by Van ©2019
		Chapter 6

Surprisingly, I had no great difficulty falling asleep.  I was keyed up, nervous, and/or generally amazed, but I fell asleep.  And I slept.  Maybe it was the rosé.  That really was a good rosé.  I made a mental note to ask The Sisters where they got it.  Maybe it's available in refrigerator-boxes.

And speaking of overindulging in rosé... I have to apologize.  Logan isn't really a rat.  That was the rosé talking.  She may not even be a rodent.  If anything, she's a fox, and by fox I don't just mean a foxy-cute fox, which she is, but a crafty and sly fox, like the legendary Reynard the fox.  She's a trickster and a scamp and is totally untrustworthy!  Okay, she is trustworthy, but recently, she's shown an irritating propensity for tying me up and dragging me to parties.  That is based on a sample size of one, but still.

Now that I think about it, Logan might be some sort of fox/weasel hybrid, even if she isn't a rat.  It's just lucky for her she's my best friend.  Otherwise, I wouldn't even talk to her.

Anyway... I slept.

And then... I woke up.

I assume I was disturbed by the sounds of the key turning in the hefty lock of the hefty door of my Arts & Crafts prison cell and the hefty door in question opening.  Truth be told, I don't know what woke me up, and I didn't exactly spring to full awareness like a startled cat.  I was more like a hibernating bear who'd decided she had no choice but to finally admit that Spring had arrived.  Anyway, the door was open, the overhead light was shining, and...

"Logan?" I mumbled.

That's right, it was Logan smiling down at me as I blinked and tried to come fully awake, not Gabby or Kelly (aka The Sisters, aka The Denizens of The Mansion, aka our hostesses for the weekend).  Even more disorienting, my bungalow-mate was neither naked nor floppy-fish-bound (as when I'd seen her last).  She was smiling and standing there with her hands on her hips and dressed like... some sort of pirate?  A secret agent in some cheesy 1960's German/Italian spy movie?  A—Gulp!—dominatrix?

Logan was wearing black leather knee boots—skintight, black leather pants—and some sort of black leather... vest?  No, I suppose it was a bustier/bra.  Yes, I decided, it was definitely a bustier/bra.  Her midriff was bare, exposing her flat tummy and bellybutton, her upper boobs bulged above the top (which barely covered her nipples), and the thing had spaghetti-thin shoulder straps.  Also, the pants had a narrow belt, and hanging from a clip over her left hip were:

1. A ball-gag with a baby-blue mouth-plugging rubber sphere and a narrow, black leather strap (with chrome hardware), and;
2. A neatly coiled length of black nylon cord.

Also, strapped around her right thigh was a black leather holster-thingie with a closed flap.  I had no idea what was inside.  Her red hair hung in kinky curls, framing her disgustingly cute and smiling face.

One final detail: maybe it was a trick of the light, but I was beginning to think Logan's kinky black outfit might actually be a very dark shade of brown, possibly more than one very dark shade of brown.  Also, everything was covered with elaborate, subtle, Irish or Scandinavian knot patterns tooled into the leather.  She was a... Celtic Dominatrix?

"Mornin', Sunshine," Logan gushed.  "Time for breakfast."

I sat up in bed—the covers fell away, exposing my naked breasts—and I hurriedly clutched and lifted them to my chin (meaning the covers).  "W-what?" I muttered.  I was referring to the situation in general, of course, meaning why Logan wasn't naked, bound, gagged, and net-bound to her bed back in her Arts & Crafts cell, and why it wasn't one of The Sisters inviting me to breakfast.  That was a lot to cram into a single "W-what," but like I said, I was only half-awake.

Logan chuckled, strolled to the bed, jerked the covers from my hands—"Lo-gan!"—and lifted me to my bare feet.  The rest of me was also bare.  She then dragged me to the cell's tiny bathroom.

"Take a leak and splash your face," Logan suggested (ordered), and released my hand.  "No time for a shower."

I stood there blinking and blushing (and naked) for a couple of seconds, then glowered at my sexy-dominatrix bungalow-mate, turned, stomped (padded) into the bathroom, and slid the pocket door closed in her smug face.  I did, indeed, take a leak and splash my face... then stared at my pitiful reflection in the mirror... and sighed.  This was not helping Logan's cause with respect to The Great Rat Debate.  I slid the pocket door open and stepped back into my bedroom/cell.  Logan was still there, hands on hips, smiling, and looking ridiculous (and sexy) in her Celtic Dominatrix outfit.

"Okay," I huffed, "get me some clothes and a hair brush and—Hey!—Hey!  Lo-gan!"  The very nerve!  She'd grabbed me, spun me around, pulled my hands behind my back, and was tying my crossed wrists with the thin black cord formerly neatly coiled and dangling from her belt!  (By the way, I believe that particular style of cord is referred to as "parachute cord" or "paracord.")

Okay, I guess we better address the 800lb gorilla laughing and rolling its eyes in the corner.  I didn't resist?  I practically cooperated?  I let Logan tie me up... again?  Why?

1. I wasn't really anxious and terrified.  I was nervous and scared;
2. When was I gonna get a chance to play games like this again (other than next weekend).
3. Bwack-bwack-bwack-bwack.

I guess the 800lb gorilla was really an 800lb chicken.

Anyway...

"Don't you dare!" I sputtered.  "I'm not going to breakfast naked and tied up!  Lo-gan—Mrrrpfh!"

That's right!  After tying the final knot of my wrist-bonds, she stuffed the ball of the ball-gag into my sputtering mouth!  And now she was buckling its buckle at the nape of my neck, under my badly-in-need-of-brushing blond curls!

"Mrrrpfh!" I complained again as she spun me back around, smiled into my glowering, ball-gagged face, and used the fingers of her left hand to comb my tousled hair from my ball-gagged and outraged face.  Her right hand had a firm but gentle grip on my left upper-arm.

"Don't have kittens, Kitten," Logan purred as she continued combing my hair.  "We're going to breakfast and Gabby is going to explain how things work around here."

"Mrrrrr?" I whined, by which, of course, I meant: "Okay, that's reasonable, but why do I have to be naked, bound, and gagged?"

"Just because," Logan chuckled, "but don't worry, you're not quite ready."  Obviously, she'd understood the gist of what I'd been trying to ask, but was unwilling to provide a truly informative answer.  Then, still holding my left arm, she led me through the cell door and out into the hallway.

I padded and Logan strode (grinning, foxy, and dominatrix-like) down the hallway.  Like it or not, I was on my way to breakfast.

Or not.

We passed several more doors... then Logan paused the parade, opened a door, and led me across the threshold into a bedroom—and it wasn't another Arts & Crafts cell.  It was three or four times the size of the room where I'd spent the night, and was fully furnished.  There was even art hanging on the walls.  There was even a window, with drapes.  It was an actual guest bedroom.  The decor was Arts & Crafts, of course, but it definitely wasn't a cell.

Also, neatly arrayed across the foot of the queen-size bed was a full set of clothing.  Specifically:

1. A pair of periwinkle-blue high-heel pumps;
   
2. A pair of white nylon stockings;
3. A pair of frilly white garters with periwinkle-blue silk rosettes;
4. A pair of what I think were white panties, very skimpy white panties.  Or it may have been a thong.  Whatever the proper designation, it had a pair of tie-strings rather than an elastic waistband;
5. A bustier or bodice that laced up the front and was the same periwinkle-blue as the shoes and garter-rosettes;
   
6. A short, white, linen pinafore dress.

Logan unbuckled my ball-gag, re-bucked it on its first hole, then started untying my wrist-bonds.

"You didn't really think I'd drag you to breakfast completely naked," Logan chuckled, "did you, Kitten?"

I worked the ball-gag ball from my mouth until it dropped down and bounced against my upper chest, just below my chin.  I worked my jaw and licked my lips before answering.  "I wouldn't put it past you," I muttered.

"Oh, Annie," Logan chuckled as coiled my former wrist-bonds and returned the black cord to the clip on her left hip.  "You wound me."

"Don't tempt me," I huffed, rubbing my wrists (even thought they didn't need rubbing).

"Get dressed," Logan suggested (ordered).

I continued rubbing my wrists and gazed down at my supposed ensemble with a dubious pout.  "You didn't tell me it was a costume party," I muttered.

"My bad," Logan chuckled, then picked up the panties/thong and placed it in my hand.  "Need help?" she offered.

My only answer was a withering stare.  It took a little fumbling to put them on, but it turned out the panties were panties.  A gauze-thin, barely adequate triangle covered my pubic triangle, a second gauze-thin triangle inadequately half-covered my butt, and the strings tied over my hips and held everything in place.  The result was undeniably sexy, super kinky, and possibly too risqué for the Victoria's Secret catalog.  I had no choice but to blush.

I sat on the end of the bed and pulled on the stockings and garters.  Now I was even more sexy and kinky.

Next, I donned the dress.  It was off the shoulders with puff sleeves, and the lower hem barely came to my mid thighs and in no way hid the garters. 

I fit the bustier/bodice around my waist and laced it tight, and I had to lace it tight.  It would have looked stupid if it was loose.

Taken as a whole, the outfit was what I believe the Germans, Austrians, and Swiss call a "dirndl"—or maybe a "mini-dirndl"—or maybe grounds for arrest for indecent exposure.  Think Heidi or Maria von Trapp, or maybe the serving wench on the label of St. Pauli Girl lager.  Make that a Heidi, Maria von Trapp, or St. Pauli Girl hooker!  The only thing missing was the traditional apron... that and conformance to any recognized standard of decent public dress.

My shoulders were bare.  My boobs pressed against the thin linen of the dress and were pushed up and semi-supported by the bustier.  I had pokies!  The skirt was too darn short!  (Pardon my French.)  And...

"I look ridiculous!" I whined.

"You look gorgeous!" Logan countered, then led me to a full-length mirror so I could "admire" myself.  And while I glowered at my reflection she lifted a brush from a nearby chest of drawers and began brushing my hair, something that was long overdue.

"Lo-gan," I whined.

Logan didn't answer, but continued smiling as she gently brushed my hair.  Then, she produced a periwinkle-blue ribbon, gathered my hair behind my head, and used the ribbon to tie it together in a loose ponytail.  And then—
 
"Hey!  No!" I complained.   She'd pulled my hands behind my back, and once again was using her black cord to bind my crossed wrists!  "Nooooo!"
 
"Stop squirming," Logan chuckled, "and whining."  She tied her final knot, then peered over my bare shoulder at our reflections in the mirror.
 
The truth finally dawned.  I wasn't "Sexy-Heidi," I was Sweet Gwendoline!  I was John Willie's Sweet Gwendoline!

"Oh no you don't!" I growled, stomping my right foot (which caused my boobs to bounce).  "I am not going to breakfast dressed like—Mrrrf!"  That's right, Logan had reached over my bare shoulders from either side and popped the ball-gag back into my mouth!  "Mrrrrrrfh!"  And now she was buckling the strap tight against the nape of my neck and under my Sweet Gwendoline hair!

"Don't be a spoilsport," Logan purred, once I was gagged.  Our eyes locked in the mirror.  "Gabby will get a real kick out of this."

'Real kick?' I thought.  I'll give you a 'real kick!'  But before I could do so (or stomp on her booted toes with my right heel), she took hold of my left arm and led (dragged) me out the bedroom door.

Rodent status was back on the table for my grinning, gloating, infuriating, Celtic Dominatrix-clad bungalow-mate, but I had no choice but to allow myself to be led.

Breakfast, here we come.

Our destination was the kitchen, and as we approached the door I found myself wondering what costumes Gabby and Kelly would be wearing.  Game of Thrones?  I could see Gabby in a Queen Cersei gown, only without the short hair (unless she had the appropriate wig).  Nah.  Gabby isn't a bat-shit crazy psychopath like Cersei.  And as for Kelly?  Another medieval/fantasy gown?  Nah.  I decided to wait for the surprise (as if I had a choice).

We entered the kitchen, and... Gabby was dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a different blouse from last night.  (How disappointing.)  Kelly was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, Annie!" Gabby gushed, smiling broadly and clasping her hands together in delight.  "You look absolutely—"

"Mrrrf!" I interrupted, stamping my right foot (and causing my boobs to bounce).

"She doesn't like being called 'adorable' all the time," Logan explained, smiling and deploying air-quotes for clarity.  She then strolled to the coffeemaker and poured herself a mug of steaming hot morning elixir.

Smiling from ear to ear, Gabby stepped forward, put her hands on my bare shoulders, and kissed my forehead.  "Oh, Annie," she chuckled.  "I'm afraid you're going to have to learn to live with being called 'adorable,' because you are."

"Hah!" Logan laughed, then took a sip of coffee.

"You too, Red," Gabby purred.

Logan shrugged.  "Well, yeah... but I don't mind."

Gabby rolled her eyes, led me to a breakfast nook with a built-in table, padded benches, and a bay window with a pleasant view of The Mansion's expansive backyard.  Somewhere beyond was the start of the city park, but the lawn was screened by native bushes and a thick grove of mature cedars and seemed to have complete privacy.  Oh-by-the-way, I noted that by the height of the sun and angle of the shadows, unless I was grossly mistaken, it was going on mid-morning.  Apparently, I'd been allowed to sleep in.

Anyway, Gabby "encouraged" me to plop my linen-clad butt on the bench and slide over so she could sit next to me.  She then gave Logan a significant look.

"What?" Logan responded.  She was still smiling and sipping coffee.

"Breakfast," Gabby stated.

Logan's smile broadened.  "No thanks.  I ate when you guys ate, remember?"

Gabby was not amused.

"Okay, okay," Logan chuckled, then set about preparing a breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast... apparently for me.

Meanwhile, Gabby reached behind my head, unbuckled my ball-gag, re-buckled the strap on its first hole, then gently plucked it from my mouth and let the ball drop to my chest in ugly necklace mode.  This was the second time my gag had been removed but held in readiness for rapid restoration, and the day was young.  It was ominous.

"Thank you," I said quietly after working my jaw and licking my lips.

"You're welcome, Annie," Gabby purred.  She picked up a cloth napkin and used it to wipe the gag-induced saliva from my chin and dab the shining drops that had splashed on my chest.  "Coffee?" she offered.

"Yes, please," I responded (and blushed).  What?  She was dabbing my chest, just above my bulging boobs (with pokies).  Of course I blushed.

"Coffee!" Gabby said in a louder voice.

Logan heaved a much put upon sigh.  "Okay, Okay," she muttered, then left the stove-top, poured two mugs of coffee and carried them to the nook, then carefully placed them on the table.  "If the bacon burns, it's your fault," she said with a smile, then returned to her culinary duties.

Gabby ignored the red-haired, leather-clad cook and held one of the mugs to my lips.

There's nothing like that first sip of coffee in the morning... even when you're dressed like Sweet Gwendoline and your hands are tied behind your back.

"While you eat I'll tell you more about how things work around here," Gabby said as she took a second sip.

"Huh?" I said (profoundly).

"I'm sure you're curious about the details of Logan's employment," Gabby purred.

I glanced at my bungalow-mate's back.  She was busy beating a pair of eggs in a small bowl.  (She knows I prefer my eggs scrambled.)  "You mean Red," I whispered.  I've never given Logan a nickname.  "Red" was what Gabby had called her, of course.  I considered it weak, but had decided to give it a test drive while I came up with something better.

Oh-by-the-way, the spaghetti straps of Logan's leather dominatrix-bustier/bra were actually the top ends of a set of crisscross laces that held the thing tight against her upper torso (and lower boobs) but exposed her spine and most of her back.  I just thought I'd mention it.

Anyway, if "Red" heard my use of her new moniker she chose to ignore it.

"Yes, I mean Red," Gabby responded.  "You'll find it illuminating and it'll give you an idea of what to expect today, tonight, and tomorrow."

I nodded gravely and accepted another sip of coffee.  This was... intriguing.  (And not at all sinister and terrifying.)

I'll spare you the blow-by-blow, meaning an actual transcript of what Gabby told me while she fed me my breakfast.

Logan-the-Red just sat there, smiling and drinking coffee.  ("Logan-the-Red?"  Not bad, but I'll keep trying.)

Anyway, while our hostess talked I said "Huh?" and "What?" a lot.  Gabby was very patient.  I'll break things down into interesting factoids.

• It turns out what I've been calling "The Mansion" has been in Gabby and Kelly's family for four generations, was originally built as a private sanitarium/asylum, and the upper structure was leveled and totally rebuilt in the early twentieth century in the Arts & Crafts style.
• Kelly was the older sister (by two years) and had grown up in The Mansion with only her pipsqueak little sister Gabby for company.
• Both sisters married early, Kelly was a widow and had kept her late husband's name (Travers), and Gabby was divorced and had reverted to the family name (Parker).
• Oh-by-the-way... the Sisters' interest in fun-with-rope emerged at a very early age.  They used to take turns tying each other up, and supposedly The Mansion is uniquely suited for this form of recreation.  At the time I had no idea what she meant and I could tell she was being purposefully vague.  Logan was no help.
  

And speaking of Logan...

• Logan is not The Sister's maid.  She'll make coffee and clean up the occasional mess, but housekeeping is not high on her job description.
• Logan is The Sisters' office manager/administrative assistant.  She arranges meetings (usually teleconferences) and helps with the paperwork required to document interactions with their gaggle of business associates and lawyers.  She's sort of their "Girl Friday," and obviously The Sisters hold her in high regard.
  
• Oh-by-the-way, Logan is also their in-house rigger and playmate!

Back to The Sisters...

Gabby and Kelly have this ongoing, uh, "thing" in which they pretend there's only one sister living in The Mansion.  That is, the inner core of their business associates work with both of them, but their peripheral business and social contacts only interact with Gabby or Kelly and don't necessarily know the other sister even exists.  At that point Logan added that one of the most challenging parts of her job was keeping straight which contacts were on Team Gabby which were on Team Kelly.    Just to be clear...

Gabby's list of friends and exclusive business contacts: "Team Gabby."

Kelly's list of friends and exclusive business contacts: "Team Kelly."

Most of their friends and business contacts are on both teams and a few are in on the "joke."

Silly?  Yes.  But it was their mansion, their business, and their joke.  And who was I to judge?  (...other that Sweet Gwendoline with her hands tied behind her back.)

The added significance of this Team nonsense would only become obvious later, once Gabby revealed their other joke, meaning ongoing game, which she did next.

Every Monday morning, as soon as Logan-the-Red reports for work, there's a meeting to work out the "Special Details" of the week's schedule.  A hand-written rule book and a set of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons dice are involved.  Gabby was vague about the details, but when the rolling and rule-consulting is over, when one sister's Team calls, they're allowed direct contact; but when the other sister's Team calls, they're informed that she (Gabby or Kelly) is "unavailable" or "tied up at the moment."  Of course, Logan would relay any urgent business and get back to them as quickly as possible.

And if you haven't figured it out, the "tied up at the moment" part was quite literally true!  Whichever sister won (or lost) the toss would be sequestered in some part of The Mansion and would, indeed, be physically "unavailable."  And they did it all the time!  Not every day of the week, of course, meaning if, for instance, Gabby was the designated damsel, one of the series of rolls of the dice would have specified precisely which day or days of the week she would be "unavailable."

Logan and Gabby were taking turns feeding me my breakfast, giving me time to chew, swallow, and digest both the food and what Gabby was telling me.

"Uh..." I said at one point, "doesn't if cause serious problems when one of you is 'unavailable' on a regular basis?  Doesn't it cause your lawyers and business associates to spin their wheels a lot?"

"Very perceptive," Gabby purred, then leaned forward and kissed my bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee-flavored lips.  "Remember, unless there's a very improbable roll of the dice, it's only one, or at most two days of the week, and very seldom two days in a row."  She shifted her smile to Logan.  "The greatest disruptions come when this one looses the roll."

I blinked and gazed at my bungalow-mate.  "You too?"

Logan grinned and shrugged her spaghetti-strapped shoulders (sly fox that she was).  "Yeah, I'm a player."

I continued blinking and staring.  Logan getting tied up in her work now and then?  Wow!  "And you told me nothing about any of this.  Nothing.  Why?"

Logan shrugged.  "In the first place, I signed a nondisclosure agreement.  In the second place, if I'd told you, you would have run to your room, slammed and barricaded the door, and hidden under your bed."

"I would not!" I responded in outrage.  Actually, I very well might have.  Bwack-bwack-bwack-bwack.  (Big fat chicken, remember?)  I would have come back out... eventually.  I sighed and willed myself to stop blinking (and blushing).  This was a lot to take in.

"I know this is a lot to take in," Gabby said with a warm smile.

See?  I told you!

"So, with that in mind," Gabby continued, "we've prepared a bit of a presentation to make things clearer."

"Presentation?" I demanded.

"Yep," Logan answered, then smiled at her boss.  "Leave all this and I'll clean it up later."  She was referring to the debris of my belated breakfast, of course.

"Don't be silly, Red," Gabby chuckled as she stacked the plates and silverware, stood, and carried everything to the kitchen sink.  "I'll clean up while you get things started."

"Yes, O Mistress of mine," Logan chuckled, then took hold of my arm and "encouraged" me to slide to the end of the bench and stand.

"Lo-gan," I complained.  "Hey!  No!  Mrrrpfh!"  That's right, Logan-the-Red had popped the ball-gag back into my mouth, spun me around, and was buckling the strap at the nape of my neck under my Sweet Gwendoline hair!  "Mrrrrr."  That was a gagged whine.  I also stamped my right foot in protest, again (and my boobs bounced, again).  Why did I have to be bound and gagged for a "presentation?"  It was tragic.

Logan then took hold of my arm, again, and led (dragged) me from the kitchen.

Remember the elevator Gabby, Kelly, Logan (all floppy-fish-bound in that wheelchair), and I rode up to the second floor?  It was our first destination.  The button panel inside the car had three stacked buttons labeled: "B," "1," and "2."  I assumed that meant basement, first and second floors.  Anyway, instead of pushing one of those buttons, Logan inserted a barrel key in a small panel I'd assumed was there for service access, opened the panel, and revealed three more stacked buttons.  They were labelled "S1," "S2," and "S3."  Subbasement levels?  What else could they be?

Logan pressed "S2," the elevator doors closed, and the car descended.  The "B" button blinked and a ding sounded... and we continued descending.  Yep, subbasements!  Darn I have a firm grasp of the obvious.  (Pardon my French.)  Ding!  We'd passed "S1"... and then...  Ding!  We'd arrived at "S2" and the doors were opening.

No more Arts & Crafts.  Beyond the elevator I could see nothing but smooth, poured concrete.  Ceiling, walls, and floor.  Concrete.  One shade of gray.  There was a little mottling and a few very faint "fossils" left by the forms used when the walls were poured, but everything was mostly smooth, gray, sealed concrete.  And I say "mostly" because there were a handful of steel doors in sight, all set in steel door-frames and all painted gray.

"S2" was a subterranean concrete complex!

Logan dragged me from the elevator.  Okay, she didn't "drag" me, per se.  She still had a gentle grip on my left arm and she led me across the threshold.  The elevator doors closed behind us.  The interior of the car had been wood-paneled and fully compatible with the Arts & Crafts decor of The Mansion's upper stories, but the S2 exterior elevator doors were not.  They were painted...  Can you guess?  ...gray, like all the other steel doors in sight.  Also, the push-button on the wall that had to be pressed to summon the elevator wasn't a push-button.  It was a steel disc with a barrel-key-type keyhole in the center.  There would be no casual summoning of a ride back to the surface.

By the way, the area directly in front of the elevator was lit by an industrial-grade fixture set in the ceiling and covered my a grid of heavy steel wire.  Similar fixtures were up and down the concrete corridors, but they were all dark.  It was... eerie... which was probably the point.

"C'mon," Logan purred.  "Let's go find Kelly.  I think I remember where I put her."

"Mrrrf?"  That was my ball-gag-garbled response, which, if not for the ball-gag would have been: "Kelly?"

Logan didn't respond, other than to lead me down the left corridor.

As we left the immediate area of the elevator another overhead lighting fixture winked on and the one behind us winked off.  I think the fixtures were LED.  In any case, they weren't fluorescent tubes that blink and hum when they turn on.  The fixtures shed a bright, blue-white light and did nothing to warm the spartan, institutional ambiance of S2.

Step followed echoing step and we passed door after door, all gray steel, all studded with bolt heads, all secured with hefty steel bolts with deadbolt locks with barrel-key keyholes, and all equipped with eye-level view-ports with hinged covers.  Overhead fixtures winked on and off as the journey continued.  We turned a corner... passed more doors... more lights winked on and off... and I started getting goosebumps.  The air was cool, bordering on cold.  And it's not like I was nervous or anything.  It was the air temperature.  That's why my bare skin was tingling.

S2 was a frakkin' maze.  (Pardon my French.)  I think if Logan released my arm so I could make a run for it, I might have been able to find my way back to the elevator, but I didn't have the required barrel-key, so what was the point?

Finally, we arrived at a door identical (as far as I could tell) to all the other doors we'd passed.  Logan opened the view port, revealing a round peephole, then gazed through the fish-eye-lens.  Her lips curled into a truly sinister, even evil smile, which did nothing to ameliorate my goosebumps problem.

"You're gonna love this," Logan purred, then produced a key-ring, inserted a barrel-key in the door's deadbolt lock, gave it a twist, threw the bolt, opened the door, then led me across the threshold.

I took a look around—"MRRRRRF!"—and expressed a somewhat surprised and/or alarmed reaction to what I found.

Logan hadn't misplaced Kelly.  Kelly was here.

"Here" was a concrete cell, about 10 or 15 feet on a side and with a high ceiling.  To the right was a big-screen television mounted on a wheeled stand, plugged into the wall by both a power cord and a coaxial cable.  Mounted atop the TV was a small video camera.  And on the left side of the cell...

"MRRRF?"

Kelly was on the left side.  She was naked and up on her toes with her arms raised over her head!  Several tiny spotlights set in the ceiling were focused on her body.  Also...

1. Kelly's ankles were buckled in wide, padded, black leather cuffs (with chrome hardware) separated by a horizontal, gunmetal-gray steel bar about a foot in length;
2. Her wrists and hands were buckled in black leather suspension-cuffs (with chrome hardware) attached to a horizontal, gunmetal-gray steel bar, also about a foot in length, and attached to a vertical steel chain;
3. She was gagged with a black leather panel-gag (with chrome hardware) that covered her lower face and cupped her chin;
4. The vertical chain attached to the 12" spreader-bar attached to Kelly's suspension-cuffs ran up to a pulley set in the ceiling, across the ceiling to a second pulley, then down the far wall to a hand-cranked winch.

That's right!  Kelly was a naked prisoner teetering on her toes in a full arms-over-head stretch!

Her gleaming brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail!  Kelly's leg muscles were tense, her tummy taut, and her breasts semi-flattened by her AOH pose!  And I say "semi-flattened" only because of the natural volume of Kelly's boobs.  Even with her arms over her head they had a pleasing shape and her nipples were erect.  Also, Kelly's skin glistened with sweat.  It might have been frigid out in the corridors, but the air in Kelly's cell was anything but frigid.  Oh-by-the-way, Kelly had string-bikini-type tan lines!  Most of her skin had a healthy tan, but triangular patches over her boobs and pubic area were pale-pink.  Her neatly trimmed triangular brown pubic bush was curly and lush.

And speaking of Kelly's black leather suspension-cuffs (with chrome hardware), the wide wrist-cuffs secured with two straps and buckles each, leather panels ran up the backs of her hands, and her fingers and thumbs gripped thick rubber cylinders with leather straps that buckled across the backs of her hands.  That meant the force of gravity was distributed evenly across her wrists and hands, or so I assumed.  Also, the tongue of each and every buckle was secured by a tiny steel padlock, three for each suspension cuff and one for each ankle cuff.  That was a total of eight cute little padlocks!

Kelly was obviously in pain from her stretched joints and cramping toes and was begging for mercy with her tearful blue eyes, right?

Actually, not so much.

"Mrrr."  That was Kelly, not me.  She was staring at Logan with a gagged expression that was difficult to read but was definitely not begging.

"Oh, poor Mistress," Logan chuckled, then closed the cell door behind us, strolled forward until she was standing close to Kelly on the opposite side from myself, then reached out and placed her right hand on Kelly's left butt-cheek and her left hand over Kelly's bellybutton.  "Poor Mistress," she reiterated.

"Mrrrf!" Kelly huffed.  I think she was trying to say "I got your 'poor Mistress' right here!" or words to that effect.

Logan's hands had begun moving, giving Kelly a slow, gentle massage.  Kelly rolled her eyes (shivered) and glowered at her smiling masseuse.

Logan nodded at Kelly's panel-gag.  "That thing is custom made," she announced.  "The mouth-plug is a double bite-protector of silicon rubber.  It's very effective, but you know what makes it even more effective?"

Obviously, she was asking me, but as I was ball-gagged the question was rhetorical.  I glanced back over my bare shoulder at the closed door.

"Don't even think about it, Kitten," Logan purred.  "We went to a lot of trouble to stage this presentation, and if you make me waste time by chasing you around the lower levels, I'll get very cranky."

I twisted my bound wrists and tried to act casual.  Wouldn't want to make Logan cranky.

"Now, back to the topic at hand," my Celtic Dominatrix/bungalow-mate said.  "You know what would make Kelly's gobstopper even more effective?"

I blinked and shook my head.  I didn't know.  More gag?

Logan strolled to the big-screen TV's rolling frame.  There was a cabinet built into the base and she opened its door and pulled out a... collar?  It was thick and wide, like a hefty choker, and appeared to be made of burnished stainless steel.  The edges were smooth and rounded, and from the way she was carrying the thing, it didn't seem to be all that heavy.  I watched as Logan carried the oval band to Kelly, opened it on a flush-mounted hinge, then closed it around Kelly's neck.  She then reached into the holster-thingie strapped to her right thigh, pulled out a long, narrow remote control, and pressed one of its buttons.  I heard a quiet click and Kelly winced.

"Lock engaged," Kelly announced, then waved the remote for my benefit.  "It takes a coded sequence to unlock the collar."  Then, she returned the remote to her thigh-holster, strolled to my side, took hold of my arm, again, and led me closer to Kelly's stretched, naked, bound, and gagged form.  "Pretty, isn't it?" she said, indicating Kelly's new steel accessory.  "There's a row of rechargeable batteries built into the thing, a tiny microphone, and the throat-region is lined with copper contacts.  That's right," she said with an evil grin.  "It's an obedience collar."

I blinked in horrified understanding.  "Mrrrk?"

"Yes," Logan purred.  "An obedience collar.  If Kelly even tries to speak, she gets a shock.  But don't worry, it's more irritating than painful.  The zap does sting, but mainly it tickles your throat in a most unpleasant manner.  Inevitably, the wearer of such a collar decides it's better to keep anything she might wish to share with the class to herself.  Used in concert with a nice gag, the result easily passes for golden silence."

Kelly and I locked eyes.  We couldn't say anything (especially, apparently, Kelly), but we shared the kind of silent, mutual commiseration that only a pair of helpless damsels in a subterranean concrete dungeon being teased and gloated over by a sexy, irritating Celtic Dominatrix can share.

Logan gave me a hug from the side.  "Look, Kelly," she gushed, indicating myself with a sweeping gesture.  "Isn't 'Sweet Gwendoline' simply adorable?"

Kelly rolled her pretty blue eyes, I turned my head and glowered at my bungalow-mate, and Logan smiled back with her most despicable and impishly beautiful smile.

Suddenly, the television screen began to glow.  Logan spun the two of us around until we could all see the screen, and on said screen we beheld... Gabby.

The Junior Sister was still dressed in the same blouse as before, but as she was seated behind a desk I couldn't confirm she was still wearing the same jeans.

"Good," Gabby said via the TV's stereo speakers, "you seem to be ready."

Logan took this as her cue.  "We are, Mistress."

Gabby smiled.  "Then let's proceed with my part of the presentation."

I blinked and turned my head from Gabby to Kelly and back, then listened attentively.  Obviously they'd gone to a lot of trouble setting all of this up, so it would be impolite of me to spoil things by weeping, whimpering, pitching a tizzy-fit, or otherwise freaking out.