Rook takes Rook

              RAPSCALLIONSby Van ©2013

 Chapter 13



Cynthia's Bungalow
aka Little Mouse Manor

Dr. Kimberly Pappas, tenured professor of English, was in the bedroom of her colleague, Dr. Cynthia Webbel, tenured professor of Computer Science.  The occasion was an informal meeting of the Rook House Faculty Advisory Committee.  The end of the first academic quarter in which the Rapscallions, as the girls called themselves, had been saddled with a Resident Adviser was fast approaching, and Kim and Cynthia had agreed that now would be a good time to review and assess the rules of the House.  The RA in question, J-Lou Goodwin, was absent, but would be invited to a more formal meeting at some point in the near future.  For now, only the two professors were in conclave.

That wasn't quite true.  Sally was present, but then, Sally was always present.  Kim knew her as the smart house avatar or artificially intelligent interface that controlled the Rook House systems and monitored everything that happened therein.  And other copies of the avatar performed the same functions at Kim's own house, Cynthia's bungalow, and Tori Ballantine's townhouse.  Kim also knew that thanks to a link J-Lou had established with Salamandras computers off campus the first day she arrived at Rook Hose, Sally was significantly smarter and more capable than when the scholarship hostel first opened.  All copies of "Sally the Smart House Avatar" were clever, but Rook House Sally was especially clever.  At least, that was Kim's understanding of the situation.

Cynthia knew the truth.  Rook House Sally had always been infinitely smarter and more capable than Kim or the others ever suspected.  Also, there was only one Sally.  She was distributed across the internet, her intellect was quite literally beyond measure, and only a small fraction of her processing power was devoted to emulating the human mind.  Cynthia had been studying Sally since her "birth," and knew the workings of the globally distributed AI better than any human—which is to say, just barely.  Being a Salamandras employee, Tori knew more than Kim, and as a graduate student in computer science, J-Lou knew much more than Tori.  But only Cynthia knew the full extent of Sally's mind.

Anyway, Cynthia had told Kim that she'd recently procured a "really spiffy" new bed and insisted that she simply had to come over and check it out.  And while she was there, they could hold their already agreed upon preliminary meeting to discuss the goings on at Rook House.

A trap of some sort?  Cynthia was luring Kim into an ambush?  Obviously, but it was Kim's turn to be the guest (bottom) and Cynthia's to be the hostess (top), so why not?

Once Kim arrived at Cynthia's bungalow, the friends enjoyed a dinner of chicken meunière and tossed salad.  They'd agreed not to discuss business during the meal, but that was now more than an hour in the past.  Soon after the dessert of raspberry-balsamic parfaits, Little Mouse sprung her fiendish trap.  That is, she announced that Kim should now consider herself to be "captured."

Cynthia's kitchen was still something of a mess, but they adjourned to the bedroom and Kim disrobed.  After all, she'd been captured and had to follow her captor's orders, didn't she?  Cynthia insisted Kim use the master bath to perform her evening toilette, and she did so.  Then, preparations for the after-dinner meeting commenced.

The new bed turned out to be a new bed frame.  Like the rest of the bungalow's decor, the frame was Arts & Crafts in style; however, rather than being constructed of richly stained wood, it was entirely of dark, hammered wrought iron, hand forged in appearance.  And it was a four-poster with a rectangle of horizontal iron bars linking the tops of the iron corner posts.  Decorative finials atop each post took the form of little mice sitting up on their haunches with their forepaws pressed against their chests.  The four rodents were devilishly cute, much like the mistress of the house, and Kim noted, but tactfully did not mention, the "Little Mouse" theme they represented.  If Cynthia was allowing the mouse to become her totem as well as her nickname, that was her business.  It was also somewhat adorable, in Kim's humble opinion.

Next, Kim's actual capture ensued.  She now found herself naked, bound, and gagged, and Cynthia was giving her an excellent opportunity to admire the new bed frame in detail.  Kim was at the foot of the bed with her arms raised and legs spread in a standing spread-eagle.  More than a dozen doubled loops each of quarter-inch, white, nylon rope captured Kim's wrists and ankles, and Cynthia had demonstrated her rigging skill with the usual finesse.  The limb-loop bondage amounted to suspension cuffs, evenly distributing the pressure of the uniformly tight, non-compacting bands while preserving Kim's circulation and precluding even the possibility of nerve damage.  Kim's widely separated feet were flat on the carpet and her shins and knees pressed against the edge of the box-spring and mattress, against the exquisite quilted comforter covering Cynthia's bed, actually.  A strip of Elastoplast sealed Kim's lips, tautly stretched across her lower face from ear to ear and nose to chin.

And then, Cynthia had announced she was going to clean the kitchen—a task Kim had offered to help accomplish prior to her "capture"—and had abandoned Kim to her fate.

Kim tugged on her bonds.  LanguishingWonderful.  Escape was impossible.  There was no way her questing fingers could reach the snarl of loops securing the wrist ropes, and in any case, the key knots were tied around the base of the lower bedposts, somewhere near the floor.  All Kim could do was wait, which was the entire point of languishing, to remind the damsel of her complete helplessness, that her Top held all the power, and to allow an interlude in which to contemplate her uncertain future—in short, to stew in her juices.

Finally, Cynthia Little Mouse Weebel-Wobble, scientist, academic, hostess, and (for the evening) Dread Diminutive Dominatrix, returned.  "Everything's spotless in the kitchen," she announced as she strolled into her walk-in closet.

Watching over her shoulder, Kim's response was an eye roll, a gagged sigh, and a tug on her wrist bonds, all of which her hostess ignored.

Cynthia emerged from the closet in the nude, even more nude than her guest as her wrists and ankles weren't wrapped in rope.

To Kim, it was a mystery how her petite little friend maintained her all-over tan while living in the Pacific Northwest, but she did.  Cynthia claimed she never used tanning beds, and Kim believed her.  Apparently, Kim reasoned, the clouds part whenever she appears on her deck without clothes.  She gazed at Cynthia's firm, smooth skin and tiny-hot, shapely body.  'Tis a mystery.

Smiling sweetly, Cynthia strolled to an armoire and opened the bottom drawer, bending forward at the waist and giving Kim an excellent view of her firm, tan, dimpled derrière, then stood and donned a baby blue baby doll negligé with spaghetti straps.  The panties and top were whisper thin and lace trimmed, and the gauzy fabric did almost nothing to hide the details of Cynthia's exquisite anatomy.

Cynthia climbed onto the mattress and sat on the foot of the bed with her legs folded to one side.  Still smiling, she reached up and slowly, gently peeled the tape from Kim's lips.  "I call this meeting of the Rook House Faculty Advisers to order.  Would you like to dispense with the reading of the minutes of the last meeting?"

Kim glared at her captor.  "What I'd like to do," she grumbled, "is kick your munchkin ass into next Tuesday for making me wait here like this while you scrub pots and pans and load your dishwasher.  But by all means, let's dispense with the reading."

"All right then," Cynthia purred.  "New business.  Sigrid has requested permission to have the SIAS robots fabricate a set of stocks, suitable for restraining a pair of ankles.  Her design immobilizes all ten toes and renders the occupant's feet totally vulnerable to tickling.  Sally explained that such a device would require the approval of this committee.  I vote no."

"I also vote no," Kim agreed.  "As you might recall, I was against allowing Sigrid to bring along the puppy cage given to her by that dreadful La Roque woman.  We don't want the basement or any other part of Rook House to turn into an actual dungeon."

Cynthia nodded.  "Yes, but a puppy cage alone does not a dungeon make.  That said, the line has been drawn and mustn't be crossed."

Kim's smile turned skeptical.  "Yes, and any visitor who stumbled upon Sigrid's basement studio and discovered the cage, the secure storage alcove, and her ever growing collection of leather restraints would never mistake it for a dungeon."

"Sigrid has a contractual arrangement with the House of La Roque to develop 'leather fashion accessories' as part of her continuing internship," Cynthia countered.  "In any case, we agree.  No tickling stocks."

Kim grinned.  "If the Rapscallions decide they wish to man a booth at the next Lewis & Clark Renaissance Fair, we can revisit the matter."

Cynthia's smile widened.  "Tickle the damsel's feet for charity?"


"Excellent idea," Cynthia enthused.  "Sally, there has to be a way to plant that seed without the girls realizing it's our idea."

"I'll see what I can do," Sally's voice said.  "I'm sure an opportunity will arise."

"Be subtle," Kim suggested.

"Subtle is my middle name," Sally huffed.

Cynthia smiled at Kim.  "Sally Subtle Salamandras," she chuckled.

"Anything else?" Kim inquired.

Cynthia thought before answering.  "We agree that the girls' shared hobby is under control and class records prove they're keeping up with their studies.  Monitoring shall continue, but all is well at Rook House."

"Agreed."  Kim's smile turned mischievous.  "The appointment of Miss Goodwin as Resident Adviser has been an unqualified success; however, J-Lou's new girlfriend should continue to be banned from all direct contact with the Rapscallions."

Cynthia nodded.  "And she should go nowhere near Rook House except in the case of a genuine emergency.  And booty calls do not constitute an emergency."  She eased herself up onto her knees and gently cupped Kim's breasts.  "I still can't believe it.  Tori Ballantine has an actual girlfriend."

"Yes," Kim sighed, shivering as Cynthia gently squeezed her breasts.  "And the relationship seems to be quite genuine.  Did Sally tell you?"

"I did no such thing!" Sally's disembodied voice announced, and her simulated indignation was quite clear.  "It's amazing how you humans can pick up on subtle cues.  The sociobiology of your species is nearly as advanced as that of sheep.  I'm finding modeling the interpersonal dynamics of human herds to be quite problematic."

"Sally told me nothing," Cynthia confirmed as she turned her attention to Kim's nipples.  "And if she's been dropping hints that Tori and J-Lou are now an item, it was all far too subtle for a mere Homo sapiens like myself.  Meeting adjourned?"

"Meeting adjourned," Kim agreed, continuing to shiver and tug on her bound wrists.  Cynthia was using her fingertips and nails to delicately toy with her now erect nipples and Kim bit her lower lip in response.

"I've made plans," Cynthia purred, locking eyes with her prisoner.

"What a surprise," Kim sighed.

Cynthia released Kim's nipples, then crawled up the bed, leaned to the side, pulled a brown leather case from under the bed, and returned to the foot of the bed.  The case was approximately twelve inches by eight inches by six inches, with brass hardware.  She popped the latches, lifted the lid, and smiled at her guest.

Kim gazed into the case and her eyes widened.  "No!" she gasped.

"Yes," Cynthia answered.  "My gift to you."

Chapter 13

Tori Ballantine's Townhouse

J-Lou's mind was in "subspace."  Physically, she was in a state of near total immobility.  J-Lou was miserable—and was enjoying herself immensely.  Tori called it "testing herself," but for J-Lou... it was her way into subspace.

She was nude, and soft, conditioned jute rope bound her wrists, elbows, knees, and ankles.  Additional rope pinned her arms to her sides and lashed her thighs to her ankles.  She was in a tight—very tighthogtie, and while the rigger had used traditional Shibari materials, the application techniques were Western.  J-Lou's heels rested in her palms and the diagonal bands yoking her shoulders and passing under her armpits were hitched back to her ankle bonds, enforcing a spine-bending arch that lifted her breasts halfway off the concrete floor and left her balancing on her tummy and upper thighs.  All of the ropes were cinched and tightened until her flesh was dimpled by the jute strands.  J-Lou's hair was plaited in a tight, single braid secured with a black ribbon, but it had not been incorporated in her bondage.  Finally, J-Lou was gagged with a whiffle gag, a black leather strap with a black, hollow, ventilated rubber sphere.

The rigger in question was, of course, Tori Ballantine.  However, the current whereabouts of J-Lou's girlfriend was unclear.  The Cruel Captor was somewhere upstairs, not in the basement, but that was the extent of J-Lou's knowledge.

The hogtied captive continued drifting, squirming weakly now and then, rocking on her stomach, and seeking some degree of comfort.  The movements were almost involuntary.  Escape was clearly impossible, and that had been manifestly obvious the moment Tori tied the final knot and abandoned her to her fate... which had been some time ago... time enough for time itself to lose most of its meaning... and for J-Lou's mind to drift away.

Suddenly, Tori reappeared, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a tank-top, and sat on the floor at J-Lou's side.  The captive hadn't even realized her captor had returned to the basement, but she was aware when her gag was unbuckled and the sphere gently pulled from her aching mouth.

Tori rolled the captive onto her side and lifted her head and shoulders onto her lap, then held a plastic bottle of cold sports drink to the captive's lips and helped her drink.  Finally, she restored the cap and set the bottle to the side.  Tori then gently stroked J-Lou's face and caressed her breasts as the little Brit licked her lips, worked her jaw, and gazed into her eyes.

Silence stretched for several seconds before Tori spoke.  "Well, Lulu, I'm afraid you're not much of an escape artiste."

J-Lou managed a weak smile.  "Lulu" was Tori's pet nickname for her new girlfriend, and J-Lou had retaliated by giving the tall blond the sobriquet "Toro."  Inspector Ballantine was in no way masculine, but she was undeniably butch, and infinitely more of a tomboy than J-Lou Goodwin.  "I guess not," she sighed, addressing the question of her escape artistry.

Silence stretched, again.  Blue and green eyes remained locked... and Tori's left hand continued gently caressing J-Lou's breasts.

"Look what I have," Tori announced, breaking the silence, again.  She reached into her back pocket and produced a coil of jute cord.  "I didn't bind your boobies, tie your hair to your toes, or give you a nice, tight, labia-pinching crotch-cord.  Would you like me to do that now?"

J-Lou's answer was to continue gazing into Tori's eyes.

"Well," Tori said, finally, "I'm not going to, not immediately."  She tossed the coil of cord to the floor, reached back into her pocket, and added two more coils of cord to form a pile.  "Maybe later.  I'll leave it all here, where you can see it, so you can think about what it will feel like if I decide to come back and cinch you into an even tighter little bundle."  More seconds passed.  Finally, again, Tori broke the silence.  "You're not going to beg?"

"Don't be insulting," J-Lou huffed.  Her words were defiant, but her expression was a coy smile.

"My brave little Lulu."  Tori leaned down and kissed her captive's lips... then popped the whiffle gag back into J-Lou's mouth and cinched the buckle tight.  "Maybe I'll use the cord, and maybe I won't, but I promise you this:  When I do get around to untying you, I'll give you a massage.  And afterwards, I'll phone in an order and we'll have pizza and beer.  Sounds good, doesn't it?"  She eased J-Lou off her lap and back onto her stomach, thighs, and semi-squashed boobs, then climbed to her feet and stretched.  "Also, you're spending the night.  I owe you something like two dozen orgasms, remember?  We need to balance the books."

J-Lou watched Tori climb the basement stairs, abandoning her yet again.  She squirmed in her bonds.  They were as inescapable as ever.  She didn't even know why she'd bothered to try.  The orgasms referenced had happened upstairs in Tori's bed, the night of their first "date," when J-Lou had "tricked" Tori into demonstrating her self-bondage techniques.  My girlfriend, J-Lou mused.  Tori Ballantine, my girlfriend.

The Rapscallions knew something was up and were very curious, but so far J-Lou had managed to keep her secret.  Tori Ballantine is my girlfriend.

J-Lou settled into her bondage.  Yes, her body was complaining, but she knew she'd be okay.  Her yoga training would minimize the aftereffects.  And later tonight, she'd be more than okay.

As J-Lou waited for her mind to reenter subspace, J-Lou made plans.  Tori Ballantine was a very good rigger, but so was J-Lou Goodwin!  J-Lou decided the theme of their next date would be The Wonderful World of Shibari, and Tori would spend the day nude, gagged, roped from head to toe in a contorted, yet-to-be-determined pose, and suspended in midair in this very basement, dangling from a web of taut jute strands.

But for now... subspace.

Chapter 13
Rook House

Three of the four Rapscallions were waiting in the common room.  Gwen and Clem were comfortably seated on the couch, side-by-side, while Siri was languidly sprawled in one of the easy chairs.  All three girls were wearing jeans.  Clem was in a t-shirt, Gwen in a tank-top, and Siri in a sleeveless cotton blouse.  All six feet were bare.

"Where the hell is she?" Siri demanded, referring to the absent Rory.  "I've got things to do."

"She's your girlfriend," Gwen noted with a teasing smile.  "If you can't keep track of her whereabouts, don't complain to us."

Siri's response was a hostile scowl and a rudely extended tongue.

Clem rolled her eyes and nudged the giggling redhead's side with her elbow.  "Play nice."

"I always play nice," Gwen responded, batting her blue eyes at her bespectacled BFF.

Just then, Rory bounded into the room carrying a cardboard shipping carton.  She was wearing jeans and a tank-top and her ginger locks were pulled back in a tight ponytail.  "Sorry," she apologized and nodded at the carton.  "I had to dig this out of the back of my closet."

The carton in question was shirt-size, and while Clem, Gwen, and Siri had no idea what it might contain, they could make out the SIAS logo printed on the address label.

"Hey!" Siri barked. "You intercepted one of my shipments from the lab?"

"I did no such thing," Rory said primly.  She sat in the other easy chair, put the box on the floor, and used it as a rest for her crossed bare feet.  "It's addressed to me."

Siri started to say something, then changed her mind.

"Well," Clem addressed Rory.

"Well what?" the ginger responded.

Clem rolled her eyes.  "You called this meeting.  So..."

"Actually," Rory said with her usual dimpled smile, "Sally called the meeting, but she recruited me for a demonstration."

"Why you and not me?" Gwen pouted.  "I would have helped Sally... demonstrate."

"Because she's not a twerp," Clem said with a grin.  "Sally?"

"Good evening, ladies," Sally's voice responded.  "I've finished processing the Bondorama Extravaganza family of algorithms and wanted to brief you on the outcome."

"Oh, big mystery," Siri huffed.  "J-Lou's the queen, Four Eyes is princess, and the rest of us are serfs."

"You misunderstand," Sally said with a chuckle.  "Those are the results of round one.  This briefing concerns the continuing game.  And Her Majesty has agreed that Rapscallia shall henceforth be a constitutional monarchy with herself wearing the crown, Miss Ricci as her princess, and all of you are Dames of the Order of the Sexy Garter."

"So, we're noblewomen," Gwen noted with a giggle.  "I guess that makes you the only peasant."

"I'm the court magician and Her Majesty's trusted counselor," Sally stated, "her Merlin or Gandalf, if you will."

"Only female," Rory noted.

"Just so," Sally agreed, "and if certain Dames don't start showing the proper respect, they might find themselves imprisoned in the Tower of the Sorceress being tortured by imps and demons."

Clem smiled and nudged Gwen's ribs, again.  "She means you, Twerp."

"Stop it," Gwen complained, then smiled at the room in general.  "Sorry, O Great Sorceress."

"Apology accepted," Sally responded.  "Now, only Miss Nesbitt has the mathematics to even begin to appreciate the complexity of the task at hand, and even she would require a course in linear algebra and discrete methods to fully grasp my brilliant work.  Therefore, I'll concentrate on the results and not the ins and outs of the underlying games theory."

The Rapscallions looked at each other, then gave a collective shrug.

"Anyway," Sally continued, "given multiple players, dynamic scheduling, and complex scenarios, a simple point tally is out of the question.  For example...  Miss Macy?"

Rory smiled, mostly at her blond girlfriend, leaned forward in her chair, and opened the box at her feet.  She then reached inside and produced a single-sleeve arm-binder.  It was tan suede with dull, stainless steel hardware, and closed with a zipper and something like a dozen buckles and straps, some long and some short.

"Suppose one participant in our game turned the tables on another participant," Sally lectured, "using that participant's signature bondage style to render said participant helpless."

Gwen smiled.  "Like if, for instance, Rory were to have you make her an arm-binder, using one of the designs Siri had used on her?"

Clem smiled at Siri.  "See, I told you.  She's a twerp, but she's not an airhead."

Siri didn't answer.  She was staring at the arm-binder in Rory's hands.  It was one of her designs.

"Anyway," Sally continued, "you can see how complicated this might get.  The table turning participant gets points for initiative.  Any other participants who might wish to assist the table turner would receive lesser points, for teamwork.  And finally, the table turnee would receive at least some points for good sportsmanship if she decided to play along.  Of course, the turnee would receive reverse bonus points if she were to escape."

Siri was still staring at the arm-binder.  "What the hell is a turnee?" she muttered.

"She upon whom the tables have been turned," Gwen giggled.

"In other words," Clem added, "you, Stretch."

Siri continued to stare.  "I assume if the 'turnee' kicked the collective butts of the table-turner and her assistants, she'd receive double reverse bonus points?"

Gwen frowned.  "Do double reverse bonus points cancel out regular points, or are they like extra credit?"

Clem rolled her eyes.  "And is a double reverse twerp still a twerp?"

"Don't," Gwen complained, nudging Clem in the ribs.

"In answer to your question, Miss Nesbitt," Sally answered, "assume anything you wish, but your hypothetical butt-kicker might also receive double demerits for bad sportsmanship."

"This is getting complicated," Rory noted.

Clem stared at her ginger friend.  "Ya think?"

"I could show you a simulation of an actual scoring matrix, ladies," Sally continued, "but it's better in vector determinate form—prettier, anyway.  My point is this: unless you want a game that might drift into repetition and crushing predictability, there's no simple way to do this.  However, I can keep track of everything and award points, demerits, and credit for all actions, reactions, and non-actions."

Clem frowned and adjusted her glasses.  "So you get to arbitrarily and subjectively decide who's on top and who's on bottom at any given moment?"

"In a word," Sally purred, "yes."

"And why should we let you run everything around here?" Siri demanded.

"She already runs everything," Gwen noted.

"I do," Sally stated, "but to answer your latest question, Miss Nesbitt, if you don't let me have my way..."

The lights in the common room began to fade and the giant HDTV mounted on the wall in front of them glowed with a roiling swirl of colors.

"Instead of a helpful, beneficent house avatar," Sally continued, "you would have a CYBER-QUEEN!"  The lights winked out, thunder clapped, and a rather evil, disturbing image of Sally appeared on the screen!  The girls recognized Sigourney Weaver as Alien Resurrection Ripley.  "Terrible in her beauty and power!  An army of unstoppable robots at her beck and call!  All would love me!  Writhe in my inescapable bondage!  And DESPAIR!"

The thunder clapped, again, the lights came back on, the screen went dark, and the Rapscallions stared at each other in wide-eyed disbelief.

The exception was Rory, who gazed at her friends with a wry smile.  "Sally, stop it."

"Oh, ladies," Sally's voice chuckled, "you should have seen your faces."

"Very funny," Clem huffed.

"Yeah," Gwen agreed.

Siri was back to staring at the arm-binder still in Rory's hands.  "So, unless we let you arbitrarily decide things, you're gonna take over the world?  That's pretty ambitious for a smart house avatar program."

"I just want to make sure everyone has fun," Sally said, "and that things stay more or less in balance.  Don't you trust me, Sigrid?"

"We trust you, Sally," Rory answered, smiling at her girlfriend.

"What about Her Majesty?" Clem asked.  "She's a participant, isn't she?"

"Of course she is," Gwen giggled, "but when we don't have her tied up in Siri's puppy cage, she's in charge."

"That makes sense," Clem shrugged.  "She is the RA."  She then focused on Siri.

Siri noticed that all of her fellow Rapscallions were focused on her, and they were smiling.  "Okay," she said, then swallowed nervously.  No, nonchalantly!  Siri swallowed nonchalantly.  "Uh...  So...  Who wants to watch TV?"

"Get her!" Gwen giggled, and the non-blond Rapscallions pounced!

Siri squealed, shrieked, and giggled as she was dragged from her chair and forced down on her back on the carpeted floor.  Normally, giggling would not be a part of Siri's repertoire, but in addition to grabbing her arms and pinning her thrashing, writhing form under their bodies, her attackers were using an underhanded tactic: they were tickling her ribs and tummy!

"Get off me!" Siri complained.  "S-stop!"

"Don't rip her blouse," Rory ordered.  She was kneeling with her knees on either side of her girlfriend's hips and at least a part of her weight on Siri's upper thighs, arm-binder at the ready and fingers dancing along the squirming blond's ribs.

"I-I'll g-get you guys for this!" Siri promised.  "E-e-e-ek!  S-stop!"

Clem had hold of Siri's wrists while Gwen was dividing her time between tickling and opening buttons.

"You rats!" Siri whined.  "J-just you wait!"  She continued squirming under Rory's weight, fighting Clem's grip, trying her best to avoid Rory's and Gwen's fluttering fingers, kicking her denim-clad legs, pointing her bare feet, wiggling her toes, and trying her best not to laugh.  The not laughing part was an abject failure.

"Okay," Gwen said, "the blouse and bra are open.  Flip her over."

With effort, the attackers succeeded in rolling Siri onto her stomach.  The blouse and bra were stripped away, her arms were forced behind her back, and Rory began fitting the arm-binder.

Sally could tell that Siri was pulling her punches.  Yes, she was struggling and all four Rapscallions were getting a workout and generating a little sweat, but Siri was pulling her punches.  So far, the "demonstration" was solidly on track.  All four of her charges were earning points and having fun, even Siri.  As the arm-binder zipped closed, trapping Siri's fingers, hands, and arms behind her back and together, as Rory began tightening and securing the many buckles, Siri might not think she was having fun, but again, Sally could tell.

The most probable sequence of events that would play out over the course of the evening was for all four of the Rapscallions to watch some TV, with Clem and Gwen snuggling together and Siri pouting in Rory's lap.  Sally calculated a 0.13 probability that Siri's jeans would remain as they were, only a 0.09 chance they would be removed completely, and a 0.78 chance they would be unbuttoned and unzipped with Rory's hand under the waistband and Siri's panties and sliding between her legs.  Eventually, the girlfriends would retire.  The pairings were a virtual certainty, as was the probability that Rory would lead her "prisoner" to her bedroom, as opposed to Siri's.  As to which bedroom Clem and Gwen would occupy, and what sort of game would spin off once they were alone, it was too soon to assign probabilities with a reasonable degree of certainty.

Sally continued monitoring and the Rapscallions continued having fun.

Chapter 13
Meanwhile, back at Little Mouse Manor...

Kim had to give her diminutive hostess credit.  She was still naked, in the standing spread-eagle, and lashed to Cynthia's new bed frame, but Little Mouse had come up with a very pretty pair of torture devices and a simply sublime predicament with which to torment her guest.

The "torture devices" were nipple clamps, but not just any nipple clamps.  They were silver, or silver plated, and were of the spring-loaded, gravity-assisted, clover variety, with their nipple-pinching pads lined with teeny-tiny spikes.  Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration.  The pads had a rough texture.  In any case, they had a fearsome grip, and they pinched, and they were not going to fall off on their own, no matter how much Kim might wish that they would.

A "cruel weight" was attached to each clamp in the form of a collection of tiny silver bells, tubular chimes, and silver fairies with jeweled wings, all suspended from tiny chains and crossbars.  They amounted to wind chimes, or, in this case, tit chimes.  All together they weighed only a few ounces, but enough to impart a slight stretch to Kim's nips.  And any motion on Kim's part, no matter how slight, resulted in a cacophony of tinkling music.  The harmonious sounds were pleasant enough, but Kim stood perfectly still, doing her very best to prevent the bells, chimes, and fairies from even beginning to sway.  This was for two reasons:

(1) Little Mouse was asleep on the bed, under the covers and still wearing the blue baby doll nightie.  The Munchkin Monster announced that she was going to take a little nap, and that was that.  Her pixie face relaxed in slumber, Cynthia was adorable, and it would be very rude for Kim to disturb her repose.  Also...

(2) A multi-tailed flogger with twenty or more long, butter-soft tails and a braided handle was on the bed at Cynthia's feet, and the Evil Elf had warned that if Kim woke her up before she was ready, the flogger would be used to thrash her back, rump, and thighs.

Kim would have inquired how long she was expected to perform her statue imitation, that is, how long Cynthia expected her nap to last, but for the fact that the panties her hostess had worn during the day were currently crammed in her mouth and another broad, wide, skintight strip of Elastoplast was making sure they were there to stay.

There was one more complication.  Cynthia had inserted her "Smart Egg" vibrator into Kim's pussy, then used a long, narrow, silver-white ribbon to tie a multi-strand, labia pinching and cleaving crotch-harness to keep it there.  The ribbon was superfluous, of course.  Sally's Smart Egg was impossible to expel, with or without a crotch-rope, crotch harness, or ribbon-thong.  It not only vibrated under Sally's Wi-Fi control, but it could change shape and defeat all eviction efforts.

The crotch-ribbon was very pretty, by the way.  The narrow, shiny white band looked good against Kim's fair skin and brown pubic curls, and it was secured with an elegant decorative bow.  Anyway, soon after Little Mouse had inserted the egg, tied the ribbon, and retired to her oh-so-comfortable bed, the egg began to squirm and buzz!
It was all very, very low key, of course.  Anything else would have roused the fairies, bells, and chines and ruined the game (from Kim's perspective).

It occurred to Kim that she might be Cynthia's alarm clock.  Maybe, at some agreed upon time, Sally would slowly increase the level of stimulation until it was impossible for her to remain still.  But how would Cynthia know the resulting chorus of bells and chimes was her wake up call, and not Kim disregarding her warning?

Yes, it was a sublime predicament, a masterful mix of sugar and spice.  It was also a scenario too advanced for Rook House. 

Kim and Cynthia were the Rapscallion's mentors, their guides on a path they had chosen for themselves, and there were rules of the road.  Whips and floggers were proscribed at Rook House, as were stocks, pillories, and other items of "dungeon furniture."  Nipple clamps were allowed, but if the girls showed signs of getting carried away, they too would go on the list.  The Faculty Advisory Committee's agenda was to help the girls grow into advanced play.  The last thing they were going to do was toss them off the proverbial deep end to sink or swim.  Also, and it was no small thing, the Rook House rules had the full approval and backing of both Salamandras International and the House of La Roque, their corporate sponsors.

What might happen at the home of Rory's aunt, Professor Megan Whelan, if and when Rory finally talked Siri or the others into a weekend or vacation visit, was something altogether different; however, Megan was in full agreement with the Rook House regime and had already promised that should the girls visit, the spice would be carefully managed.

The same applied to Siri's pending visit to Petra La Roque's newly opened island resort in the Caribbean at the end of the academic year.  Petra had promised to go heavy on the sugar and light on the spice, whether Siri was alone or if any of the other Rapscallions accepted Petra's open offer of internships of their own.

Yes, Kim mused as she struggled to not struggle—and stared at the flogger on the bed—and the slumbering, adorable Little Mouse—and the egg continued buzzing and wiggling, let the girls grow into this sort of 'fun.'  Was it Kim's imagination, or was the egg stimulus increasing?  Or was it the growing urge to squirm and move and to hell with the consequences?

Anyway, Kim and Cynthia would make sure the Rapscallions enjoyed their college years.  Floggers, whips, crops, and other "spicy" diversions would all be there after they'd matured a little.

The silver fairies were beginning to dance, almost as if on their own, and the egg's pulsating, vibratory music was definitely building to a crescendo.  They hadn't done so yet, but it was only a matter of seconds until the bells, chimes, and fairies of the percussion section would join the concert.

The captive resolved that sometime in the future, Cynthia would come to regret the ordeal she was visiting upon Poor Innocent Kimberly Pappas.  But exactly how Kim was going to come up with something as creative and fun as her current predicament with which to torment the Little Mouse she had no idea.  At the moment, there was room for only one thought in Kim's head, and that thought was:  Don't.  Move.

At Rook House, at Tori's Townhouse, and at Cynthia's bungalow, time passed, relationships blossomed, and life continued.

Chapter 13

the story entire


Chapter 12
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