Damosel Island
Welcome to Damosel Island

by Van ©2015

Chapter 3

Dramatis Personæ


Edith's fair, freckled, and now slightly sunburned body was dripping with sweat.  She'd been running through the jungle for more than an hour with her wrists crossed and bound with leather thongs behind her back, a burlap-like cloth stuffed in her mouth and held there by a tight cleave-gag of more leather thongs, and her only clothing a pair of leather sandals with laces crisscrossing her shins and calves to just below her knees.  Supposedly, she was being stalked by Petra La Roque, but she hadn't seen her supposed hunter since sprinting away from the blonde's smiling, gloating presence.

She was grateful for the sandals.  The ground underfoot was mostly sand, but there were the occasional tree roots and loose clutter of fallen leaves.  She'd kept to the path for the first ten or fifteen minutes, following its twists and turns and trying not to leave a trail.  That said, she soon realized that treading lightly was probably not as important as she'd first thought.  The sand was too loose and dry to hold distinct prints, and it was clear that the path was well-trafficked.  I better get off the trail before I run into someone or it gets to wherever it's going, she reasoned, and began looking for opportunities to step off the path without damaging the foliage and betraying her actions.

Finally, she found some firm, open ground―as firm as any she'd seen, anyway―and stepped off the trail.  Edith Stanton was no Girl Scout, not by a long shot, but she thought she'd succeeded in making an undetectable exit.  She continued fleeing, heading away from the ocean and continued to take careful steps.

Slowly, the land rose and the jungle gave way to rainforest.  To her untrained eye, the same ferns and leafy plants carpeted the forest floor and the same vines climbed the tree trunks; however, the tree roots had become thicker and more exposed, buttressing she believed it was called, and the trees themselves were increasingly massive.  Also, the carpet of leaf-litter grew steadily thicker.  Visibility actually improved.  That is, she could see further into the green gloom.  At the same time, not leaving a trail became more problematic.  Looking back, she couldn't see distinct sandal-prints, but knew she was disturbing the brown and gray leaves as she picked her way over and around the roots.

Parrots cawed, insects buzzed, and Edith continued to sweat.  The air was hot, humid, and still, and the cloying cloth filling her mouth had long since become soaked with saliva.  Edith was increasingly tired, overheated, and thirsty, but she had to keep going.  She had to find a place to hide and/or a way to free herself.

She continued on, following a gentle valley as it climbed into the mountains.  Every now and then she looked back and caught a glimpse of the blue sea through an opening in the trees.  The island was beautiful, without a doubt.  Under different circumstances, she'd be enjoying herself.  Edith Stanton was no ecotourist, but a hike in the rainforest could be fun―with the proper clothing, a canteen, a day-pack with a picnic lunch and a thermos full of of some ice cold, rum-based concoction, and most importantly, no blond psychopath with a tranquilizer rifle on her tail.

The slope reached a large open meadow covered with tall, green, nearly waist-high grass.  Looking back, the view was magnificent, a picture postcard of tropical splendor, and there was still no sign of her pursuer.  The grassy field was crisscrossed by game-trails.  Something or someone traversed the field on a regular basis.  Deer?  Wild pigs?  Velociraptors?  Edith had no idea, except for the Velociraptors.  If Petra La Roque had succeeded in breeding Velociraptors, she would have bragged about it.

Anyway, Edith figured she could cross the clearing without leaving any more trail than she had so far.  She would then head higher into the mountains, maybe find a sharp rock and somehow cut herself free, find a cave or a dense tangle of tree roots, and wait 'til night.  Then, if Petra had been telling the truth, she'd be safe―naked, bound, gagged, and "safe."

Once she left the shade of the forest, the sun was like an anvil.  A gentle breeze was blowing, evidenced both by its gentle caress of her sweaty skin and the waving grass, and it certainly helped.  Her best guess was that the field was about the size of a football field.  Maybe bigger.  The game trails seemed to meet in the very middle of the field, then branched off in various directions towards various valleys.  As Edith neared the nexus of trails―she froze in place.

"Boom, boom, boom, ba-boom-boom-boom!"  It was a deep, hollow drum, somewhere far in the distance and off to Edith's left.

"Boom, boom-boom-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom!"  Another drum answered, this time to the right, and closer!

What to do?  Should she run?  Run where?  And who was beating the damn drums?  It was like something out of an old Tarzan movie.  And suddenly, things were even more like an old Tarzan movie.

All across the field figures rose from the grass... female figures.  The closest was several yards away, and all were nearly as naked as Edith, except they were wearing loincloths and bandeau-tops of fringed, chamois-thin leather, as well as necklaces and bracelets of shells and animal teeth.  Their bodies were painted with stripes, spots, irregular blotches in different earth tones, jungle camouflage, and they were armed, the weapons evenly divided between spears and bows and arrows.  Oddly, even at this distance Edith could tell the―natives?―were of every human race.  That is, she was surrounded by white-, black-, and brown-skinned female warriors and―"Mrrrpfh!"

One of the natives had tried tossing a lasso over Edith's head, and she'd nearly succeeded!  The rope landed on Edith's right shoulder, but she instinctively ducked and the loop fell away before it could tighten around her upper body.  Edith started running, thereby narrowly evading a second thrown lasso.  Maybe she could force her way through the circle, but she knew it was probably hopeless.  Not only were there a great many of the she-warriors, but they already had her pretty much boxed in.  And then there was the little matter of Edith being bound, gagged, and nearly exhausted.

The natives hooted and hollered as they closed in on Edith.  And then, the inevitable happened.  A lasso dropped over Edith's head and body and succeeded in tightening around her upper arms and torso.  Two more quickly followed, and then the warriors were upon her.

"Mrrrrf!"  Edith kicked and squirmed as best she could, but soon found herself on the grass, being held by several strong hands as her laughing captors first thrust a long pole through her bound arms and against her spine, rump, and legs, then lashed her to the pole with neat, multiple strands of rope around her ankles, above and below her knees, thighs, waist, and above and below her breasts.  They pinned the back of her gagged-head to the pole as well, tightening strands across her forehead, through her cleave-gagged-mouth, and across her throat.

A pair of warriors lifted Edith and her pole onto their shoulders, there was a general cheer accompanied by the shaking of bows and spears, and the amazons carried her away.  Edith could barely move, she could barely even wiggle.  The distant drums continued, only now they were playing the same "tune," or drum-solo, or whatever.

Edith heaved a sigh and closed her eyes.  They were carrying her back to the coast, of that she was sure, but that and her total helplessness were just about the only things of which she was sure.  At least Petra didn't catch me, she thought, but am I out of the frying pan and into the fire?

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 3

Frankie wasn't well versed in the world of kink, but she knew what was waiting for her in the center of the room, under a bank of spotlights.  It was a "Sybian," a piece of highly specialized furniture in the form of a half-barrel well-padded with black leather.  In the case of this particular model, the padding was sculpted like a saddle, and at the very top was a ridge of pink plastic or latex bristling with tiny nubs and a vertical, vaguely anatomically correct phallus jutted from the center of the ridge.  The thing was a fucking machine, at the very least a powerful vibrator, but Frankie knew some models incorporated both vibration and a thrusting action.

Oh-by-the-way, a "T"-shaped steel armature with dangling leather straps and was mounted to the Sybian's back end, and more straps on the Sybian itself waited to secure the rider's ankles and legs.


"Don't be a baby," Annika chuckled as she dragged Frankie forward.

Naked, her wrists bound behind her back with nylon cord, a steel shock-collar locked around her neck, and a ball-gag plugging her mouth, Frankie kicked and fought for all she was worth.  Unfortunately, Annika continued exhibiting her superb handling skills.  In a surprisingly short time, Frankie found herself straddling the pink ridge with the phallus inside her pussy and her collar turned and the ring on its former front somehow clipped to the center of the "T."  One by one, Annika buckled straps around Frankie's ankles, thighs, waist, and torso, above and below her bobbing breasts.  As each strap tightened, Frankie lost a little more freedom of motion... not that she'd ever been free to begin with.

Annika untied Frankie's wrists, then seized her left hand and buckled Frankie's left wrist in a cuff at the end of the "T."  Her right wrist was next, followed by her right and left upper arms.  Annika then went back over all the straps, tightening them as required, and Frankie's struggles grew even more pathetic and limited.

The final result was Frankie straddling the Sybian with her legs bent and strapped down, in the manner of a frog-tie, and her upper body strapped to the armature with her arms outstretched to either side.  She bucked, twisted, and struggled with all her strength.  The armature didn't even shake.  The straps creaked a little, but that was it.  Lifting her crotch off the ridge or extracting herself from the phallus was utterly impossible.

Annika stood in front of Frankie and watched her explore her bonds.  Hands on hips and the usual gloating, infuriating smile on her beautiful face, the blonde let her charge satisfy herself that she was helpless.

Finally, Frankie stopped struggling and stared daggers at her handler.  When I get out off this island, she promised herself, I'm gonna take a karate or judo class and learn how to prevent blond amazons from manhandling me like a goddamned Barbi doll.

Orgasmatron Project LogoJust then, the door of the chamber opened and the doctors entered.  Both were in outfits similar to Annika's, but with the addition of sky-blue lab coats.  A logo was embroidered on the left breast pocket in the form of a rook or castle chess piece and the words "Orgasmatron Project."

Apparently, Petra La Roque is dead serious about this nonsense, Frankie thought, staring at the lab coats.

"Good morning!" Andi and Effie said, more or less in unison.  The friendly smiles on their faces were... infuriating.

"Oh, look at the poor thing's hair," Effie gushed, pulled a hairbrush from her lab coat pocket, and stepped behind the Frankie and the Sybian.

Frankie stared at Andi and Annika as the brush and Effie's fingers began brushing and untangling her tousled brown locks.

"Now, just so you understand," Andi said, gesturing towards the Sybian, "this is not the Orgasmatron."

"This is just an apparatus for evaluating your general sensitivity to orgasmagenic stimuli," Effie added.

"Mrrrrrr!" Frankie growled.  It was an angry warning.  She knew it was pointless, but Frankie Dekker wasn't about to start weeping and begging.

Effie continued brushing Frankie's hair.  "Don't worry, darling, this technology is very well tested, both the hardware and software."

"Mrrr!"  Frankie would have liked to turn her head and burn the bubbly little Brit to ashes with her laser beam eyes, but the collar wouldn't let her.  Also, it would interfere with Effie's grooming efforts, and Frankie had to admit the brush gliding through her hair felt good.

Meanwhile, Andi had gone to a cabinet and returned with some kind of... cap?  It was like a cross between a beanie and a hairnet woven from elastic straps and studded with a dozen or more metal rivets.

"Remember the old sensor cap?" Effie giggled as she continued brushing Frankie's hair.

Andi held the thing in her hands for Annika's inspection.  Given Effie's question, Frankie surmised it was a "sensor cap."

"The first generation cap had a separate ribbon-wire for each sensor," Andi explained.  "They got tangled up all the time.  It was very frustrating."

"Fascinating," Annika drawled.  Obviously, she found the topic anything but fascinating.

"Wireless technology is much better," Effie said.  She'd finished brushing Frankie's hair and was gathering it into a ponytail.  She zipped a tiny cable-tie around the ponytail's base to keep it in place, then took a firm but gentle grasp on Frankie's head.

Andi stepped forward and stretched the cap over Frankie's head.  The captive tried to struggle, but between the collar and Effie's hands, it was a futile effort.  Soon, she was wearing the cap and the doctors released her head.  The cap was like a cross between a watch cap and a hefty hairnet, and Andi buckled a thin strap under Frankie's chin to anchor it in place.

"Mrrrf!"  Frankie tossed her head, but failed miserably to dislodge the cap.  She did succeed in imparting a slight wobble to her breasts, but that was it.

Effie stepped to the front to stand next to her colleague.  Annika stood to their left, her arms crossed below her chest and smiling her beautiful, evil smile.

Meanwhile, Andi had pulled an iPad-mini from her lab coat and was tapping and gliding her way through various menus.  Both scientists were gazing intently at the tiny screen.  There was a pause... then both scientists smiled at Frankie.  "Diagnostics complete.  All sensors are green, the machine as well, and the entertainment program is loaded and ready."

"I'm going for a swim," Annika announced, spun on her booted heels, and strode through the open door.

"The control room?" Andi suggested.

"Of course," Effie agreed.

Frankie watched as the scientists each blew her an air-kiss, giggled, and left the chamber, pulling the door closed behind them.

That's it? Frankie thought, blinking in surprise as she heard the door lock engage.  Seconds ticked by.  I expected them to―"Mrrrk!"

The ridge and phallus had begun to vibrate!  The power was low, but the vibrations were definitely there.  Frankie tugged on her bonds and shivered.  More time passed... and slowly... ever so slowly... the vibrations increased their intensity.  Waves of vibration began pulsing along the ridge and up the phallus.  Frankie did her best to ignore the sensations building between her legs, to ignore her building arousal, but like freeing herself from her bonds, she knew it was a lost cause.

As minute followed minute, Frankie realized it wasn't a matter of the vibrators simply being on.  Nor was it a matter of a slow crescendo of ever-increasing power.  Something much more complicated was happening.  The ridge and phallus buzzed and pulsed and there was a pattern to the frequency, intensity, and position on the ridge.  It was almost... musical.  The Sybian was a musical instrument, but it was playing her, not the other way around.

Foreplay, Frankie mused.  The damn thing knows how to do foreplay.

By this time Frankie's body was shining with sweat and her breasts were heaving as she panted through her gag.  She knew she was riding the Sybian to a crashing orgasm.  That was very clear, but it was going to be a long journey.  The outcome was inevitable, but the machine was taking its time.

It's designed that way, Frankie mused.  Its clever!  That's what Effie meant by hardware and software.  It's smart!  She tugged on her bonds and an intense shiver rippled through her captive body.  This could be... bad!

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 3

Edith was in a bad way by the time she arrived at the beach.  She knew she was at the shoreline by the smell of the salt air, the crash of the surf, and finally, the water lapping the feet of the "natives" carrying her pole.

And just to confirm their arrival, her porters waded out until the waves were splashing their thighs, then dipped Edith and her pole in the water!  "Mrrrrrf!"  Edith and her pole remained horizontal and the immersion was brief, no more than a couple of seconds.  And then, she was back on their shoulders, they sloshed back to the sand, and she was being carried down the beach.  She was now dripping wet, of course, including her rope bonds, and with her head pinned and lashed to the pole, like the rest of her, she couldn't see much.  Her best view was still of the sand directly beneath her bound, gagged, and helpless body

In addition to the pair carrying Edith and the pole, she thought at least four additional natives had decided to accompany her to wherever she was being taken.  The others from the clearing had remained behind, where they were no doubt busy scouring the rainforest for additional naked, bound and gagged damsels-in-distress who might be at large.

Finally, and not to Edith's great surprise, they arrived at The Native Village.

Everyone in the Sisterhood―everyone at Edith Stanton's level of membership, anyway―knew about Petra La Roque's Native Village and her Pirate Queen's Castle.  They'd all seen the brochures and promotional videos and gossiped about how great (and deliciously dangerous) it would be to book a holiday at Petra's luxury resort.  Yes, it was expensive, but Sisters got a substantial discount, especially if they agreed to a working holiday as a role-playing "cast member."  All (or most) agreed that a visit to Damosel Island certainly sounded like fun.

That said, Petra La Roque had a reputation.  It was whispered that the real reason the Council of Mothers had appointed her to enforce the Sisterhood rules and guidelines in North America was to keep from having to arrest her for breaking said rules and guidelines.  Petra was said to be a capricious and demanding Top, and she was always the Top, in every scenario.

And as for Edith's arrest and the seizure of the Quaking Aspen Sanatorium and its staff, her own little slice of her tier of the Sisterhood, Edith knew she'd been negligent in implementing the security upgrades mandated by the last Sisterhood inspection, but this was way over the top!  She hadn't even been arraigned by a Sisterhood tribunal, nor had she been granted access to legal counsel.  Failure to install an alarm system sufficient to keep a nosy reporter out of her playpen?  How about total failure to abide by the judicial guidelines and safeguards of the Sisterhood Charter?  If Edith was guilty, Petra La Roque was even more guilty, and of a much greater offense!

Anyway, at the moment it was all moot.  Edith Stanton was a naked captive "awaiting trial," and Petra's plaything.

Finally, they'd arrived at the village beach and Edith was released from the pole.  Her wrists remained bound behind her back with leather thongs, of course, and she remained stuff- and cleave-gagged with a rough-spun cloth and more leather thongs.  However, her sandals were unlaced and removed and she was now barefoot, even more naked.  Her hair remained in its thong-enforced French braid.

The village looked more or less as she'd expected: huts on platforms with thatched roofs and open sides to let the ocean breeze blow through.  It was all very picturesque and "primitive," if you ignored the subtle signs of indoor plumbing and electrical service.  There were the usual canoes pulled up on the sand and nets hanging from frames.  Also, tall, vertical posts were scattered about, all decorated with "primitive carvings" and bright paint.

In addition, Edith and her handlers trooped past a room-sized cage of solidly lashed poles with a sand floor, and inside the cage was a rather naked, rather forlorn maiden.  She was in her mid-twenties, with brown hair, tan skin, an athletic build (in a feminine, very attractive way), and a very pretty face.  Her wrists were lashed behind her back, like Edith, and she gazed at her fellow captive with a pitiful, heartbreaking expression.

Poor thing, Edith thought, imaging the sad little brunette strapped to a patient bed back at Quaking Aspens.  I wouldn't mind having her as in inpatient.  I'd take good care of her.

And then Edith was past the cage and was being led deeper into the village.  The pseudo-primitive architecture didn't change, but now the huts were tucked between palm and banyan trees (Edith thought they were banyans) and some were built up in the trees and linked together by rope bridges.  More "natives" were present, some lounging around the village and some busy with various tasks.  Most were beautiful women, but a few were handsome men.  All were dressed in loincloths and most of the women in matching bandeaus.  As she'd noticed before, the entire genome of Homo sapiens seemed to be represented.  Petra's Native Village was a United Nations of nearly naked pulchritude.

Edith was led to a pair of vertical posts solidly planted in the sandy soil six or seven feet apart and her wrists untied.  Finally!  However, she was immediately retied in a standing spread-eagle with rough looking but actually quite soft and pliant rope.  There was never a question of resistance.  Edith's handlers were numerous and supremely competent.  Soon, gagged and naked, Edith was standing with her arms and legs splayed and stretched wide.  And then... she was abandoned.

Edith watched as her handlers strolled away, some heading back the way they'd come, and some deeper into the surrounding village and jungle.  Edith was in the shade of one of the broad, giant trees―Thank god―but was very thirsty... and increasingly hungry.

Time passed... during which the villagers ignored Edith completely.

And then, there was a bit of a stir.  Edith noticed villagers staring to the side, to Edith's right, and motioning to one another.  Work (or lounging) continued, but something was happening.  And then, exactly what that something was became crystal clear.

Petra La Roque strolled into view.  She was wearing sandals similar to those that had formerly protected Edith's feet, but they were finer, decorated with seed-beads and dangling tufts of white feathers.  She was also dressed in a skimpy loincloth and narrow bandeau, like the "other natives," but Petra's garments were of pale doeskin, almost white, and like her sandals, were richly decorated with seed-beads, shells, and white feathers.  In addition, armlets of hammered gold dimpled her biceps and a necklace of numerous formidable animal claws graced her throat. 

Petra was the very picture of a Jungle Queen, her deeply tanned, fit, curvaceous body on open display.  The loincloth and bandeau were more decoration than clothing.  And, in Edith's opinion, the bandeau was worthy of some sort of medal for heroic containment of boobilage above and beyond the call of habiliment.  Never have so few square inches contained so many cubic inches so gallantly, Edith mused.  The icing on the proverbial cake were the prominent pokies visible on the surface of the bandeau.

At Petra's side strode a pair of very formidable women, one African and the other a European brunette.  Both were in their late 30's or early 40's, with athletic, very feminine physiques.  They were dressed like their blond Queen, but the African's loincloth and bandeau were rust-red chamois and her feather decorations mostly red.  The European's costume was dark-tan chamois and her decorative feathers blue and green.  Both were armed with spears and had knives nearly the size of short-swords strapped to their right thighs.

Smiling broadly, Petra walked to Edith and stood in front of the spreadeagled redhead with her hands on her hips.  "Now that's what I'm talking about," she gushed.  "A really fine start."

The European turned to the African and raised an eyebrow.

"Freckles," the African told her spear-wielding colleague with a smile, and the brunette nodded in understanding.

"A fine start," Petra reiterated, then took a step forward, cupped Edith's breasts, and gave them a gentle squeeze.

Edith shivered, tugged on her bonds, and closed her eyes.  Gag aside, she'd decided not to beg or whine in complaint.  Petra La Roque would move things along according to her timetable.

Petra started kneading Edith's beasts.  "Have her washed and anointed with a generous coat of the witch doctor's finest sunscreen and evil spirit repellent," she purred.  "Then water and feed her.  Remember, she'll be dining with me at tonight's luau, so don't over-feed her."

"Yes, Your Primitive Majesty," the African said with a bow.

Petra turned her head and focused her smile on the dark-skinned beauty.  "Are you mocking me?" she inquired.

"Of course, Your Maleficent Magnificence," the African answered.

The European smiled at Petra and winked.

"Oh," Petra chuckled.  "Just so we're clear."

"We'll take care of your freckle-farming project," the European promised.

"Good."  With that, Petra released Edith's pink, freckled breasts, and strolled away.  Her spear-bearing retinue followed.

Edith watched Petra depart.  Petra La Roque certainly takes care of herself, she had to admit.  The loincloth was very much a thong in the back, and Petra's butt was firm and tan and her back and legs smooth and strong.

Soon, the Jungle Queen was gone and Edith settled in to wait for the promised bath, water, and food.  She had no doubt that eventually her needs would be met.  No one would dare ignore the commands of the Jungle Queen.

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 3

The Sybian had coaxed a crashing multiple orgasm from Frankie's body, followed by multiple non-multiple orgasms, and Frankie was exhausted.


Her helpless body glistening with sweat.  Her breasts bobbing as she drew deep, regular breaths through her nostrils and ball-gagged mouth.


The machine had buzzed and buzzed and made her cum.  It would then let her rest... then would make her cum again!  The vibratory sessions and rest periods varied in length and with no apparent pattern Frankie had been able to discern.  Somehow, the demonic device seemed to know when she achieved orgasm, and only then would it stop.  It also seemed to know when she had more or less recovered, and only then would it begin to buzz again.

The current rest period seemed to be unusually long.  Maybe the machine was finished with her.  Maybe it knew her strength was fading fast.  I wonder if I can buy one of these things, Frankie thought, and I wonder if I'm losing my mind.

"Oh, the poor thing!"

Frankie lifted her head.  The chamber door was open and Effie and Andi were standing in the threshold.  It was Effie who had spoken.  Their concern seemed genuine, in Frankie's opinion, even it it was their fault she was in her current state.

Effie rushed forward and began unbuckling Frankie's left wrist.

Andi also rushed forward, but she slapped Effie's hand before she'd finished disengaging the buckle.

"Ow!" Effie complained.

"You know the rules," Andi said, re-securing the end of the strap.  "Annika handles the test-subject.  Only Annika."

"She's running back and forth on the beach," Effie said.  "We can handle Frankie.  She's practically comatose."

"Actually," a new, familiar voice stated, "I finished my wind-sprints some time ago."

Effie and Andi turned towards the door and froze.  Frankie also focused on the doorway.

Annika was standing in the doorway, smiling her usual friendly (sinister) smile.  She was dressed in a bikini, this one a very pretty shade of buttercup-yellow, and her tan, smooth skin glistened with sweat, much like Frankie's.  However, it was obvious the Teutonic amazon's state was explained by vigorous exercise, not by having been boinked repeatedly by a demonic, computer-controlled machine.

"What did I tell you about handling Miss Dekker?" Annika demanded.

"We can handle her," Effie said.  Her tone was defensive, not defiant.  It was also quite clear that she more than a little afraid of Annika von Luger.

"It won't happen again," Andi said, glaring at her colleague, then sending a weak, apologetic smile towards Annika.  She then nodded towards Effie.  "I won't let her do anything."

"I am the only one who will handle Miss Dekker," Annika stated.  "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Annika," Andi and Effie said, more or less in unison.

"Out!" Annika ordered.

The scientists heaved simultaneous sighs.  Then, heads down, trooped towards Annika and the door.

"We'll discuss this facility's security regulations tonight," Annika added, "after supper, after I've put Miss Dekker to bed."

"I-I-I d-don't think that's necessary," Andi stammered.

Effie nodded rather frantically in agreement.

"But I do," Annika purred, then stood aside, clearing the threshold.  "Tonight," she reiterated as the doctors made their exit.

Annika stood and watched the departing scientists for a few seconds, a disturbing smile curling her lips.  Then, she turned to Frankie and strolled forward.  "Let's get you off the machine and to your room," the blonde purred.  "You can take a shower, I'll bring you a breakfast tray, and then you can take a nap.  Later, I'll take you for a nice run on the beach."

Frankie watched as Annika began unbuckling her many bonds.  All of that sounded good―the shower, the food, and especially the nap―except for the run, but she doubted if she'd have much choice in the matter.

Soon, Frankie's wrists, upper arms, collar, and torso were freed from the armature, but even if she'd wanted to resist or, ridiculous as the very thought might be, overpower von Luger and make her escape, this was immediately made impossible.  Annika produced a length of cord and lashed Frankie's crossed wrists together behind her sweaty back.  The rest of the straps were unbuckled, Annika lifted Frankie free from Sybian, then hefted her on her shoulder in a fireman's carry and carried her away.

Naked, wrist-bound, and ball-gagged, Frankie heaved a sigh as she stared down at the passing concrete and Annika's strong, tan legs and firm, tan buttocks, where the dimpled globes weren't covered by the yellow bikini-bottom.

I wonder what she's gonna do to the science-geeks, Frankie wondered.  For some reason, and Frankie couldn't explain her attitude if her life had depended on it, she hoped Annika would go easy on Andi and Effie, especially Effie.  Andi was cute, in a dweebish sort of way, but Effie was adorable, sort of like Hermione Granger in a lab coat.  But they tortured me on that damn Sybian!  It was true, but still, they were cute and adorable, also adorable and cute.  I'm an idiot, Frankie decided.

Somewhat to Annika's surprise, Frankie was fast asleep when they reached her cell and she gently eased her off her shoulder and onto the bed.  "Amazing," Annika chuckled to herself under her breath.  She unbuckled and eased the ball-gag from Frankie's mouth, then untied her wrists and exited the cell, locking the door behind her.

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 3


Chapter 2 Chapter 4