THE ADVENTURES OF BONNIE & GEORGE
			by Van ©2011
		CHAPTER 4

It required something on the order of seven long, bouncing hours to reach Three-step Mesa.  There were no rest breaks and only a single brief stop for Bonnie to gulp a little water.  Trussa and the raptors were, apparently, tireless and totally adapted to the desert.

First, they negotiated a narrow, twisting canyon that opened onto another dry lake bed.  Bonnie's raptor mount dodged between boulders and scrambling over the loose rock without direction from its naked, bound, and gagged rider.  The bipedal dinosaurs maintained a steady pace nearly as fast as a horse's gallop.  They passed canyon after canyon as they followed the margin of the lake, and eventually what had to be their goal came into view around a bend.  Two large canyons converged on a mesa the size of a small town, and it was in three distinct steps, the topmost of which towered above the highest of the neighboring terrain.

Bonnie was used to the sun, more so than the average Luropean female of her station.  The public bath of which she and George were members had a "Natural Bathing Salon," a swimming pool and lounge area with direct exposure to the sky.  During the summer months, Bonnie and like-minded patrons spent many nude hours in this luxurious oasis swimming, sunbathing, and enjoying full-body massages at the well-oiled hands of the bath's well-trained attendants.  Unfortunately, George's fair complexion was prone to sunburn and the fashion disaster of—Gasp!—freckles, so she confined her aquatic fitness activities, lounging, tea-sipping, and massage sessions to the club's indoor pool and lounge.

Yes, Bonnie loved basking in the sun.  It was one more reminder of her childhood vacations in Iroquoia.  That said, Bonnie was not used to hours of nude raptor-back riding across a sun-blasted desert.  As they neared their destination, Bonnie's gagged mouth was parched and her naked form had taken on a permanent blush.  In addition, her thighs were chaffed from the saddle, her back and abs were complaining from constantly maintaining a proper seat, and her breasts were sore from the incessant bouncing.  Bonnie's boobs weren't what one would call large, but they were generous enough to flop and oscillate with her mount's every step.

Clear trails led into both canyons and around the base of the mesa.  They took the mesa trail for a distance, then Trussa directed her mount onto a large, flat rock.  Bonnie's mount followed.  As always, it kept close to Trussa and the lasso linking the two saddles never went taut.  The first flat rock led to another, and then another, and Bonnie realized they were on a crude, giant staircase leading up the side of the mesa's first tier.  The distances between steps would have been challenging for a human, but the raptors easily bridged the gaps.

About 200 yards above the level of the dry lake, they came to a wide gap in the colossal stairs.  In that gap, eight widely spaced logs projected from the side of the cliff.  Beyond, the staircase continued, leading ever upward.

Trussa turned in the saddle to smile at her prisoner.

Bonnie glared back.  Fun is fun, but she did not appreciate the way she was being treated.  Back at GWENDOLINE's mooring site, before or after the storm, if Trussa had suddenly appeared, smiled, waved, and politely inquired if Bonnie and George would like to pop over to the nearest amazon village for tea, the explorers would have replied with an immediate and very enthusiastic yes!  There was no need for this kind of hostility.

Trussa pointed at the next stone step, the other side of the logs.  "Too far for big honker to jump," she explained, then pointed at the logs.  "Big honker too heavy.  Wild raptors and little honkers still problem—"  She patted the scabbard holding her carbine.  "—but they can be killed.  Big honkers, not so much."  She turned back to the front, clicked her tongue, and the raptors surged forward, leaping from log to log and onto the next step.

The journey continued and eventually the stairs led to a narrow, sloping ledge, and the ledge to the flat surface of the top of the Mesa's first tier.  A trail snaked between boulders.  The face of the second tier was sheer, as was the drop down to the rubble pile ringing the mesa's base.  Finally, they came to a cave entrance.  Trussa led the way inside and they immediately encountered a wall pierced by a door closed by a heavy grate of iron bars studded with sharp spikes.

Trussa dismounted, stepped forward and lifted a latch, then carefully swung open the grate.  She clicked her tongue and her mount stepped through the door, followed by Bonnie and her mount, of course.  The door was wide enough to accomodate both raptors, but the lentil was low enough that Bonnie had to duck down to keep from bashing her forehead.  The mounts continued for several steps, then stopped.  Bonnie turned in the saddle and watched as Trussa closed the gate and engaged a heavy iron cross-brace.  She then picked up the end of a light chain with small bells attached.  They sounded an echoing, chiming chorus as she stretched the chain to the gate and clipped it to a ring in the cross-brace.

A warning system, Bonnie realized.

Trussa stepped forward, took the reins of her mount, and led the way forward on foot.  The cave opened into a large dome with a high ceiling.  The entire western wall was open to the dry lake below and was protected by a slab of stone that jutted out like a thousand-ton awning.  The floor was sandy, for the most part, with a fire pit built into a ledge near the "window wall."

"We safe here," Trussa announced as she reached up, loosened the noose of the lasso, and flipped it off Bonnie's head.  She untied Bonnie's right ankle, freeing her foot from the stirrup, then stepped around the raptor and untied her left foot.  "Down," she ordered.

Bonnie managed to dismount without falling on her face, but it was a near thing.  She staggered and went down on one knee, then stood and glared at her captor.

An infuriating, gloating smile curling her lips, Trussa pointed at the sand.  "Lay on belly."

Bonnie's response was to continue to glare.  She might be box-tied, gagged, and helpless, but she wasn't a whimpering, frightened girl.  Enough was enough!

Still smiling, Trussa took two steps back and clicked her tongue.  "Tock—t-t-tock!"

Instantly, Bonnie's former mount spun in place, sweeping its tail against the backs of Bonnie's knees and knocking her off her feet.  "Mrrf!"  Bonnie dropped to the sand and the raptor used its snout to flip her onto her stomach, then planted its left hind foot on her rump, all in one practiced motion.  The beast didn't plant its weight—Thank god!—but Bonnie knew she wasn't going anywhere.

Trussa knelt and hobbled Bonnie's ankles about a foot apart, then clicked her tongue, again, and the raptor lifted its foot and joined its companion.  The dinosaurs nuzzled, purred, and Bonnie would have sworn they were gazing back at her with actual amusement.  "Nrrrf!"  Trussa had folded Bonnie's legs until her heels pressed into her butt and was tying a knot, enforcing a strict hogtie.

Bonnie watched, from her ground-level perspective, as her captor unsaddled their mounts and stowed the tack on a convenient rock shelf.  She then tossed back a canvas tarp, revealing several wooden trunks and canvas bundles and a large stack of firewood.  Bonnie sighed through her gag and squirmed as Trussa built a small fire.  And all the while, the raptors continued watching her.

Trussa filled a small cooking pot from a water-skin and set it on the fire.  She then returned to the stores, opened a trunk, and pulled out a small ceramic pot with a leather lid tied with a beaded cord.  She removed the lid, added a dash of water, and began stirring the contents with a stick.

Bonnie noticed the raptors had stopped watching her and were now watching Trussa.  Their nostrils flared as they sniffed the air.

Trussa slung a water-skin across her shoulder, set the pot on the ledge, then retrieved the lasso from her saddle.  She strolled to Bonnie, released her from the hogtie, and helped her to her hobbled feet.  She dropped the lasso's noose over Bonnie's head and tightened it around her throat, then led her to a large, flat rock about a foot above the level of the sand.  Ten feet overhead, the ends of a stout, horizontal log had been solidly set into the opposite walls of the cave.  Trussa led Bonnie onto the rock and under the log, tossed the end of the lasso up and over, and pulled out the slack.  "You be good girl?" she asked Bonnie, "or you want to dance on toes?"

Bonnie sighed through her gag, then nodded.

Trussa, smiled, pulled out the slack, but left enough that Bonnie's bare feet remained flat on the rock.  She tied off the lasso to an iron ring set in the cave wall, then untied Bonnie's cleave-gag and pulled the stuffing from her mouth.

Bonnie worked her jaws and tried to lick her lips, but her tongue was too dry to do them much good.  Trussa unstopped the water-skin and held it to Bonnie's mouth.  She drank and drank, gulping and swallowing a little more than a pint.  Water splashed her chest and breasts and dribbled down her stomach and thighs in the process.  She willed herself to stop, not wanting her stomach to start heaving.  "Thank you," she muttered.

Trussa nodded, stoppered the water-skin, then carried it back to the shelf.  She returned with the ceramic pot, stirring it with the stick.  "Dried pulp of warocha cactus," she explained.  "Good for sunburn."  She lifted the stick and a thick, yellow-green, oily fluid dripped from the end, about the consistency of molasses.

"So is clothing," Bonnie huffed.  "Good for preventing sunburn, that is."

Trussa poured a generous dollop of the fluid into her right palm, set down the pot and rubbed her hands together, then began massaging Bonnie's breasts.

"Ahhh," Bonnie sighed.  At first, the ointment burned, but that feeling was quickly replaced by a pleasant, cool, tingling sensation.  The massage continued, enlarging to include Bonnie's shoulders, arms, stomach, back, rump, thighs, and lower legs.  Trussa replenished her hands, as required, stepping around Bonnie in a slow circle and being very thorough in her application of the oily medicine.  Soon, Bonnie's skin, all of it not shielded by her bondage, that is, glistened in the indirect light.

Bonnie watched Trussa apply a light coat to her own shoulders, breasts, and thighs.

"Feels good," Trussa purred, teasing her nipples, "doesn't it, Luroper-girl?"

"Better than nothing," Bonnie muttered.  In point of fact, it was the best topical ointment Bonnie had ever experienced, even better than the bear fat and aloe paste her Tuscarora relatives had used on her childhood sunburns, whenever she got carried away with the skinny-dipping and sunbathing with her darker-skinned cousins.  Maybe 'warocha cactus' will grow in southern Luropa, she thought.

Trussa applied the ointment to Bonnie's face, carefully avoiding her eyes.  She than reapplied ointment to Bonnie's breasts and nipples, leaving a generous, nearly dripping coat.  Finally, a smile on her lips, she loaded her fingers and thoroughly coated her prisoner's crotch.

"That burns," Bonnie complained when Trussa's fingers penetrated her labia and rubbed against her clitoris.  "And I hardly think I'm sunburned down there."

"Better safe than sorry," Trussa purred, using the last of the ointment to double-coat Bonnie's saddle-reddened thighs.  She then set down the pot, retrieved the cleave-gag and tied a knot in the center, then thrust it in Bonnie's mouth and knotted it at the nape of her neck, under her tousled hair.  "I cook supper," Trussa said, smiling at Bonnie's glistening, gagged face.  "You wait here."

Hilarious, Bonnie fumed.  She has pretty hair, she thought, watching Trussa's dark, swaying tresses as she strolled to the raptors.  I like her widow's peak.

Trussa held out her hands and the raptors licked her palms.  "Greedy pups," she chuckled, opening her fingers so the dinosaurs' long, pink tongues could remove every trace of the ointment.  She looked back over her shoulder and smiled at Bonnie.  "They love this stuff," she explained.  "Can't get enough."  Her hands finally "clean," Trussa went to the shelves and opened a bundle, revealing long strips of dried meat wrapped in green leaves.  She emptied the water-skin into a bowl-shaped cavity in a neighboring rock shelf, divided the meat into two modest piles, then clicked her tongue.

The raptors had been watching Bonnie, quite literally licking their scaly, toothy chops.  Their heads turned in unison and they bounded to Trussa and began wolfing down the meat, pausing between gulps to take turns lapping at the water.

Trussa carried a second, much smaller bundle to the fire pit.  She opened it and began tearing off clumps of a milky cake of some kind and dropping them into the steaming cook pot.  She then pulled a knife and began slicing chunks of dried meat and adding them to the pot, as well.  Using a stick to stir the contents, she paused every now and then to add leaves from a small bundle of herbs.  At least, Bonnie assumed they were herbs.

Pemmican porridge, Bonnie realized, or something very much like it.  Trail rations.

Meanwhile, the raptors had finished their meal and their eyes were back on Bonnie.  They shifted their predatory gaze to Trussa, in unison, then back to Bonnie.

Bonnie entertained and dismissed the thought that the dinosaurs were considering having "Luroper-girl" for dessert, but obviously they had some sort of interest in her helpless, glistening form.

Trussa continued smiling and stirring the pot, pausing to add more meat, dried cake, and herbs.  Finally, she clicked her tongue, once.  "Tock!"  She then locked eyes with the raptors, slowly, deliberately licked her palm, then nodded towards Bonnie.  "T-t-tock!"

The raptors bounded to Bonnie with their heads down and she screamed through her gag in alarm.  "Mrrpfh!"  Then, her eyes popped wide and she shivered, writhed, and fought her bonds.  The raptors were licking her skin!  "Nrrrf!"  And they were making a very thorough job of it!  Bonnie continued writhing.  The raptors' tongues were wet and slimy and not exactly smooth.  Thankfully, they were being gentle, even delicate with their wet, flickering, sliding tongues.  Also thankfully, as long as she stood erect and stoically endured the raptors' slathering explorations, there was plenty of slack in the lasso and she was in no danger of hanging herself.  It's a good thing I decided to be cooperative and not take the 'dance on toes' option, she acknowledged.

Tressa continued with her cooking duties, stirring the pot and adding fuel to the fire as needed.

The raptors were paying special attention to Bonnie's breasts, thighs, and crotch, but every square inch of her helpless form was receiving a tongue bath.

"Don't worry," Trussa reassured her prisoner.  "They not bite."

Bonnie continued struggling and shivering, and the raptors continued licking every curve, nook, and cranny of her shining skin.

The Queen had promised George a bath, and she was true to her word.

Her Majesty peeled George completely out of her clothes—all of her clothes—dress, corset, camisole, knickers, boots, and stockings!  This had required the untying of George's wrists and ankles, but the ropes were immediately reapplied.  She remained a bound prisoner with her ankles together and her wrists behind her back.  George's whining complaints were ignored, as were her struggles.  More correctly, Bondara, Queen of the Sand Amazons, was strong and easily up to the task of handling George's pathetic attempts to wiggle free.

Finally, as nude as the Queen herself, George was lifted into Bondara's Regal arms and carried to the pool.  Her Majesty descended a set of shallow steps and sat on a stone ledge.  They were now immersed in the cool, clear water up to the level of the Royal Nipples.  With George in her lap, Bondara used a rough cloth to scrub her bound guest clean—and she was very thorough.  The cloth was used on George's neck, behind her ears, under her armpits (awkward, but doable, despite George's bound wrists), her stomach, the backs of her knees, all the spaces between her toes—everything and everywhere—including between her legs!

"Your Majesty, I must protest," George whined.

"And wiggle," the Queen chuckled.  "You wiggle like cave trout.  You white like cave trout, too... only more pink.

"Please!" George gasped.  She writhed in distress, churning the cool water and sending wavelets to lap against the far rim of the pool.

"I call you Little Trout," the Queen announced.  "George the Luroper-girl, my Little Trout."

George shivered and buried her wet, dripping face between Her Majesty's breasts, "hiding" her embarrassment.  Bondara's hand continued to scrub her private parts, a place not scrubbed by hands not her own since she was a small child.

Suddenly, the door opened and a half-dozen amazons appeared.  All were George's age or younger, and were as tan, strong, and beautiful as every other amazon George had seen since her capture.  All were naked, but for narrow, fringed loincloths decorated with beads and embroidery, and were carrying trays of food and ceramic jugs.  The trays were placed on the rim of the pool and the jugs eased into tethered baskets with cork floats.

Without a word, the amazon maidens turned and left.  One, however, possibly the youngster of the group, paused to lock eyes with George, smile, and wink.  Another, possibly the oldest, grabbed the youngster by the ear and dragged her away.  "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!" the maiden gasped, and then the door closed and Bondara and George were alone, again.

Bondara moved close to the food, taking George with her.  She popped a small, juicy chunk of meat in Little Trout's pouting mouth, then popped a second chunk in her own.

George's empty stomach had started grumbling and her mouth watering the moment the food first appeared.  The meat, whatever it was, had been slow cooked and simmered in some sort of spicy sauce and it was delicious, as was the baked, stuffed leaf that came next, as was the fried tartlet that followed.  The wine—the jugs were full of wine—was a little young for George's palate, but was eminently drinkable.  The meal continued and George realized her stomach was becoming comfortably full and she was becoming slightly intoxicated—"buzzed," as Bonnie would have called it—and she was no longer mortified.  Embarrassed?  Yes, of course, but not mortified.

Suddenly, George's eyes popped wide.  She'd forgotten her partner!  "Bonnie!" she gasped.

Bondara chewed and swallowed.  "Bonnie mean good?"

"My partner," George explained.  "Her name is Bonnie."

Bondara smiled.  "Bonnie.  Very pretty name.  Almost like Bondara.  Bonnie have dinner with Trussa, my sub-Queen."

"Sub-Queen?"

"Trussa, daughter of Gagga.  She become Queen when I join the old women."

George frowned as Bondara popped another chunk of meat in her mouth.  She chewed and swallowed.  "Old women?"

"Old women make all decisions not to do with fighting," Bondara explained.  "They teach younglings history, lore, skills, and train older younglings in ways of jûb-jûb."

George started to ask the obvious question, but quickly closed her mouth (and blushed).  Jûb-jûb!

Bondara sipped the shared cup, refilled it from one of the floating jugs, then held it to George's lips.  They locked eyes as George drank.  Before she realized it, George had drained the entire contents.

"More?" Bondara asked.

"Thank you, no, Your majesty," George answered.  "I am quite full.  My compliments to the Royal chef."

"Royal chef," Bondara chuckled.  "I tell her."  She lifted George into her arms and carried her to the stairs and out of the pool.  She set the dripping George down on a flat stone and used a fluffy towel of soft, burlap-like cloth to dry first herself, and then her guest.

George shivered as the cloth rubbed her bound, naked body.  An involuntary moan escaped her lips as the Queen rubbed between her legs.  She continued shivering as Bondara lifted her into her arms, again, and carried her towards an alcove carpeted with plush rugs and heaped with cushions.

"Your heart beat like hammer, Little Trout," Bondara whispered in George's ear, then kissed the side of her throat.  "Don't worry.  Bondara not hurt you."

Eventually, the raptors either satiated their appetites for warocha ointment, grew tired of licking Bonnie's glistening skin, or both.  They retreated to the far side of the cave, settled to the sandy floor, and cuddled together, if raptors can be said to cuddle.  In any case, they formed an intimate tangle of legs, tails, and long necks.  They continued watching the two humans, and Bonnie was forming the distinct impression the dinosaurs were not only highly intelligent, but that their relationship with their amazon riders was more partnership than service.

She sighed through her gag and gave her bound wrists a perfunctory tug.  She knew she wasn't going anywhere, but she had to do something.  She felt dreadful, disgusted with the film of raptor spit drying on her naked body.  However, she had to admit her sun-reddened skin no longer burned.  Maybe cactus pulp and raptor spit is the full treatment.

Trussa had shifted the bubbling pot to the side of the fire and was grilling a round of flat-bread over the remaining coals.  She poured a portion of a syrupy liquid from a small jug into a larger jug, then added a generous slosh of water.  She pulled the toasted flat-bread from the fire, gracefully stood and stretched, then strolled to Bonnie and smiled at her helpless, naked, and bound captive.  She slackened the lasso and pulled the noose from Bonnie's neck, then led her towards the fire.

With careful dignity, Bonnie "allowed" herself to be led, taking the small, mincing steps her hobble allowed.  She sat on a flat rock next to the fire pit, as directed, and leaned close so Trussa could remove her gag.  "Was that entirely necessary?" she huffed.

"Raptors no get have fun?" Trussa chuckled.  She filled a ceramic cup from the large jug, then held it to Bonnie's lips.  "Raptors love warocha.  They lick it like younglings lick honeycomb."

Bonnie sipped the cup.  It was fortified, watered wine, like the southern Tyrrhenians often drank.  "I don't appreciate being covered in dinosaur spit," she muttered.

Trussa shrugged, then tore off a small chunk of bread, used it to scoop a dollop of meaty porridge from the pot, and popped it in Bonnie's frowning mouth.

"Umm," Bonnie said as she chewed and swallowed.

"Old women say it rude to talk with mouth full," Trussa chuckled.

"Do the old women, whoever they are, also say it's rude to let your raptors lick a guest from head to toe," Bonnie huffed.

"No," Trussa laughed, "they say it funny.  And you not guest, you captive of the Sand Amazons."

"I suppose I am," Bonnie sighed, and accepted a second dollop of porridge and bread.  She had to admit the food was delicious.

Trussa sipped the wine and ate her own scoop of porridge, and the meal continued.

George was on her back and bound wrists, comfortably supported by a dozen or more large, soft cushions.  The Queen had untied her ankles, but George wasn't going anywhere.  For one thing, she was exhausted.  The Royal fingers, tongue, and lips had done all sorts of unmentionable, intimate things to her helpless body... several times... and George was a flushed, sweaty, and sexually satiated mess.  For another, the Royal Person was on top of her, with the Queen's knees to either side of her shoulders and the Royal Pussy hovering a couple of inches above her face.  In addition, the Royal Visage was tucked between her splayed legs.  Yes, the Queen of the Sand Amazons was doing her best to coax yet another orgasm from George's shivering body.

George was long past embarrassment.  Acceptance had filled the void, but now that was succumbing to a growing anger.  Queen or no Queen, this was no way to treat a subject of The Queen, Bonnie's Queen, Victoria Regina.  Suddenly, with Bondara continuing to lick her labia and tickle her clitoris with the tip of her tongue, George found her anger had vanished.  In its place—and to George's infinite amazement—was amusement, and the requirement to stifle the giggling fit struggling to escape her trembling lips.  Victoria Regina—Bondara Vagina!  The vagina in question was still hovering above her face.  Physically exhausted, emotionally strung-out, and still a little tipsy, George realized she was losing it.

I may be a helpless prisoner, George huffed, but I'll fight back any way I can.  Her Majesty wants 'jûb-jûb?'  I'll give her jûb-jûb!

George lifted her head and gave Bondara's moist labia a tentative lick.  I'll teach her!  A second lick followed, and then a third, and George began matching the efforts of her captor and hostess (and lover), stroke for wet, probing stroke and nibble for gentle, teasing nibble!

Unseen from George's rather limited perspective, Bondara's busy mouth formed a broad smile and her blue eyes sparkled, even as she continued to pleasure her Little Trout.

The knotted cleave-gag was back in Bonnie's mouth.  Her wrists, arms, and torso were still box-tied, but her hobble had been untied and each ankle lashed to its respective thigh, enforcing what she believed was referred to as a "frogtie" in certain London circles.  The evening meal and cleanup was more than an hour in the past, and she was reclined in the soft sand and against the scaly bodies of the lounging raptors with Trussa at her side.

The raptors were either catnapping (raptornapping?) or were fully asleep.  Trussa, on the other hand, was most assuredly not asleep.  After leading Bonnie to her current location and changing her bonds, the amazon had removed her boots and loincloth.  And then, without so much as a by-your-leave, proceeded to explore her prisoner's helpless body with her hands, lips, and tongue.  She nuzzled and kissed Bonnie's gagged face and slid her long, strong, tan legs along her thighs and against her crotch.  Bonnie's breasts and nipples were also stroked, teased, kissed, and licked, of course.  And then, Trussa had shifted her attention to Bonnie's crotch.

Bondage aside, Bonnie was a decidedly passive participant in this erotic activity; but she was only human.

Eventually, inevitably, Bonnie experienced a crashing orgasm.  In fact, it was a multiple orgasm, one worthy of mention in her private journal.  Dear diary... ooooo...

And now, Trussa was at it again!  In fact, she'd never really stopped.  The gloating, smiling, licking, and nibbling vixen slid between Bonnie's legs and began tonguing her pussy, again!

Enough is enough!  Bonnie bucked her bound body, struggling to twist and roll away—and suddenly, the raptors put a stop to her efforts!  One of them dropped a forearm across her right shoulder and rested its paw between her breasts.  The beast's sharp claws dimpled the flesh of her left breast.  The other raptor draped the end of its tail across Bonnie's stomach and right thigh.  Bonnie turned her gagged face first to the left and then to the right, and found the dinosaurs gazing back at her.

Bonnie sighed through her gag and shivered in her bonds.  Clearly, but not surprisingly, the raptors were taking Trussa's side.

Meanwhile, Trussa continued nudging, goosing, stroking, and generally manipulating Bonnie's pussy and neighboring anatomy, and the amazon was showing every sign of being as tireless a lover as she was raptor-rider.

George opened one eye.

It had to be well after midnight.  Her Majesty was asleep, curled up against George's side with one arm across her stomach.  George's wrists were still bound, but her ankles had not been retied.  She slowly lifted her head and looked around.  Those lanterns still lit provided a dim, flickering light, and a handful of stars were visible through the small opening in the rocky ceiling over the pool.

George gave a slow, cautious squirm to the side, then froze.  Bondara had yawned, stretched, and rolled away.  Now "free," George carefully sat up and waited for a reaction.  There was none.  She carefully eased herself further away from the Queen, folded her legs and stood, then tiptoed from the alcove.  The only sound was the gentle water music of the waterfall splashing into the pool.  Her clothes were in the same disordered pile, but there was no way she could don anything with her wrists crossed and bound behind her back.  She knew there were blades in the trunk holding the Queen's clothing, but when Her Majesty opened and closed the lid to put away her clothes, the hinges had creaked and the latch had rattled.

There was nothing for it.  George would have to look elsewhere for something sharp with which to free herself.  Naked and bound certainly wasn't her first choice of costume for exploring the Sand Amazon's realm, but it would seem to be her only choice.

George tiptoed to the door, lifted the latch, and slowly opened the wooden portal.  Bondara never stirred.  George padded across the threshold and carefully pulled the door closed behind her.

The tunnel corridor was dark, lit only by the weak starlight gleaming through the periodic light shafts.

Alright, then, George thought, find something sharp, cut myself free, find some clothes, and find Bonnie, defeating an entire nation of amazon warriors in the process, if necessary.  Then, sneak back to GWENDOLINE and continue south.  Piece of cake.

Naked and bound, alert for any sound or sign of movement, George tiptoed down the dark tunnel.  She chose the path away from the Queen's Bath and the canyon entrance, bravely heading into unknown territory.