by Van ©2016
		Chapter 7

Dramatis Personæ

OUR STORY CONTINUES

SPECIAL TRIBUNAL impaneled by the Great Mothers of the Sisterhood to adjudicate the alleged misfeasance of Senior Sister Petra La Roque
Jane Seymour	Catherine Zeta-Jones	Jamie Rose	Teryl Rothery	Sigourney Weaver
Lady Jane Tydwell	Thomasina Crown	Jillian Foxwood	Dr. Cynthia Webbel	Sally Salamandras

The Great 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 Sisterhood.

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 House Rapscallions.]

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 Program.]

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 identity.

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.

The tribunal 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, extenuating circumstances."

"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 actions."

"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 fun?"

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 sentence."

"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 right?"

"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 Sisterhood guidelines?"

"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 situation."

"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 test subjects."

"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 skeptically.

"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 Dekker Affair."

"So, she just goes back to being one Petra's security goons?" Jillian asked.

"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 Directorate facility."

"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 situation."

The second 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 to wear.

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.

.......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.......

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 balcony?"

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, so...

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, madam."

"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.

.......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.......

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 bikini uniform.

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 demanded.

"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 conversation grouping.

"Madam?"

"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 bed."

"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 mattress.

"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 to happen.

Eventually... Frankie drifted back to sleep.

The next 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, not forever.

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 control.

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.

"I hope you enjoyed your run, Ms. Dekker," an alto, undeniably sexy voice announced.

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... I... What?"

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.  "Well?"

Frankie gave Melissa one last glance, then padded after the woman-in-purple.

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 diligence.