TALES OF THE FOXWOOD B&B _by Van © 2008		_
		Chapter 3

Jillian led Hannah towards a side entrance to the Keep.  "We'll start in the kitchen," she explained, "because it fully illustrates the 'dilemma' of the Foxwood premise."  She opened the door and they crossed the threshold.

"Dilemma?" Hannah asked.

The space beyond was large, well-lit by an expansive bank of windows, and was unmistakably a working kitchen.  There were several large work surfaces, hanging pots and pans, a bank of ovens, a large grilling surface, and a fireplace with the cantilevered arms and spit-racks required to hang kettles or roast large joints or fowl.  There was also a large, stone sink below a copper reservoir.

It also smelled like a kitchen, with a pleasant aroma of fresh bread, roasting meat, and fresh herbs.

"Role-playing is all good and well," Jillian said, "but I'm not going to ask Kayley to work her magic in an authentic medieval kitchen.  The stove and grill installations are made to appear as if they're wood-fired, but the burners actually run on propane.  Hot water is provided by flash heaters, and modern laundry and scullery spaces are through those doorways."  She pointed to a pair of doors in the far wall.  "The appliances are camouflaged, but we never let guests see any of it.  However, it's impossible to keep them out of the kitchen... especially when Kayley starts baking."

"I can imagine," Hannah laughed.

Jillian opened the first of a row of small iron doors under the grill, and Hannah beheld a soot-blacked firebox strewn with ashes.  She could also smell the faint aroma of woodsmoke and fresh apples.

"We burn a little wood and incense in the fireboxes now and then," Jillian explained, "to reinforce the illusion."

"Very clever," Hannah said, but her eyes were on the kitchen's many lighting fixtures.  She had expected to see candles or torches—or at least flame-tip electric bulbs.  What she saw was a mix of wall sconces and hanging lights suspended from chains, and all had a naturalistic, Art Nouveau appearance.  Each had single or multiple glass globes held in iron frameworks by delicate, root or vine-like tendrils of bright silver wire.  Hannah stared up at the closest sconce.  The globe was hand-blown, and was a pale, milky green, shot through with dark, irregular veins.

"Our greatest compromise," Jillian explained.  "We use electric lights, but they're manufactured in the shop of a certain 'Elven Artisan' I know."

"In a hollow tree?" Hannah suggested with a grin.

"No," Jillian laughed, "in a modern metalworking shop.  The elf's name is Cody Archer.  You'll meet her, eventually."  She traced the veins in the globe with one finger.  "These are strings of glow-in-the-dark beads glued to the interior of the glass.  At night, all the globes have a soft, viridescent glow—like very weak night-lights.  The bulbs are all LEDs, and each globe has at least one 'rainbow bulb' linked to a snarl of fiber-optics.  The bulb randomly cycles through all the colors of the spectrum."  She walked to the wall and tapped the first in a row of small, flat tiles of milk glass recessed in the wall and surrounded by an ornately carved wooden frame in the same organic style as the light fixtures.

The three-globe fixture over a worktable began to glow with a bright light.  Faint sparks of color played across the surfaces of the globes, but the light cast on the work-surface was a warm, uniform white.

"Elven magic," Hannah smiled.

"Exactly," Jillian agreed.  "That dilemma I mentioned—how to provide comfort and convenience for our guests, but without spoiling the illusion of medieval fantasy.  Suspension-of-disbelief is all well and good, but it must be kept to an absolute minimum—an imaginary toll paid one time only, at the Inner Gate of the Forest Path.  There should be no nagging reminders that Foxwood isn't real."

Hannah nodded.  She smiled at the light for a few seconds, then gazed around at the rest of the kitchen.  The joinery and finish-work were very Arts and Crafts, like the Outer Mews—but with Medieval touches, like decorative painted borders and carved details.  "Magnificent work," she sighed.

Jillian smiled.  "A work in progress.  The Keep is, shall we say, ninety-percent 'authentic', with our guest suites and public rooms being the most complete; but there's still work to be done—not to mention regular maintenance.  Also, we have a few projects still in the planning stage."

Hannah frowned and stepped towards the sink.  "How do you—ah!"  She had forgotten her rope leash.  It had snapped taut and snubbed her up short, halfway to her goal.  "Sorry, 'Lady Foxwood'," she said, with a sheepish grin.  "I was curious about the plumbing."

Jillian smiled, stepped forward and untied the leash from Hannah's collar, then spun her around and began untying her wrists.  "This will make the rest of the tour easier," she explained.  Her strong fingers teased apart the "Foxwood double-hitch" securing the bindings.  Once this was accomplished, the neatly wrapped and hitched thong bands seemed to melt away.

Hannah rubbed her wrists, then turned and smiled at her Mistress.  "Uh, should I be trying to escape or something?" she inquired.

Jillian smiled back.  "That would make the rest of the interview a little difficult, wouldn't it?  Unless you've already decided you don't want the job."

"Uh, no, I think I do want the job," Hannah responded, "very much."

Jillian's beamed.  "Wonderful!"  She pulled Hannah into a warm embrace, which the blonde returned.  "Welcome, Hannah," she whispered, kissed her cheek, then took a step back.

Just then, the outside door opened and Kayley and Constance entered, still lugging the picnic hamper.

"Get that dirty Saxon thrall out of my kitchen," Kayley ordered, a huge smile belying her gruff words.  "Unless you're going to let me put her to work."

"Hannah has agreed to take the job," Jillian announced.

"What else is new?" Kayley muttered.

This time, Constance's response was decidedly not shy and reserved.  "Oh—goodie!" she squealed, hurried around the work table, and hugged Hannah.  "You're going to love it here!"

Hannah, Jillian, and Kayley shared an indulgent grin as Constance squeezed Hannah's waist and pressed the side of her smiling face against the new Resident Artisan's breasts.  "I'm sure I will," Hannah responded.  She was touched by the little brunette's obvious sincerity.

"Stop coddling the new thrall, Scholar!" Kayley barked, winking at Hannah.  "Get over here and unpack this basket, like you promised.  I still have a feast to prepare."

Constance giggled, in a bubbly manner that reminded all present of the little brunette's cousin, Cricket (even for Hannah, the newcomer).  She then went up on her toes and delicately kissed Hannah's lips.  "Welcome," she said, then hurried to follow Cook's orders.

"Hannah wants to look at the plumbing," Jillian explained to Kayley.

"Then show her the Common Room bar or one of the guest-room water closets," Kayley huffed.  She stepped forward and also pulled Hannah into a tight hug.

Hannah gasped.  The hug was almost tight enough to squeeze the air from her lungs.

Kayley also kissed Hannah's lips, but it was an enthusiastic buss, as opposed to the dainty peck that had been delivered by Constance.  "Welcome!" she whispered, hugged Hannah again... then took a step back.  "Out!" she ordered, pointing at a nearby door.

Jillian opened the door and motioned for Hannah to join her.  "Come, Hannah.  I may be Lady of the Keep, but apparently that doesn't extend to the kitchen."

"Damn straight!" Kayley huffed.

"Thank you," Hannah mumbled.  "Thank you both."  She preceded Jillian through the door.

Jillian smiled, then followed.  The door closed, and Kayley and Constance were alone.

Kayley smiled at the diminutive Scholar.  "I can't remember the last time I saw you like that," she purred.  "Usually, your cheeks turn bright red and you crawl under a book when you meet somebody new."

Constance laughed and resumed unpacking the basket.  A delicate blush did color the cheeks in question.  "Don't tease, Kay-bear," she whispered, then continued in her normal voice.  "My head's been buzzing with all sorts of new ideas ever since I saw her.  All sorts of new stuff for the scenarios."  She paused and gazed up at Kayley's smiling face.  "Uh... I know you have the feast to work on and all... but could you help me, uh... meditate?"

Kayley's smile never wavered.  "You can be such a pain, Scholar," she sighed.  "Help me clean the picnic plates, then I'll help you 'meditate'.  I'd hate for any of those wonderful new ideas to get lost in that overly-cluttered library you call a brain before being properly pondered, cataloged, and shelved."

Still blushing, Constance resumed the unpacking.

Hannah's tour continued into the Common Room.  It was a large space, with a mix of trestle and smaller tables surrounded by the appropriate chairs and benches.  There was a low stage tucked against one wall, and a wooden bar against another.  Behind the counter were the usual racks, holding a multitude of bottles and several large, tapped barrels.

"Picnics by the pond not withstanding," Jillian explained, "most meals are taken in the Common Room."

Hannah nodded.  Several stout wooden support columns interrupted the layout, but without blocking the view of the stage from any of the tables.  The mix of stone walls, simple wainscoting, exposed log rafters, and hanging banners was charming and traditional, evoking for Hannah both the Prancing Pony and the Great Hall of Edoras.  As they had in the kitchen, the "Elven Lights" lent an exotic air, but without being intrusive.

Next on the tour was a series of large and small guest suites.  Some were richly appointed, with hanging tapestries and elegant wooden paneling.  Others were relatively simple, with appropriately rustic furnishings.  All were clean and looked quite comfortable.  The "noble" suites had private water closets, with granite commodes and sinks designed to resemble a simple privy and a stone basin.  Guests in the "common" rooms were required to share uni-sex facilities at the end of each hallway.  These common WCs, with their rows of toilets seperated by wooden partitions, were also designed to be "authentically" medieval.

"No showers or baths?" Hannah asked.

"The 'Roman Bath' occupies an entire wing of the first floor," Jillian explained.  "Aversion to public nudity is a relatively recent social innovation in the West.  Young and old, male and female, all members of medieval households commingled, and the human body was no mystery.  Even nobles had what we would call very limited privacy.  Don't worry," she smiled, "your apartment in the Outer Mews has its own shower, and a nice soaking tub."

Hannah nodded.  "Yes, hiking back and forth between the Mews and the Keep to get cleaned up would be inconvenient."

"Exactly."  Jillian led her new employee down another hallway.

"Uh, I've seen nothing that I would call... 'special'," Hannah noted.

"Perfect timing," Jillian smiled, and opened the door to yet another suite.

It appeared to be just another of the better-appointed "noble" suites, but Hannah noticed an additional doorway.  The entrance to the WC stood open, so the wooden portal set in the opposite stone wall led to something else, and it didn't look like a closet door.  It was very solidly built, from seasoned timber, and was set in an equally solid frame by means of heavy, iron strap-hinges.  It was secured by means of an iron throw-bolt and a locking latch, and there was a narrow, horizontal window with a sliding cover set at eye level.  An elegant skeleton key hung from a peg beside the door-frame.

Jillian took the key, inserted it in the lock, and gave it a complete, counter-clockwise turn.  The mechanism operated with well-oiled efficiency.  She threw back the bolt and opened the door—and immediately beyond was a gate of heavy iron bars.  The key opened its lock, as well.  The space beyond the gate was about four-feet by ten-feet, and the walls were mortared stone.  The ceiling and floor were rough-hewed wooden planks, and a heap of straw was against the far wall.  The wall also had an iron chain.  One end was attached by means of a heavy iron ring, and its other end was somewhere under the straw.

"Some of our guests bring their own thralls," Jillian purred.  "Follow me."  She entered the dark, dungeon cell (there was nothing else you could call it), and took the few paces required to reach the far wall.

Hannah hesitated for a second, then followed.

Jillian lifted the chain, pulling its full length from under the straw.  A small iron padlock dangled from a ring on the end.  She inserted the first ward of the skeleton key in the padlock, gave it a turn, and it clicked open.  She then fit the hasp through the ring in the front of Hannah's collar, and snapped it closed.

Hannah stared at her new boss, taking the chain in her hands to support its not insignificant weight.  I let her do it! she thought.  I saw it coming a mile away... and I let her chain me to the wall!

"Now," Jillian said, as she edged past the still dazed Hannah to the doorway.  "I can show you the lower levels and the towers another time."  She closed the iron gate and turned the lock.  "Or maybe I'll let the others have their share of the fun and let them finish showing you around."  She closed the outer door, plunging Hannah into total darkness, and the captive heard the bolt being thrown and the lock being turned.  The peephole slit in the door snapped open, and she beheld Jillian's smiling green eyes.  "Or, you can take a set of the plans and explore on your own.  You'll be doing that anyway, of course.  A complete building inspection will be high on your list of things-to-do, right?"

Hannah closed her mouth, and nodded.  "Uh... yeah."

"Excellent," Jillian chuckled.  "Now, I have things-to-do as well, before the feast, so why don't you take an afternoon nap?  I'll be back."  The peephole snicked closed.

Hannah's eyes adjusted to the darkness.  There was a little light leaking under the door, but that was it.  She stared at the iron bars... and the solid wooden door beyond... and the stone walls, wooden ceiling, and floor.  She could just make out what appeared to be a wooden bucket with a close-fitting wooden cover resting on the floor to the left... and to the right was a small terracotta pitcher with an inverted wooden cup covering its top.

The peephole slit in the door snicked open.  "You aren't claustrophobic—are you Hannah?" Jillian asked.

Hannah swallowed, and mustered a sheepish smile.  "No, I'm not," she admitted.  "I assume this is the first of a long series of dirty tricks I can expect until you get tired of messing around with your new 'Resident Artisan'?"

Jillian laughed.  "Actually, this is probably the last of the tricks I'll play on you... but I'd keep an eye on the others.  I'll be back."  The slit snicked closed, again.

"Hannah... you frakkin' idiot!" the imprisoned thrall whispered under her breath.  Her chain was long enough to let her examine the bucket and pitcher, but not long enough to let her even touch the bars of the inner gate, except with her toes, maybe... which did her no good, whatsoever.  So... a chamber pot, drinking water...  She stepped back to the straw, and sat.  ...and a nice, comfy bed.  What more could a thrall want?

Strangely, Hannah was mad at herself, but not at her new boss.  In fact—she sighed and settled back into the straw—her emotions towards Jillian Foxwood were somewhat complicated, and 'mad' wasn't even on the list.

Some amount of teasing and testing was expected on a new job.  Of course, it usually came from the veteran co-workers, rather than the supervisor; but this was a special case... a "special" case.  A sheepish smile curled Hannah's lips, as her hands toyed with her chain.  A helpless thrall, she mused.  Dressed in her semi-revealing, rough-spun costume, locked in this stone-walled cell, chained by her iron collar to the wall...  Role-playing was not required for this part.  She really was a helpless thrall.

Hannah sighed.  Well... she did say I'd be starting at the bottom.

Hannah closed her eyes.  She was just starting to drift off to sleep (despite her captivity)—when she heard the key turn in the lock and the bolt sliding back.  The outer door opened, and not to her great surprise, she found Jillian smiling at her through the bars.

"I wasn't serious about making you nap in the straw," the grinning redhead said as she unlocked and swung open the gate.

"And how was I to know that?" Hannah demanded, grinning back.  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to file a grievance.  Who's the shop steward?"

Jillian laughed.  "I'm afraid the local thrall's union doesn't hold much sway with management."  She unlocked Hannah's collar from the chain and helped her to her feet, then helped her slap and pick the straw from her costume.  "Hold still," she purred, and gently combed her fingers through Hannah's tousled blond locks, eliminating the remaining straw.  "There," she said, and led Hannah from the cell.

A new costume was draped across the blanket press at the foot of the bed.  It was a linen loincloth and full-length chemise—both in a natural off-white—and a long gown of kingfisher-blue velvet, with a low-cut, square yoke, drooping sleeves, narrow waist, and a pleated train.  It was lined and trimmed with pale-blue fabric richly embroidered with leafy vines and wildflowers.  There was also a long, neatly coiled belt of coin-sized, golden medallions; and a pair of velvet slippers in the same color and with the same embroidered trim as the gown.

"It's... beautiful," Hannah gasped.  "Girl-clothes" were not her forte, but the gown was gorgeous.

"I don't intend to make you play the thrall at your own welcoming feast," Jillian explained with a grin.  "Clothing design is another example of how we cheat, unmercifully," she continued.  "You should have no trouble getting dressed, without the assistance of any ladies-in-waiting. The zipper and buttons are all where you can reach them, but they won't show."  She stepped behind Hannah, and lifted her hair.  "Hold this for me, please."

Hannah held her blond tresses atop her head.  Her eyes were still on her new costume.

Jillian unlocked and removed Hannah's iron collar, then tossed it on the bed.  She put her hands on Hannah's shoulders and spun her around, and their eyes met and locked.  Jillian reached up, gently grasped Hannah's hands, and pulled them down to her sides.  "I suggest you simply part your hair down the middle, and let it frame that pretty face and fall down the front.  We can try Saxon braids another time."

"Good," Hannah said, gruffly, "because I can't do stuff like that myself... not and make it come out even, anyway."

Jillian smiled.  "Such a tomboy," she teased, then leaned close... and kissed Hannah's lips.  "Not to worry," she said, quietly.  "The others will love playing Barbie with their new Saxon dress-up doll."

Hannah blushed (much to her chagrin).  "That wasn't in the job description you sent me," she objected.

"A lot of things weren't in that job description," Jillian purred, kissed Hannah's full, soft lips again... then stepped back, spun on her heel (with a swirl of emerald-green velvet), and strode towards the bedroom door.  "The feasting starts at sundown," she said.  "You can use this suite, tonight.  No need to make you party and unpack.  There are toiletries and a brush set in the WC."  Framed in the doorway, she turned and smiled at Hannah.  "Take that nap, if you wish—or change and wander around—or both.  Welcome to Foxwood, Master Artisan Hannah Blair."

"Thanks!"  Hannah called, as the door closed.  Well... she mused, that was... unexpected.  To her surprise and chagrin, her heart was pounding.  (She was also a little damp, between the legs, and a shivering frisson of pleasure was still rippling up and down her spine.)  Yep, everyone in this place loves Jillian... and now I do too.

She released the laces of her tunic and pulled it over her head, unlaced her sandals, then released the ties of her loincloth and let it drop to the floor.  She stretched, then retrieved the elements of her thrall costume, including the sandals and collar, folded and arranged everything in a neat stack, and set it on the floor beside the door of the thrall's cell.  She then padded to the bed, pulled back the cover, crawled between the cool sheets, and lay her head back against the soft pillow.

Just a short nap, she decided... then propped herself up on her elbows and gazed at the closed and locked cell door, and her thrall's costume beside it on the floor.  She then shifted her eyes to the "Noble Saxon Lady" costume waiting on the blanket press.  Finally, she sighed and dropped her head back on the pillow, pulled the sheet over her breasts, and focused on the bedroom's exposed rafters.  She noted, for the first time, that several spikes terminating in dangling iron rings had been pounded into the dark wood at regular intervals

I think it's gonna be a long time before this job gets boring, she decided.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen...

---

Kayley was well into the making of Hannah's welcoming feast.  The Beef Wellington was ready to go into the oven for the pastry shell to brown, the goose would need another basting very soon, and it was time to start getting serious about assembling the hot hors d'oeuvres.

The outside door opened and "Princess Alice", resplendent in her sage and lavender gown, entered the kitchen.  The strap of her leather satchel was on her left shoulder, and behind her came a very helpless and still very naked "Thrall-maiden Cricket".  The petite brunette's arms were raised, her upper arms and wrists were bound behind her head, and the wad of coarse, burlap-like cloth that was her thrall's loincloth was stuffed in her mouth and held there by several cleaving strands of rope.  One end of a rope leash was tied to the ring in the front of her collar, and the other was in Alice's right hand.

Kayley turned and glared at the smiling princess.  "It's about time!" she growled.

"It's hot in here," Alice observed.

It was true.  Kayley's smooth, tan skin was shining, and her linen blouse was rather damp.  She had added a linen coif to her peasant costume, to cover her hair while she worked.  "Get my thrall ready for work, right now, or I'll show you exactly how hot it can get in here, starting by using a wooden spoon to warm the royal backside!"

Alice giggled (not at all intimidated by the Mistress of the Kitchen).  She hung her satchel from one of the pegs of a coat rack near the door, pulled Cricket's bundled costume from under the flap, and tossed it in the direction of the laundry.  She then began untying her prisoner's bonds.  "Everything sure smells good," the smiling redhead said.  "Is anything ready to sample?"

"Not for lazy sluggards," Kayley huffed, "royal or otherwise.  Now... there's something you can do to redeem yourself.  Go down to the dungeons and release the Scholar.  I forgot she was down there, and I can't leave 'til the goose is cooked."

"She's 'meditating' again?" Alice asked, then struck a thoughtful pose.  "Hmm... there's a 'goose is cooked' joke in there, somewhere."

"Just do it, Princess!" Kayley growled, her lips quivering as she stiffled a smile.  "She's perched on the 'Throne of Woe'.  Let her loose, and then I want you both back up here to prepare the Common Room."

"As M'Lady commands," Alice giggled, curtsyed, and left the kitchen.

Kayley grinned at the closing door.  "Little scamp!" she growled.

Meanwhile, Cricket had removed her gag, and was coiling her former rope bonds.  "Sorry I'm late, Kay-bear," she apologized, "but you know how it is."

"I know how Alice is," Kayley scoffed.  "She's going to flaunt the rules once too often, and then the real M'Lady will take her down a notch or three."

Cricket giggled.  "You really think so?  What do you suppose we can do to help make that happen?"

Kayley laughed.  "Two little scamps!"  She nodded towards the laundry.  "Get your lazy little self cleaned up and dressed, then get busy with the salad and slicing the peppers for the grill."

"Yes, Mistress," Cricket responded, flashing her heartbreakingly cute, dimpled smile.  She executed a graceful, naked curtsy, spun on her heel and padded to the laundry door.

Kayley watched the Cricket disappear through the door, then shook her head.  Everyone in Foxwood loved the 'Bobbsey Twins'; but lately, the diminutive pair were making a habit of testing the collective patience.  "It's only a matter of time," the smiling brunette mused, then began wrapping a mixture of thinly sliced ham, diced Fontina cheese, fresh rosemary, and coarsely chopped cherries in filo dough squares.

The Brave Little Scholar & the Evil Princess
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~{ & }~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

---

The chamber was dark, but not too dark.  The paltry number of Elvish lights present were carefully placed to cast long shadows and accentuate the rough texture of the stone walls.  Their design was different from the "Wood-Elf" fixtures used in the main Keep, above.  Here in the Dungeons, such things were of "Dark-Elf" or "Drow" manufacture.  The glass spheres cast a dim, reddish light, and the twinkling, shimmering effect that was the hallmark of Elvish light-magic was more pronounced.  Also, the fixtures' brackets and housings, while still naturalistic, were somehow—disturbing—evoking not leaves and vines, but spider and insect-parts.

Off to one side of the chamber was a rough wooden table.  On that table was an hourglass, and an array of horrible things, including:

• A row of small, stoppered glass jars containing powders, oils, and dried leaves; all with handwritten labels like "Itching Powder", "Leech Attractant", and "Stinging Nettle".  One jar was glowing, with a pulsing, eerie green light.
• A tray of metal tools—knives, probes, forceps, and the like—including a particularly evil, spur-like device, a free-spinning wheel of sharp spikes mounted on the end of a curved handle.
• A coiled whip, a riding crop, and two multi-tailed floggers.  One flogger was full-sized, and the other was small (and nasty looking).
• Some sort of Drowish instrument: a foot-long, two-inch-thick rod that terminated in a milky-white glass knob.  Like everything produced by the Dark Elves, its dark handle was carved in a disturbingly organic style.  The overall effect was that of some sort of giant larvae or worm laying a glistening, hen-size egg.

In the center of the room, facing the table, was a rough chair made from heavy timbers.  It was cleverly joined and its construction reinforced with iron straps and heavy bolts.  Its only decorations were a number of leather straps, some narrow and thin, and some wide and thick.  All were attached to the chair by iron rings hammered into the wood, or by short iron rails that allowed the positions of the straps to be adjusted before they were secured.

Constance Clarke was seated in the chair.  The little scholar was naked, but for her granny glasses and the leather bonds making sure she kept her seat.  Her clothes were neatly folded and stacked atop a stool, near the chamber door.  Wide straps, secured with double-tongued buckles, held her wrists against the chair's armrests, her upper arms against the chairback, her ankles against the front legs, her tiny waist against the back, and her throat against the headrest.  Additional straps, some wide and some narrow, were buckled across her lower legs, knees, thighs, forearms, upper torso, and forehead.  A burlap rag was stuffed in her mouth and held in place by a narrow, cleaving strap.  A much wider, mask-like leather flap cupped her chin, pressed against her mouth as tightly as a hand-gag, and was secured to the headrest at four points, two on either side of her head.

The unfortunate little waif could wiggle her toes, flutter her fingers, roll her big, brown, doe eyes, and squirm her naked back, rump, and thighs against the ragged sheepskin rug draped over the chair's seat and back as padding; but all that accomplished was to remind her of her total helplessness.

The captive's eyes focused on the hourglass.  The sand had finished draining from the upper chamber some time ago... something like a half-hour... possibly more.  That meant she's been languishing in the chair for more than two hours... at the very least!  This was more "meditation" than she'd had in mind.  Communing with her muse while a helpless damsel-in-distress was all well and good... but enough was enough already!  Did Kayley forget me?  Constance tested her bonds—a futile exercise, of course, but how else was she to pass the time?  She was done contemplating the many ways a Saxon tomboy-hottie could be integrated into Foxwood's standard repertoire of role-playing scenarios... and gazing upon the Instruments of Torture had lost its entertainment value.  Okay, Kayley had a feast to prepare, and some of the items on the menu were demanding and wouldn't let her take time off to wander around rescuing damsels; but that was why they'd agreed on a time-line, so she could be rescued before the goose needed its final basting and the seafood casserole had to go into the oven.

Suddenly, she heard the chamber door being unlocked.  About time!!  Constance began composing a few decidedly pithy remarks to be delivered as soon as Kay-bear removed her gag.  The door opened—and Constance's eyes popped wide.  Uh oh!

Princess Alice was standing in the threshold, resplendent in her sage and lavender gown, a disturbingly evil smile on her beautiful face.  She sauntered into the chamber, her boots tapping on the stone flags.  She made a show of surveying Constance's naked, helpless form.  Of course, no adjustments to the Scholar's restraints were required.  Cook had done her usual professional job of capturing and binding the diminutive bookworm.

Constance watched as the princess strolled to the table and began examining the array of instruments.  The captive blinked her eyes in distress.  She wouldn't...

Alice tested the sharpness of a nasty steel probe... then lifted the small flogger, gave it a tentative swing, and slapped her left palm.  "Ow!" she complained, fluttering the offended hand.  "That stings like the devil," she purred.  She dropped the flogger, focused on the Drow wand... and her smile turned even more evil.  She picked up the wand, and strolled back to the chair.

"Scholar Clarke," she intoned.  "I suppose you thought I would remain ignorant of that delightful little tome of satirical sonnets you composed?  What was the title?"  She touched the tip of the wand to her chin and rolled her eyes upwards.  "Hmm... ah yes!"  She lowered the wand.  "It was 'The Vain Princess with the Freakish Orange Hair'... correct?"  She pressed a stud in the base of the wand, and its glass knob began to glow with a weak, flickering, reddish light.  Simultaneously, it emitted a high-pitched, pulsing hum, and the knob began to vibrate.

Constance moaned through her gag.  The toys on the table were for show!  They weren't there to be used!  ...not on her, anyway.  Everybody knew she came down here for the ambiance—for inspiration only—not to play!  Still smiling, the princess touched the knob to Constance's left nipple.  It popped erect, in response, and she moaned, again.

"Oh, don't be that way, Connie," Alice purred, and used the wand to caress both nipples... then her breasts... her ribs... and her tummy.

Connie continued fighting the straps, and her moans turned into stifled whines.

"We're already late," Alice whispered, as the flickering, pulsing knob traveled towards Constance's thighs and sex.  "But there's always time for a little fun... don't you agree?"  She pressed the knob against Constance's labia, and held it in place.  The helpless captive flinched in her bonds and clenched her eyes tightly closed.  "It doesn't take very long to lay out plates, napkins, and finger bowls."  She eased back on the wand, paused for a few seconds, then pressed the Drowish horror hard against Constance's sex, again.

Constance shuddered and continued to whine, shivering and panting through her flaring nostrils.  Her breasts heaved and her shoulders rolled, to the extent allowed by the tight straps across her upper body, and sweat was glistening on her smooth skin.

"One quick orgasm, Connikins," Alice whispered, leaning close and kissing the captive's sweat-beaded forehead.  The wand was still firmly pressed against Constance's sex.  "Once that's over, I'll unstrap your left wrist and arm, bundle your clothes in your robe, and skedaddle."

Constance opened her eyes and glared at Alice's smiling face.

"By the time you get yourself out of the chair..."  Alice eased the wand back... then pressed it forward, again.  "...I'll have your stuff back in your room."  She kissed the tip of Constance's nose.  "I know how deliciously embarrassed you get when the others catch you prancing around the Keep, stark-naked."

Constance growled in complaint—then her eyes widened as Alice shifted the wand and the sensations quivering through her sex intensified.  She never pranced around the Keep naked.  In fact, it was well-known that she was the most "respectable" of Foxwood's denizens.  She wasn't a prude, of course.  Skinny-dipping in the pond, bathing in the Roman Bath, or "meditating" in the dungeons were all okay... but... streaking the Keep??  That was something altogether different!  The prospect of padding around a corner in the Resident's Wing and... running into Jillian Foxwood??  Constance mewled through her gag and shivered in dread (and arousal).

"You're getting close, aren't you Scholar?" Alice whispered.

You little bitch!  Constance locked eyes with her "torturer".  She was getting close.  The gloating smile on Alice's face was infuriating!  Just you wait!  I'll get you, you self-satisfied little twerp!  Just you wait!

Alice eased the wand back, yet again... then eased it forward until Constance squealed through her gag.  The little captive closed her hands into tight fists and clenched her eyes closed, again.

"Cum for your princess," Alice purred, her grinning lips less than an inch from Constance's left ear.  She could feel her "victim's" frantic, panting breath fluttering a few strands of her copper-red hair.  "Cum for your princess!"

And the Brave Little Scholar did cum... and it was very good!