in order, so she gave the
cuff a perfunctory tug. The cuff was, indeed,
one-with-the-armrest. Obviously, once again magnetism was
at play. Beebe waited for the ginger to secure her right
cuff to the right armrest, but instead—
"Erin," Bondarella purred, and beckoned the redhead to her
side. Beebe's hostess then reached up, gently cupped the
ginger's freckled chin, and pulled her into a kiss. The
kiss was in no way reluctant on the waitress' part.
Naked, her ankles magna-cuffed to her chair's lower chair-legs,
the belt tightly pressing her firmly against the chair-back, and
her left wrist magna-cuffed to the left armrest, Beebe watched
the redhead and her hostess kiss... and ignored the thrill
rippling between her splayed legs. She also watched as
Bondarella whispered in the redhead's ("Erin's") ear... and the
ginger whispered back.
Bondarella grinned and slapped Erin on the rump.
"Go!" she ordered, nodded to the service door.
Erin blushed, giggled and made her exit, smiling coyly at Beebe
as she closed the door behind her.
"Adorable, isn't she?" Bondarella purred.
"Indeed," Beebe agreed.
"She'd like to play with your breasts," Bondarella continued,
"and do a more thorough job of binding you to your chair."
Beebe felt a blush touch her cheeks, then picked up her coffee
cup and took a sip. "Would she, now?"
Bondarella nodded. "Can't say that I blame her," she
chuckled. "You have very nice breasts, Beebe."
"Uh... thank you." Beebe purred. She continued ignoring
the continuing thrill quivering through her pussy, and managed
an only slightly nervous smile. "I thought you said you
Bondarella smiled back. "Retired, but I'm not dead, nor
have I taken vows of celibacy."
"Point taken," Beebe conceded. "Do you mind if I ask a few
questions about some of your more notorious, uh, cases? I
confess I'm something of a fan."
Bondarella sipped her coffee. "At the moment, I'm afraid
not. I have questions for you."
Beebe heaved a theatrical sigh. "Ask away." It
wasn't like she had any real choice.
"First of all," Bondarella said, "be aware that we have perhaps
the most talented hacking staff of any comparable organization,
including most governments."
"And by 'we' you mean..."
Still smiling, Bondarella shook her head. "A topic for
later discussion." She began tapping and swiping the
screen of the tablet, then made a sweeping gesture towards the
side of the dining room opposite the window-wall.
Instantly, the featureless wallpaper revealed itself to be a
gigantic computer screen, and on that screen windows began to
Beebe beheld copies of e-mails, photographs of Joan Watson and
Jordan Shaw, photographs of various commercial or residential
properties, including the warehouse where Bondarella and her
crew had "rescued" Suki and herself, as well as the residence
they'd happened to be using during most of the planning of the
Watson/Shaw commission. And they were her files,
as well as Suki's files. Beebe had spent hours
studying them during the planning of the Watson/Shaw operation.
A lump formed in Beebe's stomach and she glared at her
smiling captor. There was only one way she could think of
that Bondarella could have cracked the passwords required to
access this material. "What did you do to her?" she
"Who?" Bondarella inquired (innocently).
"Suki!" Beebe snapped. "What did you do to her?"
"Your partner is quite well," Bondarella answered, "albeit
somewhat under-dressed at the moment, much like yourself.
As I said, our hacking staff is very talented, especially our senior
"You expect me to believe—"
"Our senior hacker can crack passwords in near real time,"
Bondarella interrupted. She set down the tablet, picked up
her coffee cup, smiled, and took a sip.
Beebe was still skeptical. "Your 'senior hacker' can open
triply encrypted files? Seriously?"
Bondarella nodded. "Believe me, she could crash the entire
dark web in an instant, then bring it up with full access to all
files. In fact, she could do the same to the entire
internet... but someone might notice. Then, we couldn't
use either of them, could we?"
Bullshit, Beebe thought, but buried her skepticism deep.
"In any case," Bondarella continued, "the problem with being
able to look anywhere... is knowing where to look."
"That makes sense," Beebe conceded.
Bondarella held up the coffeepot, Bebe smiled and shook her
head, and the retired kidnapper who supposedly employed near
omniscient super-hackers refilled her own cup.
"Once we became aware of a threat to Joan Watson," Bondarella
continued, "we began taking countermeasures.
Unfortunately..." She paused to sip her coffee. "we
were too late to prevent Joan and Special Agent Shaw's
abduction, as well as their... re-abduction?" Her
smile became irritatingly smug. "I like that. Their
re-abduction. I'm confident we'll reacquire Joan
and Jordan's trail, eventually, but whoever is behind all this
has done an excellent job of laying down large numbers of highly
plausible false trails. We must go slowly, so as
not to trip various layers of cyber-tripwires. We must
disguise our, uh, level of penetration... so to speak."
"So to speak," Beebe purred.
"What we're going to do now is go over everything we've already
learned about your operation." Bondarella continued to
smile. "I'm interested in your thoughts about why you
accepted the commission, what you know about your competitors,
and the plans you made to entertain Joan and Jordan."
Beebe's smile became visibly forced. "If you've already
hacked our files, as you claim—"
"Your feelings, Beebe," Bondarella interrupted.
"We have the facts. I expect you to provide... the color."
"And if I refuse?"
Bondarella's smile broadened. "There, you see? Even
after having studied your file, you manage to surprise me.
I had no idea you were such a flirt."
Beebe stared at her hostess/captor/interrogator. Flirt?
"Sitting there all naked and helpless and vulnerable?"
Bondarella continued. "Do you really want to start playing
now? We have Joan and Jordan to rescue, and who knows what
small detail might lead to a timely breakthrough. My
hackers will continue working away at the puzzle, but at the
moment their progress is, at best, deliberate. Answer my
questions now. We can play later."
Beebe stared at her famous (notorious) and seriously beautiful
captor... and felt her jaw relaxing as her smile become more
genuine. "Sure. Why not?"
"And its not like you have any real choice," Bondarella added.
"Point taken," Beebe sighed.
Joan was tied
up. She was also naked, locked in a concrete cell, and
lying on a slab of memory-foam encased in gray linen. The
cell's only other furnishings were a stainless steel commode, a
tiny steel washbasin, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall
near the ceiling, above the featureless steel slab that was the
inside face of the cell's door.
As for the bondage, the material used was ¼" braided nylon rope
dyed medium-brown. All the ends had been neatly
heat-sealed. Her wrists were tied together behind her back
with her hands palm-to-palm. Her elbows were also bound
together. A web of horizontal and diagonal strands yoked
her shoulders, pinned her arms to her torso, passed above and
below her breasts, encircled her waist, and dove between her
legs, cleaving her labia and butt-cheeks. The rope lattice
continued down her legs to her ankles, lashing her legs tightly
together. All of her bonds were hitched and cinched
between her limbs and torso, making the individual elements a
unified whole and distributing the tension up and down her
All efforts on Joan's part to twist or squirm or kick were
rewarded by a modicum of slack for some areas, but only at the
cost of increased tightness for others. She'd already
wasted several long minutes exploring her condition with an eye
towards escape, and that included groping and straining for any
knots she might be able to reach with her fluttering fingers,
all to no avail. Joan was trapped in an inescapable web, a
cocoon of interlaced and hitched strands of taut rope.
The author of Joan's predicament was Jamie Moriarty, of
course. The smiling (and disturbingly beautiful) evil
genius had carefully positioned every loop, tightened every
cinch, and tied every knot... and Joan had let her, meaning had
offered no resistance during the process. She'd allowed
Jamie to render her totally helpless. Of course, Joan's
captor had made it very clear that Joan had no meaningful
choice. Any resistance on Joan's part would cause Jordan
Shaw to suffer.
Not that Jamie had entirely trusted Joan's promise of
obedience. Jamie had released Joan from the articulated
surgical table back in the medical suite one cuff or strap at a
time, but in each instance she had immediately replaced the
leather and steel medical restraints with nylon rope. Joan
was never completely free, or more precisely, was never free
enough to offer meaningful resistance—but eventually she was
free from the table.
And then, Jamie had led Joan from the "clinic" and down a
concrete hallway at the end of a humiliating rope leash.
At the time, Joan's knees were bound, but not her ankles.
She was able to walk, after a fashion. Joan wasn't gagged,
either, but thought it wise to keep her thoughts and feelings
(all of which were negative) to herself.
They arrived at a gray steel door and Jamie produced a key and
opened the portal, revealing the modern but traditional prison
cell beyond. Joan was politely encouraged to recline on
the memory-foam slab, she did so (sullenly), then watched as
Jamie bound her lower legs and ankles with more nylon rope.
Task accomplished, Jamie stepped back and paused in the open
doorway. "Beautiful," she sighed, smiling down at her
nude, elaborately bound captive. She then turned and,
without another word, closed and locked the door and Joan was
alone in the cell.
Joan heaved a sigh... then began testing her bonds... and she
continued testing her bonds for several minutes. Her
efforts was methodical and energetic, but ultimately futile.
Sherlock had trained Joan to defeat all forms of mechanical
locks, and that included handcuffs. It also included
defeating the locking mechanism while wearing said
handcuffs. Also, her partner kept pressuring her to expand
her "escapology" training, and for the first time Joan regretted
not taking him up on his offer.
Joan sighed, again.
Being able to dislocate her shoulders at will so she could
wiggle free from hypothetical bondage? Making use of
hidden escape aids to sever ropes or tease apart key
knots? Possessing a trained body with the flexibility to
perform the contortions required to reach the unreachable?
That was all well and good, but Joan found it difficult to
believe any amount of training would enable her to escape rope
bondage applied with the degree of competence demonstrated by
That said, before meeting Sherlock, Joan would have said it was
impossible to shrug out of a pair of standard police handcuffs
without the use of a set of picks or a hidden key. Now,
she not only knew it was possible, and with enough
effort could accomplish the task... eventually... with most
models of handcuffs.
Anyway, pining after training she'd repeatedly turned down was
akin to crying over spilt milk. Joan languished in her
inescapable bonds for an hour... then two.
Suddenly, the cell door opened and Jamie Moriarty
reappeared. Joan's smiling captor was dressed in a white
cotton robe with her legs and feet bare and her blond hair loose
about her shoulders, and she was carrying a tray with an open
bottle of red wine, a single stemmed wine glass, and a plate
laden with what appeared to be small sandwich-wraps of some
Joan had opened her mouth to deliver a carefully metered
scathing remark, but snapped it closed again. Her stomach
Jamie set the tray on the floor next to Joan, then cinched the
belt of her robe, sat on the pad with her back against the
concrete wall, and hauled Joan's nude, bound body against her
body. Jamie's legs were splayed with Joan's bound legs
between, and Joan's bound arms were now resting against Jamie's
breasts and tummy.
"Bresaola salami drizzled with olive oil and lemon
juice, fresh lettuce, and Robiola cheese," Jamie purred
as she picked up one of the wraps and held it before Joan's
Joan decided there was no shame in surrendering to hunger, and
the wrap smelled delicious. She opened her mouth and took
a bite. The wrap was, indeed, delicious, especially with
the proverbial sauce of hunger. Bite followed bite until
the wrap was gone. Jamie paused to pour wine into the
stemmed glass... took a sip... then held the glass to Joan's
lips so she could take a sip.
The meal continued until Joan had cleared the plate. The
wraps were, in point of fact, excellent, as was the wine she
shared with her captor. Joan was sure all the makings of
the meal had been imported, except, perhaps, the flatbreads and
lettuce. The wine was of equal quality. Imported?
Joan thought, or are we in Italy? Perhaps a
quarter of the wine remained in the bottle, and Joan knew she
was on the verge of being tipsy.
"Jordan," Joan said quietly. "Are you taking care of
Jamie's reply was to pull a small remote from the pocket of her
robe, point it at the TV above the cell door, and press a
The television began to glow... and resolved into the image of
Jordan Shaw. She was naked, like Joan, and lying on a
linen-encased memory-foam pad, also like Joan. She was
also stringently restrained; however, her bonds were leather,
rather than nylon rope. Jordan's arms and hands were
behind her back and encased in a single-sleeve armbinder from
her fingertips to her armpits. The leather was
saddle-brown, zipped tight, and reinforced by secondary straps
encircling Jordan's wrists and elbows, as well as anchoring
straps that yoked her shoulders and crisscrossed her
chest. Her ankles were joined by tightly buckled cuffs of
Joan noted that her fellow kidnap victim wasn't gagged.
Also, she appeared to be asleep. Jordan's tan, smooth body
shone with sweat... just a little. Finally, with respect
to her earlier ordeal and from what Joan could see, Jordan's
skin was none the worse for wear. There were no bruises,
welts, or whip-marks.
"Since you've agreed to be a good girl," Jamie purred
in Joan's ear, "Special Agent Shaw recently benefited from a
full-body massage, has a full tummy, and is being allowed to
sleep in a comfortable cell."
"Comfortable," Joan huffed, then swallowed her shame and cleared
her throat. "Thank you," she said in a near whisper.
"You're quite welcome, Joan," Jamie responded, kissed the side
of Joan's neck, then rolled Joan onto her stomach and began
fiddling with a knot at the small of her back.
Joan frowned. "What are you... oh." What Jamie was
doing had become obvious: she was untying Joan's
crotch-rope. The twin strands of nylon rope loosened, then
slowly slithered from between her butt-cheeks and labia.
(Joan did her best to ignore the accompanying sensations.)
Then, Jamie rolled her onto her back and Joan watched as her
smiling captor stretched the free ends of her former crotch-rope
up to the ropes passing above and below her breasts, passed the
strands under the breast-ropes, and pulled out the slack.
This pinched the breast-ropes into an "X" and left sufficient
slack for Jamie to separate the strands and take a single turn
around the base of each of Joan's now bulging breasts before
tying a final knot.
"Is this really necessary?" Joan complained.
"As a matter of fact..." Jamie resumed her former position
with her back against the wall, then hauled Joan into her former
position with her bound arms against Jamie's robe-clad
body. "I'm afraid getting that lovely crotch-rope out of
the way is, in fact, quite necessary." She
reached into her robe pocket, pulled out a small object that was
not the remote, and held it for Joan's horrified inspection.
Joan swallowed, nervously. The object was a compact,
wand-style vibrator with a curved, pointed tip designed for
clitoral stimulation! Joan had no personal experience with
that particular model, but instantly recognized it for what it
"Time for dessert," Jamie purred, pressed a button on the side
of the vibrator, and it began to buzz.
"No!" Joan began squirming in Jamie's grip.
"Quiet, Joan," Jamie chuckled, wrapped her legs around Joan's
kicking, thrashing legs, reached across Joan's rope-bound torso
and arms, cupped her right breast, and held her tight.
"You might wake up Special Agent Shaw, by which I mean I might
have to send one of my assistants to her cell with a flogger to
wake her up." She touched the curved tip of the
vibrator to Joan's left nipple. "Quiet as a mouse, Joan,"
she whispered in Joan's ear. "Not so much as a whimper or
a moan. And don't you dare cum without my
Joan shivered and squirmed, but stopped kicking. Somehow,
she managed to confine her outrage and humiliation to her
The tip of the wand trailed down Joan's rope-bound body to her
thighs... then nudged her clitoris.
Joan went rigid in her bonds and Jamie's embrace and bit her
lower lip. She just hoped that as the stimulation
continued, she wouldn't start biting her tongue.
The wand was... incredible... in a horrific and decidedly unwelcome
sort of way.
Jamie smiled... and continued serving "dessert."
On the screen and back in her cell, Jordan Shaw continued to