Chattel Mountain Lodge Tales of Chattel Mountain Lodge
 by Van © 2003
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.

Chandler Warburg shrugged out of her wool coat and began fumbling with the buttons of her suit jacket (faded plum with matching skirt over a white blouse.)  An obscenely expensive designer scarf was tied around her throat.  She was careful to keep her eyes on the packed snow of the helipad (and off her Mistress) as she worried open the jacket's buttons.  Finally, she paused to pull off her gloves, tossed them atop her crumpled coat, and attacked the jacket anew.

Staring with wide, green eyes at Chandler's striptease, Robyn stamped her booted feet for warmth, and shuddered in her ponygirl harness and bonds.  The reins clipped to her rubber bit shook, and the metal fittings rattled.  Louder still, the bells dangling from the points of her bra cups swayed and tinkled.  Joelle, standing next to Robyn in matching ponygirl regalia, turned slightly and shook her head.

Too late!  Frieda's head swiveled at the sound of the bells and reins and she glared at her "ponies." Both went stock still in their matching boots and harness restraints; Robyn in her skin-tight, hunter green costume; Joelle her costume, colored to match her dark flesh.  Resplendent in her catsuit of narrow, interwoven, black leather straps and cape of white wool, Frieda walked over and looked Robyn's helpless form up and down, then lifted the redhead's chin, gazed into her worried eyes... and smiled affectionately.

Despite the cold, Robyn felt a thrill of delight at her mistress' expression.  (Or was it the aftermath of the constant teasing and tickling her nipples and sex had endured on the trip down from the Lodge?  Lightly stroked with every step by the pile lining of her costume's leather bra and bikini bottom... it was most distracting.)

"Poor Irish," Frieda cooed.  "I know you're not used to the cold, and the run from the Lodge was hardly a warm-up, was it?  But you have to learn to stand still in harness, Winter and Summer, rain and shine.  Still as a statue..."  She turned to Joelle and gave the patiently standing ponygirl an affectionate pat between her legs.  Joelle flinched, but stifled whatever sensation the love tap had sent through her dildo stuffed and anal plugged loins.  "Follow Jet's example," Frieda told Robyn.  "She's very well trained."

Frieda turned back to face Chandler and shook her head, clucking her tongue and frowning in disgust.  She went to the sleigh and pulled a thick coil of cotton rope from under the seat, then stomped to the still half-dressed newcomer.  "Too slow, useless slave!" she snarled, grabbed the top of the slip still tucked under Chandler's skirt, and ripped it off her cringing, shivering body.  The bra was next, then Frieda set to work with the rope.  In seconds, she had Chandler's wrists bound behind her back.

"Mistress, please!" the shivering brunette whined.  "I'm sorry—m' mmpfh!"

Frieda had jerked the scarf from Chandler's throat and stuffed it in her mouth, then reached into an inside pocket of her cape and produced a long, thin bandage of soft linen.  "If I want to hear your treacherous, lying voice," Frieda snarled as she stuffed the entire scarf past Chandler's lips and seated the center of the narrow linen strip over the silky mass, "I'll whip you 'til you scream."  The initial band of linen was followed by several more, all tightly wrapped around Chandler's head and between her teeth.  The half-naked captive winced as Frieda cinched each layer, then tied a final flat, redundant knot at the nape of her neck.

Chandler grunted through her obviously quite effective gag as Frieda folded and lifted her arms until her wrist bonds were between her shoulder blades in the "reverse prayer" position.  Rope tightened around Chandler's arms, torso, and shoulders, until her upper body was bound in a tight, symmetrical, well-hitched, arm pinning, breast pinching, elbow locking harness of rope.

Frieda unbuttoned Chandler's skirt, pulled it down her legs, and over her booted feet.  It was tossed atop the rest of her clothes, then Frieda pulled a small blade from a hidden sheath in her corset.  "Hold still, slave," she snarled.  "I'm going to skin your legs, and we want to keep the gore to a minimum."  Chandler's pantyhose were pulled away from her body and sliced to ribbons.  Frieda stretched each remnant taut and cut it free close to the boot tops, causing the remainder to snap out of sight inside Chandler's brown, pebbled, terribly expensive knee boots.  Her bikini panties were cut free, and Chandler was nude, but for her boots, gag, and intricate rope bonds.

Frieda grabbed a handful of Chandler's hair and hauled her to her feet.  "Get over there and kneel at Irish' feet.  She's the pony in green, the one you caused me to kidnap and torture, even though she didn't do a damn thing wrong and has been your loyal and hardworking employee from the moment she was hired!"  She gave Chandler a shove, and the roped captive stumbled towards Robyn, knelt in the snow, and lowered her head.

Robyn stared down at Chandler's pale, flushed, shivering body.  The "Dragon Lady" was thin, her breasts small and pert; but she had the long, defined muscles of a world class athlete, which she most certainly was.  Robyn knew from Warburg corporate newsletters and e-zines that Chandler was a regular participant in Ironman Competitions around the world.  Her times weren't competitive, but were nonetheless highly respectable.  She was in exquisite condition... and was obviously cold, miserable, and frightened.  Robyn tried to summon the anger she had felt earlier and direct it towards the true author of her predicament... but all she felt was pity for the helpless, shivering wretch at her feet.

Meanwhile, Frieda had tossed Chandler's clothing (intact and ruined) into a trash bag and stuffed it under the seat of the sleigh, next to her overnight bag.  She then grabbed Chandler by the hair, hauled her to her feet, and shoved her across the clearing.  The captive staggered, stumbled, and fell into a pile of new snow drifted against the limbs of a small grove of spruce saplings.  This caused even more snow to slide from the branches and bury her in a powdery avalanche.  By the time the violently shivering prisoner struggled to her feet and shook as much of the clinging snow from her pink body and brown hair as she could, Frieda was seated comfortably in the sleigh, her wool cape tightly wrapped and tucked around her person, and the ponygirls' reins in her gloved hands.

"If you aren't up at the Lodge by the time I close the stable door," Frieda announced (speaking to Chandler, of course), "you can freeze."  She snapped the reins, her ponies pulled, and she was off.
Early in the trip from the helipad up to the Lodge, Robyn's mind had been on Chandler and whether or not the naked captive would survive; but after a hundred strides, her only concern was herself.  The harnessed redhead was in excellent physical condition, but her hours in the gym (and dietary restraint) were to maintain her physique.  She wasn't used to dragging half a grown woman and half a sleigh up a steep trail, especially not at something close to 5,000 feet above sea level!  Robyn was wheezing by the time they made it back to the top of the ridge.  By the time they were pulling the sleigh through the stable doors, her vision was beginning to tunnel.  She dropped to her booted knees and gasped the thin, cold air, sucking and blowing past her bit-gag.

Joelle was only mildly taxed by the task of pulling the sleigh, and she stood patiently in her bonds as Frieda un-snapped her reins and set to work unbuckling her harness and arm binders.  The dusky skinned beauty nodded at Robyn's panting form and forced an imperious sound past her gag.  Frieda smiled, knelt, un-buckled Robyn's bit strap, and pulled the bit from the heaving redhead's mouth.

"I–I'm sorry, Mistress," Robyn gasped.

Frieda's smile was genuinely affectionate.  "Are you going to be sick, Irish?" she asked.

"N–no, Mistress," Robyn responded.  "I–I don't think so."

"You'll be running on the treadmill, one hour every day," Frieda announced.  "This time next month, you'll be able to pull me to the far ridge and back without difficulty."

"Alone?" Robyn gasped.

Frieda laughed.  "No, Silly Pony; with Joelle pulling lead, of course."

By this time Joelle had shrugged out of her binders and the restraining portions of her harness and was unbuckling her own bit.  "C'mon, Irish," she said, as soon as her mouth was clear of the rubber rod.  "The 'Ice Queen' may ride us hard, but we don't get put away wet."

Just then Chandler staggered into the stable.  She was very pale and her lips had a bluish cast.  She sank to her knees and panted, her sides heaving.  Her rope bonds were still tight and inescapable, her gag taut and secure.  Her long, sculpted muscles quivered as she shivered.  She might be a gifted athlete, but was no more at home at this altitude than Robyn.

Frieda stuffed Robyn's bit back in her mouth.  "Hold that for me," she whispered in the redhead's ear, "until I get the Dragon Lady out of here."  She then walked over to Chandler, grabbed her by the hair, and hauled her to her feet.  "Take care of Irish," she told Joelle.  "I'm going to dump this one in a hot hydrospa before she catches cold.  It's a lot more fun punishing a healthy slave than a sick one... don't you agree?"

With that, Frieda and Chandler were gone.  Joelle walked over and muscled the outer door closed, then slid a substantial bolt into a socket in the door frame.  Robyn (very much aware she was still strapped into an inescapable, arm-binding harness) watched with wide green eyes.  Joelle smiled sweetly.   "Steam room?"

Robyn nodded (and sighed in relief.)
Joelle was semi-reclined, her back against one of the tiled walls of the steam room.  Robyn was flat on her back, her head resting on Joelle's lap.  Both were completely naked (save Robyn's collar), dripping with sweat, and utterly relaxed.  Joelle took a drink from an insulated bottle of water, then poured a few tablespoons of the cool, clear liquid over Robyn's flushed, already wet breasts and flat tummy.

"Stop it!" Robyn giggled, wiggling under the teasing shower; then reached up, seized the bottle, took a drink herself, and set it aside.

"Feeling better, Irish?" Joelle asked with a coy smile.

Robyn grinned up at Joelle's sweat-slick, dark, beautiful face.  "Uh-huh."

"Good, 'cause there's something we need to discuss."  Joelle began combing Robyn's damp, auburn locks with the fingers of her left hand.  "Frieda and I have come up with two options for how to, ooh... handle the problem of your interactions with the Dragon Lady, while she's here."

"That's a problem?"

Joelle leaned down and kissed Robyn's lips, then sat back.  "A minor problem.  When she gets back to New York, we want her utterly convinced you're not a threat, remember?"  Robyn nodded.  "Good," Joelle purred.  "Now... two options.  The weak option: We give Dragon Lady a running commentary about all the, ooh, restrictive things we're doing to you.  Meanwhile, you're locked in a room... reading, exercising, no doubt playing with yourself on an hourly basis."

"Joelle!" Robyn complained, a blush turning her already flushed, peachy, over-heated complexion bright crimson.

"Just teasing," Joelle whispered, and kissed Robyn again.  "The strong option: Chandler actually sees you under control."


"Control," Joelle said, nodding.

"Control," Robyn whispered.

"No torture," Joelle explained.  "We keep you locked up; but every now and then we parade you past Chandler in a condition that leaves no possible doubt in her mind as to whether or not you're completely in our power."

"In your power," Robyn whispered, staring into the distance.  She shuddered slightly, then shifted her gaze to Joelle's smiling eyes.  "I guess the strong option's best," Robyn conceded.  "I'm not going to regret this... am I?"

Joelle kissed Robyn's lips a third time.  "Possibly... but after Chandler drags her tail back to New York, I'm sure we'll find ways to make it up to you."
Still sweaty from the steam room, her red hair curly and damp, Robyn watched jealously as Joelle soaped and shampooed her body and scrubbed herself clean.  "Explain again why I have to be a funky mess?" Robyn demanded.

Joelle turned off the shower and began toweling herself dry.  "General ambiance," she answered with a coy smirk.  "Now, finish your drink."

Robyn took a final swig of sports drink and set down the empty bottle.

Meanwhile, Joelle had pulled on a pair of bikini panties and was dressing in sweat pants and sweatshirt, this time in a faded brick color.  She sat, pulled on a pair of socks, laced on a pair of sneakers, then stood and walked towards the waiting, visibly nervous Robyn.  "Ready?"

Robyn nodded, and began twirling a strand of hair with her right hand.  "What are you going to—?"

"Position one!" Joelle barked.

Robyn gracefully sank to her knees; interlaced her fingers behind her head; pulled her elbows back; lifted her weight off her heels and carried it with her flat, hard abdomen and toned thighs; and dropped her gaze to the floor.  She was still nervous, and became aware that her pulse was pounding.

Joelle stepped behind Robyn and seized her thumbs and a handful of hair in a tight one-handed grip.  "Up, slave," she purred, and hauled Robyn to her feet.  "Come with me to wardrobe, would you please?"

Robyn winced as she was hustled out the door and down the hall.  "Joelle, I—"

"Not a word!" Joelle warned as she hauled her naked captive through a doorway and into a room lined with storage lockers.  She forced Robyn to her knees and opened a locker.

Robyn swallowed in a nervous gulp.  Before dropping her gaze to the floor she'd caught a glimpse of a neat row of canvas coats with long, dangling, closed sleeves.  One of the garments landed on the floor in front of her in a tinkling mass of rough canvas, gleaming tan leather, and steel buckles.

"Put it on," Joelle ordered.  "Don't worry.  I'll help."
The straitjacket wasn't quite as stringent as the one Robyn had endured her first night as a guest of the Lodge, but it would do.  It buckled up the back, and was tight enough across her breasts and around her waist to make its presence known with every breath.  Her arms were crossed below her breasts in the traditional self-hug, and would remain that way, thanks to leather straps down the front and over her forearms, encircling each upper arm and wrist, and channeling the sleeves' terminal straps.  This was not a crotchless model, like the one she'd worn before.  A narrow diaper flap traveled from front to back and buckled through the rings at the end of each sleeve.  Robyn rolled her shoulders, pulled against the sleeves and the straps pinning her arms, and sighed.   "Déjà vu, all over again," she muttered.

Joelle grinned.  "Poor Red Robyn," she cooed, giving the crotch strap a final jerk.

"Hey!" Robyn complained.  "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"I don't need to remove your diaper to tell that you're enjoying it too," Joelle whispered in the captive's ear.  

Robyn blushed, but didn't answer (which was an answer in itself.)

"Besides," Joelle continued, "why shouldn't I be enjoying myself?"  She led Robyn to another locker and began fitting her with a pair of leather hobbles joined by a twelve-inch leather strap.  "After all," Joelle continued, "I am your superior, Junior."

"Junior Dominatrix in Training," Robyn snorted in disgust.  "This is like learning to drive while riding in the back seat."

Joelle laughed, fumbling in a drawer inside the locker.  "More like while tied up in the trunk; but don't criticize the curriculum.  You'll get your turn at the wheel... eventually."

"Eventually," Robyn mumbled, still skeptical.  Then she noticed the rubber ball and tangle of straps in Joelle's hands.  "Oh!"

"I know the ball looks big..."  Joelle gave the four-inch sphere a squeeze and it compressed between her fingers.  "...but it's foam.  Open wide!"

Robyn complied and Joelle stuffed the now slowly expanding ball into her mouth, then buckled a strap at the nape of her neck.  The ball continued expanding, until it seemed to fill every nook and cranny of Robyn's mouth.  Her cheeks bulged and she forced a piteously quiet sound past the heavy foam.  A second strap was buckled, and a fleece-lined mask was over her lower face.  A pair of thin straps were crossed under her chin and a third buckle engaged at the nape of her neck, and the mask seemed to press her lips and compact her jaws as efficiently as a hand-gag.  She shook her head, mewed a stifled complaint past ball and mask, and glared at her smug, smiling captor.

Joelle laughed and gave her prisoner a close hug.  "Let's go visit Chandler, shall we?"  Joelle gave Robyn a gentle shove towards the door, followed by a mild whack on the right thigh from a riding crop she'd found somewhere among the dangling jackets, cuffs, straps, and gags in the lockers.  "Dragon Lady will probably appreciate any interruption, if Frieda's plans are on track."
With Robyn in the lead, directed by a stream of painless (but humiliating) taps from Joelle's crop, they descended into the sanitarium levels of the Lodge.  Before the heavy steel door of a chamber, Joelle pulled Robyn close and whispered in her right ear.  "I want to warn you, Irish.  This is going to seem very cruel... and it is; but Frieda has been doing this sort of thing for a long time; and Chandler's been her guest before... many times.  Don't be frightened."  She pounded her fist three times on the door, then turned the latch and swung it open.  Despite Joelle's warning, Robyn's eyes popped wide at the sight of what was happening in the chamber beyond.

Chandler, still rope bound and gagged, was reclined on a nightmare version of a gynecological examining table.  It was a frame of stainless steel pipes and brackets with taut canvas panels to provide "comfort."  She was on her back (and bound arms), her legs bent and widely splayed.  She was held in this position by leather cuffs around her ankles and above her knees and leather straps across her waist, above and below her breasts, and across her throat.

"Clover clamps" held each of her nipples, and thin cords tied to each clamp traveled up to pulleys on the crossbar of a steel frame, over to other pulleys, then joined to suspend a large (heavy) steel vessel.  Suspended over the mouth of the vessel and cradled in a net of steel wire was a block of ice, roughly the size of a football.  The chamber was hot, and the ice was melting... into the vessel... very slowly... and every clear drop added to the weight pulling Chandler's small nipples upwards and stretching her small breasts into taut cones.

The nipple clamps were not the worst of her predicament.  Frieda, still dressed in her catsuit of interwoven black leather straps, was seated before Chandler's splayed crotch.  A bright pinspot was focused on the prisoner's glistening sex.  "I'll be with you in a minute," Frieda mumbled absently, leaned forward, and used a pair of stainless steel forceps to pluck a single pubic hair from Chandler's bush.  (Chandler flinched as the hair was pulled.)  Frieda had been at this for some time, for a pan into which she dropped the curly filament already contained hundreds of similar hairs, and Chandler's pubic patch was quite a bit smaller than Robyn remembered.

Frieda set down the forceps, picked up a small bottle with a atomizer top from a tray of ice, and gave Chandler's pubic region a generous spray.  "Alcohol," she explained, then turned to smile at Robyn.

The straitjacked, hobbled, and gagged redhead stared at Chandler's helpless, writhing, mewing form, took an involuntary step back, and was stopped by Joelle, who held her close and took a firm grip on her hair.

"Easy, Irish," Joelle whispered in Robyn's ear.  Joelle then forced Robyn to her knees, and maintained her grip on the captive's hair.  "You still intend to give her a clear-cut, Mistress?" Joelle asked Frieda, nodding at Chandler.

Frieda nodded and gazed down at the spotlighted, obscenely splayed crotch before her, and delicately flexed her gloved hands.  "If my fingers grow tired, I'll wax the rest."  She picked up a steel probe and used it to tease the glistening folds of Chandler's labia.  "Look at how wet she is... the slut.  I'll probably wax her anyway, regardless, in case I miss any of the small ones."  She returned the probe to the tray and picked up the forceps.  "Take Red someplace secure and tuck her in.  She was a good pony.  Untrained, but she tried very hard.  No punishment today."

"Yes, Mistress," Joelle responded, and hauled Robyn to her hobbled feet.

"Oh, wait!" Frieda said, with a sardonic smile.  "I believe Slave Chandler would like to apologize to Slave Robyn for getting her into this nightmare."

Chandler took her cue.  She lifted her head as far as the strap across her throat would allow and directed a series of piteous gagged noises towards Robyn.

"Did that sound sincere to you?" Frieda purred.

Joelle shook her head.  "I couldn't even understand her."

Frieda shook her head as well.  "Talking with your mouth full," she scolded, then leaned forward and plucked a pubic hair.  "Such an ill-mannered slut-slave."

Joelle dragged Robyn through the door.  Robyn's last view of the room was Chandler's pale, sweat-beaded, restrained arms and torso, and her stretched, conical breasts; then the door was closed.

Joelle hugged Robyn close and looked into her eyes.  "The Dragon Lady is used to stuff like that, understand?"

Still a little frightened, Robyn nodded.

Joelle smiled and continued.  "I don't think Chandler's ever been completely plucked before," she explained, "but she is being punished.  Now... how 'bout a nice nap?"

Robyn nodded again, and was led away.
Frieda pulled the last strip of waxed cotton gauze, and Chandler shuddered in her bonds.  "There," the catsuited beauty said, a wicked smile curling her lips, "all nice and slick."  She then reached up and released the right nipple clamp.  Chandler screamed through her gag; then screamed again as the left clamp was released.  She shivered and squirmed in her bonds as Frieda released the leather cuffs and straps pinning her to the table.

Grabbing a handful of rope bonds, Frieda hauled Chandler off the table and forced her to the floor.  "Stay!" she ordered, walked to a low cabinet, and returned with coils of cotton rope.  Over the next several minutes, Chandler was bound at the ankles, above and below her knees, and through her bare crotch.  More rope was draped over her shoulders.  The doubled strands were knotted every few inches, and Frieda pulled more rope from either side, hitched it between the knots, and back to the rear.  Eventually, Chandler was bound in an overlying, diamond-hitched net of rope, from her throat to her big toes.

Frieda cinched the last knot (a double-tucked hitch around Chandler's thumbs), then picked the naked captive up and onto her shoulder.  Gagged head to the rear and bound legs to the front, the helpless captive was carried deeper and lower into the sanitarium.  All pretense of cleanliness was left behind.  The concrete floors were layered with dust.  Cobwebs hung in ropes from the overhead pipes and the eerily dim light fixtures.

Eventually they came to a heavy steel door set in a concrete wall.  Frieda produced a ring of keys, opened a padlock and then the door, carried Chandler into the small, dark chamber beyond, and set her on the filthy floor.  Heavy pipes criss-crossed the low ceiling, radiating heat and making the air uncomfortably hot.  Chandler writhed in her bonds and mewed through her gag, shaking her head... and was ignored.  There was a square grid of heavy iron bars set in an iron frame sunk in the concrete floor.  Iron hinges were welded to grid and frame at one end, and a thick iron hasp and high security padlock opposite.  Frieda unlocked the padlock and heaved on the hasp.  The grid opened with a rusty squeal.  The space underneath was dark and shrouded in countless cobwebs.  Chandler rolled her body, struggled to raise her head and shoulders off the concrete, and locked eyes with her mistress, her steel-blue eyes begging for mercy.

Frieda smiled and slowly shook her head.  "No, I'm afraid not, slut.  You sent me a long list of entertainments and punishments I was to visit upon poor, innocent Ms. Tolliver, remember?  I think it's only right you experience a little of what you had in mind for your victim.  You'll sleep in the 'spider pit' every night this visit... or until you convince me of your contrition."

Resistance was impossible.  Frieda dragged and rolled Chandler's bound body into the pit.  It was actually a brick-walled cube, something like four feet on a side, with a small iron drain set in its floor.  The prisoner mewed and whined, the rope bands and diamond hitches encircling her body flexing and biting as she tucked her legs and hunched her shoulders to fit into the confined space.  Frieda closed the grid, snapped the padlock in its hasp, and smiled down at Chandler's bound and gagged form through the thick, closely-spaced bars.  "Thirsty?  Hungry?"  Chandler wiggled in her bonds and whined through her gag.  Frieda stared down at her for several long seconds.  Her prisoner's pale flesh was glistening with sweat and already filthy with dirt, dust, and cobwebs.  Frieda turned and walked to the door.  "Water and Primate Chow in the morning... unless I forget."  She pulled the outer door closed, threw the bolt, snapped the padlock closed, and walked away.

Chandler was in for a very unpleasant night, but Frieda knew the Dragon Lady had finished an Ironman through the Mohave Desert just months earlier.  A night in the spider pit would be nothing compared to that.
Robyn stared up at the ceiling.  Joelle had marched her into one of the bedrooms, possibly the same bedroom she had shared with Frieda the previous night.  She had stood patiently while Joelle unbuckled and removed her hobbles and straitjacket.  She expected to be allowed to climb under the covers of the bed and take her promised nap, perhaps with a chain on her collar to make sure she didn't wander away or fall out of bed.

Instead, Joelle had unrolled a canvas bundle and tossed it on the bed.  "This is called a body sheath.  We have three versions: canvas, burlap, and wool.  The burlap and wool versions are... scratchy, uncomfortable, itchy torture against your bare skin, especially on a hot night.  Because you were such a hardworking and earnest young pony this afternoon, you get to wear the canvas.  Position one!"

Robyn dropped to her knees, interlaced her fingers, and placed them atop her head.

Joelle stepped behind and began unbuckling Robyn's gag straps.  "Such a clever girl," she cooed, "remembering not to touch her gag."  The gag was removed and tossed aside, then Joelle placed one hand atop Robyn's head and fingers, and used the other to lift her chin.  Her dark hair settled around Robyn's face and they kissed.  The kiss lasted a long time.

Joelle stood and motioned for Robyn to rise.  "You okay?" the smiling Assistant Dominatrix asked, and Robyn nodded.  "Good," she said, spun Robyn around to face the bathroom door, and gave her a gentle slap on her naked derrière.  "Go use the facilities, and drink some water.  Quickly!"

Naked but for her steel collar, Robyn scampered into the bathroom.  By the time she returned, Joelle had the sheath stretched flat, unzipped, and ready.  She smiled at Robyn.  "On the bed, Irish."  Her eyes wide (and her heart tripping), Robyn complied.  "Tuck your feet into the separate channels... Good girl.  Now, arms into the side sleeves."  Robyn slid her fingers into slits in the interior and wiggled until her arms were enclosed up to the armpit.  Joelle helped this process by pulling up the sheath's heavy zipper and tugging on the shoulder straps.  "Good girl!" she repeated, and began the lengthy process of tightening and buckling the sheath's dozens of transverse and lateral leather straps.  As each loop of leather tightened and was secured, the sheath became less a canvas bag and more a canvas python, slowly strangling its swallowed prey.

"T-this is tight!" Robyn whispered.

Joelle nodded.  Meanwhile, she passed the ring in the front of Robyn's slave collar through a slot in the sheath's leather collar, and continued securing the sheath.  An open-faced hood captured the prisoner's head, and straps encircled her forehead and throat.  A ball was placed in her mouth and a broad strap buckled across her lips.  The final strap was tucked through channels sewn into the hood, passed under Robyn's chin, and was buckled at the crown of her head.  "There..." Joelle said, padlocking a chain from the bed's headboard to Robyn's collar ring.  "You have a nice nap," she purred, and was gone.

The lights clicked off, and Robyn heard the bedroom door close and lock.  She wiggled in her sheath, flexing her muscles and twisting against the tight straps and stiff canvas .  Finally, admitting defeat (satisfying herself that she was completely helpless), she relaxed against the still neatly tucked bedspread, stared up at the ceiling, and closed her eyes.

Robyn dozed off... and dreamed she was strapped to a steel table and Frieda was approaching her defenseless crotch, forceps in hand... then woke to the sound of rattling keys and opening door.  She turned her head (with difficulty) and watched Frieda's catsuited form glide across the dark bedroom and into the bathroom.  The shower started... minutes passed... and the shower stopped.  More minutes passed... then the bathroom door opened and Frieda strolled towards the bed.  Her raven hair was damp and pulled back in a tight ponytail.  She was completely nude, a coy smile on her lips, her blue eyes sparkling.

Frieda pulled the bedspread from under Robyn's encased body and lay next to her on the bed.  Lounging on her side, her chin resting on one hand and supported by one propped elbow, she locked eyes with her prisoner, and used her free hand to explore the taut canvas strapped around Robyn's squirming form.  

Frieda's smile faded.  "The most demanding task of being a Dominatrix," she sighed, "is to know what your client really needs, and how to give it to her."  She leaned close and kissed Robyn's button nose.  "Don't be frightened by what's happening to Ms. Warburg.  I estimate sometime around noon tomorrow Chandler will be ready to apologize for what she's done to you.  You're ready to accept now, right?"  Robyn nodded, her eyes still staring at her mistress.  "Such a kind soul," Frieda whispered, snuggling closer to Robyn.  "Now... as I was saying... It can be demanding being a Dominatrix.  At the moment, I'd like nothing better than to take a nice nap... but there's no rest for the wicked."

Frieda climbed to her knees, turned, straddled Robyn's sheathed body, and settled her weight on the encased redhead's waist.  Robyn stared at Frieda's strong white back and raven ponytail... then yelped when she felt a zipper open over her crotch, and something cold and hard slide between her thighs and nestle against her sex.  The zipper closed, and Frieda resumed her former pose, lying close to Robyn.  "Brace yourself," she cooed, and twisted a plastic disk that now protruded from the sheath.  The object tucked against her sex began to vibrate!   Robyn mewed through her gag and shivered in her tight encasement.

"Hush, Irish," Frieda whispered in a teasing scold.  "Your new friend will keep you entertained while I catnap for an hour or two."  Her hands slid over Robyn's sheath and she kissed her gagged lips.  "It's not enough to fully entertain you, of course.  That'll be my job, once I wake up and peel you out of your wrapper.  Afterwards, Joelle will cook us a nice steak, with all the fixin's."  She smiled coyly and tapped the side of one index finger against Robyn's gag strap.  "Not a sound," she ordered, "not so much as a whimper... and stop all that squirming.  If you wake me up before I'm ready... no nookie!"

Robyn lay and stared up at the ceiling, struggling not to shiver, not to whine, and not to sweat.    Could be worse, she reasoned.  I could be getting what Chandler's getting... whatever that is...

Already asleep, Frieda rolled onto her stomach and threw one arm across Robyn's sheathed body.  The captive sighed through her gag... and suppressed the urge to shiver from the wicked, horrible, delightful sensations quivering through her sex.  Robyn closed her eyes... and drifted off to sleep... and this time she dreamed she was a medieval princess.  She had been captured by a pirate queen, but rescued by a beautiful socreress... and now she was the sorceress' prisoner, bound in golden chains in the uppermost chamber of her rose-covered tower, deep in the enchanted forest... and escape was impossible (and unthinkable).

Chapter 6 | EPILOGUE