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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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		Epilogue
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               SEVERAL DAYS LATER             
SOMEWHERE IN THE EXTREMADURA
ESPAÑA, EU

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The stallion was a magnificent Arabian, a dark bay with a white blaze, and Bondarella was an expert rider.  The trail was narrow, twisting, and demanding, unlike the estate's bridal path, which was suitable for beginning riders and ponies (and for pony-girls pulling traps or chariots).  Bondarella and her galloping mount were the only things moving on the desolate landscape, other than a crow, far overhead.  Horse and rider crossed the bridal path, thundered into the stables, and skidded to a halt.

Bondarella vaulted from the saddle and patted the stallion's flank with a gloved hand.  She was wearing boots, skintight riding pants, and a loose-fitting blouse of light linen.  Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.  "Thank you, Navarro," she purred, and handed the reins to one of the stable-girls.  Navarro was taken away, to be walked until he cooled down.

The stable-mistress was waiting near the stalls adjacent to the exercise yard.  A tall, handsome woman of swarthy complexion and dark hair with streaks of gray, she was dressed in riding costume, like Bondarella, like all members of the stable staff—well, most of them.

They strolled into the stable's exercise yard.  It was roughly the size of two tennis courts, was open to the sun, and was protected on all sides by nine-foot walls that served as a windbreak during the winter months (and as a screen against prying eyes in all seasons).  Above the near half of the yard, suspended from a web of steel rods stretched across the top of the walls, the four long arms of an automated exercise machine slowly turned.  A light chain dangled from the end of each arm.  Two of the chains, on opposite arms, terminated in counterweights, to balance the mechanism, and the other two ended in spring-loaded clips.  The clips, in turn, were attached to the chains of a pair of nipple clamps, and the clips were attached to a pair of pacing pony-girls, providing the motivation to exercise.

One pony-girl had long, straight, blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, and pale, blue-gray eyes.  Her skin was smooth and well-tanned, and she had the defined, toned build of a gifted field athlete.

The other pony-girl had smooth, tan skin, as well, but of a darker shade, and her full-bodied hair was as dark as a raven's wing.  Her petite form was also trim and athletic, but in the manner of a gymnast or ballerina.

Their costumes were identical, but for size:

• Pony-boots—knee-boots with hoof-like soles that laced tight and keep the pony-girls permanently on her toes.
• Arm-binders—leather single-sleeves that trapped the pony-girls' arms behind their backs and their hands palm-to-palm and tucked in what amounted to tight mittens.  They were laced tight up their entire lengths, and doubly secured by broad straps that buckled around the pony-girls' wrists and elbows.
• Corsets—leather bustiers secured with laces and buckles.  They supported the pony-girls' breasts, but left them completely exposed.
  
• Body-harnesses—networks of leather straps that yoked the pony-girls' shoulders, hugged their torsos, and pinned their arm-binders to the back of their corsets.
  
• Bit-gag Bridles—webs of narrow straps that caged the pony-girls' heads, buckled under their chins, across their foreheads, and over the crowns of their heads.  They anchored thick, rubber-clad bits in their grimacing mouths.

In addition, the little black-haired pony-girl was locked in a steel chastity belt.  The blonde's pubis, however, was covered by a triangular thong-strap that buckled to the lower portion of her body-harness.

"Romy is magnificent," Bondarella remarked, smiling at the blonde.

"Indeed," the stable-mistress agreed.  "She excels in dressage, and her attitude is outstanding, even when I push her past her limits.  I intend to return her to normal grooming duties next week, and shall begin teaching her how to train the two-legged members of the stable."

Romy continued pacing the circular track, shoulders back and chin raised.  She lifted her knees high and pointed her "hooves" with each step.

"And Melosa?" Bondarella asked, focusing on the black-haired pony-girl.

The stable-mistress sighed.  "I'm afraid Melosa is a maid, and not a pony.  She is graceful and hard working, and she has the required stamina, but she does not seem to be able to find and maintain the required state-of-mind.  She cries at night, and it is bad for the morale of the others, especially the new acquisitions."

"A pity," Bondarella sighed.

"I'm afraid I cannot recommend her continued training," the stable-mistress continued, "not as a pony."  She turned and smiled at her Mistress.  "She pines for you, you know.  That is why she weeps.  That is also why I had her locked in a steel belt, so she would be ready for you, whenever you decided to return."

Bondarella smiled.  "You mean she has been forced to, shall we say, abstain from the nightly intimate grooming?  No wonder she weeps.  For how long?"

"She has been chaste since the third day after you left on your American operation."

"How very cruel," Bondarella purred.

"I made sure she was in a position to watch, of course, each time the grooms serviced the other ponies."

"Of course," Bondarella chuckled.  "Let her complete the day, then have her bathed, oiled, and her mane ribboned, and bring her to my chamber at midnight.  She can transfer back to the house-mistress's staff in the morning."

The stable-mistress nodded.  "As you command."

Bondarella spun on her booted heel and strode towards the main hacienda.

Bondarella entered the side gate and continued across the enclosed courtyard.  It was a Moorish water-garden, and one of the "garden nymphs" was busy removing spent blossoms from a large bed of mixed flowers.

The nymph was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a sleeveless, semi-transparent sun dress of white linen, and it was clear that the pretty young honey-blonde was not wearing any underwear.  She was, however, wearing a full set of serving chains: manacles, shackles, and collar, all linked to a central length of light chain.  The connecting chains were long enough to allow her to accomplish the tasks the garden-mistress might set for her, but she was a prisoner.

She was also gagged.  A mask-gag of smooth, butternut leather covered her mouth and was buckled and padlocked at the nape of her neck.  She paused in her work and gazed at her Mistress with pale green eyes as Bondarella strolled past.

"Very pretty, Lynda," Bondarella called back over her shoulder as she entered the house.  She might have been referring to the garden, the gardener, or both.

Bondarella made her way to the main stairway to the lower levels, started down... then paused on the first landing.

Tucked into an alcove was a large cylindrical jar of thick, clear glass.  Crammed inside its close confines, in a semi-fetal tuck with her legs bent and her knees pressed against her breasts, was an attractive young woman.  She had a trim, well-proportioned figure, and she was naked.  Her skin was fair, with a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, shoulders, and between her firm, full, and at the moment mildly squashed breasts.  Her straight, dark brown hair was cropped in a pageboy, and she was bound from shoulders to toes with hemp rope in elaborate, Shibari-style bondage.  Her wrists were bound in a reverse-prayer, and horizontal and vertical bands pinned her arms to her sides and her legs together from thighs to ankles, including her big toes.  She was gagged with a large ball-gag under a tightly laced neck-corset and half-mask of black leather. 

The jar had an equally thick and heavy glass lid, secured by a basket-cage of heavy steel bands and a high-security padlock.  Two openings in the lid were plugged by a pair of thick-walled hoses of natural rubber that trailed to a compact air recirculating machine, quietly churned in a back corner of the alcove.  Bondarella knew the apparatus heated and humidified the air it forced into the jar, making the atmosphere damp and close—which explained the patina of sweat glistening on the smooth skin of the captive's bound, contorted body.

Belladonna joined Bondarella on the landing.  She was wearing a black silk tank-top and skintight jeans.  Her feet were bare.  They both gazed at the prisoner in the jar, and she gazed back with sad, blue eyes.

"What did Cyrielle do this time?" Bondarella inquired.

"The usual," Belladonna chuckled.  "I believe the house-mistress is punishing her for a less-than-enthusiastic dusting of the main library, and a display of insubordination.  It would seem a serious attitude adjustment is in order."

"Cyrielle can be a good maid when she wants to be."

"When she wants to be," Belladonna agreed.  "Shall we flip a coin?"

It wasn't clear whether the object of their discussion could hear what they were saying, but her worried gaze darted from face to face with great interest.

"I think we both have more than enough on our plates for the moment," Bondarella chuckled.  "Let's wait until the next time Cyrielle craves attention."

"And if I need a subject for the next round of demonstrations for my whipping class?" Belladonna inquired.

"That's another matter," Bondarella chuckled, turned, and started down the stairs.

Belladonna lingered a few seconds, smiling down at the helpless maid... then followed her Mistress.

Back in the jar, Cyrielle shivered in dismay (or perhaps in delicious anticipation).  The house-mistress hadn't told her how long she'd be suffering in the jar.  She squirmed in her tight bonds, longing to be able to straighten her arms and legs.  At least she didn't leave me up to my neck in olive oil, like she did Marie, last month, she thought.  Of course, if she was going to be handed over to the tender mercies of Mistress Belladonna when the house-mistress finally did let her out...  maybe the jar wasn't so bad.

Bondarella and Belladonna entered Betty's domain, the notorious "Giggle Works".  It was a large, stone-walled chamber with a vaulted ceiling and was, perhaps, best described as half modern scientific/engineering workshop and half Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory.

Betty, dressed in gym shorts and a tank-top, was seated on a chaise lounge with her legs straight and her ankles resting in the padded, semi-circular openings of the lower half of a set of heavy stocks.  A wireless computer keyboard was balanced on her lap.  Before her bare feet was an array of compact robotic manipulator-arms.  Some of the assemblies ended in tufts of feathers, some in tiny nozzles that blew puffs of warm air, and some in very human-like and fully articulated plastic hands.  "It works!" she said, beaming at the newcomers.

"Robo-tickling?" Bondarella asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"Yes, it works!" Betty enthused.  "Once the freedom of motion of the tootsies is limited, the only real problem is regulating the sensitivity of the robotic elements.  A grad student at Lewis and Clark University sent me some new code... and it works!  I just integrated the control program, and now I can move on to the testing."

"Testing, huh?" Belladonna purred.  Before Betty could react, she lifted the top half of the stocks, pivoted it on its hinge and slammed it closed, then engaged the spring-loaded hasp that held the stocks closed.

"No!" Betty shrieked, leaning forward and lunging for the hasp.  This caused the keyboard to slide off her lap.  "Ow!  Let me go!"

Belladonna had grabbed Betty's hands and was twisting them behind her back.

"Play nice, girls," Bondarella admonished, with a tolerant smile.

"Sis!" Betty complained to Bondarella, her features set in a truly pathetic pout, "I can't test it on myself."

"You don't have faith in your own work?" Bondarella inquired.  "You didn't use modular design and the established object library?  Your efforts won't plug right into our existing control software?"  She strolled to a worktable and returned with a pair of plastic wrist binders, thick-walled plasti-cuffs padded with medium-density foam.  "Well?"

"Everything should mesh," Betty admitted, still pouting, "but I need to be able to take notes.  I was gonna use one of the maids."

Bondarella chuckled.  "I'm sure you were."  She tossed the binder to Belladonna, who zipped the loops closed around Betty's wrists.

"Oh!"  Betty squirmed and tugged on her bonds.  "This sucks!" she groused.

"Yes, it certainly does." Belladonna agreed.  She strolled to the workbench and returned with a second binder, which she used to zip Betty's elbows together.  She handed the keyboard to Bondarella, then reached out and teased the strands of long hair that had fallen across Betty's face.  "Would you like a gag?"

"No, I wouldn't like a gag," Betty huffed.

Bondarella had turned the monitor away from her imprisoned little sister and was using the keyboard to open menus and type commands.  "A gag shouldn't be necessary," she said.  "We paid good money to have this place soundproofed."

"Very funny," Betty groused.  "What are you gonna do?"

"Oh..."  She continued to type.  "Nothing much.  I'm linking your robo-ticklers to one of our Roger programs, and all of this will be logged and video-recorded, of course, so you'll be able to use it to make your adjustments."

"A Roger program?" Betty asked.  "Oh... to vary intensity and timing?  With what parameters?"

Bondarella smiled and strolled towards the door.

"Last chance for that gag," Belladonna purred in Betty's ear.

"I don't want a damn gag!" she muttered.  "What parameters?" she demanded.  "Sis, what parameters?  What duration?"

As Belladonna joined her Mistress in the doorway, the robotic arms hummed, retracted to their stowed positions, then flexed and extended themselves straight up, one-by one.  They retracted, again, then three pair with feathered tips slowly extended towards Betty's helpless feet.  The white plumes fluttered as the tips of the arms vibrated with a melodious hum.

"Nooo—"

Betty's wail of despair was cut short by the closing door.

"What parameters did you select?" Belladonna inquired.

Bondarella continued smiling, but she didn't answer.

Belladonna grinned, and followed her Mistress down the hallway.

"Are we going to talk about it?" Belladonna asked, as they walked along the dark stone passageway.

"You mean talk about it again, don't you?" Bondarella chuckled.

"We never should have gone after a bunch of cops in the first place," Belladonna huffed.  "I said so from the beginning."

"I decided the risk was acceptable," Bondarella said, "and our patrons—some of our patrons—were very insistent."

Belladonna snorted in disgust.  "If Petra La Roque wants to goad the entire US Government into descending on her operations, let her take the risk."

Bondarella laughed.  "Don't repeat the mistake of so many.  Governments are made up of people, and they don't turn into all-powerful, all-knowing entities simply because they're large and well-armed.  The government—any government—remains a semi-organized mob.  It is individuals who make them effective, and these individuals spend most of their time and effort battling chaos, stupidity, and internal politics."

"Thank you for that reading from Poli-Sci for Dummies," Belladonna chuckled.  "Individuals, huh?  Like Dana Scully?"

"Exactly," Bondarella purred, "Dana and her entire team, in fact.  We probably could have continued with our original plan and operated in North America for as long as we wished; but, despite the efforts of their so-called superiors, Dana and her team were simply too dangerous."

"So you say," Belladonna huffed.  "I think you called off the operation 'cause you'd developed a crush on a certain red-haired Special Agent."

Bondarella didn't answer, and continued walking.

"You know," Belladonna continued, with a coy smile.  "If you are suddenly enamored with carrot-tops, I can take a trip to Ireland and bring you back a dozen or so to choose from."

Bondarella paused in the process of unlocking a massive door and smiled at her companion.  "Don't be jealous, darling," she purred.

"Hah!" Belladonna scoffed, and helped her Mistress (and lover) open the iron-reinforced portal.

The space beyond was Bondarella's private domain.

The architecture was similar to Betty's Giggle Works, but the chamber was nearly twice as large.  A series of skylights of frosted glass provided abundant light, and its dozen or more Gothic arches supported curved iron tracks which met at the peak and were cross-braced by additional horizontal tracks.  Gears and cables allowed the hundreds of anchoring points running in the tracks to be repositioned at will, and a wheeled library ladder off to one side could be used to reach any part of the system.  The many curtained alcoves between the arches held rolling racks of hemp rope and cord of various sizes, as well as shelves and cabinets filled with the gags, binders, sheathes, corsets, harnesses, and hundreds of other "accessories" Bondarella had collected in the pursuit of her art.

Belladonna knelt and helped her Mistress remove her riding boots, then both women disrobed.

Totally nude, Belladonna stepped to the center of the expanse of thick, well-padded carpet cushioning the floor.  She began a series of stretching exercises.

Bondarella released her long, dark hair from its former ponytail, then donned a robe of black silk.  She turned and watched her lover's strong, well-toned body as the pale, short-haired beauty knelt, leaned forward, extended her right leg, and rocked back on her toes, flexing the hamstring.

"I don't believe the report from Greece," Belladonna said, as she switched legs and flexed her left hamstring.

"That we've become a target for Thomasina Crown?" Bondarella chuckled.  "Neither do I.  Her thing is the art world.  I've never gone after art or artists, other than actors and dancers.  There's no reason that I should be on Tommy's target list."

"Like I said, I don't believe it," Belladonna said, then her lips curled in a teasing smile.  "Perhaps she knows about your Kilborn sculptures," she suggested.

"I purchase Maggie Kilborn's works through reputable dealers," Bondarella clarified.  "I don't steal them."

"But you wouldn't mind stealing her, would you?" Belladonna purred, "Maggie Kilborn, I mean.  She's hot, if you like older women, and that would give you two red-haired, American girlfriends."

Bondarella laughed as she cinched her robe's belt.  "Maggie is quite beautiful," she agreed, "but she couldn't continue her work if I kept her tied up or chained in the dungeons."

"There is that," Belladonna agreed.  "In any case, I think someone is putting out misinformation.  Crown has no reason to be interested in us."

"Perhaps I'll contact her and clear the air," Bondarella said, "but not today."  She sat on the edge of the carpet and settled into the semi-lotus position.  Her lover continued to methodically stretch and flex her limbs and joints.  So many possibilities, Bondarella thought, pondering the variations of rope-enforced, helpless, suspended contortion she had yet to inflict on Belladonna's perfect form.  So many possibilities.  There were targets to vet and operations to plan, well into the next year, as well as patrons to coddle and placate—but all of that could wait—all of that would wait.

"What will we do when Claudia returns to the continent," Belladonna asked, "perhaps bringing the little blonde FBI Agent with her?"

Bondarella smiled.  Her own Claudia, Giulietta Mandovini, the Italian beauty who had impersonated the real Claudia Bosco, had returned, of course.  At this very moment she was "relaxing" in one of the lower dungeons, naked, chained to the wall, and wondering when her Mistress would get around to rewarding her for the role she had so adroitly played in the aborted American operation.  Tomorrow, Bondarella decided.  I'll play with bella Giulietta tomorrow.

She imagined Claudia Bosco in Belladonna's place, already bound and gagged, staring daggers at her with her gorgeous eyes, and wondering what contorted hell she would be forced to endure this time.  I might have to keep her, Bondarella mused, if she persists in her pursuit and crosses my path a third time.  And that delicious little American blonde, Veronica Mars?  At something like 155 centimeters, she'd make a magnificent miniature pony.  A challenge to train... but magnificent.

"Well," Bondarella said, finally, "if bella Claudia is going to be a problem, time will tell, as it always does.  We won't let down our guard."

Belladonna finished her stretching exercises with a final, back-arching reach for the heavens... then settled to the carpet, crossed her legs, and placed her hands in her lap, mirroring Bondarella's pose.  "I'm yours, Mistress," she whispered, and lowered her head.

Bondarella remained still for a full minute... then rose to her feet and walked to one of the alcoves.  She took hold of a rack laden with coils of five-millimeter, soft, conditioned hemp rope, and wheeled it onto the carpet.  She selected a fifty-meter coil, shook it out, doubled it, and found its center.

So many possibilities, she mused.  So many possibilities.

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