TALES OF THE FOXWOOD B&B _¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯by Van © 2011		_
		Chapter 3

Welcoming New Guests
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The hum of machinery.

Hannah heard the hum of machinery.

And a wet bubbling sound.

It was background noise, and it wasn't particularly loud or annoying.  Nothing was annoying, really.  Hannah felt completely relaxed and at ease.  She opened her eyes—Ow!—and immediately closed them again.  Bright lights!  Now that was annoying.

Hannah was on her back with her legs together and her arms at her sides, lying on a padded surface, and she was covered with a sheet.  It wasn't a bed, exactly.  More like a cot, no, a padded table, and...

"M'mmpfh!"  Hannah's memory came flooding back.  I've been kidnapped!  She tried to rise—"M'rrfh!"—and failed, miserably.  Straps of some sort were holding her down!  She opened her eyes, again, this time squinting as her eyes adjusted.

She was in some kind of laboratory.  To her left was a table laden with clear glassware in various exotic shapes, much of it hanging from a framework of steel rods and clamped together and bubbling and dripping and... Okay, it was a big chemistry set.

To her right were cabinets and shelves laden with books and wooden boxes and strange instruments and machines made of brass and glass and steel.

In the other two directions, behind her head and beyond her feet, she could see the shadowed form of several rather large mechanisms of no obvious purpose.  They had brass gears that meshed and turned and were lit by banks of blinking lights and glass tubes pulsing with sparkling tendrils of violet energy.

Dr. Frankenstein's lab!  I'm in Dr. Frankenstein's lab!  Sydney!  Where's Sydney?  And Jillian?

Her eyes had finished adjusting and Hannah could now see that the lab was probably a pretty big room, but most of it was lost in shadow, thanks to the glaring banks of old-style operating theater lights suspended directly overhead.

She tugged on her restraints.  They creaked and felt like leather, but were hidden by the crisp, white linen sheet covering her body and leaving only her head and shoulders exposed. 

"Mmmf!"

And she was gagged.  It felt like tape, covering her lips and most of her lower face.  There was nothing stuffed in her mouth, just the tape.  Hannah worked her jaws and probed with her tongue, but the adhesive held.

Hannah lifted her head and looked down her shrouded body.  She squirmed, struggled, and took inventory of her unseen bonds.  Wide, padded cuffs confined her wrists and ankles, and broad straps were stretched across her thighs, waist, and chest, just below her breasts.

And—oh-by-the-way—under the sheet she was pretty sure she was naked.  The white cloth preserved her modesty—but underneath... naked.  Also, her "Saxon braids" were unraveled and her long, blond hair lay about her head in a loose, tousled mass.

Hannah heard the tap of heels on a hard surface and turned her head towards the sound.  "M'rrfh?"

Two female figures emerged from the shadows.  They were about Hannah's height, by her best guess.  Both had brown hair, but were dressed in very different ways.

The one on the left was wearing gold-rimmed glasses.  Her hair was up and she was clothed in a white lab coat over an old-fashioned dress with a high collar.  Her entire look was old-fashioned, so much so that her attire could only be a costume.  Victorian, Hannah decided, the 1890's.  What do they call them?  'Gibson girls'?  No matter how "Four-Eyes" was dressed... she was stunning; slender but with biggish boobs that strained the top buttons of the lab coat.

The woman on the right...

Hannah glared and made a rude comment—or tried, anyway.  "M'rrmfh!"

The woman on the right was wearing a leather catsuit exactly like the ones worn by the kidnappers back at Foxwood.  She probably was one of the kidnappers!  The only things missing were the leather helmet, mask, and goggles.  Her long brown hair was loose, framing her high-cheeked face, and her beauty was easily on a par with her "doctor" companion.  Granted, her boobs weren't as big, but her smaller pair suited the leather-encased proportions to her svelte, athletic figure quite nicely.

"What's she upset about?" the catsuited kidnapper purred, a gloating, infuriating smile curling her lips.

Four-Eyes shrugged.  "I assume you're being your usual charming, facetious self?"

"I'm asking if you've already started 'entertaining' her."

"No," Four-Eyes replied.  "She's simply restrained.  Here—"  She took hold of the top edge of the sheet.  "—let me show you."

"N'rrrrrff!"  Hannah struggled and squirmed, fighting the straps with all her strength.  They creaked and slid against her skin, but any slack achieved was strictly transitory, gained by her body compressing the padding in one place and negated by added pressure, elsewhere.

Four-Eyes removed the sheet and folded it.  Catsuit gazed at Hannah's nude, helpless form with a feral, appreciative grin.

Hannah met her stare and growled her contempt.

"Nice muscle tone," Catsuit noted.  She reached out, cupped Hannah's right breast, and gave it a gentle squeeze.  "Firm and well-developed, but without being stringy.  Most of your experimental subjects aren't this attractive."

Hannah moaned through her gag, continuing to struggle.

"I like her coloring," the scientist said.

"Yes," Catsuit agreed, "that luscious, all-over tan."  Her hand slid from Hannah's breast and settled on her lower abdomen, just beyond the waist strap.

"M'mmmf!"  Hannah's bonds were, indeed, leather and were buff in color—'medical restraints', she decided.  The wrist-cuffs were wide and well-padded.  The remaining straps were also wide, about two or three inches.  The cuffs on her ankles were similar to the ones on her wrists.

"I like her nice, thick bush," Catsuit purred, combing her fingers through Hannah's dark-blond pubic hair.

Hannah locked eyes with the grinning brunette and stared the proverbial daggers.

"Yes," Four-Eyes agreed.  "Clean-shaven has its place, as do the various styles of clipping and waxing, but a semi-wild little brier patch suits her quite well."  She unbuckled the strap over Hannah's thighs and thumbed a switch somewhere on the side of the table.

Hannah heard a quiet hum and felt a vibration—and her ankles began to separate.  She struggled, but the motor easily defeated her efforts to resist.  The lower part of the table, from her hips down, was opening like a pair of scissors, each half taking one of Hannah's legs with it.  "M'mmmpfh!"  This continued until she was nearly splayed into a full split.  Then, the mechanism locked.

"Help me," Four-Eyes asked, and began buckling a strap around Hannah's left leg just above her knee.

Catsuit stretched a similar strap above Hannah's right knee, smiling as she cinched it tight and secured the buckle.  She than stepped between Hannah's legs and placed her right hand on her pussy.

"N'rrrf!" Hannah complained.

"Settle down, Blondie," Catsuit chuckled, then smiled at Four-Eyes.  "Are we going to do the piercings now?"

"M'MMMMPFH!"  Hannah struggled anew, with predictable results.

Four-Eyes shook her head.  "I've scheduled a number of preliminary sessions with the machines to evaluate her orgasmic potential.  We'll move on to alterations after that.  In any case, it's too soon.  I haven't yet designed her final transformation."

"N'RRRF!"

"We can at least pierce her nipples and nose," Catsuit suggested.  "The sooner they're done, the sooner they'll heal."

Hannah's heart was pounding.  She couldn't help it.

"You have plenty of playmates to help you pass the time," Four-Eyes chuckled.  She wheeled over a small cart, lifted a cloth cover, and held up a steel speculum.

Hannah continued struggling.  By this time, her futile efforts had raised a sheen of sweat on her tan, brightly lit body.  Then—her eyes popped wide and she froze in place.  Four-Eyes had slid the blades of the speculum between her labia and was closing the handle.  The instrument opened with a ratcheting vibration—click-click-click-click-click—until her most intimate anatomy was stretched and on display.  Hannah shivered and moaned through her gag.  The blades were smooth, hard, and cold.

"Easy, Number Forty Two," Four-Eyes said, then focused on Hannah's gagged face.  "That's your designation, by the way: 'Experimental Subject Number Forty Two'.  Remember it.  I am Mistress Patricia—"  She gestured towards her catsuited companion.  "—and this is Mistress Jaclyn.  Remember that, as well."

"On the rare occasions when you are ungagged and given permission to speak," Jaclyn added, "that is how we will be addressed.  Anything else will result in punishment."

Hannah shivered, again.  'Mistress Patricia" had used an atomizer to spritz a clear spray over her entire crotch.  It was cold... and then she felt a gentle warming and tingling sensation.  She squirmed in her bonds, helpless.

Patricia wheeled away the cart and Jaclyn took her place, leaning close to ogle Hannah's stretched and exposed pussy.  "Hmm... very nice.  Seven rings, I think.  Three for either lip and one for the clitoral hood."

"I told you," Patricia chuckled, "not yet.  Out of the way."  She was trundling over... something.  It had small, squeaky wheels and was covered with another cloth.  Jacklyn stepped aside and helped her push it close to Hannah's crotch.

Hannah felt a pair of solid clicks vibrate through the base of the table as the thing snapped into unseen clamps.  She lifted her head as Patricia removed the cloth—"NRRRR!"—and screamed through her gag.

A fucking machine!  Propriety aside, there was no other way to describe it!

The device's brass gears, piston arms, leather drive-belts, and spinning governors reminded Hannah of a table-top model of a stationary steam engine, only it appeared to be electrically powered.  Like the rest of the furnishings of the lab, it had an antique, vaguely Victorian style.

And by the way—a phallus of translucent, natural rubber mounted on a shaft was sticking out of the thing, and its anatomically correct tip was less than an inch from Hannah's spread pussy!

"NRRRMFH!"

"Don't worry, Forty Two," Patricia purred.  She was using a small brush to paint some sort of thick, glistening gel on the phallus.  "Your first session with the Orgasmogenic Oscillametric Vibratron will involve only a little thrusting."

"It'll give you a good buzz, of course," Jacklyn added.  She'd walked to Hannah's left side and was stroking her hair and smiling down at her tape-gagged, anxious face.

"Yes," Patricia continued.  "This first session is mainly to familiarize you with the apparatus.  There will be long periods of inactivity punctuated by periods of low to moderate stimulation.  You will experience several orgasms."

"Eventually," Jaclyn said.  "You'll learn to cum on command."  She continued combing Hannah's hair with her fingers.  "You'll also learn to endure prolonged stimulation without cumming.  Many of our clients find both forced orgasms and denial torture to be equally entertaining."

Hannah stared up at Jaclyn's smiling, predatory face.  Clients?  Where the hell am I?  What is this place?

Patricia had removed the speculum and was making adjustments to the machine.  The shaft nudged her labia... then eased them aside and the cool, slippery phallus slid into her vagina.

"Nrrrrr!"

"The heat lamps will keep you warm," Patricia said, "and now, we'll leave you to enjoy yourself."

"Things to do," Jaclyn purred.

Patricia threw a switch and the machine began to hum.

"M'mmfh!"  Hannah could feel the phallus trembling... and pulsing... and sliding back and forth, slowly, perhaps an eighth of an inch in each direction.  The bright lights overhead blinked off and several smaller, orange-red lamps mounted in the same fixtures began to glow.

"Peckish?" Jaclyn asked Patricia as they strolled into the shadows.

"Some tea and cucumber sandwiches would be nice," Patricia agreed.

"NRRRF!" Hannah screamed after them.  The sliding and vibrating of the Orgasmo... whatever-the-hell-she-called-it increased in tempo.  It was slow and not particularly intense... but it was making itself known.

Hannah struggled and bucked, fighting her restraints.  Then, she collapsed, panting through flaring nostrils as her breasts heaved.  The machine was now definitely fucking her... in a rather perfunctory manner.  The dim, reddish light from above caressed her glistening curves.  Hannah closed her eyes and shivered as the phallus buzzed and thrust.

Where am I? she wondered, squirming and tugging on her bonds.  Sydney!  Jillian!  What are they doing to you?

Suddenly, the phallus stopped vibrating and sliding.  It was still inside her, but now as an inanimate presence.  The machine's gears continued to turn and its lights continued to blink in regular patterns, but the shaft was locked in place.

Hannah sighed through her gag.  If her captors had been telling the truth, this was only a lull in the action.  Her "ordeal" was only beginning.

Who are these people?  Sydney, what have you done?

Jillian opened her eyes.  She was in an elegantly appointed bedroom.  The decor was Victorian, all richly embroidered fabrics, floral wallpaper, fringed lamps, etc.  However, while individual pieces of furniture might have been genuine antiques, there wasn't the musty smell of century-old drapes and carpets.  With a quick visual inventory she tallied a canopy bed with four exceptionally sturdy posts, an armoire, a chest of drawers, a washstand with pitcher and basin, a pair of comfortable chairs, a dressing table and bench, and the chaise lounge on which she was reclined.

She was naked.  Her red hair was loose about her shoulders, and her wrists and ankles were locked in steel cuffs.  Both sets were wide and thick-walled, but comfortably padded with jade-green velvet.  Their light but strong connecting chains were each about six inches in length.

Light was streaming through a bay window at the far end of the room.  Jillian eased her bare feet to the carpet, stood, and minced her way to the window, taking the baby steps her shackles allowed.  She parted the sheer drapes with her joined hands, and beheld a wooded hillside.  Stepping closer, she could see part of a rather formal garden and a swath of green lawn.  Some distance away, several women were playing croquet.  All were dressed in Victorian/Edwardian style, in long-sleeved, wasp-waisted, full-length gowns with bustles and frilly lace.  All were wearing hats of various styles, which matched or complemented their pastel summer gowns.

The window was barred.  The iron grill-work was stylish and fit the decor, but was obviously solid and well-anchored in the walls.  There were no hinges or locks or any other provision for opening the elegant framework.

Jillian looked towards the bedroom's only door, and noticed there was no doorknob, not on her side, anyway.  It was a featureless plane of darkly stained wood.

She was in a prison cell.  A stylish, well-appointed cell; but a cell, nonetheless.

Her eyes focused on a painting hanging in a large niche above the chest of drawers.  She hadn't noticed it from the chaise lounge; but here, in front of the window, she could see it clearly.  She minced to the chest of drawers and inspected it closely.

It was Neoclassic in style, and evoked Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema or John William Waterhouse.  The setting was a Roman or Greek garden.  Two women—a redhead and a brunette—were standing in a shallow pool of clear water, locked in a tight embrace and sharing a passionate kiss.  Both had flawless, fair skin, but the artist had captured the subtle difference of the peachy-pink of the redhead and the pale ivory of the brunette.  Their thighs and breasts were pressed together, their arms entwined around their slender bodies, and their long hair half-obscured their faces; but Jillian knew their identities.  And now, she knew exactly where she was, as well.

Suddenly, the door opened and a maid entered, carrying a china tea service on a silver tray.  "Madam is awake," she observed.  Her costume carried forward the Victorian theme: a black, full-length, long-sleeved dress trimmed in white lace at its high collar, cuffs, and along its lower hem.  A white, full-length apron and lace cap completed the uniform.

The maid was young, in her twenties, and very pretty.  Her big brown eyes sparkled with mischief.

 "I must arrange madam's hair," she announced as she set the tray on the small table between a pair of wing-back chairs.

I'll make a scene later, Jillian decided, with a more appropriate audience.

Jillian turned and minced towards the dressing table.  As she drew near, she noted steel rings incorporated in the wooden frame of the bench.  Long satin ribbons were looped through the rings, dangling nearly to the floor.  Obviously, the rings were lashing points, and the ribbons were to restrain her on the bench, should they be required.  Jillian decided to cooperate, for now.  She sat on the bench and faced the ornately framed mirror.  Her legs were together and turned slightly to the side.  Her cuffed wrists demurely rested on her lap.

The maid appeared in the mirror, behind Jillian's back.  She leaned close, picked up a brush and comb from the table, and began brushing Jillian's hair.

"You have very pretty hair, madam," the maid purred.

"Thank you," Jillian responded.  "You have me at a disadvantage."

A coy smile curled the maid's full lips.  "I'm afraid I'm under orders not to remove madam's restraints."

Jillian smiled and gazed into the mirror, locking eyes with the maid.

"My name is Polly, madam," the maid finally answered.  She continued brushing Jillian's hair.  Then, using clips from the table, she began arranging the long, copper-red locks in an elaborate coif—Victorian in style, of course.  "Madam is most attractive with her hair up," Polly said.  "It accentuates the curve of madam's shoulders and neck."

"Yes, I'm a veritable swan," Jillian purred.

Polly smiled and completed her work.

"And now?" Jillian asked.

"I'm to dress madam," Polly smiled.

Jillian lifted her cuffed hands.  "Good luck with that," she chuckled.

Polly gestured towards the center of the room.  "Madam?"

Still smiling, Jillian stood and shuffled to the position indicated.  She watched as Polly pulled a small clip from her apron pocket and knelt at her feet.  There was a quiet click, and Polly stood.  The chain joining Jillian's ankle cuffs was now secured to a ring peeping through a slit in the carpet.

Polly went to the wall and thumbed a switch.

A hum sounded from overhead.  Jillian looked up and watched a horizontal steel bar suspended between a pair of steel chains lower from the ceiling.  The bar stopped at shoulder level and Polly lifted Jillian's cuffed wrists and secured her right cuff to the bar.  She then used a small key to release the chain joining the cuffs and secured the left cuff to the other end of the bar.

Polly then returned to the wall and thumbed the switch, again.

Jillian's arms were raised until she was in full stretch.  Her feet were flat on the plush carpet, but the mechanism locked with her nude body just short of suspension.

Polly went to the armoir and unlocked and opened a drawer.

Now that Jillian noticed, there was a small, ornate lock-plate beneath or beside the handle of every door or drawer of every piece of furniture in the room.  It's a good bet everything is bolted to the floor or wall, she surmised, and all the drapes and curtains are solidly attached to their solidly attached rods.  Unmovable furniture, a knob-less door, and barred windows—Jillian truly was in a gilded cage.

Polly returned from the armoir with a corset.  It was white satin, trimmed with matching lace.  The maid fitted it around Jillian's torso and secured a series of clips down the back to keep it in place. 

The corset's long, trailing laces settled between Jillian's buttocks and tickled the backs of her knees.

Polly leaned close from behind, reached around Jillian's body, and arranged her breasts in the corset's half-cup supports.

"Madam has such pretty skin," Polly whispered.  Her lips were an inch from Jillian's right ear.  "And such firm breasts."

"Whalebone?" Jillian whispered back.  She was referring to the corset, of course.

"Synthetic substitute," Polly purred, "but just as strong.  I want to thank madam for her cooperation."

"Does it make any difference?" Jillian purred, tugging on her wrist cuffs for emphasis.

"In one sense, no," Polly chuckled.  "All the manor staff are trained in the handling of reluctant guests.  In another sense, very much so."

"How?"

"If madam had been difficult," Polly explained, "I was instructed to use stringent measures, as well as a training corset."

"Training corset."

"Much more restrictive," Polly whispered.  "More 'interesting', one might say."

"One might say this corset is plenty restrictive," Jillian responded.

"Oh, madam," Polly giggled, leaning close until her breath stirred the errant strands of red hair dancing around Jillian's right ear.  "I haven't even begun tightening the laces."

Just then, the door opened and a woman entered the room.  She was forty-something.  Jillian's age.

Jillian's breath caught in her throat—and she struggled for a few heartbeats to control her expression.  Finally, a careful smile curling her lips, she watched the newcomer walk to the tea service, pour herself a cup, and settle into a chair.

Meanwhile, Polly had taken a step back and was tightening the corset's laces.

The newcomer was dressed in a tea gown, ivory linen decorated with frogs of black brocade and trimmed with white lace.  Her brown hair was up, much like Jillian's.  She sipped her tea and gazed at Jillian with pale blue eyes.

Finally, she set down her cup and saucer... and smiled.  "Jillian," she said.

"Caroline," Jillian answered.

Polly continued tightening the laces.

The redhead and brunette continued gazing at one another, without speaking.

Jillian gasped and tried not to lose her smile, but the corset was tight—and it was getting tighter.  Finally, just when Jillian thought she'd have to voice some protest while she could still breathe, Polly tied a double bow.  She then wrapped the remaining lace around Jillian's now very wasp-like waist, and tied another bow.

Polly placed her hands on Jillian's hips, her thumbs on the lace of the corset's lower margin and her fingers splayed, lightly pressing the redhead's pale, freckled skin.  "Would madam like me to serve."

Caroline shook her head.  "No, thank you."

"Perhaps bring some biscuits, cakes, and sandwiches up from the kitchen?"

"No, thank you," Caroline answered.  This time, a little more firmly.

"Some sherry?"

"Get out, Puck," Caroline chuckled, "before I bend you over my knee."

Polly leaned close from behind and kissed the side of Jillian's neck.  "Yes, madam," she giggled and left the bedroom.

Jillian and Caroline locked eyes, again.  The door closed with a thud, followed by a click.

Several seconds passed.  "Puck?" Jillian asked.

Caroline's smile broadened.  "Our annual Midsummer Night Festival.  Polly makes a delightful Puck.  Our guests find her antics most entertaining."

Jillian nodded.  "I see."

"Are you still angry?" Caroline asked.

"No."  Jillian shook her head.  "Not for many years.  And you?"

"No."  Caroline sighed.  "I'm not sure I ever was.  Angry, I mean.  Things were... complicated."

Jillian nodded.  "Complicated."

"Foxwood is a success."

"Everything I dreamed it could be," Jillian answered.  "And Silverberry is successful, as well."  It was a statement, not a question.

"The manor thrives," Caroline smiled  "Tea?"  Jillian nodded and Caroline filled a clean cup, then carried cup and saucer to her guest.  She held the cup to Jillian's lips and let her sip the warm, amber brew.

"Umm, very nice," Jillian sighed.  "Thank you.  I take it we have my little sister to thank for this reunion?"

"Yes," Caroline chuckled, "but I don't think events are unfolding quite as Sydney had planned.  More?"  She held up the cup and Jillian took another sip.

"Enough, thank you," Jillian said.

Caroline carried the cup and saucer to the tray, then returned.  She stood and drank in Jillian's helpless, semi-nude body, looking her up and down from fingers to toes.  "More of a freckle farm than ever, I see.  Skinny-dipping in that duck pond of yours, no doubt."

"I use sun screen," Jillian purred.  "We all do."

Caroline stepped forward, embraced Jillian, and kissed her lips.  "Welcome back to Silverberry Manor," she whispered.

Jillian smiled, and returned the kiss.

Caroline's hands roamed over Jillian's stretched body, caressing her breasts and thighs.  "You're a witch," she whispered.  "Time hasn't touched you."

"Liar," Jillian whispered back, and the kiss resumed.

Finally, their lips parted.  The embrace continued.

Caroline turned her head and gazed at the painting in its niche across the room.  "Remember posing for that?" she sighed.

Jillian kissed Caroline's cheek, then rested her head on her shoulder.  "The water was cold, but the sun was hot."

"Yes," Caroline agreed.  "Kayley would like to talk to you.  We'll make it a conference call."

"You allow telephones?" Jillian asked.

"I've made changes at Silverberry in the last few years," Caroline answered.

"Changes?"

"One word: steampunk."

"Isn't that two words?"

"One word," Caroline chuckled.  "Steam-powered technology infused with science fiction and fantasy."

"I'm kidding," Jillian smiled.  "Steampunk: Jules Verne meets Arthur Conan Doyle by way of H.G. Wells and H. Rider Haggard."

"More or less," Caroline agreed.  "Anyway, it lets us integrate modern technology into the Manor, as long as it's appropriately camouflaged.  Guests aren't allowed to bring their iPads and Smartphones, but they are allowed electro-tactile auto-transcribing tablets, large and small."

"I see.  Anyway, when?"

"When?"

"The conference call," Jillian clarified, then kissed Caroline's lips.

"Later," Caroline answered, and returned the kiss.

Jillian nodded towards the bed.  "Release me," she suggested, then gasped when Caroline cupped her pussy—slid her middle finger between her moist, flushed labia—and began stroking her clitoris.

"Like you wouldn't have me in chains in one of your medieval dungeons if circumstances were reversed," Caroline whispered.

"Touché," Jillian whispered back, then tugged on her bonds and shuddered as the intimate caress continued.

Their lips met, again, and they returned to the serious business of getting reacquainted.