by Van © 2003
Chapter 2: THE NILE
To see the actors the author would cast in a CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE mini-series (on premium cable, of course) please follow the
link below, and use your browser's "Back" feature to return to this page. New cast members are added as they appear in the stories.
|Tales of CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE||PERSONNEL PROBLEM—2|
Frieda climbed the Grand Stairs to the Lodge's top floor and made her way to the south wing. She came to the entrance to the solarium and paused, her hand on the doorknob, smiling as she stared through the thick panes of the French doors. Joelle's back was to the entrance. She had abandoned her easel and paints and was at the far window wall, watching the snow squall blow across the neighboring peaks (unaware that she was being watched as well). Dark clouds were still over the Lodge, but the trailing edge of the brief storm was fast approaching.
Frieda smiled. Joelle was beautiful, a mix of Scotch-Irish, French Canadian, African American, and Cree. Her skin was smooth and dark; her high-cheeked features even and exotic; the long, black waves of her hair sleek and glossy, with bronze highlights. Even in boots, jeans, and a thick sweater, one could tell that her tall, lithe, athletic figure was feminine perfection itself. Frieda sighed, and turned the knob.
Joelle spun on her heels and frowned. "When are you going to take her?" she muttered.
Frieda entered the room and closed the doors behind. "I've already done it," she said, unable to hide her smile. "She sat in one of the tranquilizing chairs and actually allowed me to strap her in. Very trusting... for a thief." She sat on a stool near the door and began unlacing her boots.
Joelle stepped back to her easel. The canvas was covered with a white cloth and the small table to its left cluttered with tubes of paint and a sprawl of brushes. "This is wrong. A mistake."
Her boots and socks removed, Frieda was unbuttoning her flannel shirt. "We've been over this," she sighed. "It's not like she doesn't deserve what's happening to her."
"You're dancing with the devil," Joelle muttered.
Her shirt removed, Frieda unzipped her jeans. Her remaining clothing was a body-hugging, two piece set of thermaskin long underwear, in heather gray. She stood, pulled the jeans down her legs, and stepped out of them. "Chandler thinks she's the devil," Frieda quipped, "but she's only a minor demon, at best."
Joelle was not amused. "It's wrong. Playing Leather-Bitch-Goddess for Chandler and her spoiled friends is one thing. False imprisonment of an unwilling—"
"She's a damn thief!" Frieda interrupted. She pulled her top over her head and tossed it atop her boots and socks, then stooped and stripped off her bottom. Nude and a little peeved, she shook her raven hair out of her face and glared at her friend, hands on hips, her blue eyes flashing.
The sun returned, bathing the solarium and its occupants in white mountain light. Frieda's pale, perfect body glowed like polished ivory. Even the shadows of her figure were lit by the indirect brilliance bouncing off the hardwood floor. Her large breasts were full and firm; her abdomen sculpted and defined; her waist narrow; her black, abundant pubic bush a stark contrast to her fair complexion; her muscles long, toned, and firm. Frieda's defensive frown softened as she noted her friend's expression.
Joelle was staring at her naked model with naked appreciation. "I'm sorry," she whispered, smiling sheepishly. "What were we talking about?"
Frieda's smile widened as she pattered forward and kissed Joelle's lips. The two embraced as the kiss continued. "The Dragon Lady didn't give me any real choice," Frieda mumbled, and they kissed again.
Joelle pushed back and frowned at her friend. "There's always a choice," she admonished, then pulled Frieda close and resumed the kiss... then slid her right hand towards her partner's glistening sex.
Frieda yelped and pulled back. "Your hands are cold!" she complained.
"And you're wet as a mink," Joelle purred, rubbing her musk filmed fingers together. "You like being a Wicked Warden. Admit it!"
Frieda's smile turned deliciously sinister. "Who... little ol' me?" She pulled away and gracefully (seductively swinging her hips) walked to the far side of the easel, straightened a pale blue sheet draped over a lounge chair cushion, and knelt, her buttocks touching her heels. She put her hands behind her neck and under her hair, arched her back, pulled her elbows back, smiled, and batted her eyes. "Is this the pose?" she cooed.
"You think I'm channeling Vargas or something?" Joelle muttered, flipping the cover off her canvas. "Do it right, like before."
Frieda sprawled comfortably on her right side, her legs scissored, feet pointing, her upper body supported on her left elbow, and the right arm draped languidly along her side. "How long this time," she asked. "I have to get our new guest ready for bed... eventually."
Joelle stared intently at her model for several seconds... then flipped the cover back over the canvas. "We're done," she announced. "The light's wrong."
Frieda gasped in outrage. "Then why'd you make me—?"
"I like looking at your naked, pleasingly plump, lily white body," Joelle interrupted, perfectly deadpan.
Frieda's frown slowly changed to an evil smile. "Just you wait. Just you wait 'til tonight. You just earned yourself a nasty punishment."
Joelle was busy capping her paint tubes and putting them away. "Imagine my distress and dismay," she purred (obviously neither distressed nor dismayed).
Still nude and comfortably reclined, basking in the warm sun, Frieda watched her friend sort her brushes for cleaning. "Just you wait."
|Tales of CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE||PERSONNEL PROBLEM—2|
The sun was setting behind the far range. The office was growing steadily darker; the low-angle, waning light yellow, then gold, and finally orange. Under other conditions Robyn might have considered the rose tinted snow and gold tinged clouds quite beautiful, but she was... preoccupied.
This can't be happening! Robyn had given up fighting her bonds hours before. Strapped to the "tranquilizing chair" at the wrists, forearms, upper arms, ankles, knees, waist, and shoulders; gagged, her head caged in a leather harness and pinned to the chair's headrest... she couldn't move... other than to flutter her fingers, flex her toes inside her boots, or blink her eyes. All she could do was sit... and think.
Chandler Warburg had accused her of theft. But I didn't do anything! I didn't steal anything!
She'd also said Conrad was arrested. Okay, Robyn had been helping him with a financial project for several months; but it was to create a family of sheltered accounts for some of the Warburg overseas subsidiaries. It had been done in secret, with special precautions to isolate the transfers from the home office comptrollers (plausible deniability in case the SEC got wind of anything); but it wasn't illegal... probably; and it certainly wasn't embezzling.
Conrad was arrested... Too bad. Conrad was great in bed... but basically a self-centered prick, more in love with himself than anything else on the planet. He certainly wasn't in love with Robyn Tolliver. She'd stopped sleeping with him a month before; not because of anything he'd done, but because he was taking her for granted... and it hadn't even seemed to bother him... the prick!
The Dragon Lady had also said Conrad had set her up. Robyn sat in the chair and visualized the complex system of transfers and reallocations she'd been party to. Nothing... Trace the pattern and an idiot could see Robyn hadn't done anything wrong. Then she saw it. Assume Conrad had been embezzling, and he was trying to set her up... An additional transfer here, a shift in the reporting there... and it all fell into place. That prick BASTARD!
But how to convince The Dragon Lady she was innocent? Five years hard labor? She was kidding! She had to be kidding! They were just trying to scare her. That was it! That had to be it! She'd explain what happened. She'd go over every transfer with them... and then they'd let her go. They had to. That prick BASTARD! This isn't happening!!!
A key turned in the lock and the office door opened. Strapped down and helpless, Robyn couldn't see who had arrived, but it had to be her supposed jailer. Then Frieda stepped into view and Robyn's thoughts (and fears) were confirmed.
Wearing the same flannel shirt, jeans, and boots; smiling sweetly; Frieda dropped a bundle of white canvas and jingling straps on her desk and stood facing her captive. She was silhouetted by the sunset, her dark hair outlined by a flaming halo, the last red light from the far peaks. Her beautiful (cruel) face glowed with indirect light. Her pale blue eyes focused on her captive. "Do you enjoy pain? " she inquired.
Robyn stared back at her gloating captor. What? She tried shaking her head, but the straps pinning her to the headrest were too tight; the motion was almost imperceptible.
"Blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'," Frieda suggested. Robyn forced a mewing moan past her gag and blinked twice. "I thought not," Frieda purred, extracted a long, thin, metal wand from the canvas bundle behind her, and held it before Robyn's worried green eyes. She thumbed a switch on the wand's padded handle, there was a quiet, sizzling pop, and blue sparks danced between two small, blunt, copper studs at the forked tip. "11,000 volts on 'high'," Frieda announced, "and 4,000 on 'low'. The low setting hurts like the devil; like a wasp sting. The high setting knocks you into next Tuesday. It's currently set on low." She reached down and lifted Robyn's skirt, baring the helpless prisoner's nylon covered thighs and providing a peek of the crotch panel of her pantyhose and underlying panties. The business end of the wand hovered less than an inch from her right thigh, midway from the strap pinning her knee to the side of the chair and her squirming crotch. "Would you like a demonstration?" Frieda asked. Robyn blinked twice and continued squirming and shivering in her bonds. "Are you quite sure?" Robyn blinked once. Frieda smiled and held the wand above Robyn's thigh for several seconds, thumbed the switch, and gently tapped the captive's thigh.
Robyn flinched in her bonds, even though the wand had not given her a shock. This isn't happening!
"Do I have your full attention?" Frieda inquired. Robyn blinked once. "Good." Frieda set the wand on the desk and turned back to smile at her prisoner. "The first rule is obedience. You will do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, no matter how humiliating or demeaning the task, understood?" Robyn squirmed in the tight leather embrace of the tranquilizing chair. Frieda put her hand on the wand. "I said... understood?"
Robyn blinked once, emphatically. This isn't happening!
"Gooood," Frieda purred, and stepped behind Robyn's chair. "I'm going to release your upper body. I know your jaw is beginning to ache from that gag, but if you touch so much as one buckle of the harness... you'll wear it all night." There was a click, and all the straps holding her in the chair loosened considerably, but not enough for Robyn to free herself. Frieda's hands reached around from behind the chair and released the straps pinning the gag harness to the headrest. The shoulder and waist straps were next, and finally the straps over her upper arms and forearms clicked and dangled free. The straps around her wrists remained in place, but they now had considerably more slack. "Keep your hands where they are," Frieda ordered, stepped back to the desk, and picked up the wand. She sat on the edge of the desk, facing Robyn. "You've been a very good girl, so far," she purred, a gloating smile on her face. "Keep this up and the first night of your sentence will be only mildly uncomfortable. Remove your top."
Robyn's eyes popped wide. This isn't happening!
Frieda thumbed the switch and her wand popped and sparked. "Do it, Red. You have five seconds. After that, every additional second's delay will mean additional torment. One-one thousand..."
Robyn blinked uncertainly.
This isn't happening!
Robyn mewed in despair, pulled her hands from under the wrist straps, pulled her turtleneck over her head, shook her head to straighten her hair, and dropped the sweater to the floor.
"Arms back on the rests," Frieda ordered.
Robyn complied, gripping the ends of the armrests with her fingers. Her upper body might be free, but she was still helpless. Her knees and legs remained strapped to the chair, and although she might eventually figure out how to get them free, her captor had that hellish wand.
"Continue," Frieda said, nodding at Robyn's demi bra. "That's right. Off it comes."
Robyn mewed a despairing sigh, then reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, slowly shrugged the straps off her shoulders, pulled her arms free, dropped the bra atop her crumpled sweater; then crossed her arms and cupped her breasts in her hands. She stared at her gloating captor, her cheeks blushing bright pink above the padded leather panel strapped across her lower face.
"How charmingly coy," Frieda cooed. "Put your hands on the armrests, Red." She waved the tip of the shock wand for emphasis. "Now."
Still blushing, Robyn lowered her arms to the rests.
Frieda smiled and gazed at her prisoner's bare torso, graceful shoulders, and toned arms. "I like your complexion," she said. "Peaches and cream... alabaster with just a hint of coral... the last fading freckles of Summer... I've always been partial to redheads, you see." She slapped her palm with the shaft of the wand. "They color so nicely under the whip."
Robyn's knuckles whitened as she gripped the ends of the armrests. Her breasts bobbed slightly as she breathed.
"And such pretty tits," Frieda continued. "Not big, of course, but a most pleasing shape. Put your wrists back under the straps."
Robyn hesitated... then followed Frieda's instructions, sliding her fingers and hands under the loose leather loops.
Robyn did so. At first the straps gave slightly, then they slammed her wrists down to the armrest cushion with considerable force and locked tight.
Taking the shock wand with her, Frieda strolled around to the back of the chair. Robyn turned her leather caged head to follow. "Eyes front!" Frieda barked, and Robyn complied. Seconds passed, then Frieda leaned over the back of the chair. Her face close to Robyn's; she locked her left arm around the mewing, squirming redhead's throat, pinning her head to the headrest; and her right hand gently squeezed the captive's right breast. "Just as I thought," Frieda whispered in her struggling prisoner's right ear. "A meager handful, but firm and warm. My hand isn't too cold, I hope?" She continued kneading Robyn's breast, then toyed with her right nipple. "Yes... very nice. Charmingly compact... maybe even a little girlish, don't you think?" She shifted her attention to Robyn's left breast. "Goodness, look at these little fellas pop!" She flicked the left nipple, then the right. "I guess my hands are cold."
Frieda's hands disappeared... and the wand reappeared. The forked tip waved before Robyn's face. Her green eyes followed the slowly bobbing copper contacts like a songbird paralyzed with fear and watching a looming serpent's flicking tongue.
"You're my very first convict," Frieda whispered. "But I have a great deal of experience in the handling of prisoners... including their breasts... be they firm, generous D-cups like mine... or precious little 32-B's, like yours. You see... I've never gone in for simpering, masochistic slaves. I don't do doormats. My clientele all fight for their freedom. They never win, of course... but they fight. It's a game, but I've already developed the proper techniques; already made my mistakes; already corrected my techniques... Chattel Mountain Lodge is a trap; a luxurious, inescapable trap; my luxurious, inescapable trap. The slaves wander in... but they don't wander out... not until I decide to let them wander out." The wand disappeared.
Robyn flinched when Frieda's hands appeared on either side of her head. "Here's what's going to happen, Red," Frieda said, gripping Robyn's hair. "That bundle on the desk in front of you is a straitjacket. In a few seconds I'm going to release your wrists and your knees. You're going to pull your skirt, pantyhose, and panties down over your boot tops. Then I'm going to toss the jacket in your lap, you're going to spread it open, put your arms in the sleeves, lean forward, and put your head between your knees. I will then zip you into the jacket and buckle the sleeves. Give me one iota of trouble... and each of your tits will learn exactly how every setting on this wand feels, understand?"
Frieda released Robyn's head. The prisoner shuddered in her bonds and slowly nodded her gagged head. This isn't happening!!!
|Tales of CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE||PERSONNEL PROBLEM—2|
Robyn stumbled down the dimly lit corridor. She had followed her captor's orders (and thus far avoided the touch of the dreaded wand). She was now naked, her only "clothing" the leather cuffs and connecting strap hobbling her ankles, the leather gag harness still caging her head, and the canvas and leather straitjacket strapped tightly around her upper body.
The jacket was nasty. Robyn had forced her hands and arms down its long, narrow, closed sleeves with difficulty, then Frieda had zipped up the back. Already snug, it was made more so when laces running through grommets down the sleeves and sides were tugged tight. The laces broadened at the ends and terminated in "D" rings. Rather than being knotted, the laces' rings were threaded through strategically placed straps and buckled taut. Her arms were folded across her chest and her hands tucked under her armpits in the traditional self-hugging pose, and held there by more straps; a lot more straps. They encircled her wrists like wide cuffs; they pulled the canvas taut over her hands and fingers and joined the ends of the sleeves at the small of her back; they looped over her crossed forearms and snugged them against her chest; they cuffed her upper arms and pinned them against her sides; they looped each of her upper thighs and anchored the shoulder straps sewn between the layers of canvas and the stiff collar buckled around her throat. All of the buckles had flush flaps that snapped over their clasps and locked, as did the zipper's pull tab. The design was clever, cunning, and cruel. It fit like a thick, heavy, canvas and leather second skin, and Robyn knew in her very soul that not even Harry Houdini himself would have been able to escape the nasty thing.
Between her ankle hobbles and the jacket's thigh straps, Robyn's legs were bare. Her feet, becoming progressively more dirty as the journey continued, were bare. Her crotch was equally bare, embarrassingly bare. The straitjacket seemed to be specifically designed to expose her auburn pubic thatch, sex, and most of her dimpled behind.
Robyn was in the lead with her captor following closely behind, issuing gentle and (thankfully) non-enerqized taps with the shock wand by way of direction. The Arts and Crafts decor of the upper floors had given way to what could only be called Institutional Drab: concrete block walls and poured concrete columns; dim, antique, industrial lighting; exposed pipes in the depressingly low ceiling; and smooth (cold) concrete floors. Thus far their passage had been interrupted three times by steel doors and they had twice descended narrow, twisting, turning staircases. The deeper they penetrated what was obviously the "sanitarium" portion of the Lodge, the dirtier things became. Obviously no one had pushed a broom or dusted the pipes or cleared the cobwebs for a very long time.
Finally, they came to a solid steel door with a very heavy bolt, a very business-like dead bolt lock, and a tiny peephole. Frieda clicked a wall switch and unlocked the door. It swung open on hinges desperately in need of oil. Beyond was a large room with a high ceiling. It was brightly lit by wire-protected fixtures recessed in the concrete ceiling. In the center of the room was a cubical cage, approximately ten feet on a side: steel bars, closely spaced and regularly cross-braced with all connections welded and ground smooth. It was bolted to the concrete floor on all sides. Inside were two stainless steel dishes (dog dishes); an empty steel bucket; and a ratty, stained, dirty mattress.
With one hand gripping her captive's copper-red curls, Frieda dragged Robyn to the cage. "One dish is full of water, the other of something the Purina people call 'primate chow.' It's everything a damsel needs to maintain a glossy coat and wet nose... or is that 'dog chow'? Anyway, I've got bags of the stuff, and need to use it before it goes bad." She unlocked the cage door, then began unbuckling Robyn's gag harness. The headstall came free, and the gag panel and underlying plug were pulled from Robyn's mouth. The prisoner was given a shove into the cage, and the door locked behind her.
Robyn coughed and licked her lips with her dry tongue. By the time she was ready to attempt speech, Frieda was already walking towards the main door. "W—wa—cough!—wait! Please WAIT!"
Frieda paused in the doorway, a sardonic smile on her beautiful, cruel features. "Yes? You have a request?"
Robyn twisted her encased arms and torso in her leather and canvas prison. "I—I didn't steal anything. Please believe me. I didn't steal anything!"
Frieda chuckled. "So... denial is more than just a river in Egypt. Red, believe me when I tell you, it makes absolutely no difference whatsoever whether or not I think you're guilty. It's Chandler Warburg you have to convince... whenever she decides to grace us with her presence." Freida slowly pulled the chamber door closed. She raised her voice to compete with the squealing hinges. "In the meanwhile... you're a convict." The door closed with a resounding clang, followed by the rasp of the bolt sliding home, and the lock turning.
Robyn slammed her straitjacketed body against the bars of her cage and screamed. "I DIDN'T STEAL ANYTHING!" As her words echoed, the overhead lights winked out. The only remaining illumination was a single, small, green lamp, directly overhead. It bathed the chamber in a dim, eerie, viridescent glow. "I... I didn't steal anything," Robyn whispered.
|Tales of CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE||PERSONNEL PROBLEM—2|
Back on the clean, luxurious, Arts and Crafts top floor, Frieda stalked into the huge bedroom suite she shared with Joelle. She dropped Robyn's gag-harness on the floor next to the door and continued on to the bathroom, stripping her clothes as she walked.
Joelle watched her pass and waited patiently. Waiting was her only option. She was hogtied on the bed, white cotton rope banding and criss-crossing her naked body from shoulders to toes. Hands behind her back, knees together, elbows touching, wrists lashed to her ankles, even the dusky beauty's big toes, the insteps of her wrinkled feet, and thumbs were bound. Her mouth was filled to capacity by a ball-gag of jaw-stretching proportions; and the back of the strap had been added to her bondage, making the limb-straining, backbreaking arc of the hog-tie even more punishing.
The shower started in the bathroom. Time passed. Joelle squirmed in her bonds... and waited. More time passed. The shower stopped. Joelle waited. Finally, Frieda came strolling back into the bedroom, nude and toweling her damp, raven hair with a fluffy towel. She climbed onto the bed, crossed her legs, and settled into a graceful semi-lotus. Joelle's drool dripping chin was inches from her naked lap.
Blue eyes locked with brown... and more time passed... Finally, Frieda reached out and untied the knot at the nape of her captive's neck, then unbuckled the ball-gag and helped Joelle expel the red rubber sphere from her mouth.
Joelle licked her lips, swallowed, and smiled at her captor. "What's wrong?" she whispered.
Frieda sighed and used the edge of the towel to wipe the drool from Joelle's chin. "Oh... nothing." Joelle stared at her skeptically. Frieda smiled sheepishly and continued. "Okay... It's not as much fun being a Wicked Warden as I thought it would."
Joelle smiled coyly. "Not the colossal Überbitch you thought you were?"
"Watch your mouth!" Frieda barked (a poorly suppressed smile belying her tone). She laughed and ran her hands through her damp hair, surrendering all pretense. "Okay, okay, I admit it. I hate being Dragon Lady's jailer. Spanking spoiled, fabulously wealthy heinies is fun. Being Chandler Warburg's surrogate demon is not... much to my surprise."
Joelle's smile broadened. "Not for me, Honey-pie. I know you, remember?"
"Oh, eat me!" Frieda mumbled.
"All in good time," Joelle purred, smiling at her captor's curly black bush. "We need to discuss this first. If you want to go easy on our new guest, go easy."
"It's not that simple," Frieda sighed, gently caressing her captive's cheek with the back of her hand. "Dragon Lady sent detailed instructions. I'll go as easy as I can, but I don't have a lot of leeway. Besides... our lithe, lanky, Celtic captive is an involuntary prisoner. I can't let her get the drop on me."
"Hence the need to put the fear of the Bitch-goddess in her," Joelle suggested.
Frieda nodded absently, then her expression slowly became... wolfish. She reached out and stroked Joelle's dark, rope harnessed shoulders. "How you doin' there, Joe?" she purred. "Would you like me to untie a few of these ropes? Maybe let you stretch those long legs and ease that pretzel-like spine for a while?"
Joelle squirmed in her stringent bonds (carefully suppressing a grimace of pain). "Like I'm really stupid enough to start begging," she muttered, a sardonic smile on her glistening features.
Frieda ran her fingers through her prisoner's black, bronze-streaked hair. "Like you said... you know me. I have no qualms whatsoever about fiendishly torturing your warm, dark, smooth, firm body. But I'm in a magnanimous mood tonight." She spread her strong white legs to either side of her helpless captive, and eased her sex towards Joelle's smiling lips. "Do a good job with Round One and maybe I will let you out of that hog-tie. I may even feed you."
Joelle's smile turned wolfish as well. "Just you wait. Have you checked the calendar lately?"
Frieda shook the hair out of her eyes, put her hands in Joelle's hair, and pulled the captive's face even closer to her glistening labia. "I know... This time next week it'll be your turn to be Bitch-goddess... But that's next week. Now, earn your supper!" The grinning "Bitch-goddess" shuddered and gasped as her captive gave her moist sex a kittenish, preliminary lick... then set to work in earnest.
Outside the suite's picture window the full moon was lifting above the distant peaks. If the occupants of the bed hadn't been preoccupied, they might have heard the pack beyond the far ridge raise their lupine voices in howling song.
|Tales of CHATTEL MOUNTAIN LODGE||PERSONNEL PROBLEM—Chapter 2|