by Van ©2017
		Chapter 5

Dr. Folke had been going nonstop, conducting what was supposedly only the warm-up for her interrogation for the last... oh... ten minutes, but Bonnie was finding it increasingly difficult to estimate the passage of time.  Of course, the diminutive, lab-coat-and-glasses-wearing Folke knew exactly how long she'd been tickling Bonnie's squirming feet and wiggling toes with her collection of feathers, probes, scratching tools, and vibrating mini-brushes.  The doctor had an excellent view of the slowly changing LED numbers on the face of the compact electronic timer sitting on the lab cart.  Bonnie did not.

There were several thoughts Bonnie very much wished to share with Dr. Folke.  Among them were: "OH-MY-GOD!  OH-MY-GOD!  STOP!  STOP!  NOT THE TOES AGAIN!  STOP!  NOT THE FEATHER!  OH-MY-GOD!  STOP!"  Unfortunately, the large pacifier of pliant natural rubber the doctor used to deliver cool, refreshing electrolyte solution directly into Bonnie's mouth was still filling said mouth and was still strapped tightly in place.  It was not an especially effective damsel-silencer, but was more than up to the task of converting any and all attempts at speech on Bonnie's part into so much incoherent, giggling, blubbering gibberish.  Finally, as Folke had disconnected the clear vinyl fluid-delivery tube from the end of the pacifier, the air whistling through the narrow and now unobstructed passage in the plug added a wheezing, whistling counterpoint to Bonnie's vocal "music."

Oh-by-the-way, the wand-style vibrator clamped to the chair's seat with its business end squashed against Bonnie's labia was still vibrating at a near-subliminal level—but anything one might choose to describe as "near-subliminal" would just have to wait its turn!  Bonnie's increasingly frazzled brain had much bigger sensory fish to fry in the form of the nerve impulses arriving from her feet and toes and demanding immediate redress of grievances, redress the rest of her helplessly restrained body was powerless to provide.

Clearly, Dr. Folke enjoyed her work, and she was very good at it.  The quirky smile curling her lips was ample evidence, as were the never-ending, unendurable, tingling, titillating sensations rippling across Bonnie's soles and toes.

The captive fought the chair's restraints with all her strength, but made no progress whatsoever towards either escape or getting the tickle-torture to STOP!  Bonnie was, however, working up a healthy sweat.  Who knew writhing in bondage while a sadistic, four-eyed munchkin in a lab-coat tickles your tootsies was a decent aerobic workout? Bonnie mused; but mainly her thoughts were STOP-STOP-STOP!

Just when Bonnie thought she'd shrivel up and DIE if Folke didn't STOP!—the door whisked open and Marina-the-amazon-receptionist/handler entered the tickle-torture chamber, and right on her heels strode Xin-the-ninja-kidnapper!  Marina wore the same high-heeled pumps, pencil-skirt, and cotton blouse as before.  Xin, on the other hand, had changed into a pair of high-heeled knee-boots and a black, skintight, spandex catsuit.  With the tiny fraction of her mind not occupied by total hysteria, Bonnie decided Xin looked like an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. cosplayer, only without the stylized eagle logo on her shoulder.  She's not wearing a Hydra patch, either, Bonnie noted, which probably would have been more appropriate.

"Sorry for the interruption, doctor," Marina apologized, then nodded in the direction of her shorter, dangerous-looking, Asian companion.  "You can blame Xin."

"Actually," Xin purred, smiling at Bonnie's naked, wide-eyed, squirming, sweating, and obviously very unhappy form, "you can blame Mistress Payne."

Her eyes on Bonnie's squirming feet, Folke continued her apparent efforts to use a goose feather to drive Bonnie COMPLETELY INSANE!  "I assume you're referring to our beloved CEO?"  Folke heaved a sigh, stopped tickling Bonnie's toes (which did not stop wiggling), returned the feather to the cart, and favored Xin with a thin smile.  "Another change of plans?  Really?  Mistress Dominique is getting more and more erratic."

"Don't worry," Xin chuckled, "I won't tell her you she said so.  Anyway, this one is going upstairs, at least for now.  Maybe you'll get her back later in the week.  Maybe not."

"I have no choice but to file a formal protest," Folke pouted.

Xin smiled.  "In which case Mistress might very well send me back down here to invite you upstairs."

"Like I said," Folke said, returning her smiling gaze to Bonnie's no longer squirming feet, "I have no choice but to delete Miss Schnupp's entire interrogation file.  If Mistress does send her back—"  She locked eyes with Bonnie.  "—I'll have no choice but to begin again from the very beginning."  She shook her evilly smiling, bespectacled face.  "All that gagged-giggling, muffled begging, and futile, pathetic struggling... totally wasted."

"Yeah, such a pity," Xin purred, produced a pair of rubber-padded steel handcuffs from somewhere behind her back, and strode towards Bonnie and the chair.  Marina came along to assist, not that her efforts as a handler would be in any way required.

After her whipping at the hands of Dominique Payne, Jade received a nice bath, followed by a full-body massage.  That is, her catsuited and anonymously masked handlers doused her with a rubber hose, scrubbed her with a soapy sponge, doused her again, then strapped her to a table and rubbed some sort of lotion or ointment into her abused skin.  They were thorough with both tasks, the bath and the massage.

Jade struggled the entire time and the ball-gag remained in her mouth.  Thus, her objections and creative suggestions regarding her handler's possible mixed-species ancestry came out of her plugged mouth as so much well-muffled noise.  And as for her struggles, the amazons manipulated Jade's writhing, kicking, and twisting body with near trivial ease.  It was... humiliating.

And then, Jade got to check "straitjacket" off her fashion-related bucket list.

The jacket in question was made of natural, heavy canvas with a great many two-inch braided cotton straps, all with dangling, rattling friction-buckles.  In fact, Jade's instant reaction upon seeing the thing was to think: Damn, look at all the straps!  She resolved to resist being put into the thing with all of her remaining strength; but, as always, the amazons were more than up to the challenge of handling a reluctant, squirming, naked Jade Porter.

During the process of being strapping into the canvas cocoon, Jade noted several pertinent design features: 

1.  This was not a baggy, one-size-fits-most jacket, and while it wasn't quite a custom fit, it came damn close.  She conjectured that somewhere in Payne Tower was a storeroom full of such jackets in all sizes—regular, petite, and plus.

2.  When zippers running down the inside-forearm of each sleeves were zipped closed and their fobs secured with heavy-duty snaps, the closed ends became the functional equivalents of canvas bondage-mittens.  Her fingers and hands were now encased, immobilized, and utterly useless.

3.  The straps were not only plentiful, but highly functional.  Her arms performed the traditional self-hug across her waist, enforced by the wide, heavy-duty straps that had been dangling from the ends of the sleeves but were now tightly secured behind her back.  In addition, an integrated horizontal strap encircled her upper arms and torso above her breasts, a vertical strap secured her folded forearms against her stomach, and a pair of diagonal straps dove between her legs, passed to either side of her pussy, and performed the totally unnecessary function of making sure she couldn't perform the impossible task of lifting the jacket over her head.

4.  The jacket had a high collar with a wide strap similar to the others, and while it wasn't a posture-collar, it did a credible job of restricting her head motion.

5.  And speaking of the straps, there were no long, unsightly, dangling free ends.  The straps were all more-or-less the exact lengths required to fulfill their individual functions and all the ends tucked out of sight into canvas sleeves, more testimony to the pattern-maker's skill.

The handlers had taken turns embracing Jade's upper body and squeezing her upper arms against her torso while her companion tightened the straps, further restricting Jade's ability to squirm with each iteration.  When they were finally satisfied, the canvas hugged Jade's body like an amorous python and her upper body was virtually a single limbless unit.  She found she could twist at the waist, a little, but that was all.

Next, one of the amazons unbuckled and removed Jade's ball-gag.  Her ankles were still locked in rubber-padded steel cuffs so she couldn't kick, but she was finally free to share her innermost thoughts with her handlers.

"Let me go!  Let me go you motherf—mrrrf!"

The amazon had her in a tight embrace and an equally tight hand-gag.  Also, Jade noticed for the first time a second amazon standing in front of her with what appeared to be a small, clear plastic bottle of spring water.

"Enough nonsense, Miss Porter," the handler with the bottle purred.  "There are other, less pleasant methods of hydration at our disposal.  Would you like a nice drink, or are you going to be difficult?  Blink twice if you've inclined to be cooperative."

Still angry, Jade continued staring daggers at the wire-mesh mask of the amazon with the water, but she was thirsty.  She surrendered her pride and blinked her glowering brown eyes two times.

"Good girl," the amazon with the bottle chuckled.  The grabby amazon released her hand-gag, the bottle touched Jade's lips, and she drank. 

The water was cool and wet (of course) and really hit the spot.  Jade drank quickly... and soon the bottle was empty and a ball of pink rubber foam had taken its place.  "No!  Nrrrf!"  The amazon stuffed the ball into her mouth, sealed her lips with a wide strip of medical tape, then fit a brown leather muzzle over her head and buckled it tight.  The muzzle's thick, padded panel cupped her chin, covered most of her lower face, and pressed tightly against her already gagged mouth.  Narrow straps framed her nose, a wider strap encircled her crown, and diagonal straps anchored the arrangement on either side of her leather-caged head.  "MRRRPFH!"

Jade's eyelids fluttered, but this time she was blinking back angry tears.  One of the amazons hoisted her onto her shoulder, face down and legs to the front, and carried her through the door and down the hallway.

Who knew that being bound, gagged, and tickled like crazy for an extended period of time could tucker one out?  Certainly not Bonnie Schnupp.  Maybe it was all the struggling.  She had worked up quite a sweat while Folkes the Evil Munchkin used her Fiendish Tools to tease and titillate her feet.  Also, the gagged giggling had been serious exercise for her diaphragm.  And speaking of gags, once Xin released her from the chair, she swapped out Bonnie's giant pacifier gag for a "normal" ball-gag.  Bonnie vaguely remembered Folke insisting that she didn't want any more of her "specialized equipment" to go missing.  Anyway, ball-gagged, wrists and ankles locked in padded steel cuffs, and balanced on Xin the Ninja's right shoulder in a fireman's carry, Bonnie was exhausted.

To make a long story short—especially since Bonnie dozed off at least twice during the process and couldn't vouch for all the details—Xin had carried her... somewhere... and handed her off to a pair of catsuited amazons wearing hoods with fencer's masks.  They wet her down with a hose—soaped, scrubbed, and rinsed her body—then forced her into an honest-to-god straitjacket.  She'd struggled, like the sleepy kitten she felt like, but it happened.

One of the amazons removed Bonnie's ball-gag and held a water bottle so Bonnie could drink (which was kinda nice), then stuffed a ball of pink foam into her mouth, sealed her lips with a strip of white tape, and buckled a leather muzzle-harness over her head.  At some point Xin had made her exit, unnoticed by Bonnie, but apparently (obviously) the amazons already had their marching orders.

Bonnie was hoisted onto the shoulder of one of the anonymous She-Hulks, and another bouncing journey followed.  Bonnie "enjoyed" another brief nap... then they arrived at their destination, a genuine padded room.  I guess it goes with the straitjacket and muzzle theme, Bonnie mused.

Bonnie was heaved off the amazon's shoulder, more-or-less gently deposited on the padded floor, then her handler joined her partner in the hallway and the door closed with a muffled but authoritative thud.  Like the chamber's floor, walls and ceiling, the portal's inside surface was thickly padded with bleached canvas.

Bonnie found the strength to sit up (despite her sore tummy's mild objections) and looked upwards.  Light was coming from five small can-type fixtures protected by wire grills and recessed into the ceiling pads.  The room was about twenty-feet by twenty feet, and—"MMMRPGH?"—there was another naked, ankle-cuffed, straitjacketed, and muzzled captive present!  The second captive had smooth, dark skin, black, curly hair, big brown eyes staring at Bonnie above the mouth-panel of a muzzle identical to her own, and—JADE?

Jade also sat up and made mewling noises.  Obviously she was just as effectively gagged as her fellow intern and prisoner!

The two friends would have shared the stories of their captures, their whipping and tickling ordeals, respectively, everything they'd seen and heard to date, etc., but thanks to their gags, none of that happened.  They both had questions—so many questions—but all went unasked and unanswered.

Bonnie could see very faint marks on Jade's legs, but they may have been the result of lying on the creases in the floor padding.  As for Bonnie's feet, they bore no marks from Dr. Folke's Fiendish Feathers and Titillating Tactile Torture Tools.

The captives squirmed and rolled across the floor until they were side by side—locked eyes and shared a pitiful sigh of mutual commiseration—then settled down, full-length, onto the padding.  Jade rested her head against Bonnie's canvas-clad shoulder and they both closed their eyes.

Eventually, the prisoners drifted off to much needed sleep.

Bonnie and Jade's nap lasted... hours?  It felt like hours, but no clock was available and they couldn't compare notes.  Anyway, the door of the padded room opened, a pair of catsuited and masked amazons appeared, lifted the ankle-cuffed, straitjacketed, and muzzled captives onto their shoulders, and carried them away.

An elevator carried then up to a very curious space.  Jade surmised it was another of the tower's upper-story nightclubs; however, it wasn't the Aqua Lounge of her earlier experience.  Bonnie surmised that she might be hallucinating.

It was a large room with a very tall ceiling and a bar off to one side staffed by multiple bartenders.  The decor was severely Modern, predominately mirrored glass and/or highly polished chrome steel.  There were the usual tables and chairs, booths, and conversation groupings of sofas and easy-chairs, but the club's compelling features were the rows of very curious cylindrical pedestals and what what could only be called interrupted vertical columns.

The pedestals and columns held—quite literally held—naked female captives.

In the case of the pedestals, the women were bent forward at the waist with only their upper thighs, hips, rumps, and lower backs visible.  The rest of the women's bodies and limbs were inside the base of their respective pedestals.  Bonnie and Jade watched in horror as the last of the dozen or so pedestal-captives was "installed."  Led by a catsuited and masked handler, a naked, twenty-something, tape-gagged, and oddly compliant brunette was led to a low circular platform with four oval openings.  The woman stepped onto the platform and placed her feet into two of the openings, then bent forward and placed her hands in the remaining openings.  A padded, T-shaped post rose from the base until it pressed against her stomach, then a chrome outer cylinder rose from the floor.  It was as if she was a diver frozen in the pike position, with her breasts more-or-less squashed against her knees  The handler closed the two halves of the cylinder's horizontal top, encasing the bent-over woman's head, arms, and and lower legs in mirror-bright steel.

In the case of the interrupted vertical columns, there were two varieties. 

Style 1:  The column's lower half enclosed the captive from the waist down while the upper half encased her from the chest up.  In short, the prisoner was reduced to an anonymous torso; including, of course, her breasts.

Style 2:  The lower half of the column enclosed the captive from the mid-thighs down and the upper half from the waist up.  Thus, a style-two prisoner was an anonymous pussy and a pair of buttocks.

Bonnie and Jade were carried to a pair of empty style-two columns, Bonnie was eased off her handler's shoulder, then watched as both handlers "installed" Jade.  Her ankle-cuffs were removed, then her feet forced into a pair of openings about six-inches apart.  Jade tried to kick and struggle, but as soon as a foot was forced into an opening, a rubber ring inflated and trapped her ankle.  Soon, Jade was in place, the lower half of the column's shell rose from the floor and locked, and the handlers closed the top.  There was a hissing sound, as if more rubber was inflating, then the handlers released the thigh straps of Jade's straitjacket and secured them up and out of the way through D-rings sewn into the side of the upper jacket.  Jade squirmed and complained as the upper half of the column descended... but soon she disappeared from Bonnie's sight... that is, most of her disappeared.  The column locked in place, the handlers closed the halves of the bottom lid, there was another hissing noise, and the deed was done.  Jade was now a disembodied set of smooth, brown thighs, hips, pussy, and rump.

And then it was Bonnie's turn.  "Mrrrf?"  Her struggles were as pointless as Jade's, and soon she was identically installed in her very own column.  She could now confirm that rubber did inflate in the lower column to immobilize her legs, as she'd suspected, but rubber also inflated inside the upper column, immobilizing her already straitjacketed upper body from waist to neck.  Also, and it was no small thing, the upper column was actually one-way mirrored glass, not chrome steel.  Bonnie could see out!

Bonnie turned her muzzled and tape-gagged head from side to side.  The air inside the upper column was close, but that may have been her imagination.  There had to be ventilation somewhere in the darkness overhead... didn't there?  Anyway, the amazon handlers had departed.

Preparations at the bar continued.  The male and female bartenders were adding stemmed glasses of various sizes to suspended racks, stocking bottles on the shelves behind the bar, chopping lemons and limes, etc.  As Bonnie watched, one of the bartenders threw a switch and LED lights shone through the mirror behind the rows of bottles, spelling out what Bonnie assumed was the name of the establishment in a decorative font.

Oh hilarious! Bonnie mused.  'Evil Petting Zoo.'  Such wit.  Such frightful cleverness.  And so very original.  But then, the full significance of the name and her predicament sunk in.  A chill rippled down Bonnie's spine and she suddenly felt decidedly naked between her waist and thighs.  They wouldn't dare!  Would they?

Bonnie realized one more column awaited an occupant, and it was more or less in the center of the room and directly in front of Bonnie and Jade's columns.

There was some sort of commotion to the extreme right and Bonnie watched as two amazon handlers dragged a naked woman towards the empty column.  The woman was a brunette with a fit, curvaceous, tan body and Bonnie could tell she was "old," meaning in her late 30's or early 40's... maybe.  Her wrists were locked together in front in thick, padded leather cuffs and her lips sealed by a wide strip of white medical tape—but despite the tape-gag Bonnie recognized the squirming, mewling captive's identity.  The nude prisoner was none other than Audrey Klein, Jade's boss!

Bonnie watched as Audrey was installed in the remaining column.  She struggled hard, but soon the amazons had her feet and legs in the lower column, her arms over her head, and her tape-gagged head disappeared as the upper column descended.  It turned out Audrey's encasement was a hybrid of the two styles.  The Klein Studios CEO was exposed from her thighs to her armpits!  Both her breasts and her pussy and rump were on display!

Audrey's handlers departed, and as far as Bonnie could tell, all preparations for the nightclub's opening were complete.

Something like ten minutes passed... and finally, the first of the Evil Petting Zoo's patrons began strolling from the elevators.  The men wore tuxedos and the women formal, full-length gowns.  Bonnie could tell the first-timers from the old hands (even though Bonnie, herself, was a first-timer).  Old hands were nonchalant.  Their first priority was to go to the bar and order drinks.  Newbies stared at the exposed female flesh on display with one of two reactions: open wonder, or shock and embarrassment.  Actually neither reaction seemed entirely genuine, but there was always some reaction.

And then... it began.

Guests, usually in pairs and usually with drinks in hand, began circulating around the room.  Hands squeezed breasts and tweaked nipples, slid across bare backs, between thighs to brush against labia, and caressed taut, firm buttocks.  Cold, moisture-beaded glasses and cubes of ice teased exposed, helpless flesh.

Poor Audrey was receiving a lot of attention.  Perhaps it was because she was the room's centerpiece, or perhaps it was because she had more of her exquisite body on display.

Suddenly, Bonnie's eyes popped wide and she swallowed nervously behind the foam filling her mouth, the tape sealing her lips, and the muzzle caging her head.  A pair of guests were strolling in her direction!  Both were female.  One had a quirky smile, a cropped mop of red hair, and was wearing a red, sleeveless gown with a plunging neckline.  She also wore a brown leather collar with an attached leash, the end of which was in the hand of her companion, a long-haired brunette with glasses, a sly smile, and a birthmark on her upper lip.  She wore a black pants-suit styled like a tuxedo.

"She has very pretty skin," the redhead purred.  She was biting her lower lip in a slightly goofy but decidedly sexy manner as she stared at Bonnie's exposed flesh.  Bonnie would have been flattered, after a fashion, if she wasn't frozen in fear.

"I suppose," the brunette agreed.  Seconds passed... and finally she rolled her eyes.  "Well?"

"Well, what?" the redhead responded.

"Get on with it," the brunette chuckled.

"Uh..."  The redhead reached a tentative hand towards Bonnie.  "Okay."

"Mrrrf!"  Bonnie had no idea if the couple could hear her, but she had to say something when the redhead's cold hand cupped her pussy... then said hand began to move.

"Poor thing," the redhead sighed.  "She's trembling."

Bonnie was, indeed, trembling.  She couldn't help it.  She would have also been squirming and twisting, but shivering was all the inflated rubber pinning her inside the column would allow.

"Don't make her cum," the brunette said.  "The night is young."

"Oh, Ally," the redhead chuckled, "you're so very wicked."

The brunette smiled a truly evil smile (in Bonnie's humble opinion), tugged on the redhead's leash, and pulled her in for a long, deep, wet kiss.  "My Lisa," she purred when they came up for air.

The redhead's hand had never left Bonnie's pussy, but it had stopped moving while she concentrated on the kiss.  The couple—whose names were, apparently, Lisa and Ally—smiled at Bonnie's shivering form, what they could see of it, as once again Lisa's hand began to slowly move.

"Well, I suppose a nice quickie won't do any harm," Ally chuckled.

"I'll do my best," Lisa purred, then bit her lower lip, again.  "This really is a deliciously decadent place, isn't it?  Very jaded-aristocrat."

Bonnie turned her head and did her best to ignore Lisa's caressing hand.  She noticed Jade had acquired a pair of admirers of her own in the form of an elegantly dressed and attractive male and female couple in their fifties.  Meanwhile, in the center of the room, Audrey Klein continued garnering the lioness' share of the attention.  However, as more and more patrons arrived, none of the helpless denizens of the Evil Petting Zoo went neglected for very long.

"Mrrrk!"  Bonnie was going to cum!  She was definitely going to cum!  "Rrrk?"  And then, Lisa's hand disappeared.  "Mrrpfh!"  Ally was leading Lisa towards the bar.  How... inconsiderate, Bonnie decided, not that she'd wanted to be groped and diddled by a perfect stranger, even a devilishly cute stranger like Lisa; but still, being left in the lurch like this was just plain rude.

Penelope Payne was still wearing her work clothes for the day: high-heeled pumps, pantyhose, pencil skirt, sleeveless blouse with a corset-like bodice and spaghetti-straps tied in a neat bow at the nape of her neck, and a bolero-style jacket, all in black.  Dominique was of the opinion that black complemented her baby sister's fair complexion, so Penelope usually dressed in black.  She'd learned long ago that it was always a good idea to go along with her eldest sister's wishes.

After a hard day of doing her best to creatively nurture the various Payne productions in their various stages of development—and assuming Dominique hadn't decreed one of her "evenings in" (meaning a night when big sister decided to torture her for no good reason)—Penelope would often visit one of the tower's nightclubs.  She found it both relaxing and inspirational.  Tonight, however, she'd decided to try a different method of inspiration.

At this hour, most of the business offices were deserted.  A few productions with overseas partners were still active, but most of the tower's cubicle farms and offices were virtual ghost towns.  That was also true of the conglomerate's service and support departments, but Penelope had already used the security system to check on her destination.  Human Resources Special Services hadn't yet shut down for the night.

Penelope had a plan—not a detailed plan, as some degree of uncertainty always added spice to any scenario—but Penelope had a plan—or at least knew how she could make something "interesting" happen that didn't involve Dominique.  Her heart beat rapidly as she made her way down the empty hallways of Dr. Folke's domain, pausing at each closed door to listen for signs of occupancy in the room beyond.  The Evil Munchkin had to be somewhere.  The security system was never wrong.  Finally, Penelope heard a faint buzzing noise emanating from behind a door labeled "Therapy 3."  She eased the door open, peered inside, then swallowed nervously and forced a smile. 

"Oh, there you are, doctor," Penelope said with forced nonchalance.

Dr. Folke was, indeed, working late.  And so was her assistant.

Marina was naked, as in totally nude, and was standing in a shallow alcove set in the far wall.  Her feet were about two-and-a-half-feet apart and her arms outstretched to either side in what Penelope recognized as the classic, spreadeagled pose of Leonardo da Vinci's "Vetruvian Man."  Her hands and feet were hidden behind close-fitting, pillory-like openings in the alcove's sidewalls and floor.  A ball-gag was loosely buckled around the well-muscled Latina's neck, its red rubber sphere resting on her brown, glistening chest.  Her long black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she strained against her obviously inescapable bonds, a grimace contorting her beautiful face.  Why, one might ask?  Folke was pressing the buzzing business end of a wand-style vibrator against the Latina's flushed labia, and it appeared she had been doing so for some time before Penelope arrived.

Folkes heaved an exasperated sigh.  "Penny," she sighed, "can't you see I'm busy?"  She returned her full attention to her helpless assistant.  "Not a word, Marina," she purred.  "Not a sound.  Keep absolutely silent, and don't you dare cum until I give you explicit permission."

Marina's response was to stare straight ahead, pant through her flaring nostrils, tug on her bonds, and sweat.

The only other thing in the room was a gurney, a padded table on wheels with medical-style restraints, a great many medical-style restraints, all in brown leather with canvas padding.

Penelope entered Therapy 3, eased the door closed behind her, and tiptoed to the gurney.  "I was wondering if you could find the time to help me 'relax' before you leave for the evening," she said quietly.

"I told you," Folke muttered. "I'm busy."  She was still concentrating on teasing Marina to the cusp of orgasm, and Marina was concentrating on doing her best to not cum.

An empty laundry bag hung from a hook clipped to one end of the gurney, and Penelope knew what it was for.  She removed her shoes and dropped them in the bag, then removed her jacket, carefully folded it, and also placed it in the bag.  Her skirt and blouse were next.  Finally, she pulled her pantyhose down her hips and legs, and tossed them in the bag as well.  As Penelope was not in the habit of wearing panties or a bra (another of Dominique's fashion edicts) the youngest Payne sister was now totally nude... like Marina.

Penelope hopped onto the gurney and began arranging herself in the various restraints.  She didn't buckle any of the cuffs or straps—that would be inappropriate—but she made sure she was properly positioned, flat on her back with her ankles a couple of feet apart and her arms at her sides.  The last step was sliding her hands inside the loose mittens built into the wrist- cuffs.  And then, she waited, staring up at the featureless ceiling.

Folke continued using the vibrator to tease her amazonian assistant for something like a minute... then sighed, clicked off the wand, and placed it on the floor of the alcove between Marina's splayed legs.  "Sorry, darling," she said, then thrust the ball-gag into Marina's mouth and buckled it tight.  "Take a break while I deal with the spoiled brat."

Whether or not Marina was inclined to "take a break" was a moot point, of course, but it was clear that she didn't appreciate the interruption.  She tugged on her bonds, grimaced in gagged irritation, and mewled through her gag—"Mrrrm!"—when Folke thumbed a button set in the wall beside the alcove, turned, and strolled to Penelope and the gurney.

Penelope watched as three things happened at Marina's alcove: (1) a thick panel of clear glass descended across the front of the shallow space.  Marina's continuing gagged tirade was first diminished, then cut off completely when the glass sealed with an audible hiss; (2) the row of LED lights set in the ceiling of the alcove winked out; and (3) a second panel, identical in color and texture to the room's other walls, descended across the glass front.  Marina and her shallow prison were now completely hidden away and the naked, gagged, helplessly bound, and closely confined Latina was in total darkness.  A casual visitor to Therapy 3 wouldn't even suspect that she was there.

Meanwhile, Folke had arrived at the gurney.  First, she zipped closed the wrist-cuff's mittens, confining and immobilizing Penelope's fingers and hands.  She buckled the wrist-cuffs themselves, then worked her way around the gurney, buckling a belt around Penelope's narrow waist, cuffs around her thighs, ankles, and upper arms, then stretching and buckling a strap across Penelope's upper arms and chest, just above her breasts.  Finally she secured a wide, padded collar around the nude captive's neck.  Each time Folke secured a cuff, belt, or strap, she gave the narrow outer strap that secured the restraint a firm tug, causing a distinctive ripping sound.  "Vrrrip, vrrrip, vrrrip," etc.  When she was finally satisfied, the restraints hugged Penelope's anatomy tight enough to compress their interior padding and dimple her smooth, pale flesh.

Penelope squirmed and struggled.  She was helpless—as helpless as she would have been in steel chains or cunningly tied rope—as helpless as she would have been in any bondage applied by her Big Sister.

While the prisoner-of-the-gurney tested her bonds, Folke had strolled to a built-in cabinet, retrieved something from the shelves, and returned to Penelope's side.  She turned the object in her hands for the youngest Payne's inspection.  "I know you hate this thing," she purred, "but you deserve some punishment for interrupting my work."

Penelope stared in horror.  The "thing" in question was a half-mask of hard, off-white plastic lined with gray, medium-density foam.  It would cover a hypothetical wearer's nose and mouth and cup her chin, following every curve and feature, and incorporated both a pair of nasal plugs and a distressingly large mouthpiece of latex foam and silicon-rubber.  The respective plugs were designed to seal the wearer's nostrils and to fill her mouth to capacity, and Penelope knew from personal experience that they worked.  The excruciatingly narrow openings in the nose plugs would allow her to breathe, but only with slow, careful, shallow breaths.  The mask was both a highly effective gag and a mild method of breath-control torture.

"Frida... please," Penelope whined.

"Didn't I tell you last time that you should always call ahead?" Folke purred.

"But then," Penelope countered, "Dominique would know I wanted to play.  She's set the system to monitor all my communications."

"Not my concern," Folke responded, then began fitting the mask in place.  It was an involved process, and might have been difficult without Penelope's reluctant cooperation, but eventually the mask was in place and its many straps tightly caged Penelope's head.

Their eyes locked, once again, and Penelope panted through her not quite plugged nose (or tried, anyway).

Folke smiled her trademark quirky, evil smile, reached down and gave Penelope's right breast a gentle squeeze... then tugged on the steel ring permanently piercing her right nipple.

Penelope shivered in response.  It was just about her only possible movement.  The gurney's restraints were taut and tight, and attempting to force sounds past the hated mask was quite literally a waste of precious breath.

"Actually," Folke said, "your timing is serendipitous.  I have a new interrogation technique a colleague sent me I've been looking for an opportunity to test."  She began massaging both of Penelope's breasts.  "First, a pair of gaskets—more or less padded pipe-clamps—tighten around the base of each breast until they bulge and turn that delightful shade of mauve-pink I find so attractive and become very sensitive.  Next, a carefully formulated glycerol suspension of capcaisin, allyl isothiocyanate, and gingerol derivatives is painted on the taut skin."

Penelope froze in her restraints and stared up at her captor and soon to be torturer in abject horror.

"The effects are said to be quite spectacular," Folke continued.  "One of my colleague's test subjects likened the sensation to chewing and swallowing an entire ghost-chili, then gargling a shot glass of wasabi and ginger puree—only the sensation is on your tits, of course, not in your mouth.  Supposedly, the effects build over the first ten minutes, remain at peak intensity for more than an hour, then slowly fade over the next three to four hours.  I can't wait to try it."

Penelope blinked back tears and tugged on her bonds.  This was not what she'd had in mind when she went looking for her good friend and sometimes playmate, Frida Folke, but it was too late to back out now.  That was for sure.

"And now, my darling Penny," Folke purred, "I've neglected poor Marina long enough.  If you'll excuse me..."  She turned and walked towards the hidden alcove imprisoning her naked, bound, gagged, and no doubt still perturbed assistant.  "Why don't you enjoy a nice nap while I resume teaching Marina how to control her baser instincts.  We'll commence our little experiment in, say, fifteen minutes?  Marina can probably hold out at least that long before cumming."

Penelope willed herself to stop struggling against the medical restraints.  If she kept it up, thanks to the mask she'd probably get dizzy and pass out from shortness of breath, and that was not fun.  And any sort of unconsciousness, whether from slumber or oxygen deprivation, would only be a temporary reprieve from the coming ordeal.  She stared up at the ceiling, concentrated on regulating her breathing, and tried her best not to worry about what was in store for her poor sweater puppies.

Oh-by-the-way, Penelope had that very important board meeting to attend in the morning.  Did Frida know that?  Would she think to check Penelope's schedule before clamping her tits and painting them with torture-sauce?—or after clamping her tits and painting them with torture-sauce?

I suppose if there are lingering effects I can slather the girls with ointment and wear a turtleneck to the meeting, Penelope decided, but no matter how my tits are feeling, I have to be there!