|by Van ©2015|
|OUR STORY BEGINS|
Frankie Dekker was dreaming, but it wasn't a happy dream. There were no baby bunnies or playful kittens, no flowery meadows or babbling brooks, and no celebrities or movie stars who, for some inexplicable reason, wanted to hang out with Frankie. That said, it wasn't an unhappy dream either. It was... strange.
There was a courtroom, and Judge Bowden was behind the bench. She was wearing a typical black robe, but somehow, Frankie knew that under the robe Her Honor was wearing the leather body harness she'd been wearing in the Quaking Aspens Sanatorium's garage, and nothing else. Further, the buckles of the harness were all padlocked, and Her Honor didn't have the key!
Frankie was at the defendant's table, seated in the defendant's chair. She was naked, which for some reason seemed entirely natural, and so did the several yards of white nylon rope that lashed her to said chair. Frankie wiggled and squirmed, but whoever had tied her up had done an outstanding job. Also, she was gagged. Something big and silky had been stuffed in her mouth and white medical tape was wrapped around her lower face from nostrils to chin, keeping it there. Frankie turned her head to the side and discovered that she wasn't alone.
Seated next to Frankie was Doctor Stanton, long red hair, freckles, and all, and her condition was identical. That is, she was naked, bound, and gagged! Her beautiful green eyes were staring straight ahead. Apparently, she was still in shock from what had happened at the clinic. Frankie noted that plastered over the good doctor's gag was a white plastic sticker that read "JUDICIAL GAG ORDER #1156709."
I wonder if I have a gag order sticker? Frankie thought. Without a mirror, there was no way she could tell.
At the prosecution table sat von Luger, the Teutonic blond amazon who had turned the tables on Stanton and her nurses and kidnapped the Doctor and the already kidnapped Frankie. She was dressed in a black business suit with a white blouse and a fluffy white cravat. "Both doctor-patient privilege and journalistic protections apply, thereby canceling each other out," von Luger said gravely. "If it please the court, the prosecution requests that the defendants be held without bail and that officers of the court should be free to play with their tits at any time."
"So ordered," Bowden said and banged her gavel. "The bailiff will moisturize the defendants breasts on a regular basis, at least three times a day."
The bailiff nodded in acknowledgement. She (the bailiff) was wearing a khaki-tan uniform (high-heel knee-boots, mini-skirt, blouse, badge, and riding crop) and, unless Frankie was mistaken, she was Taylor Swift.
Several voices murmured in agreement and Frankie turned her head to find the courtroom packed with beautiful women, all dressed in the same black secret agent outfits von Luger and her minions had worn at the time of Frankie's capture, meaning her other capture, her latest capture, when Doc Stanton was also captured. Frankie was sure they all were, in fact, minions... von Luger's minions.
That hardly seems fair, Frankie thought. She turned back to the front and noticed for the first time that the cute little flight attendant from von Luger's luxury business jet was seated in the witness chair. She was wearing the same sky-blue uniform with the same matching pillbox hat atop her cute little head as on the plane. Also, she was gagged ("JUDICIAL GAG ORDER #0000207") and was lashed in place with more of the white rope.
Her Honor and von Luger discussed whether or not the witness (the cute little flight attendant) could be compelled to serve champagne to the court. Apparently, this was a vexing legal question and amicus briefs had been filed by several champagne manufacturers and distributors.
Yes, it was a very strange dream. Frankie knew she ought to be concerned, but she wasn't. It was almost as if she'd been sedated, and was watching a holographic recording of some other person's dream―but that was absurd! In the first place, Frankie was sitting right there, next to Doc Stanton. This had to be her dream. And in the second place, holographic stuff only happened on holodecks, and Star Trek was a TV show and a movie franchise and therefore not real.
Also... the waves were crashing on the shore, the sun was bright, a cooling breeze was blowing, and it was a very nice day, so Frankie decided to wake up.
to Damosel Island
Actually, the waves were crashing on the shore and the sun was bright. The air was hot and humid, but a cooling breeze was blowing. Also, Frankie could smell the salt air. It was a very nice day at the beach. Frankie's eyes were closed, but she could hear the waves, of course, feel the breeze on her skin, and smell the air, but maybe she'd opened her eyes earlier, before she woke up, and that was how she knew she was at that beach. That must be it.
Frankie opened her eyes.
She was, indeed, on a beach... a tropical beach. The sand was light tan, the water turquoise near the shore and a deep blue further out, waves were crashing and lapping at the sand, the sky was a vibrant cerulean-blue, with fluffy white clouds, and palm trees lined the shore.
Oh-by-the-way, Frankie was naked and spreadeagled on the sand, several feet above the waterline. Also, some sort of tape-gag sealed her lips! She was in the shade of a giant beach umbrella, and she didn't have the beach to herself.
"Oh look! She's awake! Capital!" The voice was soprano, with a cultured English accent, and it belonged to a svelte brunette with a very cute, girlish face and sparkling brown eyes. She was wearing a string bikini with a bandeau top in a very pretty shade of coral-pink. She was kneeling on the sand near Frankie's head and was smiling. "Hello. I'm Doctor Hyde-Goode, but you may call me Effie."
"Mrrrf!" Frankie tugged on her bonds. They were rope, white nylon rope, with something like a dozen tight wrappings around each of her wrists and ankles. The doubled ropes then traveled three or four feet to stainless steel rings emerging from the sand, and there they were tied off with business-like knots. Frankie had no more than three or four inches of slack in her bonds, and needless to say, the key knots were well beyond the reach of her fluttering fingers, as was whatever was plastered over her mouth.
Still tugging on her wrist ropes, Frankie examined her smiling captor―her presumed captor. "Effie" was very cute. Actually, she was classically beautiful. Her body was slender, but she filled out the bikini and bandeau nicely. Modest breasts, but pleasing in shape. Doctor Hyde-Goode? Frankie thought. Another Doctor?
Effie shuffled across the sand a couple of feet until she was under the shade and could rest the back of Frankie's head against her knees. "Don't be frightened," the Brit said as she used her fingers to comb Frankie's hair from her tape-gagged face. The bikini-clad cutie then lifted her gaze and smiled into the distance. "Andi!" she called out. "Did you hear me? She's awake!"
"Hold yer horses! I'm coming," another female voice answered. By her accent, she was American.
Frankie turned her head, following Effie's gaze, and watched a second bikini-clad woman approach. She was a redhead, older than Effie by a few years, and while her body wasn't quite as svelte (meaning skinny) as Effie's, she was in very good shape. Her bikini was a busy digital pattern of browns and tans and she was wearing a straw hat and sunglasses.
"Oh goodie," the newcomer giggled as she drew closer. "Let me take a picture." She pulled a pink iPhone from a padded neoprene case and prepared to do just that. "Say cheese!"
"Stilton!" Effie giggled.
The redhead took her photo... followed by several more... then knelt beside Frankie and her―fellow kidnapper?
"Allow me to introduce Doctor Andromeda O'Hara," Effie said, indicating her red-haired, freckled friend with an elegant gesture.
"Oh, please, call me Andi," the redhead giggled, then focused her somewhat goofy smile on Effie. "At least she isn't terrified."
"Yes," Effie agreed, continuing to comb Frankie's hair with her fingers. "It's possible the sedatives Frau von Luger gave her haven't quite worn off, but I think she's a strong one. Just what we need for our experiments."
Frankie's eyes popped wide. Experiments?
"Now look what you've done!" Andi scolded Effie, then gave Frankie's flat tummy a friendly pat. "Don't worry. We won't harm you. We take very good care of all of our guinea pigs."
Andi and Effie then shared a bout of girlish giggling.
Frankie tugged on her bonds, again. Andi's words, however well meant, were not reassuring. Experiments? Guinea pig? Andi―Doctor O'Hara―was definitely American, just as Effie was English. And even though she'd just met them (while conscious, anyway) Frankie was increasingly getting a rather nerdish vibe from the pair. I'm the naked 'guinea pig' of a pair of science-geeks? Frankie worried, and tugged on her bonds yet again.
Just then, a familiar female figure emerged from the surf. It was von Luger, and she was wearing a coral-red bikini. The blond amazon combed her fingers through her short hair as she strolled up the beach and towards the trio under the giant umbrella.
Frau von Luger was anything but a geek, of course. She moved with the grace of a predator, and while she was unarmed―no knives, throwing stars, fighting sticks, or pistols―Frankie wasn't fooled. She was sure the smiling blonde could easily handle poor little Frankie Dekker, even if she wasn't spreadeagled on the sand with expertly applied ropes.
"Look, Annika!" Effie gushed. "She's awake!"
"So I see," von Luger, purred. She stopped just short of the pool of shade under the umbrella. Hands on her hips and her smooth, tan, strong body dripping from the sea, she smiled down at Frankie and the two doctors. "Welcome to Damosel Island, Miss Dekker," she said.
"Yes, welcome," Andi giggled, then gave Frankie's right breast a gentle squeeze.
"Oh, may I?" Effie inquired, her hand hovering above Frankie's left breast.
"She's certainly not in a position to stop you," Andi purred, continuing to squeeze... then release... then squeeze Frankie's breast.
"Point taken," Effie giggled, then began squeezing Frankie's left breast.
"Nrrrrmfh!" Frankie wiggled and writhed and tugged on her bonds as the nerds continued playing with her tits! And Andi was entirely correct, of course. There was nothing she could do to stop the pair from examining her boobs.
Annika smiled down at Frankie and her new friends. "I'm going back in the water," she announced. "Remember, she is not to be untied. I will handle Miss Dekker, at least for the next several days. You may remove her gag to give her a nice drink, but do not untie her."
"Yes, Mother," Effie giggled.
Andi rolled her eyes as she continued kneading Frankie's breast. "Don't provoke her," she whispered to Effie.
"Yes, don't provoke me, Doctor Hyde-Goode," Annika purred, "or I might feel compelled to demonstrate my authority."
Effie's smile faded, then reasserted itself. "Don't worry. We won't untie her."
"Sehr gut," Annika chuckled, turned, and strolled back to the water.
Andi watched von Luger dive over a breaking wave and swim away, then stopped massaging Frankie's breast. "I'm going to mix some drinks," she announced, then stood and brushed sand from her bikini-clad rump.
"I'll remain here and enjoy the shade," Effie purred, continuing to knead Frankie's left breast.
Andi's lips twisted in a quirky smile. "Among other things." She turned and walked away.
Frankie lifted her head to watch the redhead depart, taking a sandy trail through the palms and into what appeared to be a genuine tropical jungle. She then focused on Effie. "Mrrrf!" she complained, and tried to shrug her left shoulder.
"Oh, very well," Effie giggled, then released Frankie's breast. "Seriously," she said, then leaned close and kissed Frankie's tape-gagged lips, "we're going to have a lot of fun. And it's all for the advancement of science!" She then spread her knees and eased Frankie's head to the sand, stood, and strolled towards the sea.
Frankie lifted her head and watched Effie wade into the water up to her thighs, then dive into the churning waves and swim away. She tugged on her inescapable bonds, one more time, then heaved a gagged sigh and willed herself to relax.
More doctors? Experiments? Guinea pig? Damosel Island? Science? Frankie stared up at the underside of the beach umbrella. All this is making only a little more sense than that courtroom dream, she mused. So, von Luger's name is 'Annika.' It fits. Something was nagging at Frankie... then she remembered. Doc Stanton! What's happened to Doc Stanton?
to Damosel Island
Doctor Edith Stanton, M.D., Resident Director and Owner of the Quaking Aspens Sanatorium―former Resident Director and Owner of the Quaking Aspens Sanatorium―heaved a sigh and squirmed in her bonds, her ever increasing, ever more elaborate bonds. The bonds in question were well-conditioned hemp rope, and the expert hands of her "hostess" were tightening loop after loop around Edith's naked body, binding her to an armature of stainless steel.
Edith was balanced on her knees with her hands behind her back and her back against the hard steel. It was more or less a vertical hogtie, a severe vertical hogtie, with her wrists lashed to her ankles. The position might have been precarious but for four factors: (1) the armature incorporated a horizontal triangular ridge that cleaved her labia and supported at least a portion of her weight. In point of fact, the ridge was a minimalist horse, meaning the medieval torture device, not the domesticated animal. (2) a well-rounded butt-plug was also incorporated, and it was doing its share to support Edith's weight. (3) The armature ended in a stainless steel posture collar that was clamped and locked around Edith's neck, immobilizing her head and further anchoring her in place. (4) band after of band of rope bound Edith's body to the armature, and the steel device's deceptively simple form was designed for just this purpose, with numerous well-placed lashing points. And more rope was augmenting Edith's already inescapable bonds with each passing second.
Was Edith comfortable? Hardly. The armature, and therefore her hogtied body, was canted back a few degrees from the vertical, the hogtie itself was something of a trial, and the horse-saddle and butt-plug were decidedly unpleasant.
The "hostess" binding Edith to the armature was well known to her. All members of the Sisterhood with any degree of rank knew about Petra La Roque. They might not have met the mega-rich, 50-something blonde in person, but at the very least they knew her reputation. They'd heard the stories.
Recently, word had come down that Petra had been elected the Sisterhood's Director of Security and Discipline for North America. Actually, "elected" probably wasn't an accurate description of the process. The Sisterhood functioned as a democracy at some levels, but the workings of the senior leadership was something of a mystery. In any case, Edith hadn't voted for Petra La Roque, nor had she been consulted about the appointment.
Edith remembered waking up in what amounted to a plexiglass box, a cube about a meter on a side. She'd been naked, as she was now. Her cube was one of three in a row in a chamber with floor, ceiling, and walls of poured concrete. A row of steel cabinets lined one wall and opposite was a solid steel door. Light came from recessed canisters in the ceiling as well as from the floor of Edith's cube. It was lit with a uniform glow. The ambiance was decidedly utilitarian, with no concession to style or decoration. She languished in her transparent prison for something like an hour. At first, she tried screaming for help and pounding on the thick, transparent walls of the cube, but soon tired of this game. The cube seemed to be completely sealed, but somehow she was able to breathe. Somehow, the thing had ventilation.
Finally, they came for her. The steel door opened and three beautiful women―a Nordic blonde, a tall Asian, and an equally tall Latina―strode into the chamber. All three were dressed in khaki-tan shorts and sky-blue tank tops with a gold badge in the shape of a rook or castle chess piece pinned above their left breasts. They opened Edith's cube―and she didn't see how they did it―hauled her to her feet, and lifted her from the interior.
Edith kicked and struggled and screamed her head off, of course, demanding to be set free, but she was ignored. The blonde and Latina held her by the arms, controlling her easily while the Asian went to one of the cabinets and returned with a ball-gag. "No! No! Mrrrrpfh!" The ball was thrust into her mouth, the strap buckled at the nape of her neck, under her hair, and a secondary strap buckled under her chin. She was then dragged from the chamber, through the steel door, out into a concrete corridor, and towards an elevator.
Edith struggled and mewled through her rubber-filled mouth, but was easily controlled and her gagged cries continued to be ignored. Obviously, her handlers were experts, jaded experts. The elevator led to another corridor, but now there was decorative tile underfoot, rather than sealed concrete. The walls were covered in stucco, and banks of windows afforded views of tropical gardens and a distant beach.
Not in Kansas, anymore, Edith thought. Cliché? Trite? Yes, but it was better than descending into mindless panic.
There was another elevator ride―this one longer and in a much nicer elevator―and they arrived at what was obviously a large, luxurious office. The decor was minimalist-modern, with an emphasis on chrome steel, off-white leather, and glass. There were conversation groupings of sofas, easy chairs, and coffee tables, several large paintings, all abstract and very beautiful, in Edith's educated opinion, as well as a large bronze sculpture on a marble pedestal. It was a Kilborn, a life-size sculpture of a nude woman bound with bronze rope. Her bonds were stringent, almost a reverse-prayer box-tie. She was sitting, her long, straight hair covered her downcast face and her legs tucked to one side with her feet on pointe. Like every Kilborn sculpture Edith had ever seen, the bronze woman was strikingly realistic, beautiful, and simultaneously radiated strength and helplessness.
There was also a massive desk, a glass top supported by steel legs, and seated behind the desk in a throne-like office chair was Petra La Roque. Edith recognized her from red carpet photos at charity events. Normally, Dr. Edith Stanton would have zero interest in such things, but it was prudent for all members of the Sisterhood to be able to recognize Petra La Roque, especially North American members.
Petra smiled―sending a chill down Edith's spine―stood, and stepped around the desk. The CEO of the La Roque fashion empire was dressed for business, tropical business, in an off-white skirt and a matching sleeveless blouse. Her feet were bare and her short, blond hair in stylish disarray. Her skin was deeply tanned, her body well-toned and athletic, and her blue eyes sparkled as she regarded the new arrival.
Edith's heart was hammering. Predatory didn't begin to describe Petra's smile. Petra was beautiful... like a lioness, Edith thought.
"Dr. Edith Stanton," Petra said quietly. "You've been a very bad girl." She gestured to the side and Edith's handler's dragged her in that direction.
It was then that Edith noticed the armature. At first, she thought it was an abstract sculpture of some sort, but then she noticed the triangular ridge and butt-plug, the posture-collar, the padded knee-cups, and the overall shape. It didn't take any great creative insight to imagine herself bound to the thing. Despite her energetic resistance, Edith's handlers installed her in place and held her limbs while Petra began binding her wrists and ankles.
Once Edith was helpless, the three anonymous women made their exit. They hadn't said a word to Edith the entire time, and now, Petra wasn't speaking, either. She was concentrating on her ropework―and Edith had to admit she was a very good rigger. Edith was proud of her own rope skills, but Petra was truly a mistress of the art.
Eventually, neat, tight bands of hemp rope lashed Edith's wrists to her ankles, bound her folded legs in a frog-tie, pinned her waist and torso to the armature, and lashed her elbows a couple of inches apart. Petra then used hemp cord to bind her big-toes together and to the back of the collar, stretching her feet on pointe. Yes, she was now a work of art, and Edith was very glad she was in good shape and hadn't cheated on her yoga exercises.
Petra stood in front of the armature and its victim, smiled, and cupped Edith's rope-framed breasts. "Such beautiful skin," the blonde purred. "Not as many freckles as I like with my redheaded subjects, but the tropical sun will soon see to that." She gave Edith's breasts a gentle squeeze.
"Mrrrr!" Edith shivered in her incredible bonds, but was careful not to include her crotch. Squirming and wiggling atop the armature's cruel saddle was not a good idea.
"Yes, very beautiful," Petra reiterated, "and your hair, as well. It will probably lighten a little in the sun, but I've always had a weakness for gingers." She released Edith's breasts, strolled back to her desk, and sat in her luxurious chair.
Edith watched as Petra tapped and dragged her finger across the screen of a small tablet. Suddenly―"Nrrrpfh!"―the saddle and butt-plug of the armature began to vibrate, just a little. At the same time, the armature's pedestal spun 90° and rolled towards one of the office walls. Apparently (obviously) the pedestal had wheels or treads of some sort. Edith and her very strange mode of transportation stopped short of the wall, there was a pause... then the pedestal began to very slowly turn in place.
Edith very carefully tested her bonds, although she knew them to be inescapable, as the armature continued to revolve, taking her with it, of course. I'm a decoration, she realized, like the Kilborn bronze.
"Welcome to Damosel Island," Petra said from the desk. She continued browsing the tablet. "We'll discuss your situation at length, I assure you, but for now, I have business to conduct." She placed the tablet on the desk and smiled at Edith. At that particular point in the rotation cycle, they were more or less face-to-face. "Don't be embarrassed as my associates come and go during the day. They're used to the sight of my 'temporary art installations.' Most of them have been one of my temporary installations at one time or another."
And from that moment on, Edith was admired as an objet d'art but ignored as a person. She continued to slowly rotate, affording Petra a perfect view of her helplessly restrained body from every angle.
It looked like it was going to be a very long day.
to Damosel Island
Frankie discovered that being naked and spreadeagled on a tropical beach gets old, fast, as does tugging on inescapable rope bonds secured by totally unreachable knots. Granted, it was a very nice tropical beach, a world class tropical beach, but the spectacular view was unchanging, and after the initial introductions (reintroduction in the case of Annika von Luger), her companions (captors) had more or less ignored her. The two doctors (Medical doctors? Scientists? PhD's in Nerd Studies?) frolicked in the surf, Annika swam halfway to the horizon and back, but no one returned to her side to chat and thereby let slip valuable intelligence. Frankie was on a beach. Frankie was on an island (or so the Teutonic amazon had said). Frankie was still a prisoner, and something having to do with science was involved. She was grateful for the umbrella, otherwise she'd probably look like a lobster by now, but mainly she was worried... and helpless... and naked.
Eventually, Frankie drifted off to sleep. Perfectly understandable, really. There were no dreams, judicial or otherwise, none that she could remember, anyway.
And then, Frankie realized Annika was untying her right ankle. That is, the blonde amazon had already untied the relevant rope from the steel ring set in the sand and was releasing the interlaced loops that encircled Frankie's ankle. Frankie lay perfectly still, of course. Maybe this was her chance. She mentally kicked herself for not feigning unconsciousness when she first felt the rope loosening, but hey, she was only human. She'd been asleep. Anyway, Annika had moved on to Frankie's left ankle.
Frankie noted her handler's coral-red bikini and tan, superbly conditioned body were dry, and so was the short blond mop atop her smiling head. Obviously, substantial time had passed since her last swim. The sun was closer to the horizon, Frankie noted, quite a bit closer.
Both ankles untied, Annika moved on to Frankie's left wrist... and then her right... and now Frankie was free. She scrambled to her feet, dropped back a couple of paces, then reached for the tape plastered over her mouth and peeled it away. Medical tape, Frankie noted as she tossed it aside. Now naked and totally free, Frankie dropped into fighting stance, facing her grinning kidnapper.
"Turn around and cross your wrists behind your back," Annika ordered, still smiling her beautiful, sinister smile.
"Bite me," Frankie muttered. "Where are we? And what the hell is going on?"
"It's not my place to answer your questions," Annika chuckled. "I'm your handler. Now, do as you're told."
Frankie glanced to her left and right. Behind Annika were palm trees, then the green wall of the jungle. Beyond, the land rose to rugged mountains covered in more jungle. There was nothing in sight she could use as a weapon. Where's a convenient driftwood club when you really need one? she mused.
Annika gestured to her right, Frankie's left. "If you run that way, eventually you'll encounter the Caribbazon natives. They'll keep you as a pleasure slave, at least until the next village barbeque." She gestured to her left. "That way, you'll find pirates. I think you probably have a good idea what happens when pirates come across a naked woman, especially an attractive naked woman."
Frankie shook her head. "Are you on drugs?"
"No, my dear," Annika chuckled. "All of this will make sense in time... eventually. But for now, I'm sure you're hungry and thirsty. Follow my orders like a good girl."
Frankie glanced to either side, again. Natives? Pirates? What the hell is―Shit!
In one fluid motion Annika and was on Frankie. They both went down, but for Frankie it was a matter of falling and landing in an akward jumble of limbs on the sand. For Annika, it was an expertly executed take-down.
"No!" Frankie whined as rope tightened around her wrists.
"I admire your spirit, Miss Dekker," Annika chuckled as she knotted the wrist rope, "but not to the point of indulgence." Now she was binding Frankie's upper-arms together, just above her elbows.
"Ow!" Frankie complained.
"You bring this on yourself," Annika sighed, and continued applying rope to Frankie's nude, squirming body. "Instead of a simple binding, the minimum required for control, I must be more... elaborate."
"Dammit! That hurts!"
"I'm sure it does," Annika chuckled. She expended all four of the ropes that had previously enforced Frankie's spread-eagle. Now, Frankie's wrists were bound behind her back with her hands palm-to-palm, her elbows bound until they nearly touched, rope pinned her upper arms against her torso and yoked her shoulders, and more rope encircled her waist and lower arms before diving between her legs to cleave her labia and anchor her wrist bonds against her butt.
"You bitch!" Frankie muttered as she was dragged to her feet. "Ow!" Annika had a firm grip on Frankie's hair and was dragging her towards the trail, the trail down which the redheaded doctor, Andi, had disappeared before Frankie's nap.
"You will learn your place, Miss Dekker," Annika said as she dragged Frankie towards the jungle. "It's important for a guinea pig to know her place."
There it is again, Frankie noted, 'guinea pig.'
Frankie's stomach was empty and her mouth dry. She remembered Annika mentioning hunger and thirst, which she took to be an implicit promise of food and drink. I hope my little rebellion doesn't make her reconsider.
The jungle swallowed Frankie and her handler. The waves continued crashing on the beach.
|Welcome to Damosel