Damosel Island
Welcome to Damosel Island

by Van ©2015

Chapter 4

Dramatis Personæ


The rest of the day at Project Orgasmatron passed without incident.  Frankie was allowed to take her nap, Annika delivered the promised breakfast tray, and Frankie took another nap.  Then, Annika reappeared and tied Frankie's wrists behind her back.  The naked brunette didn't resist.  She'd decided to only challenge her handler if and when she had a clear chance of success.

Next came the promised run.  Frankie pouted and muttered complaints under her breath, but truth be told, she'd much rather run naked on the sandy beach, even with her wrists bound behind her back, than languish in her cell.  At one point, Frankie did a double-take.  She looked to the side and thought she saw a woman in a loincloth and bandeau leaning on a spear at the edge of the jungle, but when she looked back there was nothing there, nothing but green leaves and dappled shadows.

Dinner that night was some sort of seafood stew―fish, shrimp, scallops, lobster, and vegetables and stewed tomatoes, all in a spicy, thick, delicious broth.  Conversation was minimal.  Frankie could tell the science-dweebs were a little jumpy, maybe, but it was never revealed why they were nervous.  Annika was very much not nervous.  She was confident and in charge, as always.

The others had dressed for dinner.  Annika, Andi, and Effie were in skimpy tops―bathing suit tops, really―and sarongs or lava-lavas or whatever you call the lightweight, colorful cloths wrapped around their hips like long skirts.  All four present had their hair loose, and Andi and Effie each had an orchid tucked behind an ear.  Annika was flower-free and her blond locks were too short to reach her shoulders, but she had added a headband of cowrie shells to her ensemble.  Frankie, as usual, was rockin' her birthday suit, with her wrists tied behind her back and the shock-collar around her neck.  She very much felt like the Plain Jane of the party.

Anyway, the meal was consumed and Annika led Frankie back to her cell.  She had no idea what was on the scientist's schedule for tomorrow and had been too proud to ask.  Annika untied her wrists, wished her a goodnight―a sentiment that was not returned―and made her exit, locking the steel door behind her.  Frankie heaved a sigh, dragged herself to the bathroom alcove, splashed water on her face and emptied her bladder, then returned to the main cell, flopped onto the mattress, and closed her eyes.

I am so screwed, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.  Given what had happened that morning on the Sybian, that was literally true, but at the moment Frankie was too tired to appreciate the irony.

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 4

Now that Frankie was safely tucked away in her cell, Annika led Andi and Effie to her bedroom.  Both scientists were now overtly nervous, which Annika found at once amusing and arousing.

Annika's quarters were spartan, as this was a temporary assignment.  There was an attached bathroom with a shower, and one wall was nothing but glass, a sliding door and picture window looking out on the jungle and the beach beyond.  The decor was Modern and luxurious, with wood paneling, furniture with clean, elegant lines, a sofa and coffee table for conversation, an overstuffed chair with a nearby standing lamp for reading, and a king-sized platform bed.  The lights were on and the drapes closed.

Andi and Effie stood side-by-side and hand-in-hand, doing their best not to look like a pair of meerkats invited to tea by a lioness.

Annika picked up a straight-back chair near the entrance to the bathroom, carried it towards her "guests," and planted it directly behind Andi.  "Sit, please," Annika purred, then took Effie's free hand and led the brunette towards the bed.  "And now for our security demonstration," she announced

Andi had followed Annika's order and perched her butt on the chair.  Effie was reluctant to release her colleague's hand and held on as long as she could, but soon found herself sitting on the foot of the bed and watching Annika ready a coil of rope.  She opened her mouth to voice the many well-reasoned and logical arguments against the necessity of any kind of practical security demonstration, but was preempted and overruled.

"This demonstration will be in three stages," Annika lectured, then seized Effie's left wrist, forced her face-down on the bed, and tied her wrists together behind her back with her hands palm-to-palm.

"Annika," Effie whined, "please, this is unnecessary!"  All her pleas were ignored as Annika tied her ankles together, then tied her knees together, followed by her elbows.  "That's too tight!" Effie complained.  "Mrrrrf!"  Annika had stuffed a wad of cloth in her mouth and was tying a folded scarf as a cleave-gag.  "Nrrrrf!"  That last comment was another whine.

"As you can see," Annika said as she strolled towards the bedroom's chest of drawers, "phase one demonstrates how easy it is to control a struggling damsel, if one has the proper training."  She opened a drawer and pulled out a large bundle of several neat coils of rope.  "Phase two will reinforce that lesson."

Andi watched with growing alarm as Annika carried the rope in her direction.  "Uh, Annika, I think we get it.  The lesson, I mean."  Annika had released the bundle and dropped the coils to the floor behind the chair.  "Ya really don't have to―Hey!"

Now it was Effie's turn to watch.  Bound, gagged, and helpless on the bed, she had an excellent view as Annika first stripped Andi naked, then began lashing her to the chair.  The divestment part had been easy.  The skirt/wrap came away immediately, and the bottom and top preserving Andi's pale, freckled modesty was a string bikini.  All too soon, the redhead was helpless, her wrists tied together behind her back and the chair, her ankles tied together, and then her knees.  And as soon as Andi was sufficiently helpless, Annika gave her a stuff- and cleave-gag, like Effie's.

"No!  Annika!  Mrrrrpfh!"

Annika then added additional ropes, and in a surprisingly short time Andi was in a clearly inescapable sitting hogtie with her ankles lashed to her wrists under the chair and neat, multiple strands of rope yoking her shoulders, passing above and below her breasts, encircling her waist and the chair, crossing her lap, and binding her to the chair.  In Effie's educated opinion, Andi might be able to rock the chair back and forth until it tipped over and she crashed to the floor, but she was in the chair to stay.

Finally, and without any real need, Annika reinforced Andi's gag, first with a roll of Vet-wrap, and then with several tight turns of duct-tape!  Andi's lower face was now tightly mummified from nose to chin.

Annika gathered the remaining rope coils, returned to the bed, and watched, together with Effie, as Andi squirmed and bucked and wiggled, exploring her bonds and executing the required Courtesy Struggle.  The evilly grinning blonde indulged herself for something like two minutes, then shifted her sinister gaze to Effie.  "Let's revisit phase one for a moment, shall we?"

Effie squirmed and struggled, but couldn't prevent Annika from removing her sarong and bikini.  Annika then reinforced Effie's bonds, adding neat, tightly cinched bindings below her knees, pinning her arms to her sides above and below her breasts, yoking her shoulders, and passing around her waist and forearms.  Finally, she added a crotch-rope that not only cleaved Effie's labia and butt-cheeks, but pinned her hands against her buttocks.  When Annika tied the final knot and stepped back, Effie was capable of a credible wiggle-worm imitation, but not much else.

Annika then began removing her own clothing, what there was of it.  Soon her sarong and bikini were a heap on the floor and she was piling the pillows against the headboard.

Andi watched from her chair and Effie from the foot of the bed as Annika reached for the ceiling, arched her back, and executed a sensual, boob-flattening, full-body stretch... then reclined on her back against the pillows.

"Phase three will demonstrate the value of psychological training in the control of helpless damsels," Annika purred, then focused on Effie... and spread her strong, tan legs.  "Wiggle on up here, schönes Würmchen," she ordered.

Effie blinked in surprise.

"If you don't," Annika added.  "I'll reinforce your gag, like your colleague in the chair, turn your bondage into a stringent hogtie, and you'll spend the night on the floor.  Then, I'll give Dr. O'Hara an opportunity to play."

Effie shivered in her bonds.

"Well?" Annika chuckled.

Effie rolled and squirmed until her head and shoulders were facing Annika, shook the hair from her gagged face, and began making her way up the bed, inchworm fashion.

Annika winked at Andi.  "I think you both know I'm not really a sadistic bitch," she chuckled, "but I've been hired to control Petra La Roque's more reluctant playmates, and I take my duties very seriously.  Only I will handle Miss Dekker.  Only I will release and restore her restraints, no matter how inconvenient it might be for your research.  Agreed?"

Andi heaved a well-gagged sigh, and nodded.

Meanwhile, Effie had reached Annika's naked crotch and was nudging the grinning amazon's labia and pubic bush with her gagged mouth.

"There, you see," Annika chuckled.  "She knows what's expected of her."

Big surprise, Andi thought as she watched Annika lean forward, untie Effie's gag and pluck the wad from her mouth, then lie back against pillows.  Neither scientist had been accepted for research fellowships with La Roque International's R&D Special Projects or postings to Damosel Island without demonstrated proclivities for this sort of game.  Andi focused on what she could see of her colleague's naked and stringently bound body, and tried to ignore the squishiness between her legs.  The wetness of Andi's pussy might be a secret between her and the chair-bottom, but the scientist's erect nipples were there for all to see, and she was sure Annika hadn't missed that particular pair of datums.

Her gag removed, Effie could concentrate on licking and probing Annika with her tongue, and she was doing so, with enthusiasm.

Annika shivered and continued smiling at Andi, her hands atop Effie's bobbing head and her fingers curled and gently clutching the little Brit's tousled hair.

Andi noticed that Annika's nipples were also erect.  She knows I love Effie, the helpless redhead thought.  That's why she's making me watch, to torture me.  And it was such sweet torture!  Her love for the adorable English rose was unrequited and, as far as she knew, unsuspected... but how could you work with Dr. Effie Hyde-Goode for more than a minute and not fall in love?

Effie continued munching Annika's carpet, as the saying goes, Andi continued being bound and gagged and unable (and unwilling) to turn away, and Annika continued being in charge (and pretending to be the cruel, sadistic bitch she knew she wasn't).

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 4

The next few days settled into something of a routine.  Frankie was roused from her cell and fed breakfast, then either taken for a run, a swim (if you can be call thrashing around in the ocean while bound and gagged a swim), or put through a rigorous yoga class.  Her wrists were always crossed and bound behind her back, unless whatever was being done to her dictated otherwise, and Annika did all the binding and unbinding.  Frankie remained naked, except for the steel shock-collar, and Annika's superb handling, binding, and lifeguard skills and the threat of the collar kept her under control.

It was humiliating, especially the yoga classes.  Andi, Effie, and Annika would take part, with the science-dweebs dressed in tropical yoga costumes in pleasing pastels and Annika and Frankie naked.  The first time, Frankie refused to take part, explaining that she didn't do yoga, they could all bite her, etc.  Andi and Effie had giggled and explained that yoga was wonderful and fun and good for her, but Annika let the shock-collar do the talking.  Again, the punishment delivered by the hellish device was more alarming than painful, but Frankie got the point and agreed to participate.  Naked and collared, but not bound, Frankie learned the joy of flexibility.

Truth be told, the exercise periods were fun.  Frankie liked working out and the Damosel Island beach was spectacular.  Bondage was another matter, of course, but Frankie was a prisoner.

Also, there was old fashioned beach frolicking, in which the doctors and the amazon donned bikinis and swam and sunbathed and guzzled cold drinks.  Frankie was always "invited" to come, but remained bikini-free and was always bound and often gagged.  Annika did all the tying and untying, as usual, and if Frankie was spreadeagled on the sand, like the first time, tied between two palm trees, or otherwise exposed to the tropical sun, Andi and Effie diligently ensured her entire body received regular and very complete coatings of sunscreen.

One time a rain squall blew in off the sea.  Frankie was spreadeagled on the sand at the time, so she experienced the joy of being pelted by a tropical downpour while naked and helpless.  The others had retreated to the protection of a distant picnic shelter set back among the palm trees, just at the border of the sand and vegetation, and drank rum drinks festooned with fruit while Frankie "suffered."

So... Frankie worked on her tan, got into even better shape, learned to tolerate being bound and often gagged, and never being in control of anything.  There were also the gourmet meals with a Caribbean theme.  They were nice.

Oh-by-the-way, every other day, sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the afternoon, Frankie rode the Sybian.  Apparently, the scientists didn't yet have enough baseline data to begin their serious research.  And if it was a reluctant guinea pig they wanted, it was a reluctant guinea pig they got!  Frankie kicked and screamed and twisted and fought, but Annika always managed to get her strapped in place atop the insidious machine.

The Sybian sessions were long and intense and... the best sex of Frankie's life.  The best sex not involving the love of another person, anyway.  Frankie didn't love the Sybian, not in any sense of the word.  Nor did she look forward to being strapped to the thing and boinked senseless, over and over and over.  Honor demanded she fight, and she did.  And as for the traitorous thrill that rippled through her naked, bound and gagged body whenever she realized she was being taken for another ride on The Evil Machine?  They never happened!  Even at night, when Frankie lay on the bed and waited for sleep... They never happened!

Frankie tried coming to terms with her captivity, but there were still too many unknowns.  Petra had an agenda, Annika had an agenda, and the science-dweebs had an agenda.  As for Frankie's agenda, it could be summarized with one word: escape!  But she was on an island, an island supposedly infested with natives and pirates (although she'd yet to see a pirate and had only caught a glimpse of one native).  Frankie tried subtly pumping the doctors for intelligence, but without success.

And then there was Annika.  The blond amazon never let slip anything useful, nothing about what awaited Frankie beyond the "safety" of the doc's Bond-villain lair or Petra's plan for her future.  And rigging-wise, the blonde never made mistakes.

Day followed day... and Frankie waited for her chance.

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 4


Edith remained in the standing spread-eagle between the two posts until sundown.  Then, four female warriors appeared, untied her wrist and ankle bonds, and hustled her towards the ocean.  By this time, the sun was starting to set and the naked captive was exhausted.  Escape was the last thing on her mind.  She was thirsty and hungry―"Mrrrk?"―but not above a little genuine surprise when she beheld a two-masted sailing ship anchored off the village beach!

The doctor was no expert in tall ships, but she thought it might be what was called a "brig."  It might have a propeller and engine, but clearly its principal means of propulsion was the wind.  At the moment, most of the sails were furled, and Edith could see tiny figures scrambling aloft in the rigging and taking in what canvas remained.  There was one minor anachronistic detail: mounted at the top of the main mast was a small, saucer-shaped radar dome.  It was a light shade of blue-gray and faded against the cloudless blue sky, but it was there.Petra the Pirate!

There was something else that was undeniably noteworthy.  Fluttering from the brig's fantail was a large flag.  It had a black field with a large, white skull-and-crossbones and a white canton with a black rook chess-piece.

Petra's pirates, Edith thought.  Of course.  The "Pirate Queen's Castle" was the other venue of Petra La Roque's kinky resort.

A longboat was rowing towards the beach, manned by several of the pirates.  All were female (big surprise), athletic, easy on the eyes, and represented every human race.  They were dressed in the expected piratical manner: bare feet, knee-britches, loose blouses with puffy sleeves (showing a lot of skin), cloth sashes or wide corset-belts, and headscarves and/or three-cornered hats.  They were armed with flint-lock pistols, knives, and cutlasses.  All of these details became increasingly clear as the longboat slid through the surf and was hauled up on the beach with native assistance.  The pirates and amazons were quite obviously on a friendly basis as there was a great deal of laughing, handshaking, embracing, boob-grabbing, and butt-slapping.

All of this Edith noticed with furtive glances.  Her main focus was on the pirate who had ridden the prow of the longboat.  Her costume was as piratical as the rest, but clearly, she was the captain.  She wore tight trousers tucked into thigh-boots with turned down tops, a wide sash of blood-red silk, a sword belt with a rapier and sheath, crossed bandoliers with a brace of pistols and several throwing knives, and a loose, billowing blouse of white linen that showed a lot of smooth, tan cleavage.  Leather bracers were on both her wrists, necklaces worth a queen's ransom in gold, silver, and precious stones graced her throat, a three-cornered hat with a long, elegant plume was atop her head, and a smile curled her full lips.

Salma Hayek!
Edith strongly suspected the captain was a Latina.  She was short, something like 5'2", with a stunningly beautiful face and big brown eyes.  She also had an athletic figure and very nice boobs.  She tossed her plumed hat back into the longboat, shook out her long, raven-black hair, spread her arms, shrieked in delight―"Petra!"―then rushed across the sand to throw herself into Petra La Roque's arms.

Edith hadn't realized that the Jungle Queen and her spear-bearing escort were present, having been more or less mesmerized by the arrival of the pirates.  She watched as Petra and the captain hugged and laughed.  It was now undeniable that the she-pirate was petite, voluptuous and petite.

Everyone was all smiles, except Edith, and continued laughing and chatting as the natives led the pirates down the beach to Edith's right.  Petra led her piratical guest in the same direction.  Seconds later, Edith's handlers dragged her after the crowd.

They arrived at what was obviously a site prepared for an outdoor party.  There was a large fire burning in a pit in the middle of a clearing.  Long, low tables in the general shape of a horseshoe surrounded the fire with the open section facing the sea.  Natives were milling about, carrying platters of food and jugs of what Edith suspected were beverages appropriate for the "luau" Petra had mentioned earlier.

Edith's handlers forced her to the sand beside the table at the nearest end of the horseshoe, produced coils of rope, and proceeded to bind her freckled, slightly sunburned body from shoulders to feet.  They took their time and made a job of it.  Eventually, Edith was in a box-tie with her arms raised and her wrists crossed and lashed against her spine, just below her shoulder blades.  Rope yoked her shoulders and pinned her upper arms to her sides, passing above and below her breasts.  More rope lashed her legs together at the thighs, above and below her knees, around her calves and shins, and around her ankles, feet, and big-toes.

Meanwhile, the luau was getting underway.  The pirates and villagers were now wearing flower leis, nibbling on plates of food, and chugging rum drinks, ale, and wine from coconut shell cups, tankards, and goblets.  Petra was seated at the very center of the horseshoe with the pirate captain on her right, the African native leader on her left, and the European native leader on the captain's right.  The remaining places at all the tables were occupied by villagers and pirates, and platters and bowls were still being carried from the village to the feast.

There was a hearty cheer as drums began to beat.  A line of very pretty young women dressed in grass skirts, leis, and nothing else hurried forward and formed a line between Petra's table and the fire.  They struck a graceful pose... then began shaking their hips, waving their arms, planting their bare feet, turning, and gracefully gesturing with their hands.  In Edith's opinion, the style was Polynesian, possibly Tahitian, and was totally out of place on a Caribbean isle, but was very pleasant to watch... even if Edith was thirsty and hungry, stringently bound and gagged, and everyone around you was feasting and partying.

Guitars began strumming, voices began singing (in Hawaiian?), and the drumming and dancing continued.

Suddenly, a pair of villagers carried a platter of food to Edith's side and knelt in the sand.  One of them, a pretty strawberry-blonde with a dusting of freckles across her nose, shoulders, and bare breasts, lifted Edith's bound body until her head and shoulders were cradled in her lap, then untied and removed her gag.  The second villager, a petite Asian―Chinese or Japanese―held a coconut shell cup to Edith's lips.

Edith drank carefully, and was glad she did.  It was a potent concoction of fruit juice and rum.  Nonetheless, she downed half the cup, then accepted tidbits of roast pork, grilled fish, fresh fruit, and roasted vegetables.

The sun set, the dancing, music, and feasting continued, and the party as well.  Soon―and it was hardly surprising with the quantity of alcohol being consumed―the festivities began veering towards drunken revelry.  Edith saw more boob-grabbing and it was soon joined by serious face-sucking.  It was mostly pirates and villagers, but the villagers did outnumber their swashbuckling guests, so there was also some villager-on-villager action.

The strawberry-blonde and Asian took good care of Edith, making sure she had a full belly and a well quenched thirst.  Then, they popped the gag stuffing back in Edith's mouth, resecured the leather-thong cleave-gag, and continued cradling her in their lap.  They also kissed―strawberry-blonde-on-Asian―fondled Edith's breasts, each others breasts, and stroked and massaged Edith's thighs and labia.

With her legs bound, access to Edith's crotch was restricted; however, it proved to be sufficient.  Slowly, inevitably, with the party raging around them and the third or fourth group of dancers (now drunken dancers) providing entertainment, Edith's handlers coaxed a quaking orgasm from Frankie's tired, helpless body.  She shivered and squirmed in her caretakers' embrace... froze as waves of pure pleasure coursed through her bound and gagged body... then heaved a sigh and relaxed.

Edith happened to glance at the table of honor and noted that Petra was making out with the pirate captain―the beautiful, raven-haired, big-breasted pirate captain.  It was quite a sight, the tall, blond, Jungle Queen kissing and caressing the petite pirate.

Edith closed her eyes.  She opened them again when the strawberry-blond removed her gag and the Asian held the cup for her to drink.  This time she guzzled the entire contents.  Being drunk didn't seem like a bad idea.  She also returned the kiss when the blonde leaned down and thrust her tongue in her mouth.  The Asian refilled the cup from a moisture-beaded jug, drank it herself, then began diddling Edith's pussy and stroking her butt and thighs.

Needless to say, a good time was had by all and it continued long into the night, long after Edith had slipped into unconsciousness, exhausted and helplessly bound, but satiated in every way.

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 4

The next morning, Edith woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed―NOT!

For one thing, she'd slept in the sand (and the arms of her strawberry-blond and Asian handlers) and still bound with rope from shoulders to toes.  It hadn't been her choice, of course.  She wasn't consulted.  She noticed that several other pirates and villagers had slept (meaning passed out) at the party site as well.  They were now waking up, groaning, and readjusting their costumes.

For another thing, Edith had a pounding headache... make that a hangover.  Yep... it was a hangover.

Villagers with irritatingly chipper expressions and trays laden with pitchers of coffee, cream, sugar, and stoneware mugs were making the rounds, dispensing caffeinated ambrosia to the suffering party-goers.  Coffee was offered and accepted by Edith's handlers (lovers), and the strawberry-blonde held the mug so Edith could take a careful sip.  The brew was strong and bitter, but Edith knew the taste had been sabotaged by the post-party nastiness coating her mouth.  Medically speaking, she knew she needed hydration, and coffee was all that was offered.

Edith had another semi-urgent need, and as if reading her mind, her handlers untied her legs, lifted her to her feet, and led her to a small outhouse a few yards into the jungle.  Rather than being a hole dug into the sandy soil, the facilities were quite modern, albeit camouflaged to appear primitive.  The commode was metal, but textured and carefully painted to resemble a small barrel.  The seat was weathered and battered wood, but it turned out to be comfortably smooth.  More camouflage, Edith decided.  Anyway, she emptied her bladder... then was led away.

Their immediate destination was a large hut on the edge of the village.  Edith realized she'd entered by the rear and found herself standing between her handlers in the back of a smithy.  Lengths of iron chains, manacles, fetters, and other examples of the metalworking art hung from wooden racks or occupied crude shelves.  All were hand-forged in appearance, but Edith suspected it was more camouflage.  Towards the front of the hut was a forge, an anvil, and a rack of tools.  There was also a very large, very muscular woman lounging in a hammock rigged under the smithy's front porch.  She was nursing a mug of coffee and wasn't happy to see the new arrivals.

The smith―Edith assumed she was the smith―heaved a sigh, downed the last of her coffee in one gulp, then left the hammock and stomped into the smithy.  She was tall, well over six feet, and was very muscular.  Her waist was wasp-thin and her stomach well-sculpted and flat.  Her breasts were large, but they competed with her pecs and other chest muscles for attention.  Her arms were an anatomy lesson in and of themselves.  Edith unconsciously ticked off the Latin names of the various groups.  The smith's face was beautiful, even while scowling.  Her hair was a pale blond plaited in a single tight braid that trailed down her back.  Her eyes were pale blue, and her skin deeply tanned.  She was dressed in a loincloth, like the rest of the "natives," but a leather apron hung from a peg in one of the vertical support posts near the forge, waiting to be donned when she went to work.

The smith towered over Edith and her handlers, hands on hips, and glared.  "Really?  Before breakfast?"

The Asian handler suppressed a giggle while the strawberry-blonde shrugged.  "Her Majesty's instructions were detailed and specific," the blonde explained.  "Do you want to be the one responsible for delaying Captain Sangria's departure?"

"Hell, no," the smith growled.  "Let's get it over with."  She stomped to a nearby shelf.

It occurred to Edith that "stomping" was probably an inaccurate description.  The blond giantess was all muscle, and she was huge.  This was probably her normal gait.  Anyway, she picked up an iron cage the size of a bowling ball and carried it forward.  Edith got her first good look at the object, gasped, and took an involuntary step back―or rather, she would have stepped back if her handlers hadn't suddenly grabbed her by the arms and shoulders and forced her to her knees.  "No!"

The object was a scold's bridle, a contraption designed to cage a woman's head and anchor a gag in her mouth!  And Edith very much suspected she was the woman in question!

"No―Gaaa-grrrrf!"  The bridle was lowered over Edith's head and its spoon-like gag element forced into her mouth.  Curved iron bands on hinges closed and ratcheting lock mechanisms repeatedly clicked until Edith's head was tightly encased.  The bridle incorporated a flat gag-panel and iron bands encircled her crown, framed her nose, passed under her chin, and came together at the nape of her neck.  The "spoon" was more of an irritant than a silencer, but the gag-panel made up for that deficiency by pressing tightly against her lips.  "Mrrrpfh!"

Next, a collar with a dangling leash-chain was locked around Edith's neck and cuff-like fetters around her ankles.  Then, her box-tie was untied and cuffs locked around her wrists and upper-arms.  The wrist- and ankle-cuffs were all connected by more chain, a configuration Edith recognized as classic "slave-" or "serving-chains."  Her hands were now in front; however, a short chain connected the upper-arm-cuffs behind her back.  The foot-long chain connecting the wrist-cuffs was therefore somewhat taut and her flailing hands and fluttering fingers were trapped at the the level of her waist.

The smith went to the shelf and returned with one more item.


It was a chastity belt!  Like the rest of her restraints, it appeared to be hand-forged; but, like the scold's bridle and her other bonds, the edges and interior surfaces were quite smooth.  Greatly encumbered by her chains, Edith tried to fight, but soon the belt was locked around her waist and the hinged crotch-panel cleaved her buttocks, cupped her pussy, and was locked to the belt in front.

Edith's handlers and the smith stepped back and watched as Edith tugged on her fetters, tried to kick, rolled her shoulders, twisted at the waist, and shook her caged head.  It might have been a traditional Courtesy Struggle, but it was clear that Edith was not in a courteous mood.  "Nrrrrrf!"  Her green eyes flashed and she stared daggers at her handlers and the smith... then her eyes welled and tears dripped down her bulging cheeks to disappear under the diagonal bands framing her nose and the top of the gag-panel.

"This one's special," the smith said, "isn't she?"

"We do not know the details," the Asian handler answered, "but... yes."

"We should go," the strawberry-blonde sighed, took hold of Edith's collar-leash chain, and led the still weeping redhead away.  The Asian followed.  The smith refilled her coffee mug, then returned to her hammock.

Edith was led back to the party site, but this time she was taken to the area between the table of honor and the fire pit.

Petra and the pirate captain―"Captain Sangria" the strawberry-blonde had called her―were at the same seats as last night and were enjoying what appeared to be a hearty breakfast.

"Ah, your new ship's doctor has arrived," Petra said between bites.

Edith's handlers forced her to her knees, slid the leash through the chain hobbling her ankles, and clipped the end of the leash to the collar.  Kneeling was now Edith's only option, other than flopping onto her side or doing a face-plant in the sand.

"Irish?" the captain inquired.

"American," Petra answered.

"I like redheads," the captain said.  "I also like this omelet," she added, lifting a forkful of the omelet in question and popping it in her mouth.  She chewed and swallowed.  "My complements to the chef."

Her eyes and cheeks were still wet, but Edith was no longer weeping.  She heaved a gagged sigh and stared at Petra and Captain Sangria.  The captain spoke with a slightly husky, very sexy Mexican accent, in Edith's humble opinion, and she was as beautiful as ever... and as sexy as ever.

"I believe she calls it her Colorado Omelet," Petra said.  "Bacon, pork sausage, shredded beef, ham, onions, green peppers, and cheddar cheese, with her special salsa."  She leaned towards her guest, forked a bite of the omelet in question, and popped it into Captain Sangria's smiling mouth.

"Yum," she gorgeous pirate purred.

"Anyway," Petra said, gesturing towards Edith, "I don't mind tan lines around her wrists, ankles, and bikini area, but I want the rest of her returned with lots and lots of freckles."

"I understand," the captain chuckled.  "I also like redheads with freckles.  Clear-skinned Celtic beauties have their place, but there is much to be said for freckles."

Petra nodded and sipped her coffee.  Breakfast for Petra and her guest continued while Edith knelt before them on the sand.

Well, the captive-in-chains mused, it looks like I'm going for a cruise.

Welcome to Damosel Island
Chapter 4


Chapter 3 Chapter 5