Mothers of the Sisterhood do not convene Special Tribunals
lightly or very often. They consider it a failure on their
part to have to discipline a Senior Sister of one of the
organization's lower tiers. If they had been doing their
jobs properly, the alleged wrongdoer would never have been in a
position to do wrong, and any questionable situations would have
come to light early and been nipped in the bud.
In the case of Sister Edith Stanton, the kidnapping of
Non-Sister Frankie Dekker should never have happened.
Granted, it might have been necessary to detain the snoopy
reporter, temporarily, and deal with the situation using
existing Sisterhood protocols and resources. Frankie
Dekker should have awakened in her own apartment with her memory
of the last few days wiped, a modest amount of mysterious cash
having suddenly appeared in her bank account, and a plethora of
bogus and misleading "clues" scattered about to distract her if
she felt inclined to pursue the matter any further.
In any case, Stanton should have informed the relevant level of
authority of the Sisterhood immediately, and she'd failed to do
so. If she had, the worst that would probably have
happened would be mild discipline for her lapse of security, and
that would be that.
The Sisterhood had a vested interest in making sure their
various affiliated, minor, and major operations remained under
the radar of the media, the various world governments, and the
established religions. The secretive, compartmented
organization had been battling patriarchy and promoting social
progress for centuries, and had learned the hard way that overt
action could be very dangerous. Decades of progress could
be set back by the light of day shining on some part of the
Stanton should have known better than to pull such a dangerous
stunt as kidnapping a reporter and keeping her as a plaything,
and Senior Sister Petra La Roque should certainly have
known better than to compound the error. As the newly
appointed Head of Security and Discipline for the Sisterhood in
all of North America, Petra should have rescued Frankie and
handled the situation in the prescribed manner, then dealt with
Edith Stanton. Instead, she'd exacerbated the situation,
increasing the potential for exposure of the Sisterhood to the
world at large.
Edith's indiscretion was a minor matter, easily dealt
with. The alleged misfeasance of Petra La Roque was
not. Hence, the appointment of a Special Tribunal.
The chief member of the tribunal was Lady Jane Tydwell, a very
Senior Sister, indeed. There are rumors that Lady Jane
either is a candidate for appointment to the Great Mothers, or
already is a Great Mother, but such matters are best
treated with extreme discretion (else the rumormonger find
herself naked and chained to the wall of one of Tydwell Castle's
many oubliettes for an extended period). In any case, the
exceedingly wealthy Lady Jane was well known across many
different branches of the Sisterhood and was respected and even
beloved by all. [Learn more about
Lady Jane in the story Immured.]
The second member was Thomasina Crown. Nearly as wealthy
as Lady Jane and arguably as wealthy as Petra La Roque,
Thomasina is the leader of an elite, highly-trained team of
vigilante crime-fighters who specialize in art theft. That
is, when the authorities were unable or unwilling to deal with a
shady gallery owner or a wealthy hoarder of stolen masterpieces,
Thomasina and her team see to it that justice is done, the
perpetrators punished, and the art restored to its rightful
owners. Illegal? Technically, yes.
Unethical? Never. Everyone needs a hobby, and
Thomasina Crown's is righting the wrongs of the art world... and
if a beautiful female criminal or two is bound and gagged in the
process, so much the better. [See The
Thomasina Crown Affair for details.]
The third member was Jillian Foxwood. Jillian is a mere
millionaire, meaning she wasn't nearly as rich as Lady Jane or
Thomasina. She runs a "B&B" in California that
specializes in the same sort of role-playing fun that attracted
guests to Petra's Damosel Island, only Jillian's establishment
specializes in Tolkinesque medieval fantasy. "Foxwood
Keep" often plays host to humans of various sword-wielding
and/or spear-chucking cultures, as well as "Elves" with pointy
ears and even the occasional "Orc." Sorcerers and witches,
swordsells and bounty hunters, dancers and other lovely maidens
captured by slavers... many different customers enjoy a weekend
or more of lounging around Foxwood Keep, enjoying hiking,
swimming, and gourmet meals, or, if they're one of those
customers, being chained to the wall and languishing in one of
the cells of the Stone Tower. Jillian's establishment
catered to both "vanilla" and damsel-in-distress enthusiasts,
and she'd developed ironclad rules to keep the two groups
apart. Jillian was a newly designated Senior Sister, but
was without portfolio. That is, she'd not yet been
assigned any designated duties at this higher level of the
Sisterhood. [Life at Foxwood Keep
is chronicled in the stories Helpful
Hardware Hannah, All
Sales Are Final, and All
Manor of Mischief.]
The fourth member was Dr. Cynthia Webbel, Professor of Computer
Science at Lewis & Clark University and Director of the
Salamandras Institute for Advanced Studies (SIAS). A world
renowned scientist, Cynthia is a newly appointed Senior Sister,
like Jillian Foxwood; however, Cynthia holds a portfolio, the
just created position of Chief Technology Advisor to the Great
Mothers. As such, she oversees the Sisterhood's IT
infrastructure, including the long-term planning, development,
and cyber-security of the computer systems of the Sisterhood's
various levels and compartments. In that capacity, she
works closely with the fifth member of the tribunal, Sally
Salamandras. [Cynthia "Little
Mouse" Webbel is a regular at VAN's FiCTiON, appearing in the
stories listed in the next paragraph as well as Oh, the
Humanities! and The Rook
The fifth member in question has been granted Special Status in
the Sisterhood, as none of the traditional rankings and
designations fit Sally's unique situation. Over the
centuries, a surprising number of males have been granted
Special status in the Sisterhood, so the precedent for Special
membership or affiliation is well established; however, Sally
Salamandras is the Sisterhood's very first non-human and
non-living member. Sally is a self-aware artificial
intelligence. Her actual origin is shrouded in mystery,
and Cynthia Webbel was one of the very first to discover the
AI's existence and had worked with Sally to help "her" grow and
develop. Currently, Sally inhabits the global internet,
meaning the entire global internet. Thus far, her
presence is unsuspected by world governments, international
corporations, and most hackers, and Sally takes active measures
to keep it so. [The preceding is a rather
bland understatement of the events of the stories Rage
Against the Machine, Bad
Robot!, and Join
Regarding Sally, Dr. Kiera McFadden, a resident researcher at
SIAS and one of the few in on The Big Secret, once described
Sally as "Skynet, only instead of being intent on exterminating
the human species, she's decided to help humanity get its
collective head out of its collective ass." Kiera is known
for her occasional colorful turn of phrase. Recognizing a
kindred spirit (or spirits), Sally and the Sisterhood had agreed
to work together. Only the Great Mothers and a very few
Senior Sisters knew of Sally's special nature, and any Sisters
with whom she conducts business are presented with a
computer-generated image of a young Sigourney Weaver in the role
of Ellen Ripley. They assume that whoever the real
Sister Sally might be, she has her reasons for disguising her
Cynthia and the Great Mothers know the truth. Sally is
perfectly capable of assuming the photo-realistic video image of
anyone on earth, and for some reason buried in her early source
code, Sally prefers Sigourney's image. However, the
Mothers insist that if Sally is going to masquerade as Siggy
Weaver, she must do so from behind what is unmistakably a
computer-generated mask. (It turns out, the actual
Sigourney Weaver is a member of the Sisterhood, and the Great
Mothers want to avoid cases of mistaken identity, however remote
the possibility. Sally and the real Siggy get along quite
well, but that's another story.)
Anyway, the Special Tribunal was impaneled, interrogations were
conducted and evidence gathered by trained members of the Action
Directorate, and the tribunal's members had independently
examined the resulting documentation. It was time to
attempt to reach a judgement.
|Welcome to Damosel Island
convened via secure teleconference. None of the members
were physically present on Damosel Island―the exception being
Sally, of course, who might be said to be present at any
location connected to the internet. The others were in the
offices of their respective home bases: Castle Tydwell,
Thomasina's private Aegean island, Foxwood Keep, and SIAS.
"We may as well get started," Lady Jane said, smiling at the
images of her fellow tribunal members. "We've all examined
the records of the interrogations of the defendants and
witnesses, including the video. The facts are clear.
I'd call for a summary judgement, but several of you have
already indicated that we need to discuss, shall we say,
"Yes," Thomasina sighed. "Clearly, they're both guilty,
but I'm against simply declaring Sisters Stanton and La Roque
guilty as charged. I don't think that's why we're
here. I believe the Great Mothers expect more from us."
"I agree," Jillian said. "The facts are clear, but
we need to examine the defendants' intentions, not just their
"Agreed," Cynthia intoned.
Sally shrugged. "Personally, I like nothing better than a
good public hanging, but sorting out this can of worms will
probably be far more entertaining."
Cynthia rolled her eyes. "Sally," she sighed, "dial down
the yuks and dial up the gravitas, please?"
Sally grinned, blinked her eyes, and the avatar's customary blue
jumpsuit/starship uniform disappeared, was replaced by a
subliminally brief image of Ellen Ripley in her trademark
panties and tank-top, which was in turn replaced by Sally
wearing judicial robes with a powdered wig atop her now neatly
coiffed hair. "Why not do both?"
Cynthia glowered in disapproval, but the other members of the
tribunal smiled or chuckled.
"By the way," Sally continued, "I quite enjoyed the
interrogation of 'Captain Sangria' in the Pirate Queen's
Castle." She snapped her fingers and a window popped open
on each of the screens of the tribunal members. It was a
video of a naked, sweaty, and obviously quite anxious Captain
Sangria, lit by flickering torch light, and stretched on a
classic Spanish rack in a well-equipped torture chamber.
Even with her body at full stretch, the captain's breasts had
sufficient volume not to flatten, not completely, anyway.
The gorgeous Latina hadn't actually been tortured during
her interrogation, of course, but the theatrical setting had
certainly been... entertaining. And afterwards, the
Captain and her Action Directorate interrogator had enjoyed a
gourmet sunset dinner on the fortress ramparts and had spent the
night together in one of the tower bedrooms. "Any chance
we can find her guilty of something and let her have even more
Lady Tydwell pressed a button on an unseen console and the image
of Captain Sangria's "ordeal" vanished. "It's already been
agreed that the lovely captain was simply enjoying her vacation
and carried out the requests of her hostess, Senior Sister La
Roque, as a courtesy."
"And her crew's treatment of Sister Stanton was par for the
course on board the Horny Merman," Jillian added, then
her smile broadened. "I suppose we might consider Edith's
six days on board as 'time served' and deduct it from her final
"Who is this 'Captain Sangria,' by the way?" Thomasina
inquired. "I'm thinking of inviting her to my
island to, uh, continue her interrupted vacation."
"If a Sister wishes to visit Damosel Island incognito," Lady
Tydwell intoned, "that's her decision." She focused her
smile on Jillian's image. "I believe the buccaneer in
question has visited your establishment. Am I
"What happens in Foxwood Keep stays in Foxwood Keep," Jillian
chuckled, then smiled at Thomasina. "I'll pass on an
invitation... if you're serious."
"Most kind," Thomasina purred. "Now, I take it we also
agree that the actions of the two scientists, Doctors and
Sisters O'Hara and Hyde-Goode were also within established
"Yes," Cynthia nodded. "La Roque told them nothing about
Ms. Dekker's special circumstances, other than that she was an
involuntary test subject. They assumed she was one of
Petra's employees and Petra did nothing to clarify the
"We should invite them to SIAS for further testimony," Sally
suggested to Cynthia. "I have special chambers in the
subbasement that I've just about finished renovating."
"I look forward to a continued professional collaboration with
Doctors O'Hara and Hyde-Goode," Cynthia purred, "but not as my
"In that case, perhaps you should visit their OP lab and give
the place the once over," Sally chuckled. "I'm sure the
rest of the tribunal would find it most enlightening."
"Ha!" Cynthia huffed. "I'll visit Petra La Roque's island
when I'm dragged there kicking and screaming."
"Easily arranged," Sally replied. "I'm making reservations
as we speak. I love multitasking."
"Sally!" Cynthia scolded her cyber-friend. A delicate
blush colored her tan cheeks, visible on all of the tribunal's
screens. "Stifle yourself."
Lady Tydwell cleared her throat. "Let's continue.
The actions of Sister Annika von Luger, Agent of the Action
Directorate, are beyond the purview of this tribunal; however,
I've been authorized to tell you that the Directorate's
Inspector General has already completed her review and has found
no fault in Agent von Luger's actions."
"She was just following orders?" Thomasina asked rather
"In a word, yes," Lady Jane answered with a smile. "Also,
it was the regular reports she filed with the Directorate, with
the expected due diligence, that led to the exposure of the
"So, she just goes back to being one Petra's security goons?"
"Actually," Lady Tydwell answered, "while Senior Sister La
Roque's case is being settled, Sister von Luger is taking the
opportunity to complete a little advanced training at a
"What kind of training?" Cynthia asked.
Lady Tydwell smiled, as did Sally. Thomasina and Jillian
stifled laughs. "The affairs of the Directorate are
strictly need-to-know," Her Ladyship continued. "I can
give you a contact number if you'd like to make inquiries."
"I suggest you clear your calendar beforehand," Thomasina
purred, "and let your colleagues at SIAS and the University know
you may be disappearing for a while."
"Never mind," Cynthia chuckled.
"Now," Lady Jane said, "let's move on to the principal task at
hand. I have some ideas for how we can resolve this entire
|Welcome to Damosel Island
time Frankie experienced the beauty and wonder (and horror) that
was Andi and Effie's Orgasmatron, she was "rescued" afterwards
not by Annika-the-amazon, but by a pair of young female
strangers in black boots and catsuits packing pistols! What
now? she'd wondered. The immediate answer was being
unstrapped from the machine and simultaneously bound hand and
foot with black rope. It was the usual box-tie and
leg-binding. She was also given an injection in the
butt. It was about as painful as a bee sting, and... that
was all she remembered.
Frankie woke up in a large, luxurious apartment. It was
severely Modern, decorated with a white, off-white, and
burnished steel palette, and included a humongous bathroom with
a soaking tub and a large shower. In the main apartment
were comfortable chairs and a sofa in a conversation group, a
gigantic platform bed, and a balcony that overlooked the jungle
and a stretch of beach from a height of about five
stories. Looking up from the balcony, she found she was in
some sort of conical tower carved from natural rock and
festooned with green vines. Other balconies were visible,
above and below. Also, it would be exceedingly dangerous,
if not impossible, to clamor over the balcony edge and try and
free-climb to the ground.
Frankie strongly suspected she was still on Damosel Island, but
this was not the science-dweebs' lair.
Oh-by-the-way, Frankie was naked, still. She went back
into the apartment and made a more detailed exploration.
There were built-in cabinets, but no clothing―no panties, no
bikinis, not even any sarongs or lava-lavas. The same was
true of the walk-in closet. It was also devoid of
clothing. Eventually her search led to the bottom drawer
of the bedside table, where she found several neat coils of hemp
or jute cord and rope, but nothing to wear―or rather, nothing else
There were towels in the bathroom, so Frankie did have
the option of walking around in the classic torso wrap, but
she'd been naked for so long she decided it wasn't worth the
hassle. Funny to think of not being naked as a hassle,
Frankie thought, then went to examine the front door.
She found herself staring at yet another featureless plane of
burnished steel. In style, it matched the other steel
hardware in the apartment―the bathroom door and its latch, the
bathroom fixtures, the bedside light, the hanging light
fixtures, etc.―but there was no apparent way to open the damn
thing. No knob or latch or cypher-pad... nothing. It
was clear that the expanse of steel was the door, but
there was no hardware, not on Frankie's side, anyway.
Her explorations complete, Frankie decided the logical thing was
to test the sleeping arrangement. She flopped down on the
neatly made bed and heaved a deep sigh. She wasn't
exhausted. Either she was getting used to extended
sessions of machine-induced multiple orgasms, or she'd been
drugged for a sufficient time for her body to recover.
That didn't mean she couldn't take a nap. It seemed better
that the only alternatives that came to mind: getting up and
doing some jumping jacks, pushups, a little running in place,
some hot-yoga, etc. Maybe later, she thought, and
closed her eyes.
Frankie opened her eyes. By the angle of the
orange-tinted light slanting from the open balcony it was close
to sunset, and standing at the foot of the bed was a brunette in
a black bikini fringed with white lace. A white lace cap
was atop her head, she had a lovely face and very pretty blue
eyes, and like everyone else on Damosel Island, an athletic
body, smooth skin, and a tropical tan. She was carrying
what appeared to be a dinner tray.
"Who the hell are you?" Frankie muttered.
"My name is Melissa, madam," the brunette answered, then nodded
at the tray in her hands. "Would madam like to dine on the
Frankie realized Melissa's bikini was as much a "sexy maid"
costume as it was swimwear. Frankie sighed, climbed to her
feet, and stretched. "Yeah, sure, why not?"
Frankie followed the scantily-clad maid out onto the balcony and
waited while she set the tray on a small table, poured wine from
a carafe, lifted the cover from the plate, then pulled back the
chair for Frankie to sit.
"Uh, thanks." Frankie sat in the chair and frowned at the
food on the plate. It was more Caribbean cuisine―fish of
some species, rice, veggies, etc.―and it smelled
delicious. Frankie's stomach rumbled. Starving
herself seemed like a rather lame way to protest her captivity,
Frankie gazed at Melissa as she ate. "I don't suppose you
can tell me anything about what the hell is going on around
here, can you?"
Melissa smiled, but her eyes were on the stone flags of the
balcony. "Sorry, madam. I have my orders."
"Big surprise," Frankie sighed as she took a gulp of
wine." She waved her fork at her plate. This is
good. Have you eaten?"
Melissa blushed, delicately. "Yes, madam. Thank you,
"No problem," Frankie muttered.
Dessert was a fruit cup, and it was all fresh and some of it was
exotic, exotic to Frankie, anyway.
When the meal was over Melissa departed with the tray.
Frankie watched her go, then turned her chair, propped her feet
up on the balcony, and enjoyed the sunset. Belatedly, it
occurred to Frankie she might have been able to dart past
Melissa as she exited the apartment and at least try and
escape; but she was still tuckered out from being mega-boinked
by the science-dweebs machine (despite her pre-dinner nap),
dinner had been excellent (and filling), and... Maybe
next time, she decided.
Later, Frankie went back to bed.
Some time later, Frankie opened her eyes to near total darkness.
Night had finished falling. She yawned, climbed from the
bed, stumbled towards the bathroom―then froze in place.
There was just enough light for her to see that someone was
curled up on the carpet at the foot of the bed! It was
Melissa, and the brunette maid was still wearing her cute little
Melissa eased herself up onto her elbows and rubbed the sleep
from her eyes. "How may I serve you, madam?" she inquired,
stifling a yawn.
"What are you doing here?" Frankie demanded.
"I've been assigned as madam's maid," Melissa explained.
"I'm here to serve."
"Of course," Frankie sighed, rolled her eyes, and continued into
the bathroom. She emptied her bladder, splashed water on
her face and took a drink, then returned to the bed and flopped
back onto the mattress. Seconds passed... and turned into
a minute. "Why are you sleeping on the floor?" Frankie
"Where else would I sleep, madam?" Melissa answered.
Frankie rolled her eyes, again. More seconds passed... and
turned into another minute. "There's a perfectly good sofa
right over there," Frankie noted, pointing blindly towards the
"Never mind," Frankie muttered. More seconds...
Another minute. Frankie heaved an exasperated sigh.
"I'll never get to sleep with you down there. Get on the
"Madam?" Melissa gasped.
"Get on the bed or get on the sofa, but you're not sleeping on
the floor." And with that decree, Frankie rolled over and
closed her eyes, again.
A little while later the bed shook as Melissa climbed onto the
"Stay on your side," Frankie ordered.
"Yes, madam," Melissa purred. "Thank you, madam."
Frankie closed her eyes without answering. Tomorrow,
I'm putting my foot down, Frankie resolved. Somebody
is going to tell me what's happening... and what's going
Eventually... Frankie drifted back to sleep.
|Welcome to Damosel Island
morning Frankie did put her foot down. She also pouted and
pleaded and did her best to convince Melissa that telling her
more about the island was a matter of service to her assigned
guest―or prisoner, or whatever Frankie's status might be―and not
disobedience to some mysterious higher authority.
Melissa wouldn't budge, other than to depart and return with a
breakfast tray. Frankie noticed that the door opened for
her automatically; however, it continued ignoring Frankie with
steely resolve. Pun intended. Frankie had to
entertain herself somehow.
Sometime around mid-morning, however, the door slid open to
admit not Melissa, but a rather gigantic, well-muscled, African
woman in a black bikini. Without a word, she grabbed
Frankie, tied her wrists together behind her back, and led her
from the apartment. There was an elevator ride down to an
expansive ground floor, she was led out a door to the beach, and
they proceeded to run on the sand. Obviously, it was
exercise, the sort of thing she used to do with Annika.
All efforts to engage the African amazon in conversation
failed. All attempts at smalltalk fell flat. All
questions went unanswered. All wounded pouts and pathetic
displays of ennui were ignored.
Finally, Frankie settled into the run and stopped trying to pry
information from her handler/trainer. Aside from the
exercise, the only thing Frankie gained from the experience was
a partial view of where she was now being kept. What she
thought was probably "her" tower was one of several, including a
larger, central tower closer to the mountains, but she couldn't
see all that much of the complex. The tops of some of the
towers were white, but most were natural stone with crawling
vines and hanging gardens, like Frankie's.
The next few days settled into yet another routine.
Frankie was taken for daily runs―sometimes in the morning,
sometimes in the afternoon―by different bikini-clad beauties,
all of whom demonstrated the ability to handle Frankie with the
ease and professionalism of Annika von Luger. When she was
taken from the apartment, Frankie's wrists were always tied
behind her back, and when she returned she was always untied by
Melissa―but only after the maid led her to the bath and gave her
a long, hot, refreshing shower.
It was humiliating to stand under the streaming water while the
maid used a soapy washcloth to scrub her tan, naked body
clean. It was equally humiliating to sit on a comfortable
bench in front of a dressing table while Melissa carefully dried
her hair, then gave her brown locks a long, thorough, gentle
brushing. Yes... humiliating. Each time, Frankie
ignored the ghostly tingle between her legs, tried not to squirm
her naked butt against the padded bench, and waited for Melissa
to complete her task.
Finally, Frankie's wrists were untied and she was "free" to
lounge around her luxurious cell.
Melissa came and went, meals were delivered and consumed, and
Frankie waited. Surely something was going to
happen. Surely they―whoever the hell "they" were, other
than Petra La Roque and her employees―weren't going to keep her
naked, well-fed, regularly exercised, and increasingly bored,
Melissa continued sharing the bed at night, and Frankie
continued insisting the maid keep to her side of the
mattress. Why? Frankie wasn't sure. Mostly, it
was because boinking or not boinking the cute, obedient little
maid was one of the very few things that was under Frankie's
Days passed, something like... five? Anyway, Frankie
resolved to finally make an escape attempt. She
was getting complacent, lounging around on the balcony,
naked―running on the beach with her hands tied, naked―and
stewing about her kidnapping(s) and boinking(s), naked.
Also, she was bored... naked.
Anyway, the next time she was taken for a run, she'd "endure"
another shower and grooming session from Melissa, enjoy another
delicious, light, expertly prepared lunch, and wait for Mellisa
to carry the tray towards the door. Then, as soon as the
door opened―she'd rush past Melissa and make a break for it!
Would it work? Would she evade immediate recapture, find
some clothes, continue evading recapture, and somehow
find a way off the island? Probably not, but it would
relieve the boredom.
Anyway, day dawned, breakfast was served and consumed, the usual
interval passed, and a bikini-clad blond amazon (not
Annika) arrived to take Frankie for her run. The run
happened and Frankie was returned to her apartment/cell, sweaty
and feeling the burn. However, in a break with routine,
the blonde untied Frankie's wrists as soon as they crossed the
threshold into the apartment. Frankie spun on her heel
just in time to see the door slide closed, then turned back,
stomped a few steps into the apartment―and froze in place.
"What the hell?"
Melissa was spreadeagled on the bed, stringently
spreadeagled on the bed. Her bonds were padded steel cuffs
attached to taut steel cables that stretched to the four
corners. She was gagged with a wide strip of Elastoplast
tape, something was stuffed in her mouth, and she was naked, the
first time Frankie had seen the maid naked since the start of
this phase of her captivity―not that her bikini uniforms had
left much to Frankie's imagination. Also, a chastity belt
was locked around her waist and through her crotch.
Melissa stared at Frankie with wide, desperate eyes, tugged on
her bonds, and mewled through her gag.
Frankie noticed a pair of red LED lights alternately blinking on
and off on the front of Melissa's belt, and realized she was
hearing a quiet buzzing noise. Frankie swallowed and
revised her earlier assessment. "Chastity" was an
inappropriate adjective. The thing was a vibrator
belt, and Frankie strongly suspected penetration was involved.
hope you enjoyed your run, Ms. Dekker," an alto, undeniably sexy
Frankie turned to the conversation area and found a remarkably
beautiful woman smiling at her from one of the easy chairs, and
she was one of the very few women Frankie had ever encountered
who instantly qualified for the description "remarkably
beautiful." She was a brunette, like Frankie, but with
dark, shoulder-length curls. Full lips, brown eyes, even
features... she was gorgeous. She was wearing a
blueish-purple, rather expensive looking cocktail dress that did
little to conceal her full breasts, long legs, and the curves of
her svelte, well-toned, dancer's body.
Frankie continued to stare. "Who? What?"
"Please," the woman chuckled, "come have a seat so we can talk."
Frankie turned and stared at Melisa, then back to the
woman-in-purple. "Did you do this?"
"Poor Melissa," the woman sighed. "She served your every
need, you insisted she share your bed, and yet, you didn't touch
the poor thing. How could you be so cruel?"
"Cruel?" Frankie gasped.
"Melissa is highly trained in all the erotic arts," the
woman continued. "Rope was available for you to bind her,
or for her to bind you. All you had to do was give the
order. Instead, you lounged around and let the poor thing
simmer in her frustration."
Frankie turned from the woman, to Melissa, and back. "I...
The woman stood. "I've changed my mind," she purred.
"You'll never be able to concentrate with Melissa writhing on
the bed like that."
Frankie turned back to find that the naked, spreadeagled maid
was, indeed, writhing. Also, the LED's on her belt were
now blinking at a decidedly frantic pace.
Meanwhile, the mysterious woman was walking towards the
apartment door. It opened as she approached. "Well,
are you coming?"
Frankie continued staring at Melissa's shivering, helpless form.
"Obviously, Melissa is cumming," the woman chuckled,
"meaning cumming spelled with a 'U,' but I was speaking to you,
Ms. Dekker. I thought you wanted answers to your
questions?" She gestured towards the hallway.
Frankie gave Melissa one last glance, then padded after the
The door slid closed and Melissa was alone. The belt
continued flashing and buzzing, and the maid continued reaping
her reward for performing her duties with patience and due
|Welcome to Damosel Island