|by Van ©2019|
| Chapter 10
|OUR STORY CONCLUDES
Have you ever seen an Olsen & Johnson movie? They're comedies, and the comedy in question is... broad. Slapstick. Tomfoolery. Blatant folderol.
I've never been a big fan of folderol.
Anyway, when last we left our heroine (Annie the Kitten), she was locked in a concrete cell deeeeep under the earth—naked—elaborately and artistically box-tied with cadet-blue nylon rope from shoulders to crotch (with pussy knots)—a ball-gag with a baby-blue mouth-plug of silicon rubber and a black-leather strap (with chrome hardware) plugging her mouth and its buckle locked with a cute little heart-shaped padlock—a wide, taut strip of Elastoplast tape covering her mouth, the ball-gag, and most of her lower face—and she was further discouraged from vocalizing by the stainless steel obedience-collar locked around her neck and ready to egregiously tickle her throat if she so much as tried to mewl through said ball-gag and tape!
Gabby Parker (little sister of Kelly Travis) was also present. Arguably, she was in no way naked, as she was zipped and buckled inside a skin-tight body-sheath of black leather (with chrome hardware) that included a leather hood and rubber and glass gas-mask (with gag and earphones)! Not so much as a sliver of her tan, toned skin was showing. However—and I consider this very important—she was naked inside the sheath.
Gabby and her sheath were suspended head up and feet down by vertical, diagonal, and horizontal steel chains. Further, Gabby was being punished (now and then) by electrified pads at strategic but unspecified locations inside the sheath, electrified cylindrical objects lodged inside her pussy and anus (which were also vibratory), electrified nipple-clamps and copper breast petals, and pneumatic nipple-sucking tubes! (And everybody knows pneumatic nipple-sucking tubes are the worst kind of nipple-sucking tubes!)
All of these punishing devices were controlled by a computer program running on a PC inside a locked steel locker, and the program was synchronized to a remastered digital recording of the 1944 "classic" Ghost Catchers. Kelly (the authoress of Gabby's predicament) had stated that the zapping/sucking/vibrating elements were coordinated with the plot of the movie, specifically, the musical numbers, dance numbers, and "scary parts," and Gabby was giving the distinct impression that her big sister had told the truth. She squirmed and wiggled inside her sheath (to the extent the spring-loaded suspending chains would allow) whenever there was onscreen singing, dancing, or sinister lurking.
Unfortunately, our cell wasn't equipped with external speakers, so only Gabby could hear the soundtrack (having been thoughtfully outfitted with stereo-headphones by her big sister). This severely limited my enjoyment of the movie. Either that or the lack of music, dialogue, and sound effects was a godsend, what with all the folderol. Anyway, whenever there was onscreen jitterbugging or the singer-lady started bobbing her padded shoulders and doing 1940's-style syncopated crooning, Gabby squirmed and wiggled, and I seriously doubt she was trying to dance or sing along.
I suppose I ought to provide an update on my emotional state. Was I frightened, terrified, and/or scared to within an inch of my naked, double-gagged, obedience-collared, and elaborately box-tied life? Well... yeah... I suppose. My heart was hammering and my naked boobies heaved as my nostrils flared and I desperately panted for air, however...
Kelly had promised that while today was Mean Demonstration Day, by mean she didn't really mean mean, if you know what I mean. That meant that while she was showing me things The Sisters and Red had decided were beyond my personal level of experience, there would be no harm done to anyone. So... while Gabby was being zapped and/or nipple-sucked and/or vibrated inside her skintight, black leather sheath (with chrome hardware), and that was, without a doubt, mean... was it mean? Was it erotic torture, or was it just Gabby's big sister being a prize bitch? (Pardon my French.) How zappy was the zapping, how sucky the sucking, and how vibratory the vibrating? That was what mattered.
I guess I'd have to wait for Kelly to release her little sister from her black leather sheath (with chrome hardware) and see what happened. If the synchronized zapping/sucking/vibrating was only mean, Gabby would say so during the inevitable debriefing. But if it was mean, Gabby would immediately jump her big sister and kick the crap out of her. Either way, I'd have more data with which to calibrate The Sisters' (and Red's) meanness scale.
As for rendering a person totally helpless and making them watch an Olsen & Johnson movie... that was. Just. Plain. MEAN!
Anyway, a half-hour into the movie—which, by the way, began with a scary sequence that transitioned into an extended musical number that was also a damsel-in-distress scene—the cell door opened and Kelly appeared, by which I mean she re-appeared.
Kelly strolled to my side, still wearing the same jeans, tank-top, and warm (evil) smile. The blue gym bag, the source of the cadet-blue ropes currently box-tying my naked body, was still slung across her body by its strap of nylon webbing (with shoulder pad). She leaned down and took a firm handhold on my box-tie-bonds (between my boobs) and helped me scramble to my bare feet.
"Let's leave Gabby to enjoy the movie in peace, shall we?" Kelly purred, then led me towards the cell door.
Shall we? Sure. Why not? Who was I to say we shant?
Kelly maintained her grip on my ropes and took the long way to the cell door, meaning she led (dragged) me between various chains suspending her little sister and we crossed in front of the screen. That meant Gabby was fully aware that we were making our exit and leaving her alone to be relentlessly and/or ruthlesssly "entertained" by Olsen & Johnson! Alone! Tightly encased in black leather (with chrome hardware)! Suspended in taut chains! And being periodically and/or diabolically zapped, sucked, and vibrated!
O the horror! O the meanness!
We exited the cell... there was a pause while Kelly pulled out her trusty barrel-key and locked the door... then we continued down the corridor to... somewhere.
We passed a few gray steel doors, did a right turn, passed a few more gray steel doors, then arrived at a gray steel door like all the other gray steel doors.
Seriously, label the stupid doors! Even a simple number would be better than nothing. Level and room number. "S3-24." Would that be so hard? As a municipal bureaucrat and what Logan dismissively labels as a "pathetically tidy person," I was offended! Just use the numbers on the building's blueprints! There had to be blueprints, right? The city requires builders to register full sets of blueprints, right? Darn right! I made a mental note to broach the subject as soon as the Mean Day festivities were over. Labeling things is important! It's one of the hallmarks of civilization!
Anyway, Kelly used her barrel-key to unlock the unlabeled gray steel door, pocketed the key, opened the door, and motioned for me to precede her into the dark space beyond. The corridor hadn't been all that brightly lit to begin with, as it had been doing that spooky and mildly disorienting on-and-off thing as we passed under the various fixtures, but the cell we were entering was pitch black. Then, Kelly clicked a switch, the overhead lights winked on, and—"Mkk!"—I got a good look at what was waiting inside (and managed to momentarily forget about my collar and tickle the fool out of my throat in the process)!
In retrospect, I have to admit that Kelly had demonstrated a real flare for the melodramatic.
Logan was in the center of the cell. She was naked (like when I last saw her), but now she was bound with neat bands of conditioned hemp rope at her wrists, just above her elbows, just above her knees, and around her ankles. In addition, a simple but elegant rope harness yoked her shoulders and looped around her torso above, below, and between her boobs.
Also, Logan's obedience collar had been joined by a ball-gag and tape-gag, identical in form and function to my own gag ensemble.
And oh by the way—while we're on the subject—and just because I thought I'd mention it—Logan was bound in the strappado position! Strappado! She was bent forward at the waist with her bound arms raised behind her back! And by "raised" I mean (and it was definitely mean) they were raised what I believed was as far as they could be raised without dislocating her shoulders! And she was held that way by taut ropes linking her wrist, elbow, and torso-harness bonds to a 6" steel ring attached to a vertical steel chain that disappeared into a steel-lined hole in the ceiling! Logan wasn't quite up on her toes, but it looked like her heels were barely touching the floor and she was supporting her weight on her toes and the balls of her feet!
And oh by the way—while we're on the subject—and just because I thought I'd mention it—spring-loaded "clover-clamps" pinched Logan's nipples, her big toes were lashed together with braided nylon cord, and a taut nylon cord linked the light chain connecting the nipple-clamps to her toes! And by taut I mean taut as a fiddle-string!
The strappado ropes and nipple-clamps-to-big-toes cords conspired to keep her completely immobile! Was it a predicament? HELL YES it was a predicament! (And to hell with my French!)
I blinked and stared at my naked, predicament-bound, double-gagged, obedience-collared, and nipples-to-toes-tied bungalow-mate in abject horror! Horror, I tell you!
Logan was sweating. The air in the cell was a tad toasty, compared to the cool corridor, but I think the sweat beading on her forehead and dripping down her tense, pinioned body was the result of her predicament.
I turned to stare (meaning blink) at Kelly... turned back to Logan... then to Kelly, again. I very much wanted to mewl through my double-gag and beg for my suffering BFF's immediate release, but that was being vetoed by the obedience collar.
Kelly might be a Mean Mistress, but she could tell I was upset. (No, ya think?) She stepped forward, put an arm around my waist, and kissed my neck.
"Don't have kittens, Kitten," Kelly purred, and kissed my neck, again.
I shook my head, both to discourage any more neck-kissing and to communicate my displeasure at the way my bungalow-mate was being treated. My blinking eyes remained focused on Logan's helpless body. Her nipples were stretched by the clamps and cords, but I think her breasts were also being stretched, just a little. The strappado pose alone was causing them to hang, of course, but I think they were also stretched. I watched a bead of sweat drip down Logan's chest and between the breasts in question.
"It's not as painful as it looks, Kitten," Kelly whispered in my ear, "not if she stands perfectly still."
Perfectly still? How could she not stand perfectly still? I blinked and stared, tried not to quake in terror, and ignored the thrill quivering through my crotch-rope (with pussy-knots) cleaved lady-bits.
Don't look at me that way! Of course Logan was in distress, but I was coming to realize she didn't appear to be in actual pain... not if she stood perfectly still. Did I want Kelly to release Logan from her strappado-and-nipple-to-toes torment? Yes! But was her predicament... interesting? Well... yes. Objectively. Intellectually. I'm ashamed to admit it, but... yes. I shivered in Kelly's sideways embrace, and didn't resist when she kissed my neck, again.
Kelly led me to the cell wall in front of Logan and pointed at the floor. "Sit," she ordered.
I awkwardly settled to the floor, my gaze still on Logan.
Meanwhile, Kelly had un-slung the blue gym-bag and placed it on the floor next to me, knelt, and unzipped its main zipper.
I watched (splitting my attention between Logan and Kelly) as Kelly pulled out yet another coil of cadet-blue nylon rope, and prepared it for use.
When the proverbial dust settled, I was sitting in a semi-lotus with each of my thighs lashed to its respective lower leg, my ankles crossed and bound, and neatly wrapped multiple strands of rope linking my ankle-bonds to the box-tie-bonds between my breasts. This caused me to lean forward in a mild crunch and my boobs to hang (a little). I believe the position is called a "shrimp-tie." It was mean, but nothing like the meanness of poor Logan's strappado and nipple-clamps-to-toes predicament.
Still kneeling on the floor, Kelly zipped the gym-bag closed and tossed it against the wall, several feet away from my shrimp-tied body.
"If you had the experience of our Red," Kelly said, nodding back over her shoulder at Logan, "I'd put clover-clamps here..." She gave my right nipple a teasing pinch. "And here." She pinched my left nipple. "Then I use the same kind of cord 'entertaining' Logan to tie your right toe to the left clamp... and left toe to the right clamp. She gave my big toes a teasing pinch as well. "I think it's available in cadet-blue."
See? I told you the color of my nylon rope bonds is "cadet-blue!"
I shivered in my bonds and blinked. I imagined being bound in a shrimp-tie (which didn't require any imagination whatsoever) with taut nylon cords and clover-clamps reinforcing my ankles-to-box-tie-bonds ropes. Given any say in the matter, I decided I'd just as soon pass.
"I won't do that, of course," Kelly purred, then leaned forward, kissed my forehead, and stood. "Now... you girls wait here while I take care of a few things." She strolled to Logan, smiled, and gave the taut cord linking my BFF's nipple-clamps to her big toes a flick with her thumb and middle finger. The cord vibrated for a second or two and Logan flinched in reaction.
"And as for you, young lady," Kelly continued. (Clearly, he was addressing Logan.) "Stop hamming it up. You're frightening the Kitten."
I blinked in confusion, distress, and various other rampant emotions. Huh? Hamming it up? What did that mean?
All this time Logan had been standing perfectly still and grimacing behind her gag(s). What choice did she have? However, I noted that she'd just stopped grimacing, rolled her eyes, and then winked at me! Then, she was back to grimacing, again.
Huh? Logan had to be in agony (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), and now she was winking at me? Logan, you foxy trickster! Your predicament isn't agonizing at all, is it? It's only... cruel, spiteful, and mean (but, apparently, not mean).
Meanwhile, Kelly had strolled to the cell door, turned and waved, then pulled the steel portal closed—Thud!—and turned the lock—Click!
I looked at Logan. Logan looked at me. I was beginning to think her double-gagged "grimace" was actually a double-gagged smile.
So... we were alone... together.
Logan continued sweating... and I decided I might join her. It was warm in that cell. Logan's boobs continued hanging and being stretched (a little), and she continued being strappado-bound. I continued being shrimp-tied. And we'd both remain in our respective predicaments until Kelly returned to release us.
Woe was I. And as for Logan...
Serves her right, the foxy trickster.
Kelly abandoned us to languish in our inescapable bonds in our inescapable cell for an excessively long inescapable interval... something like... half an hour!
I stared at my suffering bungalow-mate in abject horror and empathy. (My rope-cleaved pussy was especially empathetic.) Seriously, what Kelly had done to Logan was not nice!
And then, it occurred to me that I'd watched Logan leave the kitchen hand-in-hand with Gabby, before Kelly placed me in my cadet-blue-box-tie state. So maybe it was Gabby who'd strappadoed and nipple-clamp-toe-tied my BFF! But did that mean Logan had been in her current mean predicament since before I watched Kelly zip and strap Gabby into her current leather sheath (with chrome hardware) back in the other cell and abandon her to be tortured by Olsen & Johnson?
Wow! All that time? What did it mean? Did Logan have a previously unsuspected vast reservoir of inner strength that made it possible for her to stoically endure the agonizing torment of torturous predicaments with only the occasional squirm and double-gagged wince?
Get serious! It meant Logan's Exquisite Torture wasn't torture at all! It meant she was only pretending to be tortured by having her nipples stretched and her arms strappado-bound in the limit.
No, that couldn't be right. There's no such thing as pretend nipple-clamps, and the nylon cord connecting her toes and the clamps' chain was taut, really taut.
I was confused... and a little turned on... just a tad. I had to admit it. If Logan wasn't in actual agony, then her strappado-nipple-clamp-toe-tied predicament wasn't horrifying, it was... entertaining? I mean, was she in pain? Yes. Maybe. Were her nipples clamped and stretched? Yes. Was she in agony? No.
This advanced meanness stuff was more complicated than I'd thought—not that I'd ever given advanced meanness stuff much thought to begin with. Daydreaming about melodramatic damsel-in-distress scenarios? Yes. The physical/emotional dynamics of advanced meanness? No.
Anyway, all this was whirling in my fevered brain when I realized I'd just heard the sound of the cell door being unlocked. Click!
The steel portal opened and Kelly entered the cell, still wearing her jeans and tank-top. And she was hand-in-hand with her kid sister, Gabby, and Gabby was naked! I wondered if the junior sister had been allowed to finish her movie. But then, she'd probably seen Ghost Catchers before and wasn't all that keen to be zapped and/or nipple-sucked and/or vibrated all the way through the end credits. Anyway, here they were, both sisters!
Working in concert, Kelly and Gabby made short work of Logan's bonds. That is, they untied her, completely, then released her nipple-clamps. What with me being shrimp-tied on the floor and the two sisters moving around and repeatedly blocking my field of vision, I can't be sure, but I think Logan flinched when the nipple-clamps were removed. Or maybe she shuffled and wiggled with glee. She had to be glad the things were gone, right?
Anyway, Kelly pulled the remote from her jeans pocket and used it to unlock and remove Logan's obedience collar, then used the cute little heart-shaped key on its cute little chain dangling around her neck to unlock and removed the cute little heart-shaped padlock securing the buckle of Logan's ball-gag. However, neither Kelly nor Gabby peeled back the Elastoplast strip sealing Logan's ball-gagged mouth, nor did they unbuckle the ball-gag itself.
The Sisters hugged, kissed, and exchanged whispered comments with my bungalow-mate (one sided comments, as Logan was still gagged). Then, Kelly lifted the chain with the cute little heart-shaped key over her head and dropped it over Logan's head. Next, she pointed the remote in my direction, smiled, and entered a code.
Finally, The Sisters waved in my shrimp-tied direction and made their exit.
Did I mention Gabby was naked? She has a nice butt. Firm. Obviously firm.
Anyway, The Sisters were gone, the cell door was ajar, and Logan was untied and uncollared but still double-gagged. I blinked and watched as she peeled the Elastoplast from her face, unbuckled and removed her pastel-green ball gag—Pop!—worked her jaw and licked her lips, smiled, and padded in my direction.
It was a short trip.
She knelt and un-shrimp-tied me, by which I mean she untied the ropes enforcing my forward-leaning crunch, lashing my crossed ankles, and the frog-tie ropes binding my lower legs to their respective thighs. She then helped me to my feet. Next, she opened the obedience collar and tossed it on top of the blue nylon gym-bag. (Obviously, Kelly had unlocked the thing with the remote.) Then, she unlocked the cute little heart-shaped padlock securing my ball-gag's buckle and also tossed it and the key and chain on top of the gym-bag.
So, there I was, naked, elaborately box-tied (with cadet-blue nylon rope), no longer obedience-collared, double-gagged, but with my legs completely free. I was also staring at Logan's nipples. They were a little red, with, shall we say, "clamp-marks," but otherwise none the worse for wear. "Mrrrk?" I politely inquired.
"The girls are just fine," Logan chuckled, then pulled me into a warm hug.
This squashed my rope-framed boobs and never-been-clamped nipples against her boobs and no-longer-clamped nipples—and triggered a distressed reaction in my rope-cleaved pussy. Yes, "distressed." Let's go with "distressed."
"One thing you should know about most nipple-clamps is they hurt going on," Logan explained, "but you get used to them... unless some smiling sadist has lashed them to your big-toes." She planted a kiss on my double-gagged mouth, between my lips and smack on top of the Elastoplast covering the baby-blue ball of my ball-gag. "But they hurt worse coming off than going on. A lot worse."
I blinked in distress. They do?
"Don't worry," Logan purred. "You'll find out what I mean soon enough."
My eyes popped wide. Huh? Soon? Dear Lord I hoped not! My nipples tingled in total agreement.
"C'mon," Logan chuckled, kissed me on my double-gag again, then draped an arm across my cadet-blue-nylon-rope-yoked shoulders and led me from the cell.
It was a short, uneventful trip: S3 level to the elevator—the elevator to The Mansion's ground floor—then through the ground floor to the Natatorium/Greenhouse. Logan was naked, I was naked, Logan was neither bound nor gagged, and I was box-tied and double gagged. Another "normal" Sunday. (Meaning "normal" ever since the world had turned itself upside down, that is). Logan smiled and even hummed to herself at one point. I managed to keep my hysterical protests and outraged inquiries to myself. The ball-gag and Elastoplast tape strip helped.
Soon, we were "settled" in the hot tub, intimately side-by-side, and enjoying the hot, bubbling water.
"Mrrrmpfh?" I inquired after about a minute.
"Yes, it is nice," Logan responded. She was smiling and her eyes were closed. Also, her left arm was across my cadet-blue nylon rope-yoked shoulders and her right hand was resting on my right thigh. For once, she'd failed to properly interpret my gagged vocalization.
"Mrrrmpfh!" I reiterated, wiggling my wet, box-tied torso for added emphasis.
Still smiling, Logan peeled off my tape-gag... then unbuckled my ball-gag and plucked it from my mouth.
I worked my jaw and licked my lips, preparatory to delivering a scathing rebuke to my BFF that would label her a Foxy Trickster for life! Mustering the required Righteous Outrage, I opened my mouth to commence the preamble of my epic tirade—"Mrrrf?"—and was silenced by a hand-gag.
"Hold that thought," Logan chuckled, then nodded to our left.
Emerging from the open doorway that led back into the main mansion was Gabby Parker. She was carrying a tray with a pair of ice-filled tumblers (with fruit garnish) and an insulated carafe. She gracefully stooped and set it on the Mexican tiles, close to Logan, then padded back the way she'd come.
Oh-by-the-way, Kelly's little sister had been wearing what any reasonable person would call a "Princess Leia as Jabba's Prisoner" (aka "Slave Leia") costume; however, it wasn't authentic, meaning it almost certainly hadn't been licensed by either Lucasfilm® or Disney®.
There was the required metal bra, bikini-bottom (with long purple loincloth), decorative bracer, and hair-clip-thingie, all in bronze and Art Nouveau in style; however, there were no boots (Gabby's feet were bare), there were two bracers (one on each wrist/lower forearm), and they were functional shackles as well as being decorative!
In fact, Gabby was wearing a full set of "slave chains" (aka "serving chains"): collar, wrist-cuffs, and ankle-cuffs, all connected, and all bronze/Art Nouveau/functional!
Also, she was wearing (was silenced by) a bronze/Art Nouveau ball-gag, with a silicon-rubber gobstopper the same color as her loincloth.
Also, the loincloth in question was exceedingly gauzy and thin, meaning practically transparent, and did nothing to conceal that fact that her bronze/Art Nouveau bikini-bottom was actually a bronze/Art Nouveau chastity belt! That's right, the thing had a crotch-cleaving panel! And it had a quite obvious lock in the front!
(Come to think of it, Lucasfilm® might have approved. George Lucas did come up with the original design, after all, and "Kinky Pleasure-Slave Leia" was a logical extension of the concept.)
Anyway, I had time to take in the details of Gabby's costume before and after she delivered the tray and padded away. Her hips swayed, as did the single braid of her bronze-clipped hair. Needless to say, I was speechless. Logan was not.
"Thank you, Gabby!" my bungalow-mate called after her disappearing form.
Belatedly, I cleared my throat—"U'hurm!"—and called after her. "Thank you!" Unfortunately, my effort to be polite came out as something of a whining squeak.
Logan chuckled, then poured the contents of the carafe into the two tumblers.
I watched as she took a sip from one, smiled, then held the second to my lips. I took a sip and discovered it was some sort of rum concoction, and being post-gag-thirsty, it really hit the spot!
"You're welcome," Logan purred.
"Shut up!" I growled, then took another sip (this time a deep one). "Also..." I wiggled my box-tied upper body for emphasis. "Untie me!"
Logan chuckled and sipped her drink. "Later."
I decided not to protest further. I did, of course, transform myself into a Grumpy Gus by frowning and glowering while graciously accepting sips of the delicious, potent rum concoction whenever my tumbler was held to my pouting lips.
We continued simmering in the hot, churning water.
Hot jets pummeled (massaged) my naked body.
And then, something occurred to me that broke my Grumpy Gus concentration.
"Why Princess Leia?" I inquired.
"Who doesn't like Star Wars?" Logan responded.
"No," I objected, squirming in my bonds and the hot water (and against Logan's left hip). "Why did Gabby change into a Princess Leia costume?"
Logan leaned close and whispered in my ear. "Isn't it obvious?"
"No," I whined.
"She's trying to seduce you, silly."
Huh? I blinked in... confusion?
"They're both trying to seduce you," Logan continued. "Both sisters." She kissed my neck. "You've made quite an impression, Kitten."
I continued blinking. "I have?" I whispered under my breath.
Logan chuckled and kissed my lips.
Seriously, I made an impression? I was the one who was impressed.
"Now," Logan said, squirming her butt on the bench and settling back against the hot tub wall. "This evening, Kelly and Gabby wanted to play dress up by putting you in a pretty gown, then we'd all go out to a fancy restaurant, but I talked them into ordering in pizza, instead."
"What?" I demanded. "I don't want to go out to a fancy restaurant!"
"Pay attention, Kitten," Logan chuckled. "I talked them out of dragging you to a fancy restaurant in a fancy gown. Pizza and beer. Or would you prefer Thai food?"
"Pizza," I muttered. Logan knows me too well... and better all the time.
"Now, enjoy it while you can, sweetie," Logan continued, "because Kelly and Gabby will be out of town for a few weeks and we can't do this again for at least a month, but as I know they'll tell you before we schlep home, we will be invited back to continue your education. Doesn't that sound like fun?"
"Huh? No! I mean... yes. I mean... education?"
"Education," Logan confirmed, then kissed my lips, again. "And seduction."
Seduction. I suppose I could live with being seduced. Wow, a couple of super-rich, super-hot older women want to seduce me... were seducing me. This was turning into a really interesting, uh, game... hobby... pastime. (My submerged, comfortably over-heated pussy agreed.)
When the sun set The Sisters did, indeed, order pizza. (They already had beer.) We ate and chatted and had a good time, Kelly and Gabby loaned us some clothes so we could sneak back to the bungalow without fear of being arrested for public indecency, we went to bed, and the next day went to our respective work.
I suppose this was either the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end of my introduction to The Sisters, The Mansion, and... The Game. And I suppose I could ramble on and on and bore you to tears describing all the horrible/wonderful things that happened to Kelly, Gabby, Logan, and/or myself during all my subsequent visits to The Mansion (and its sub-levels), but I won't. Instead, I'll skip forward to The Big Finish.
Six Months Later
"Orangery" you ask? I'd noticed a miniature orange tree growing in the Greenhouse portion of the Natatorium/Greenhouse during a previous visit, so I renamed the place. "Orangery" is much classier than "Greenhouse." The Mansion would have an Orangery.
It was a lazy Saturday morning at The Mansion. The Sisters had invited us over for breakfast & bondage.
Breakfast was over. It had been coffee, fresh fruit, and what I believe is referred to as a "frittata," and was truly yummy, which came as no surprise. I've never eaten a meal at The Mansion that wasn't yummy.
Anyway, we'd adjourned to the Natatorium/Orangery for a relaxing group swim (after the required half-hour wait to preclude the post-meal stomach cramps that so terrify mothers everywhere). We didn't bother with swimsuits, not even string bikinis. At this point we were all well past any body shyness issues (meaning I was past my body shyness issues) and had removed our jeans, tanks-tops, t-shirts, panties, and bras, and were lounging around au natural... like naked tarts in some Late 19th Century, Romantic oil painting. Maidens in the Orangery, by John Williams Waterhouse. The only things missing were bowls of fruit, goblets of wine, and a Nubian slave-girl strumming a harp.
And then, Gabby produced a green gym-bag, tossed it at my feet, and pointed at Logan. "Something mean," she suggested (ordered).
"Huh?" I responded.
Logan decided to ham it up (as usual). Grinning like a fool, she struck a dramatic pose and placed the back of her right hand on her forehead. "Woe is me! An innocent young maiden, naked and helpless, with no handsome prince or knight errant eager to protect my virtue. O the horror!"
The Sisters and I rolled our eyes. I then rolled up my nonexistent sleeves, unzipped the gym-bag, and pulled out a coil of nylon rope. The rope's woven sheath was a pretty crisscross pattern in shades of olive-green and rust-brown, the perfect thing to complement Logan's fair, peachy-pink skin and ginger hair.
It was a dirty rotten job, tying up a naked foxy trickster, but somebody had to do it. Also, it was a chance to demonstrate my blossoming skills as a rigger.
When the proverbial dust settled, Logan was hogtied. That is, she was balanced (rocking) on her taut tummy on the Mexican tiles with her boobs and most of her thighs in the air. Neat bands of elegantly hitched and cinched rope (if I do say so myself) lashed her wrists together behind her back, her ankles to her wrists, her knees together, pinned her arms to her sides, and yoked her shoulders. More rope frog-tied her folded legs and linked the top of the body-harness to the wrist/ankle nexus.
Also, Gabby had specified "mean," so I'd dialed things up to eleven. Logan's boobs were not only dangling in midair but were bulging in tight bands of rope, not enough to turn them purple, of course, but they were a slightly darker shade of peachy-pink than the rest of her. I'd also plaited Logan's hair into a single braid, folded it on itself to make a convenient lashing-point, then tied it to her already tied big-toes with nylon cord that matched the olive-green/rust-brown rope. This pulled her head back and added further tension to the hogtie. Some might argue it added unnecessary further tension, but "mean" is "mean."
Oh, that's right. I'd also tied Logan's thumbs together. I'm willing to concede that that was unnecessary.
Sitting at a cafe table on comfortable cushions with their legs crossed, The Sisters smiled, clapped, and praised my knot-tying and placement skills.
I bowed and blushed. I've worked hard to hone my rope-tying skills—Logan can attest to that—and was proud of my efforts.
As for Logan's opinion, it was stifled by the ball-gag I'd stuffed in her mouth and buckled tight at the nape of her neck. The 1¾", silicon-rubber gobstopper was hunter-green, and the leather strap was cognac-brown (with bronze hardware). It was an effective damsel-silencer.
Kelly patted the cushion of an empty chair while Gabby motioned for me to join them.
I padded over and gracefully sat. We smiled and watched Logan explore her condition. Her "courtesy struggle" was more of a "courtesy squirm."
Finally... after about a minute...
"Annie, dear," Kelly said quietly, "we have a problem."
I shifted my gaze from Logan (with reluctance) to The Sisters and gave them my smiling attention.
"Poor Logan is overworked," Gabby explained. "She tries very hard, but helping us run our business and personal affairs is quite a challenge for one person."
"She does her best, poor thing," Kelly added, "but sometimes it's more than she can handle."
I nodded. "I see." Actually, at that point, I didn't see, but I soon would.
"Are you happy working for City Hall," Kelly asked me.
Huh? "Yes," I answered. "Yes, I am. Government service is important. I'm proud to be a municipal bureaucrat. I know some people might not understand how good it makes you feel when, thanks to your efforts, a procedural improvement is approved and adopted, or a wasteful error in the budget is exposed and eliminated, or—"
A brown leather portfolio had been resting on the wrought iron cafe table, and while I'd been speaking, Kelly had flipped it open, scribbled a number on a yellow Post-It pad, folded the 3" square, then reached out and closed the fingers of my right hand over the folded paper, thus interrupting my answer/explanation/soliloquy.
"You and Logan will continue to live in the bungalow," Kelly said, "only now it will be rent free. You'd get full medical, dental, and vision coverage, like Logan, and this would be your monthly salary."
"Y-you're offering me a job?" I squealed. (You may have noticed by now that I squeal when I'm nervous, and I'm nervous a lot.)
The Sisters smiled and nodded, then Kelly released my hand.
I unfolded the Post-It pad, read the number Kelly had scribbled, and my eyes popped wide.
Government service is honorable and can be personally rewarding... but there's much to be said for working in the private sector.
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