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		T H E     B O N D A G E     I S     O U T    T H E R E	by Van ©2009
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		Chapter 7
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Gracie was utterly spent by the time Belladonna finished with her.  The catsuited sadist-bitch—her evil, cold, green eyes shining through her deceptively beautiful mask—had returned from her leisurely breakfast to use two different floggers on Gracie's jackknifed body—the small "Wasp" she'd used before, and a larger, rattling "Cobra" with two-foot tails.  She gave Gracie's crotch, thighs, calves, and feet a slow, thorough thrashing, then followed up with a detailed exploration of the same areas with a spur-like wheel of needle-sharp points on a small handle, something she called "Mr. Prickler".  The bitch had pet names for all her "instruments".

This exploration had lasted for nearly a full hour, although, towards the end, Gracie knew her time sense had become rather unreliable.  In fact, all her faculties had begun to fail her... except for her tactile sense in the areas where the tiny, needle-studded device continued rolling along, dimpling and pricking her taut, flushed, sweat-slick skin.  Eventually, even those sensations began to fade, and Gracie's vision began to go tunnel...

And then she opened her eyes.  Is it over? she wondered (prayed), or is Bitchydonna just taking a break?  As she became more fully awake, she realized her situation had changed.  She was off the gurney and sitting on the floor.  The tape was still plastered over her lips, and her ankles were still locked in leather cuffs, almost certainly the same hospital restraints that had bound her to the gurney, but now they were joined by an eighteen-inch hobbling strap of the same butternut leather.  In an even more significant change, Belladonna and Bondarella were kneeling on either side of her upright torso and securing the straps of a canvas straitjacket that was already hugging her torso and arms.

Gracie didn't bother trying to resist.  If there had ever been a point in the process when fighting her captors would have been more than an empty gesture, it was long past.  Her arms were already crossed below her breasts and the ends of the sleeves strapped together, somewhere behind her back.  Her kidnappers were busy with the secondary straps, tightening, buckling, and locking them around her canvas-sheathed upper-arms, forearms, and wrists, binding them snuggly against the taut, heavy canvas of the jacket.

On the intellectual level, Gracie knew that Houdini had escaped from such things by dislocating a shoulder and wiggling an arm out from under the straps... or something like that.  This jacket, however, was far too tight and its straps too many and too well-placed to make such an approach feasible... even if she could pop out her shoulder at will... and even if she wasn't already totally spent.

Belladonna tightened the final strap, the crotch strap.  It had some sort of rubber wedge on its inside surface that parted Gracie's labia.  She winced as the torturing bitch gave the strap a final tug and secured its buckle somewhere behind her back.  Gracie was then lifted to her hobbled feet and half-carried, half-dragged out the door.  She mustered her strength and squirmed in her kidnappers' grip, pulled herself erect, and started carrying her own weight.  Her short, shuffling steps were limited by her hobble, but they were her steps.

"Such strength," Bondarella purred.  "She's a rare treasure.  Perhaps we should keep her."

"Too dangerous," Belladonna responded.  "She would never truly be a slave.  We could never trust her."

"Agreed," Bondarella chuckled.

Suddenly, Gracie's eyes popped wide.  Approaching down the dimly lit hallway was Betty, and beside her was a straitjacked and tape-gagged Megan!  Her partner appeared to be in pretty good shape, all things considered.  Her auburn mop was neatly brushed, her green eyes wide and alert, and her freckled skin was clean and unmarked.  Their restraints were identical in all respects, except for the size of their jackets.

Gracie knew she must look like hell—her hair a damp, tangled mess, her exposed skin flushed and sweaty, and telltale red streaks criss-crossing her naked legs and thighs.  She tried to reassure her partner, perhaps with a wink or something, but by that time they had already passed, and their handlers were not letting them tarry.

Megan squirmed and struggled in Betty's grip, moaning through her taped-sealed lips—and then they were around a corner and gone.

"Don't worry, Agent Hart," Bondarella said.  "Betty will take good care of your friend until I'm ready to deal with her.  You see... she's my plaything next."

"And you get to rest, Sweetcakes," Belladonna cooed.

Gracie sighed and let her head drop.  Rest is good, she thought.  At this point, she was grateful for any small favors, even from her kidnappers.  Besides, she couldn't do anything to help Megan, not even beg for mercy on her behalf... at least not until they peeled off her gag.

Megan squirmed in frustration.  Somewhat refreshed from a night of rest in the cage and the knowledge that her partner was okay... sort of... Megan had resolved to give her captors a real fight (for once).  Her efforts had been as wasted as ever, though, as even without help from her accomplices, Betty had peeled her out of the straitjacket and replaced her bonds, and Megan could do nothing to stop her.

Beginning the process, Betty used a clip to tether her hobbled feet to an eyebolt sunk in the floor.  She then forced Megan to her knees and tightened a long strap around her thighs and calves, making the kneeling pose permanent.  Only then did she start dealing with the straitjacket.  She unbuckled the top half, including the upper arm straps, and peeled the canvas sheath down Megan's upper body, exposing her shoulders, breasts, and upper back.  Another strap went around her arms, above her breasts, and was buckled tight.  Next, her lower arms were unbuckled and pulled from the sleeves, one at a time, and as each hand came free its wrist was captured in a leather cuff and clipped to the back of the strap pinning her arms.

The final result: Megan was on her knees and free of the jacket—including its hateful crotch strap—but now she was bound in leather straps and cuffs, her arms folded behind her back, her arms pinned to her sides, and her thighs strapped to her calves.  The tape was still plastered over her lips.

"I'll be right back, Giggle-elf," Betty said, and sauntered towards the door.

Megan watched Betty depart.  The door closed, and she was alone.  'Giggle-elf', she fumed.  That's a nickname I can live without.  She tested her bonds, twisting her upper body, fighting the straps, and groping with her fluttering fingers for any available buckles.  Finally, after perhaps two full minutes of earnest effort, she capitulated.  This was certainly the simplest set of restraints she'd endured since her capture, but it was still totally inescapable.  Hopeless and helpless... as always, she thought with a sigh.

The door opened and Betty returned, carrying a metal tray covered with a white cloth.  "Breakfast!" she chirped.  She sat cross-legged on the floor, directly in front of her helpless prisoner, set the tray to the side, then reached for Megan's tape-gag and slowly peeled it from her lips.

Megan grimaced as her lower face was pulled by the departing tape, then licked her lips.

Betty snatched the cloth from the tray with a flourish.  "Taa-dah!"

Megan's stomach grumbled.  On the tray was a plate of bite-size pastries and mini-quiches, a cup and saucer, and an insulated carafe.

Betty lifted the carafe and poured steaming coffee into the cup.  "I won't bother offering you cream and sugar," she purred.  "Our research determined that you take yours black."

Research, Megan noted.  That means I've been under observation.  Something for future investigation... after this is over.

Betty held the coffee cup to Megan's lips.  "Careful.  It's hot."

Megan took a sip.  Delicious, she conceded, then took another sip.  The coffee was followed by a tiny bacon and cheddar quiche... and then an apple puff-pastry.

"The silent treatment?" Betty inquired as the meal continued.  "No predictions of judicial retribution?  No demands for my immediate surrender?"

Megan simply chewed and stared at her kidnapper's mask.

"Such a pretty thing..." Betty whispered.  "Even when you pout.  And so deliciously ticklish."

Megan tried to maintain her own mask—a much more difficult task, as hers was emotional and not artificial—but she couldn't prevent the flash of fear that widened her eyes.  Instantly, she reasserted her stony stare.

"So pretty... and so brave," Betty chuckled, and popped a crab and green onion mini-quiche in Megan's mouth.

Just then, the door opened and Bondarella entered the room.

Megan chewed and swallowed, then shifted her glare to the head kidnapper.  "What have you done to Gracie?" she demanded.  Betty popped a pastry into her mouth, but her eyes remained focused on Bondarella's mask.

"Your partner?" Bondarella chuckled, crossing her arms under her breasts.  "She's snug and secure in the puppy cage, where you spent your rest period.  Sorry we only have one, but we didn't expect to be entertaining the two of you at the same time.  Poor planning on our part."

"Puppy cage," Megan huffed.

"I suppose 'Velociraptor cage' might be more descriptive, given its construction," Bondarella purred, "but it is rather small, and 'puppy cage' is so much cuter."

Betty giggled, then popped the final tidbit on the plate into Megan's mouth.  "Much cuter," she agreed.

Megan chewed and swallowed, but maintained her angry stare and disdainful silence.

"Cute as a button, in or out of her puppy cage," Bondarella mused aloud.  "Feisty tomboy-hoydens are my favorites."

"Pants on fire!" Betty chided.  "You like all types.  Playboy bunnies, warrior-princesses, blushing coeds, brooding goths, sexy nerds, hot MILFs.  All of them, as long as you get to tie them up."

"Okay, you got me," Bondarella chuckled.  "Let her finish her coffee and we'll get started."

Betty lifted the cup and held it to Megan's lips.

Megan sipped the coffee and stared at her captor's masks over the rim.

"So strong," Betty cooed, "and so ticklish."

Dana dropped the daily summary report from the special team investigating Gracie and Megan's disappearance and presumed kidnapping into the appropriate folder.  She couldn't fault anything the other team was doing.  They were covering all the bases she would have covered, had she been allowed to lead the effort.  Bureau politics meant nothing when colleagues were in danger, not to real Agents.  "If only they had something tangible to go on," she muttered under her breath.

Just then, there was a tap at the office door.  "Come," she called.

The door opened and Lindsay and Veronica entered.

"What have you got?" Dana asked.

"We cross-referenced the list Ronnie's Scotland Yard contact sent us with the NSA list."

"I thought nothing matched other than the original numbers, themselves," Scully muttered.

"Correct," Lindsay said, then turned to her junior partner.  "Why don't you explain?"

Veronica swallowed.  "Uh, okay.  None of the new numbers matched, like you said, so I started looking for any underlying patterns.  Professional criminals often use disposable cell phones, so, I looked for any disposables on the UK list, and I found one—a disposable number, I mean."

"I'm with you," Scully said with an encouraging smile.

"The disposable number called the real estate contacts on the NSA list," she continued, "then the numbers of the hardware suppliers, and then the bondage shops and suppliers."

Scully nodded.

"I then asked Emily," Veronica continued, "uh, I mean DC Sommers, to send me the full records on that number.  It called five Washington area Realtors not on the NSA list, as well as two additional hardware dealers and three more bondage gear suppliers, all in the same order."

"Okay, you have a pattern," Scully nodded.

"Hold your horses," Veronica said, "I'm not finished."

Lindsay nudged her partner in the side with an elbow.  "Tactful, Special Agent Mars," she whispered.  "Very tactful."

Veronica's eyes popped wide and she blushed.  "Oh, sorry boss!  I got excited, and... Sorry."

Scully smiled.  "Duly noted.  Continue."

Veronica's smile returned.  "Okay.  It occurred to me there might be a similar pattern on this side of the Atlantic, so, I scanned for disposable numbers... and I found one.  It first called the real estate numbers, then the hardware suppliers, and then the bondage shops, just like in the UK."

"And two days after the UK calls stopped," Lindsay added.

Veronica nodded.  "And after the UK number went silent."

Scully smiled.  "So... possibly, the UK caller made preliminary arrangements from the UK, crossed the Atlantic, then did follow-up calls from the Washington area.  But it's still just a pattern."

"It's something like a concrete lead," Lindsay said, "something we haven't really had 'til now.  I've already got a call in for a warrant to examine all the phone records in full detail.  If the disposable phone in question has GPS capability, or if we can triangulate a search zone from the tower activations—"

"Then we might literally get a concrete lead," Veronica interrupted, and grinned at her partner, "as in a location... with concrete buildings."

"I'll call Technical Services and grease the skids," Scully said, reaching for her phone.  "Where's Claudia?"

"She got called to some meeting at the INTERPOL Central Bureau office at Justice," Lindsay answered.

"I gave her a copy of the new list," Veronica added, "and she said she'd pass it on to her people.  She was very excited."

Scully smiled at Veronica.  "Good work, Agent," she said, then started punching a number into the phone's keypad.

Veronica beamed.

"Get over yourself," Lindsay chuckled, taking her partner by the arm and leading her out the door.  "We got work to do."

"She likes me!" Veronica gushed, with a coy smile.  "She really likes me!"

Lindsay laughed and rolled her eyes.  "It was good work.  Now, go do some more."

As soon as the meal was finished, Betty had stepped behind Megan, popped a ball-gag in her mouth, and buckled it tight at the nape of her neck.  Then, Bondarella and Betty had worked in concert to change her bondage yet again.

Megan was still kneeling, but now her knees were splayed and she was astride a half-barrel, hassock-like piece of furniture.  Whatever the thing was, it was covered with black leather and was well-padded.  At its apex was a four-inch rubber phallus, and this was now lodged inside Megan's vagina.  She'd fought her kidnappers as best she could, especially once she realized they were going to impale her on the damn thing, but—as always—her efforts were for naught.  At least they lubricated it, she thought, ...I think.

Before placing her on her perch, which Betty teasingly (infuriatingly) referred to as "her new boyfriend", the single strap that had bound her thighs to her calves had been replaced by neat bands of hemp that bound each ankle to its respective upper thigh.  After the impalement, rope was looped through her knees and tied to rings on either side of the front base of the hassock.  More hemp strands were used to bind her big toes to rings in the back, further anchoring her in place.  She could squirm a little, but couldn't lift herself off the phallus.

Next, her upper body bondage was changed.  Her arms were now fully extended to either side, level with her shoulders, and were lashed to a nine-foot, hardwood pole.  Tight, symmetrical, neatly hitched bands of hemp bound her wrists, arms, and shoulders, dimpling her freckled flesh every few inches.  Additional bands of the same rope encircled her chest and breasts, causing them to bulge.  Megan hadn't thought her boobs were big enough to be tied up, but her kidnappers had bent her forward at the waist until they hung—as much as they could hang—and had proved her wrong.  Bondarella had done all the rope work.  Betty's role had been that of handler.

Megan glanced to her left and right.  The ends of the pole were sheathed in copper and passed through one-foot diameter copper hoops clamped to the tops of vertical steel posts firmly bolted to the floor, one on either side.  If she sat fully upright, she could lift the ends of the pole off the bottoms of the hoops, but the pole ends were far too long for her to be able to twist or bend her body to either side and slide the ends completely free.  So, the pole's copper ends remained loosely trapped inside the copper hoops, with three or four inches to spare in any direction, and she could rest her arms on the posts, if she wanted.  The pole wasn't particularly heavy, but it had some weight.

In Megan's opinion, it was a curious arrangement, not in keeping with the stringent bondage she had endured, to date.  Her rope bonds were as inescapable and tight as ever... but why not just put clamps on the tops of the posts? she wondered, gazing at the hoops.  Why allow me all this freedom of motion, if you can call it that?

Bondarella and Betty were across the room, plugging electrical cables into the control panel of some sort of... device.  The panel was bolted near the base of a pair of steel stanchions that stretched from floor to ceiling.  Midway up the stanchions, a large, flat-screen TV was mounted, and above it, a set of brackets supported a cylindrical steel canister the size of a small trashcan.  Some sort of mechanism with a vertical rod or tube was affixed to the canister's base.

In addition, a pair of steel pulleys were attached to the ceiling,  One was nearly over Megan's head, and the other was close to the top of the stanchions.  A thin steel cable stretched between them, and the end near the stanchions dropped down and was clipped to the handle of a steel bucket, resting on a metal plate on the floor.  The other end, dangling from the pulley nearly overhead, was attached to a red rubber ball about an inch-and-a-half in diameter.

Bondarella strolled towards Megan, the end of an electrical cable in one hand.  She knelt and plugged the cable into the base of the hassock, and it snapped in place with an authoritative click.  Standing, she gazed down at Megan, her gloved hands on her leather-clad hips.  Betty remained kneeling near the control panel, but her attention was on Megan and her boss.

"I always feel like some sort of 'Bond villain' at this point in the proceedings," Bondarella chuckled.  "But then, exposition is often required for this sort of thing.  Not all of my arrangements are self-evident."

"Perhaps you should find yourself a white Persian cat," Betty suggested, "for you to pet during all your gloating scenes."

Bondarella laughed.  "Chasing after a cat, in addition to tracking the other thousand-and-one details surrounding one of our operations?  I don't think so."  She pulled a PDA from a hip pocket and tapped its tiny touch-screen.  "I prefer one pussy at a time.  Entertaining Agent Hart and Detective Wheeler, simultaneously, has complicated things enough."

She turned back to face her fellow-kidnapper.  "And speaking of complications, Megan's kitten friends are back with their family, correct?"

Betty nodded.  "Safe, snug, and happy."

Bondarella turned back to Megan.  "And speaking of pussies..."  Her finger tapped the PDA's screen.

Megan's eyes popped wide, and she yelped through her gag.  The phallus had begun moving!  It cycled up and down, with a period of about five seconds, twisting and vibrating as it went.

The damn thing was fucking her!

"Over the years," Bondarella continued, "through extensive experimentation, we've developed a series of subroutines for Roger."

"Roger's the name of your new boyfriend," Betty clarified.  "Roger the Rogering Robot, in full, but we just call him Roger."

"Don't be helpful, Betty," Bondarella scolded in a teasing manner.  "Do I tell you which feathers to use when it's your turn to play?  Let me enjoy my gloat."

"Sorry, Mistress," Betty giggled.

"Now... where was I?" Bondarella purred.  "Oh yes.  We've developed a series of subroutines that vary the frequency and amplitude of Roger's, um... enthusiasm, as well as his secondary talents, such as the rate of twisting and twirling, the intensity and timing of vibration, whether or not the clit-stimulator is active... that sort of thing.  It's impossible to guarantee your exact response to any given routine, of course.  Every pussy is unique, but we've achieved a fair level of success mapping cause to effect."  She cocked her masked head to the side.  "Are you listening to me, Detective Wheeler?"

Truth be told, it was difficult for Megan to concentrate on anything other than what "Roger" was doing to her.  She tried to remain still, but found herself pumping her thighs and moving with the thrusting dildo.  Sweat was beading on her forehead, cheeks, and breasts.

Bondarella's finger stabbed down, and Roger stopped moving.  "There.  Now, if I may have your full attention?"

Megan shuddered and glared at her tormentor.  Her heart was pounding and her nostrils flared above her gag as she panted for air.

"That was Roger at his finest," Bondarella continued, "or rather, the opening bars of Roger at his finest.  Other routines include 'Itch That Won't Stop', 'Slow and Frustrating', 'Wham Bam, Thank You, Roger', etc."

"Also... 'Is Something Tickling Your Clit, Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?'," Betty added.  "I think that one's my favorite.  It's the closest Roger comes to actual tickle-torture."

"There's more, of course,"  Bondarella purred, and tapped her PDA, once again.

Megan screamed through her gag!  Roger had shocked her!  It hadn't been too bad, but it had been bad enough!  She glared at her tormentor, and struggled to keep the fear from her eyes.

"That's what I call Roger's 'motivation signal'," Bondarella explained.  She gestured to either side, indicating the hoops and posts.  "It's his way of telling you when one of the ends of your pole is in contact with a hoop."

A chill rippled up Megan's spine.

"That's right," Bondarella confirmed.  "Once I close the appropriate circuit, you'll be required to keep the ends of your pole centered in the hoops, in mid air... or else."

Megan sighed through her gag, not even trying to hide her dismay.  She'd have to straighten her back, tense her thighs, lift herself a couple of inches, and then maintain that pose, without moving, or she'd suffer the consequences.

"We'll delay that element until I've explained the rest of the program," Bondarella said, then tapped the PDA.

The TV mounted on the stanchions flashed , then resolved into an image of Gracie.  She was still in her straitjacket, and the same patch of translucent tape covered her lips.  She was curled on her left side in a fetal tuck, inside the "puppy cage".  She seemed to be enjoying, if you could call it that, her rest period, just as Bondarella had promised.

Megan sighed, again.  Gracie's skin, where it wasn't covered by tape or tightly strapped canvas, was glistening with sweat.  Her hair was a damp, tousled mess.  Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be fast asleep.

"The poor thing's tuckered out," Bondarella purred, "and Bella has put her away wet, so to speak."

"She likes her toys funky," Betty giggled.  "Miss New Jersey won't get a shower 'til tomorrow, and then it'll be my turn to play with her."

"The new automatic tracking software is functioning perfectly," Bondarella remarked.

"We used to have to take turns manning a computer," Betty explained, apparently for Megan's benefit, "shifting and refocusing the cameras as the target in the cage rolled around, but now it's all done with facial recognition... or something like that."

"Technical details are unimportant," Bondarella continued, and turned her mask to Megan, "but what is important is that your friend is enjoying a much needed rest.  It will be your job to see that her slumber remains undisturbed, Detective Wheeler."

She reached up, grabbed hold of the red ball dangling from the cable, and pulled it down several inches.  The bucket on the other end of the cable lifted into the air.  "That's a pressure plate under the bucket."

Betty punched a button on the control panel, then, with a graceful gesture, indicated the wide, circular, metal disk on the floor and the cable that connected it to the control panel.

"It senses the presence or absence of the bucket," Bondarella said, "as well as its weight.  When the circuit is closed..." She raised her arm and the bucket returned to the plate with a quiet, hollow clang.

On the screen, Gracie's eyes popped wide, she screamed through her tape-gag, and struggled in her bonds!  She continued screaming and straining against the jacket, bucking and writhing inside the cage, and fighting the hobbles binding her ankles.  The television's speakers provided auditory proof of her distress.

Bondarella let this continue for about three more seconds... then lifted the bucket.

Instantly, Gracie relaxed in her bonds.  She was panting through flaring nostrils, and her eyes were wet.  She lay on her side for several seconds, then fought her restraints again, with an angry, tape-muffled growl.  Then, again she relaxed, but now she was openly weeping.  Tears streamed from her eyes and pathetic, tape-muffled sobs rocked her bound body and emanated from the TV's speakers.

"Poor thing," Betty cooed.

"That was the jacket's crotch motivator at full power and without modulation or vibration," Bondarella explained.  "Essentially, double the effect of what you just experienced from Roger.  If I'd let that continue, Gracie would have passed out in a few minutes... a few very long minutes."

Megan stared at the screen, blinking back tears of her own.

"The greater the weight in the bucket, when it's on the plate," Bondarella lectured, "the lower the level and frequency of punishment and the greater the level of vibratory stimulation Agent Hart will experience.  Eventually, with sufficient weight, a level of near-subliminal entertainment is achieved that won't even disturb her sleep; but that requires a substantial amount of weight in the bucket."  She nodded to her partner.  "Betty?"

Betty tapped a button on the control panel.  A quiet, musical chime sounded, and the tube attached to the canister atop the stanchions lowered like a tiny drawbridge.  There was a hollow, metallic sound, then something fell from the end of the tube and landed in the bucket with a loud ping.

"A stainless steel ball," Bondarella explained, "two centimeters in diameter, and each one weighs...  Do you remember?" she asked Betty, and her accomplice giggled and shook her head.  "Anyway, it takes many, many, many of the little fellows to achieve sufficient mass for the pressure plate to not punish your partner.  Betty?"

Betty stepped behind Megan and began unbuckling her ball-gag.  At the same time, Bondarella pulled the cable and extended it forward until the red ball was less than an inch from Megan's mouth.

"Remember," Bondarella purred, "the pressure plate is active.  Gracie is counting on you."

Betty pulled the ball-gag from Megan's mouth and Bondarella instantly replaced it with the red ball.

"Do you have it?" Bondarella asked.  "Blink twice for yes."

Megan locked eyes with her tormentor, tightened her jaws until she had a firm grip on the rubber sphere, then blinked, as ordered.

"Good girl," Bondarella whispered, and let go of the cable.

The cable twanged as Megan took the surprisingly light weight of the bucket.  Not too bad, she thought, for now.

Bondarella and Betty strolled to the control panel, then Bondarella turned, her finger poised above a button.  "I'm about to close the hoop circuits," she announced, "so you better lift that pole."

Megan sighed (trying not to sob) and lifted her body the couple of inches required to make the ends of the pole lift off the posts and float in the center in their respective hoops.

Bondarella pressed the button, then turned and extracted a barrel key from the panel.  "And the controls are locked," she announced.

Megan watched as her kidnappers sauntered to the door.

"Enjoy your day, Detective," Betty giggled.

Bondarella paused to drink in the sight of Megan—impaled on Roger, her chin lifted and the ball on the end of the taut cable clutched in her mouth, and her lithe, freckled body held stock-still—then made her exit.

The door closed, a key turned in the lock... and Megan was alone.

I can do this, Megan told herself.  I can do this.  Seconds turned into minutes.  I can do this.

The ends of the poles wavered, now and then, despite her best efforts.  Whenever they came close to the hoops, there was an ever-increasing buzzing sound, like an angry bee.  As the distance closed, the buzz rose in crescendo, accompanied by an ever-more-intense electrical tickle along Roger's entire length.

Suddenly, Roger moved again, slooowly lowered himself until only about an inch was inside Megan's vagina.  Then he slooowly slid upwards, until Megan was filled, completely.  Roger began to vibrate—and Megan shivered in response—then he stopped vibrating and slooowly slid down.  The cycle repeated... then repeated again... and again, and it was very frustrating.  After a few minutes, Megan began to lose her concentration.  The left end of the pole dipped—and a jolting electrical shock coursed through her crotch!  She regained the proper position and steeled herself to endure.  Roger continued his slow, teasing torment.

Finally... Roger went still.  Megan sighed, blinked her eyes, and stared at the screen.  Gracie was asleep again, as far as she could tell. Either that, or she was resting with her eyes closed.  Her breathing was slow and even.

Suddenly, the chime sounded, the tube lowered, and a steel ball dropped into the bucket.  Megan could feel it hit, the impact transmitting itself down the cable, but she didn't notice a significant increase in the relentless pull on the ball clutched in her mouth.

The screen flashed and divided into two windows.  On the left, Gracie slumbered in her cage.  At first, the window on the right was a uniform blue, then text began to appear.

HELLO, DETECTIVE. YOU ARE VERY PRETTY, MEGAN. EVEN MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN YESTERDAY, WHEN YOU WERE PLAYING WITH BETTY'S KITTENS. WE ARE BONDARELLA'S PATRONS, MEGAN. WE ARE PAYING FOR THIS WONDERFUL EXPERIENCE. DON'T TRY TO THANK US.  YOUR SUFFERING IS THANKS ENOUGH. SO PRETTY.

The right hoop buzzed, and a gentle shock from Roger reminded Megan to maintain the proper posture.

The chime sounded, the tube lowered, and a ball dropped into the bucket.

SHALL WE OVERRIDE BONDARELLA'S AUTOMATED PROGRAM? YES. AGREED. I'LL ACT AS MODERATOR, IF NO ONE OBJECTS.  AS ALWAYS, MAKE YOUR CHOICES FROM THE MENU AND DRAG THEM INTO THE POLLING WINDOW.

Seconds passed, then Roger began moving, again.  He started at a slow pace... then began sliding with ever-increasing frequency and depth, until Megan had no choice but to react.  She moaned through her voluntary gag, closed her eyes, and—Zap!  The right pole had tapped its hoop.  She over-corrected and received a shock from the left hoop.  Roger continued to pump her sex.

PERHAPS THAT IS ENOUGH, FOR THE MOMENT. AGREED. WE DON'T WANT TO END THE GAME BEFORE IT REALLY BEGINS. YES.

Roger slowly slid to a stop... and Megan sighed in relief.  She was beginning to sweat, and whether or not Roger had been lubricated before was now very much a moot issue.

SO PRETTY. SO VERY PRETTY.

The chime sounded, and another ball dropped into the bucket.

SO PRETTY AS SHE SUFFERS. AGREED. INDEED.