by Van © 2006
	ATTACK OF THE FOREST NINJA  Chapter 1: If you go into the woods today...

To see the actors the author would cast in a CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE anthology/mini-series (on premium cable, of course)
follow the link below, and use your browser's "Back" feature to return.  New cast members are added as they appear in the stories.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

NOTE:  This is the second in the series Tales of CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE.

EARLY SUMMER
MIDNIGHT
TWELVE MILES FROM CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE

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The helicopter was designed for stealth.  Heat exchanging coils and sound baffles around the engine exhaust ports reduced its heat and acoustic signatures, and the rotor beat was actively suppressed by phase-inverted noise generators.  Radar-absorbing composite skin, a reduced profile, and flat black paint completed the picture.  All of these features, together with earth-hugging navigation and high speed, made the aircraft almost impossible to detect or target, except with a very modern air defense system.

At the moment, the ghostly machine was about twelve miles and two jagged mountain ridges from Chattel Mountain Lodge, hovering above a small clearing in a pocket valley beside a mountain lake.  A door in the side opened, a hoist arm deployed, and a dark bundle was quickly and silently lowered to the ground.  It was followed immediately by a single, dark, human figure, which slid down the cable.

The cable was retrieved, the hoist arm retracted, the door closed, and the copter swooped away.  Its low, eerie, vibration/noise faded instantly.  An indistinct, dark shape, it dropped over a ridge—and was gone.

All was quiet.  Seconds passed... and became a minute... then two; and then a bush moved.  As if by magic, it became a dark, human shape, burdened by a large pack.  It left the clearing and entered the forest, moving with sure, silent steps, leaving no track or trace.  A hypothetical observer, gifted with very good eyes and in its immediate path, would have seen a female in a body-hugging spandex unitard, boots, gloves, combat vest, equipment harness, backpack, and full, face-covering hood, all in the same digital camouflage pattern.  Night vision goggles were over her eyes.  She was armed, but her weapons were all holstered or stowed in specialized scabbards strapped to her vest and pack.

She traveled up the valley towards a pass in the nearest ridge, heading in the general direction of Chattel Mountain Lodge.

A DAY LATER
DAWN
TWO MILES FROM CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE

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The slope was steep, but still able to support mature timber.  Frieda may have taken this trail hundreds of times, but she was still careful as she ran.  If she tripped on a tree root or rock, she might find herself tumbling down the mountain, possibly to her death.

Although the upper, south-facing slopes of the mountains had been in full sunlight for some time, the air was still somewhat frigid on the trail.  Nothing like the mountain in winter, of course, but more than brisk.  Frieda was dressed in running tights, in a silver-gray color with accent stripes of red and black down the outside flanks.  Black trail-runners were on her feet, and her long, dark hair was pulled back in a swaying ponytail.  A black sports bra was doing a credible job of controlling the oscillations of her full breasts, and a red jacket with black and silver accents provided some warmth.  Around her waist was a small, black fanny pack.  It held her satellite phone and keys, all tucked in special pockets, so they wouldn't flop as she ran.

In addition, there was a small holster on the pack's belt, and it held a derringer-like weapon molded from orange plastic.  It was for defense against bears.  When fired, it produced a very loud BANG, and broadcast a 30-degree cone of pepper-spray droplets.  Frieda relied on her forest craft to avoid ursine surprises on the trail, but even an experienced mountain dweller might stumble on a stray cub or an adult newly-awakened from hibernation.  It was best to be prepared.

Chilled by the morning air, but warmed by the exercise, Frieda was sweating a little.  Her heart rate was in the zone, and her mind was drifting.  She was maintaining the required vigilance, watching the trail and scanning the surrounding terrain, but her thoughts were on the planned activities of the day.

At present, the Lodge had one "guest"—Tess Ambrose, friend of Chandler Warburg, wife of a Warburg International senior executive, ex-model (like Chandler), and usually a resident of Manhattan.  She was quite the looker, of course—tall, with high cheekbones, blue eyes, and smooth skin.  She had the expected trim, athletic figure with narrow waist; long, defined muscles; full breasts (less than Joelle, but more than Robyn)—yes, quite the looker.   This visit, her hair was short and blonde, but her natural color was brown (as confirmed by a casual inspection of her neatly trimmed pubic thatch).

Tess was a feisty bottom, just the kind of fighter Frieda enjoyed topping the most.  The spoiled bitch struggled for all she was worth, at every change of bondage, as she was prepared for every new humiliation or punishment.  "Medical bondage" was the theme of her current visit, a venue for which Chattel Mountain Lodge was perfectly, and in some ways, uniquely equipped.

Frieda was letting Robyn take the lead with Tess's "treatment".  The red-haired "Junior Dominatrix in Training" wasn't flying solo, as it was still too early in her training for that, but she was doing most of the work.  Frieda was closely supervising "Nurse Goodybody's" activities.  Tess was still Frieda's responsibility, after all, so her character, "Doctor Paine", was the star of Tess' nightmare.

Frieda rounded a turn in the trail, and skidded to a halt.  A very large pine bough had fallen, and was blocking the trail at an inconvenient spot.  The downslope was a virtual cliff, and the upslope was a jumble of house-sized boulders.  Frieda could have picked her way through the branches, but she decided she might as well clear the obstruction.  It didn't look like it would be too difficult.  All she had to do was lift the heavy end and heave it over the side.

Frieda stooped to lift the branch and—"Ow!"  Something stung her in the right butt cheek!  A wasp?  What the hell did I do to piss off a w—"Uh oh!"  She had reached back to rub the offended area, and had encountered a tuft of orange fluff embedded in the muscle!  She plucked the dart from her muscle and stared at the tiny needle in dazed wonder—which became very dazed wonder.  "Oh shit!" she muttered, and collapsed to her knees.  Hands in the dirt, she blinked and shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.  It wasn't working.  She reached for her bear pistol, fumbling with the velcro closure.  She managed to get the orange pistol free, but it fell from her suddenly stiff, unresponsive fingers.

Frieda turned her head and tried to focus on the upslope, towards the rocks from which the dart must have come.  Nothing was moving.  She tried to stand, and collapsed back to her hands and knees.  "Ninja," she muttered, "it's you... isn't it!  Not... fair!"  She then slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Seconds later, something did stir among the boulders.

A female figure stepped onto the trail.  It was the camouflaged woman who had arrived in the area via helicopter the previous night.  She emerged from hiding with the fluid, graceful economy of motion of a trained martial artist.  In the light of day, it could be seen that she was very female indeed, with large, full breasts, a wasp-thin waist, and lithe but well-defined muscles on her legs and arms.  Only her brown eyes were exposed to the air.  Her bodysuit, boots, gloves, hood, and mask hid the rest.  "Ninja" described the costume quite well, although it was more catsuit than traditional attire, and it incorporated modern features like knee and elbow pads, and a body harness with numerous pouches and small pockets.

The Ninja picked up Frieda's limp form and carried her to a clear spot on the trail.  She retrieved the bear pistol, returned it to its holster, then removed the fanny pack and clipped it around her own waist.  Next, working with quick, practiced moves, she removed Frieda's trail-runners, socks, tights, panties, jacket, and sports bra.  She was very careful not to damage any of the clothing items, or to allow the rocks and forest debris under and around her victim to scratch or mar her prey's smooth, pale skin.  Keeping the dirt of the trail from soiling Frieda's increasingly nude, slightly sweaty body was, of course, impossible.

Lying stomach down, her smudged face resting on the ground, Frieda was dead to the world.  Her slow, shallow breathing and steady pulse confirmed that she was alive, but her eyes were closed and a strangely peaceful expression graced her beautiful face.

The Ninja stared at Frieda's body... her strong back, firm buttocks, and long legs... then produced a coil of thin, olive drab cord from a pocket of her harness, and set to work.  She tied Frieda's wrists behind her back, palm-to-palm; then tied her fingers and thumbs.  The cord was slightly elastic, but the fibers of the outer sheath had a tendency to slide together and interlock.  Knots tied in the material were virtually impossible to untie.  More of the cord was used to bind her ankles and big toes.

The Ninja shifted to the use of thin rope.  She bound Frieda's knees, thighs, pinned her arms to her torso with turns around her forearms and waist; more loops around her elbows and above and below her breasts; then finished with rope across her shoulders and under her armpits.  She used additional rope to hitch and cinch all of the bonds into one complex net of tight, flesh-dimpling bands and loops.

A gag was next.  The Ninja produced a foam pad from a pocket.  She gave it a squeeze and it slowly expanded into a soft, pliable, egg-shaped blob the size of her fist.  She turned Frieda's panties inside out and wrapped them around the blob, then sat on the ground and pulled Frieda's head onto her lap.

The Ninja set the ball of foam and panties aside, then, with gentle hands, brushed aside the loose strands of hair that had escaped Frieda's ponytail.  She gazed into her captive's unconscious, grubby face for several seconds, then retrieved the foam and panties and crammed them into her mouth.  It was a tight fit, but she managed.  She then produced a roll of a thin, wide, translucent tape, ripped free an eight-inch length, pinched Frieda's lips together, and slapped it over her mouth.  The rest of the roll was stretched and wrapped under the ponytail and around her head, until Frieda's lower face was completely covered from just below her nostrils to just above the point of her chin.  The flattened shape and color of Frieda's pouting lips could be seen under the multiple bands of tape.

Next, Frieda's running shoes and clothes (minus her panties, of course) were carefully folded, neatly wrapped in the jacket, and the resulting bundle sealed in a plastic bag.  The Ninja rolled Frieda onto her side, placed the bulging bag under her head as a pillow, took a step back... and once again, gazed down at her bound, gagged, and naked captive.  The tight ropes encircled the prisoner's pale, athletic body in an inescapable web.  Her cheeks were flushed and bulging, compressed by the milky bands of her tape-gag.  Dirt and flecks of detritus soiled her smooth skin.  Frieda was an incredibly erotic sight.

The Ninja stared for several seconds more... then turned and disappeared into the rocks.

Frieda opened her eyes, and focused on a lichen-covered boulder.  She was cold... not very cold... but cold.  She squirmed in her bonds...  Her bonds?  Her bonds!!

Her mind cleared, and she began twisting and struggling in earnest.  She'd been taking her morning run, and had been shot in the rump with a narcotic dart!  And now she was lying on the trail, naked, dirty, and bound from head to toe with... she made a quick visual inspection of her bonds, what she could see of them... thin rope and cord; fiber cores and woven, synthetic sheathes; similar to climbing rope, only not as stiff; dyed olive drab... military olive drab.

"Ninja!" she shouted.  Of course, all that made it past her gag was a well-muffled and totally inarticulate humming noise.

Frieda groped with her bound fingers, as best she could, seeking a knot or weakness in the bondage she could exploit.  At the same time, she made a more detailed evaluation of the loops and bands encircling and embracing her body.

Her captor's technique was quite professional.  Frieda could tell she could struggle for hours without causing her bonds to shift and without gaining any slack.  The placement of the hitches and anchor-points was flawless, and the final knot was between her heaving, naked breasts... totally out of reach.  It was elegant and complex, a trademark of her suspected captor.

Frieda rolled to the side, wincing as she encountered numerous small rocks and sticks—nothing she could use to free herself, of course, but sharp and rough enough to be an irritant.  Bitch!   She focused on the plastic bag containing her neatly folded jacket.  From the shape and size she surmised it had been used to bundle all of her clothes.

The ground was cold, not cold enough to make her shiver, but cold enough to make her nipples point, and to raise goose flesh over most of her body.  Frieda knew she'd be okay... until tonight.  The air would warm to the point that she'd probably be almost comfortable by noon; but once the sun passed over the ridge, and night fell... hypothermia.

Surely her captor didn't intend to just leave her like this!

As if on cue, the Ninja returned.  She stepped from cover and onto the trail.  Frieda rolled to face her captor and lifted her head, sending an angry glare and a gagged curse by way of greeting. Camouflaged catsuit, military harness, moccasin boots, full hood and face mask—Frieda's guess (and fear) was confirmed.

The Ninja shrugged out of her huge pack, set it on a convenient boulder, opened a side pocket, and produced two small bundles.  One was compact, and bright silver.  The other was somewhat larger, and in the same camouflage as the rest of her costume and equipment.

The silver bundle was unrolled, to the sound of much crinkling and crackling.  Frieda found herself staring at a sheath of mylar film, the same heat-reflecting material used for survival blankets.  It was heavier, cut to the shape and size of a human body, and it had a long zipper running half its length.

Frieda considered offering resistance, but she knew that ultimately, the Ninja could and would do anything she wanted to her.  She watched, continuing to glare and growl through her gag, as her captor lifted her bound feet and started sliding her into the silver sheath.  A little lifting and pulling later, the sheath was up to her throat, the zipper was closed, and she was encased.  A hood was unfolded from the back of the sheath, her hair and head tucked inside, and a drawstring pulled tight and knotted.  Next, a roll of translucent tape was produced, and turns were taken around her head and across her lower face, reinforcing her gag, and, of course, anchoring the mylar hood.  More turns strapped the upper part of the hood across Frieda's forehead, and passed under her chin and over the crown of her head.

Then came more of the thin rope.  Frieda's silver encased form was hitched and cinched from shoulders to ankles.  The tight horizontal and lateral loops snugged the mylar against her skin, and soon she was transformed from a vaguely human shape to a very female bundle of tight rope and taut silver film.  The Ninja stepped back and Frieda writhed and rolled on the ground, testing her new bonds.  There was a little crinkling and snapping of the mylar as she twisted and stretched—but clearly, she was now doubly helpless.

The Ninja unrolled the second, camouflaged bundle... and it was revealed to be another sheath, this one of heavy spandex lined with a thin layer of synthetic fleece.  It was a mummy sleeping bag, with a zipper running up its front and numerous horizontal and lateral nylon straps running in stitched sheathes around its circumference, from ankles to throat.

The plastic bag containing Frieda's running clothes went into the bag first and was pushed to the very bottom.  Next went the silver and rope cocoon that was the prisoner herself.  The bag's zipper was pulled up, and Frieda was now doubly encased.  The Ninja began snapping closed the buckles and tightening the numerous straps, and the already tight spandex stretched around her bound and encased form became a third layer of inescapable bondage.  The narrow, woven bands tightened around Frieda's ankles, calves, below and above her knees, around her thighs, around her waist, below and above her breasts, and laterally, across her shoulders.  Next, a broad, stiff strap-collar tightened around her throat.  Finally, a hood covered her head, and additional straps tightened around and across her head at the forehead, mouth, and from under her chin to the crown of her head.

Frieda squirmed in her triple bondage and double encasement.  The rectangular slit in the spandex hood over her eyes was covered with a taut panel of nylon netting, dyed to match the camouflage of the outer sheath.  She watched the Ninja twist a locking ring in the buckle of each strap and tuck the free ends into the spandex sheathes.  Frieda wasn't cold anymore; in fact, if she kept struggling, she knew she'd soon be flushed and sweating.  Best to conserve her strength, and her body's water.

The Ninja returned to her pack and produced a thick coil of climbing rope and an ascender, a piece of climbing gear that incorporated a pulley and a friction block.  The rope's outer sheath was mottled in a dozen earthtones, as well camouflaged as the rest of her kit, and the ascender was a dull, metallic gray.

The Ninja scrambled up into the rocks and out of Frieda's line of sight.  Seconds passed, then she returned, lowering herself from the trees overhead and back onto the trail.  She tied one of the free ends of the rope around Frieda's ankles, then tied a series of running hitches up her encased body.  The final hitch was the most complex.  It looped around her chest, above her breasts; criss-crossed her shoulders on either side; then was knotted in back.

The remaining free end of the rope in her hand, the Ninja gazed down at her prisoner, at the incredibly helpless bundle at her feet.  Seconds passed as Frieda stared back.  Finally, the Ninja raised her gloved, right hand to her masked lips, gave Frieda a mocking air kiss, and hauled on the rope.

The rope snapped taut and Frieda was slowly pulled into the air.  The Ninja continued pulling, and Frieda ascended into the branches of a huge pine overhanging the trail.  The rope shook and vibrated for several seconds... then all was still.

Frieda hung in her bonds, head up and feet down.  She slowly spun in a half-circle, first clockwise, then counterclockwise.  All she could see was the trunk of the tree, the neighboring branches, and, through the sheltering needles, the far ridge.  The oscillations continued... slowly dampened... and finally, she found herself facing away from the trunk.  The far ridge was still in shadow, but the sun was blazing on the needles of the branches surrounding her, making them seem more golden than green.  All was still.  No breeze stirred the branches, near or far.

Frieda had to admit she was more or less comfortable—well, not in pain.  The Ninja was an expert, as skilled as Frieda herself in the bondage arts.  Her circulation was unimpaired, and the pressure of the ropes and knots was evenly distributed.  Escape was a ridiculous impossibility, of course.  Only rescue or the return of her captor would save her from a lingering death by thirst and exposure.

Frieda sighed through her gag, and settled in to wait.   Damn it! she fumed.  The first move and I'm off the board—before I even know the game's started.  Damn it!