THE ADVENTURES OF BONNIE & GEORGE
			by Van ©2011
		EPILOGUE

Two Weeks Later, Still Deep in the Junn-Junn...

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The purple and rose glow on the eastern horizon was brightening, and delicate rays were just beginning to pinpoint the position of the sun's arrival.  In the clear, dry air of the Junn-Junn, the stars still filled the indigo sky, but the weakest were beginning to fade.

George had the watch, but she hadn't had to touch GWENDOLINE's automatic controls for more than an hour.  The wind was steady, and had been all night.  After the sun rose and began heating the rocks, that would probably change, but the resulting mild turbulence wouldn't be George's concern.  Bonnie had the next watch.

Soon after leaving the Sand Amazon capital, George had changed back into Luropean dress: boots, stocking, knickers, camisole, traveling dress, and pith helmet.  The costume was less comfortable in this climate than her loincloth, bra-top, and robe, but it made her feel better (meaning more proper).

Bonnie was taking her time reverting to more complete coverage.  She had added jodhpurs to her ensemble, but still refused to don blouse and jacket, retaining her red, makeshift bandeau.

Bondara, of course, continued wearing her boots, loincloth, and bra-top, and showed no interest in experimenting with Luropean clothing, even at George's repeated urging and kind offers to help with the required alterations.  In fact, on occasion (at least once a day, actually), Bondara would select a sunny spot on the foredeck and sunbathe in the nude!  George was scandalized (although, oddly enough, important shipboard tasks required her to remain on deck for the duration of the brazen spectacles).

The morning glow was beginning to touch the tops of the sails when Bonnie came on deck, quietly easing the hatch closed and joining George at the wheel.  "Good morning," she said, handing her partner a steaming mug of tea.

"Good morning," George answered, taking the mug and a delicate sip.  "Ah, thank you.  I've been thinking about tea for a solid hour."

Bonnie smiled and nodded, then pointed.  "There's another one.  Three points off the port bow."

"I see it," George answered, and took another sip.

Miles away, many miles away, a ghostly shape was slowly flapping a pair of long, thin, giant wings.  It was a dragon, or sky-god honker as the Sand Amazons called them.

"I think it's a big one," George said.  "I wish we could get a closer look and determine its true size."

Bonnie chuckled.  "Invisibility would be my first wish, followed by getting a closer look.  Crawling all over it with a measuring tape would be much further down the list."

George giggled.  "Cheeky monkey.  Oh, it's landing."  The dragon was, indeed, settling atop a distant butte and folding its wings.  "I wonder if they have roosts all over their territories."

Bonnie shrugged, then opened the log and read George's latest entries.  She then consulted the map that was folded open and clipped to a board mounted beside the desk.  "Okay," she said, finally.  "Anything else to report?"

George shook her head.  "Base course remains one-seven-five, magnetic.  Wind has been from the starboard quarter at three to five knots."

"And should quicken with the dawn," Bonnie nodded.  "All right, I relieve you."

"I stand relieved," George answered, making her final entry and signing the log.

Bonnie smiled.  "So... heading below for breakfast?"

George set down the pen.  "Uh... perhaps.  I may take a nap and eat later."

Still smiling, Bonnie nodded.  "It's quiet below decks."

"Bondara's asleep?"

Bonnie shrugged.  "As far as I know."

"Oh."  George turned and headed for the hatch.  "Uh... I'll be below."  She opened the hatch as quietly as she could, then tip-toed down the ladder.

Bonnie watched the hatch sloooowly slide closed, then chuckled to herself.  The glowing band on the eastern horizon was now predominately orange and gold.  The first appearance of the sun should be moments away.

The white-painted passageways below deck were lit only by the weak glow of small electrical lights in the overhead, set purposely dim for the watches of the night.

If I can just get to my cabin and lock the door, George thought.  She paused to listen, then took another sip of tea.  All was quiet, as Bonnie had said.  Maybe she is asleep.

George reached for the knob of her cabin door, gave it a slow turn, and—

Suddenly, the door of the cabin across the passageway flew open, a dark figure emerged, and grabbed George from behind—"Mrrf!"—clamping a hand over her mouth.

It was Bondara, of course, and she was completely naked.  "Oh, thank you, Little Trout," she said as she took the mug from George's hand and drank the remaining contents.  "Most considerate of you."

"Nrrrf!"  George was struggling and kicking and trying to pry Bondara's hand from her mouth.  "Mrr'tr'mfffh!"  Once relieved of the mug, she pulled and slapped with both hands.  She might as well have been trying to pry apart GWENDOLINE's timbers.

"What's that?" Bondara chuckled.  "You'd like to come in?  Very well, if you insist."  Bondara was learning the Luropean manner of discourse, under George and Bonnie's tutelage.  They all agreed it would have a positive effect during trade negotiations, once they returned to the Grand Alliance.  Bondara regularly complained about all the "extra words," declaring them to be as unnecessary as George's "extra clothing."  However, she was making a serious effort and noticable progress.

Bondara backed into her cabin, taking the struggling George with her.  George managed to grab the door frame, briefly, but her efforts to impede their progress were as futile as her struggles to squirm free or dislodge Bondara's hand.  Bondara sat on the bed, crossing her legs around George's waist and trapping the diminutive prisoner's arms against her sides.  She pulled off George's pith helmet—including its strapped-on pair of polychromatic, stereoptical, polarizing, and magnifying goggles—and tossed it aside.  She then released her hand-gag.

"Oh bother!" George hissed in a hoarse whisper.  "Release me this instant!"

Bondara had shaken out a soft linen cloth and was balling it into a wad.  "Don't be silly, Little Trout," she chuckled.

"I'm tired," George whined, then asserted her authority as second-in-command.  "Let—Me—Go!  Nrrrf!"

Bondara was stuffing the cloth into George's mouth, ignoring her squirming resistance.  She then placed a broad gag-strap of brown chamois over George's lips and buckled it tight at the nape of her neck.  The gag was one of several items of Sand Amazon manufacture Bondara had included in her luggage upon joining the expedition.  Apparently, the tools required to effectively restrain and silence captives were part of an amazon's standard field kit.  The soft leather cupped George's chin and pressed against her lower face.  Her cheeks bulged above the top of the band and her button nose peeked through the rounded notch in the front.

George glanced to left and right and noted the coils of soft rope scattered on the mattress, some of which were already neatly lashed to the bunk's side rails.  She sighed through her gag and stopped struggling.

Bondara began unbuttoning George's traveling dress, working her way down the captive youngster's back and releasing the ribbons of the underlying camisole, as well.  "I know you're tired, Little Trout," she whispered, and kissed the back of George's head.  "Bondara make you nice and naked, tie you up nice and tight, then help you relax before sleep."

George sighed, again, as her dress and camisole were pulled from her shoulders and Bondara reached for the first of what would no doubt be many coils of rope.  The Sand Amazon always made a thorough job of it when she tied up her "Little Trout."

Bonnie looked up from the map as the hatch slid open.  Bondara mounted the ladder, a mug of tea in each hand.  She was totally naked, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and tied with what Bonnie recognized as one of George's hair ribbons.  Not for the first time, Bonnie marveled at the way the Sand Amazon beauty was totally at ease in her skin, to a degree Bonnie the Social Progressive might hope to emulate but knew she would never achieve.

"Morning," Bondara said, handing a mug to Bonnie.

"Morning," Bonnie answered.  She took a sip.  "And thank you."

Bondara nodded, then pulled the binoculars from the case mounted next to the map board and scanned the horizon.  She never missed an opportunity to use the Helvetian-made instrument.  Such devices were rare in the Junn-Junn, precision optics being one technology the Sand Amazons had yet to master.  All of their telescopes and field glasses were captured from Tyrrenian and Iberian cavalry patrols, and some were a century out of date.

"You eat breakfast?" Bondara asked.

Bonnie shook her head.  "Not yet."

"I cook something," Bondara announced, still scanning the terrain ahead.

Bonnie smiled.  "George is asleep?"

Bondara returned the binoculars to their case, then returned Bonnie's smile.  "George in bed.  Not know if George asleep."

"That's 'George is in her bed' and 'I don't know if she is asleep'."

Bondara shrugged and headed for the hatch.  "I never said George was in her bed.  I cook breakfast."

Bonnie sipped her tea and smiled.  The hatch slid closed and she was alone on deck.  "Lucky little bimbo," she muttered under her breath, then returned to studying the map.  A distinctive formation of buttes should be coming into view along their course, sometime within the next hour.

George stared up at the white overhead, then sighed through her gag.

She was naked and bound, a condition with which she was becoming increasingly familiar but by no means accustomed.  Granted, Bondara's ropes were comfortable, as such things went, but they were also tight, numerous, elaborate, and inescapable.

Bondara had started with a box-tie, apparently a personal and Sand Amazon favorite, then had proceeded to bind George's ankles and legs, both above and below the knees.  Next, she lashed her to the bunk, utilizing the rails on either side of the narrow but pleasantly soft mattress.  A few simple hitches would have been more than enough to keep her from rolling off the bed and hopping out the stateroom door, but Bondara had felt compelled to tie a taut, flesh-dimpling web of diamond hitches and transverse strands.  When she was finally satisfied, George knew herself to be melded to the bunk as effectively as if she'd been cocooned by a giant spider.

Bondara then proceeded with the "relaxation" portion of her program.  One would think that with George's thighs lashed together it would have been exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, for Bondara to tease the helpless little captive in any meaningful way; however, no doubt thanks to decades of experience entertaining bound captives (and fellow amazons), the ex-Queen proved up to the challenge.  Her strong, tan fingers slid between George's pale, rope-dimpled thighs and between the flushed, rosy-pink petals of her labia, and slowly, over the course of minutes, kindled and nurtured to full flame a veritable bonfire of an orgasm.

Finally, panting through flaring nostrils, her pale, flushed skin glistening with a most unladylike glow, and the nipples of her rope squeezed breasts pointing like a pair of pink rubber erasers, George had glared up at her tormentor (lover) and watched her lick her fingers, an infuriating, leering, gloating smile curling the former Queen's formerly Regal lips.

"There," Bondara had said.  "Now, Little Trout can sleep better."

"Hrrmpfh!" George complained through her gag as Bondara left the stateroom, closing the door behind her.

And now, probably for the next two or three hours if things ran true to form, George would be left alone.  A gentle, warm breeze emanated from a small grill in the bulkhead and played across her helpless body, thanks to the clever (if she did say so herself) series of ram-scoops along the hull that fed the ventilation system below decks.

I have been well and truly frig-diddled, the naked prisoner mused.  It was a phrase she'd learned at boarding school.  A crude phrase, granted, but descriptive.  It could be worse, she thought as she relaxed in Bondara's ropes, closed her eyes, and prepared for slumber.  Trussa could have been appointed as the Sand Amazons' Trade Envoy.

Had such been the case, George had no doubt whatsoever the raven-haired beauty and Bonnie would be wrestling and throwing each other about the galley, wardroom, staterooms, storerooms, and holds, engaging in frig-diddling jûb-jûb at every opportunity.  The noise would be deafening and the breakage unacceptable.

George squirmed in her bonds and sighed, once again.  At least Bondara is discrete.  Bonnie doesn't suspect a thing.

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CHAPTER 7

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