||artists & models|
|by Van ©2012|
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The Sisterhood has many different names in many different languages and takes many different forms. Its archives span centuries of human history, on all continents. There are tiers of increasing privilege and responsibility, and the very existence of the higher levels is kept a deliberate secret from the subordinates. Junior Sisters might have their suspicions, of course, but the senior Sisters are shrouded in mystery and are not to be discussed. Conspiracy theorists—who are not Sisters, of course—might whisper of a "Female Illuminati," but the global sorority is a shadowy and unsuspected presence... by deliberate design.
The organization's unifying principle is love, all forms of love, that and what the modern world calls Feminism. The idea that women are equal in person-hood to men has surfaced many times in many different guises, passing in and out of cultural fashion, and it has always been nurtured by the Sisterhood whenever and however possible.
There are also distinct and specialized branches of the Sisterhood, and one such branch is exclusively female in their pursuit of Eros. The loving domination of beautiful women is their common passion, as well as flirtation with what others might call Dark Pleasures. Like all branches, the group's activities are directed by a committee of wealthy and powerful Sisters. All have risen through the ranks, and as with the sorority as a whole, the majority of their subordinates are unaware of their identities, nor do they directly feel the hand of their governance.
And speaking of governance, a meeting of four powerful Sisters was in progress. Two were in each others physical presence and two were participating via secure teleconference.
The meeting's designated chairwoman was Petra La Roque, CEO of the La Roque fashion and cosmetics empire. The fifty-something, blue-eyed blonde was in the conference room of her latest residence, a modern if somewhat castle-like estate still under construction. It overlooked a picturesque lagoon of her private Caribbean island. Elsewhere on the island and also under construction was what would one day be an exclusive luxury resort. The residence was more than three-quarters complete, but the resort existed only as plans, temporary construction buildings, and thousands of flagged survey stakes.
The resort would, indeed, be exclusive, and dedicated to all forms of Petra's personal tastes in indulgence and pleasure—in a word: bondage. However, it would not be limited to members of the Sisterhood. Male and Female, Top and Bottom, all would be welcome—assuming they'd be able to afford the planned range of luxury accommodations (and had passed careful screening).
With Petra in the conference room was the world famous sculptress Maggie Kilborn. The fifty-something redhead wasn't nearly as wealthy as her billionaire hostess, but she was a renowned artist (especially among those sharing this branch of the Sisterhood's interests). Maggie's works were in the permanent collections of several important museums, as well as many significant private collections. In addition, she was an award-winning cinematic artistic designer, with several critically acclaimed hits to her credit. If her art could be said to have a unifying theme, it would be the Damsel-in-Distress—specifically, the naked (or scantily clad), bound, gagged, or otherwise helpless, and beautiful Damsel-in-Distress.
Maggie had designed important features of several venues of Petra's planned resort, all with varying themes. For example...
(1) The Pirate Queen's Castle, with dungeons, tower cells, tide stakes, semi-submerged caverns (chain equipped, of course), etc.
(2) The "Native" Village, complete with rustic facilities for "virgin" sacrifices to The Mighty Kong, the occasional hungry dinosaur, schools of frenzied sharks, etc.
(3) The Mad-Scientist's Tropical Laboratory, with a Fun-With-Unnecessary-Surgery Suite, quarters for animal/damsel hybrids, an evil petting zoo... the usual.
Situated across the table from Petra and Maggie were a television camera and two large flat-screen monitors.
On the left monitor was the image of Thomasina Crown, fabulously wealthy heiress and philanthropist. "Tommy" was aristocratic old money personified. Her fortune was on the order of Petra La Roque's, if one was gauche enough to be concerned with such things, but as to which Sister was actually the richer of the two, that was a matter for teams of accountants and international tax-lawyers.
Thomasina's brown-eyed, brown-haired, Mediterranean beauty was quite famous. She was a favorite target of the paparazzi when discovered attending a museum opening or arts festival in London, New York, Paris, Rome, etc. She was also a patron of the arts—and indulged a secret hobby, one in direct keeping with this branch of the Sisterhood.
Thomasina was something of a thrill seeker, and she had a keen sense of justice. If a gallery owner or fellow art patron was found to be trafficking in stolen art or forgeries and if law enforcement was unable or unwilling to resolve the situation, Tommy and her staff of highly trained professionals would act, especially if the wrongdoer in question just happened to be an attractive women... or had an attractive daughter... or employed attractive female staff.
Things would happen. Women would be captured, bound, and gagged. Evidence of criminal activity would be exposed. Justice would prevail. And all of this would happen without injury to the parties involved, guilty or innocent. No harm, no foul. Well... no harm, anyway.
Thomasina was at her Aegean island estate, a complex of white stucco and marble structures casual observers might mistake for a sleepy Greek fishing village nestled among ancient ruins, if they chose to ignore the satellite up-link antennas and the luxury yacht or yachts anchored in the center of the archipelago.
The right monitor displayed the exotically beautiful visage of "Bondarella." That wasn't her actual name, of course, but it was the sobriquet her Sisters allowed her to use. She was the youngest of the group, and alone among her peers on the committee, Bondarella was a wanted criminal—another "eccentricity" her Sisters chose to ignore.
The criminal in question (smiling at her Sisters from an undisclosed location) was responsible for a recent global crime-wave of kidnappings of beautiful international female celebrities. She (the criminal) would record their erotic torture (or "enhanced entertainment" for the squeamish), post images and video to the internet, and profit from the resulting web-hits, DVD sales, and the patronage of her sponsors—and the inference that at least one other member of the committee (Petra) might actually be among said sponsors is unprovable, impolite, and inappropriate speculation.
Bondarella's presence on the committee might seem surprising, given the overall "benign" nature of the activities of this branch of the Sisterhood. But then, Bondarella was always careful that her victims were ultimately rescued or released. Like Petra's "special employees", Maggie's "models", and Thomasina's criminal targets, Bondarella's victims might be put through the proverbial wringer, but they were never actually harmed. One might speculate a hypothetical and even higher committee of the Sisterhood had arranged for Bondarella's appointment to the current forum, perhaps as a warning, but that would be more speculation, and highly ironic given the topic under discussion.
"You've all read the reports," Petra said, tapping the leather-bound portfolio on the table before her. She smiled at Thomasina. "And thank you for bringing this to the attention of the Internal Affairs Committee of the Great Mothers."
Thomasina smiled. "The art world is my passion."
"And pony racing is one of mine," Bondarella added. "I attended the Sisterhood Games in question. I entered my own girls in many of the events. It's an outrage."
"Yes," Thomasina said with barely concealed contempt. "Kidnapping unsuspecting, unwilling, and totally innocent women. An outrage."
"Alison Devereaux' idle comments aroused my suspicions," Bondarella countered. "I passed what I'd heard on to you and your staff investigated. Perhaps from now on you'd like me to ignore evidence of blatant violations of our governing principles among the junior Sisters?"
Petra smiled and raised a hand before Thomasina could reply. "Sisters, let's not argue. Catch-and-release is Sisterhood policy, as is the prohibition against bodily harm. Involuntary piercing, alone, might be problematic, given the difficulty in proving lack of consent. But imprisonment with no intention of release? For purely selfish reasons? And in collusion with a non-Sister? Unpardonable."
"We have no choice but to act," Maggie said, and the others nodded in agreement.
"My team and I will mount a rescue," Thomasina offered.
"I have no immediate plans," Bondarella said, "and my girls love a good challenge."
Petra raised her hand, again. "Wait. Formalities are required. Are we ready for adjudication?" The other three nodded. Petra tapped a button on a small keypad and a monitor flashed to life, portraying the image of Beverly Adair. "I find Sister Beverly Adair guilty of violation of the catch-and-release requirement, involuntary piercing, involuntary training and mental conditioning, and other clear violations of the charter and bylaws of the Sisterhood."
"So say we all," the others droned.
Petra tapped the key and the image changed to Marta Hartleben. "Sister Marta Hartleben. The same charges, mitigated by obedience to her sworn Mistress. Guilty."
"So say we all."
Petra tapped the key. "Sister Crystal Boyer. Same charges. Same mitigation. Guilty."
"So say we all."
Tap. "Sister Lyndal Douglas. Same charges. Same mitigation. Guilty."
"So say we all."
Tap. "Sister Alison Devereaux. Same charges. Same mitigation. Guilty."
"So say we all."
Tap. "Non-Sister Patricia Fallon. The same charges, but re-framed to the penal code of the United States of America and relevant States, thereof. No mitigation. Guilty."
"So say we all."
Tap. The image of Erin Gillard and Madison Fallon appeared. Both were in full pony costume and harnessed to a tandem sulky. The photo had been taken at the last Sisterhood Games. "Non-Sisters Erin Gillard and Madison Fallon. I find them to be victims of egregious wrongdoing at the hands of members of the Sisterhood, with a recommendation of financial compensation, professional therapy, and anything else required to restore the honor of the Sisterhood."
"So say we all."
"And so recorded." Petra sighed. "I may be a bitch, but this Sister Adair is a piece of work."
"So say we all," Maggie chuckled, "to both assertions."
The images of Thomasina and Bondarella smiled.
Petra smiled, as well. "You aren't off my island yet, Red," she noted.
"And we haven't tested the working prototype of the Pirate Queen's latest torture-rack, either," Maggie smiled. "It's just your size, Petra darling, and I'm reasonably sure I've worked the bugs out of the slowly descending spikes."
"I'm the one with dozens of minions on call," Petra said.
"Point taken," Maggie conceded.
"If you two are quite finished," Thomasina chuckled, "we have a rescue plan to develop."
"We must move with deliberate speed," Petra said, "emphasis on deliberate. The ponies are in no immediate danger, and we must unsnarl the financial and legal details before acting. I'll task my financial staff to begin work on taking down Fallon Ltd., but leaving its assets intact for its rightful senior partner, Madison Fallon."
"My staff will coordinate," Thomasina offered, "but concentrating on gaining control of Beverly Adair's galleries."
"Once all the business and legal ducks are in a row," Petra continued, "we'll execute the rescue and capture. If we chose the right time, we might all get to play, with simultaneous strikes on all targets, the Adair gallery, the Adair estate, and whatever rock that Pat Fallon insect might be under."
"I offer my residence for Madison and Erin's rehabilitation," Thomasina offered, "however long it takes."
"Most kind," Maggie said with a smile. "And the others?"
"I'm sure we'll find cause for Pat Fallon to become a problem for the American legal system," Petra said. "And as for the wayward Sisters... I'm equally sure arrangements can be made for them to serve whatever punishments are deemed appropriate, assuming our judgement is upheld by the Great Mothers, of course."
The others nodded.
"So, we're in agreement?" Petra asked. Again, the others nodded.
"A pleasure dispensing justice with you," Bondarella said. "Signing off." She reached out and tapped a button, the right monitor flashed, and her smiling image was replaced by the La Roque International logo.
Petra smiled at Thomasina. "My invitation still stands, Tommy."
Thomasina smiled. "Helping you test your designers' latest leather restraints is not my idea of a vacation. Your invitation to visit my island stands, as well. My people will contact your people. Ciao." She focused on Maggie. "Ciao."
"Ciao," Petra and Maggie responded in unison. The left monitor flashed and Tommy was replaced by a second copy of the La Roque logo.
Petra tapped a button on the console built into her position at the table. "Mercy, execute Operation Blue Fire, phase one." She tapped another key and the monitors went dark. "Now..." She smiled at Maggie. "I have something to show you."
Maggie smiled back. "Ever the thoughtful hostess."
|artists & models|
Maggie Kilborne was naked and reclined on her back. She was at a comfortable angle atop a padded, star-shaped frame. She was also in a stringent spread-eagle, enforced by leather straps around her wrists and ankles, across her legs, above and below her knees, thighs, and waist, and above and below her breasts, upper arms, and forearms. All of the straps were flesh-dimpling tight and secured by locking buckles.
Petra was clicking a small, rook-shaped padlock through the last of the buckles. "You have a magnificent body, Maggie."
"Right back at ya, Blondie," Maggie purred.
Petra took a step back and crossed her arms under her breasts. She was wearing the same ivory business suit she'd worn for the teleconference, but had removed her jacket. "Firm, smooth, peachy skin, liberally sprinkled with freckles... magnificent."
"For a fifty-something," Maggie chuckled.
"For an any-something," Petra countered. "I've arranged some entertainment to brighten your afternoon."
"Other than being naked and spreadeagled?"
Petra smiled. "This, shall we say... configuration... simplifies matters." They were in the paramount chamber of one of the estate's towers. Window walls provided a near 360° panorama of the Caribbean and green mountain peaks of Petra's island.
Several feet away from Maggie's frame was a stainless steel sarcophagus. It was futuristic in style, with a streamlined shape and a heavy base, and was upright, with its rounded head and shoulders pointing towards the vaulted ceiling. Petra tapped a button on the side and the steel cylinder opened like a clam shell. Its interior was heavily padded, and inside was—big surprise—a helpless damsel.
The damsel in question was Jane "Punkie" Prescott, Maggie's twenty-something lover and "plus one" for her visit to Petra's tropical domain. Punkie was restrained in an elaborate leather harness. Something like a hundred narrow and interlaced straps were involved, binding the naked brunette from her big toes to her posture collared neck. Finger and hand trapping mittens were involved, as well as a crotch panel that might or might not have included intruders and electronics. A gag-panel was strapped over her lower face. From the way her cheeks bulged and lower jaw strained against the gag's chin strap, something was stuffed in her mouth. Also, from the way her gorgeous blue eyes glared at Petra and Maggie, she was not a happy camper.
"Poor Punkie," Petra chuckled. "She thought she was in for a week of lounging on the beach in a string bikini."
"And instead," Maggie purred, "she finds herself languishing in a dungeon in a metal bikini." She focused on her hostess. "Don't let her act fool you. Your reputation precedes you. Punkie knew she was in for something like this when she stepped off the plane."
Petra smiled at the glaring brunette. "I love that sleek little pageboy. It suits her." She turned back to Maggie. "I think two hours in my sarcophagus will suffice, a fitting cap on forty-eight hours of restrained distress." Her smile broadened. "Of course, what you do to her at night in the privacy of your guest suite is none of my business, and remind me to show you how to access the estate's recreational equipment and 'special fashions' inventory." She touched another button on the sarcophagus, there was an audible click, and Punkie pitched forward out of the encasement.
Petra caught Punkie's still harnessed, gagged, and totally restrained form and eased her to the plush carpet.
Punkie rolled onto her side and glared up at her hostess.
Petra smiled back. "Delightful." She grinned at Maggie. "I love the cute, feisty types, especially when they're completely helpless."
"Same here," Maggie chuckled, then tugged on her bonds and raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you just say you were letting her go?"
"Allow me to clarify," Petra continued. "I'll be releasing you and your Punkie in a few hours, with plenty of time for showers and massages before dinner." She opened a compartment in the side of the sarcophagus and produced what was unmistakably a dildo. The anatomically correct phallus was molded from translucent amber rubber, and was attached to a steel bayonet fitting. Petra snapped the dildo into a socket in the front of Punkie's gag-panel, then strolled towards Maggie and her frame. She reached down and slid her hand across the spreadeagled redhead's crotch. "Hmm... I see you're a little wet." She turned her head and smiled at Punkie. "I suggest you take things low and slow until she's well-lubed."
Maggie sighed as Petra produced a ball-gag. It had a two-inch, translucent sphere of amber rubber and a narrow strap and buckle that matched the frame's bonds. She opened her mouth and accepted the ball, grunting in complaint as Petra cinched the strap until her cheeks bulged and clicked a padlock in the buckle's hasp.
Petra tapped a pedal in the base of the framework and the star-shaped armature slowly lowered to the floor and tilted back. Maggie's heels were now touching the carpet and her crotch was only a few inches above the floor. "Magnificent," the gloating blonde sighed, then smiled at Punkie. "Both of you." She turned and gracefully strolled towards the chamber door. "Maggie, darling," she purred, "be a dear and think of some clever and new ways to entertain Beverly Adair and her minions, once they're in our clutches. I'll spring for the design and manufacturing costs. And think wet thoughts. It's going to take your Punkie several minutes to squirm into position to use that dildo. See you at dinner."
Maggie and Punkie watched their hostess make her exit. The door slid closed, sealed with a hydraulic hiss, then locked with an authoritative click. The captives locked eyes... there was the proverbial pregnant pause... then Punkie began to squirm and inchworm her way towards her obvious goal.
Maggie smiled above her gag as Punkie wiggled across the carpet. It would take her several minutes to deliver her missile. Let's see now... Maggie visualized Beverly Adair's naked body. I haven't designed a new horse in a long time. Maybe something on the order of a 'John Willie stand,' a sort of mini-horse on a pedestal that will fit inside an iron maiden lined with electrified spikes. Hmm...
Punkie continued wiggling and sliding forward.
| THE END
artists & models