~ISLA PARAÍSO~ fiction by Van ©2005 art by Dea ©2005
			Chapter 7

To see the actresses I would cast in an ISLA PARAÍSO motion picture, follow the link below, and use your browser's "Back" feature to return.  (Please ignore characters who have not yet appeared.)

I was ball-gagged, my head locked in a gas-mask/space-helmet thingie, my naked body slathered from toes to throat in green gorp, mummified in bandages, shrink-wrapped in plastic, and strapped to a hard steel table.  Any other stupid questions?

~ THE END ~

Sorry, Chrissy, but when I think back on that time, all I remember is the incredible frustration of not being able to move, even a little... like, at all!  And I think the green stuff was making me itch, or maybe it was making my skin numb, or the bandages were too tight, or it was psychological.  Whatever was happening (or I was imagining), I quivered in my inflexible sheath, unable to do anything.  Eventually I did manage to doze off... into a troubled, sleep-like state... in which I sort of drifted... and watched the clouds drift across the sky... through the glass roof overhead... as the sun went down...

And then the overhead lights clicked back on and the dreaded "Asian Women" returned.  Forty-something, stocky, muscular, well-trained in the handling of reluctant slavegirls—the Asian Women—all four of them.

Two of them went to my table and two to the table of my mysterious and similarly encased celebrity companion.  They executed a series of kicks to the base of my table's legs, lifted the surface a couple of inches until something clicked, and then began rolling me out of the "Exfoliation Room".  I lost track of my celebrity Sister-in-distress almost immediately, but they'd engaged the wheels on her table as well, and I was pretty sure she was right behind me.

My helmet blocked some sound, but I could hear the little tires and the womens' sandals crunching the gravel of one of the resort paths.  Looking up through the face plate I could see the green-ultramarine-indigo sky and gold-orange-gray clouds of the tail end of a tropical sunset.  We scrunched and rattled along for some time, then passed under the eaves of one of the thatched houses, across a threshold, and into a large room with tiled walls.

My table stopped, and one of the women released all the straps pinning me to the table.  Here was my chance!  All I had to do was burst through the multiple layers of bandages and plastic... and escape!  Yeah, right.

I heard a buzzing noise, lifted my head the fraction of an inch allowed by my throat wrappings, and found the woman using some sort of vibrating tool to slice open my plastic cocoon.  She made a single long cut from toes to throat, then a series of lateral cuts.  She then set the tool aside, wrenched open the cutaway sections of plastic, and lifted my damp and mummified body.  Half-supporting my totally helpless form, she pulled the ruined plastic sheath from under me and let it drop.  It rattled when it struck the floor like the discarded exoskeleton of some huge insect.

I was dropped back on the table, and the woman began using a pair of shears to remove my bandages.  They had a blunt tip and very sharp blades, and she made quick work of all the layers of damp linen.  I was more or less free in a couple of minutes, and lay on the hard table, covered in green goo and shivering in the "cool" air, as she carefully, meticulously sliced the linen from my hands, fingers, feet, and toes.

My throat bandages were last, and then she released the seal of my helmet.  It opened with a hiss, and was removed.  I blinked in the full light, then moaned through my ball-gag as she turned my head to the side.  She unlocked the padlock securing the gag's strap, and the ball was plucked from my sore, aching mouth.

So... time to escape, right?  I was so sore and weak all over... I could barely stretch and squirm, much less bound from the table and dash into the night (pausing to render the Dreaded Asian Women unconscious with a carefully choreographed series of kicks and judo chops, of course).  Anyway... I just lay there, limp as the proverbial, goo-soaked dishrag.

"You come," the woman said, grabbing me by the shoulders with one arm and helping me off the table.

"I-I can't," I mumbled; but to my surprise, I found that I could.  My legs buckled, but with her support, I half-walked and was half-dragged towards a side room.  I looked back over my shoulder and found the other women had finished removing my celebrity companion's sheath and bandages and were about to remove her helmet.  She (the celeb) seemed to be struggling, but the other three women were controlling her with ease.

And then we were in the side room.  "You get clean now!" my escort ordered.  She stood, arms crossed across her chest, blocking the doorway.  It was a shower, more of an alcove than a room.  Multiple shower heads lined the walls, all focused towards the far wall.  I walked to that wall, and found a valve handle and a built-in dispenser labeled "Jabón".

"Soap," my attendant said, pointing at the dispenser.  "You get clean now."

Actually, a shower sounded like a really good idea.  I turned the handle—and squealed like the proverbial pig when a torrent of cold water hit me from all sides.  Thankfully, the water got nice and warm in seconds.  The goo streamed from my body as I ran my hands over myself.  I then turned to the soap.  It had an exotic scent, sort of like sandalwood.  It foamed up like crazy, and soon I was a bubbly mass of suds from scalp to toes and rapidly becoming squeaky clean.

While this was happening, I could hear an eerie, echoing commotion from the main room.  I surmised my famous fellow prisoner was a soprano... maybe a mezzo-soprano... and unlike myself, she was still gagged.  (I assumed she'd been gagged under her helmet all along.  Seems logical.)  I rinsed the last of the soap from my body, then turned to watch my handler, who was watching me.

I don't know, Chrissy.  Should I have put up a fight? ...like Ms. Famous?  It seemed pointless, and I wanted to get clean, and I was still scared—of the resort in general, and Ulrika-the-Teutonic-Amazon in particular.  I let the water stream through my hair and noted the coy smile on my watcher's lips.  Did she suspect I was sizing her up?

The celeb's gagged mewling continued echoing through the tiled suite.  It was sad.  There was an unmistakable despair in her tone (and no, I didn't recognize her voice).  Well, call me chicken (Bluuuck-bluck-bluck-bluck!), but she (the Asian Woman, I mean) was standing right there.  What could I do?  I decided discretion was still the better part of futile resistance.

I turned off the water.  My hair was still totally wet, and water was dripping from my body.  "You come," my handler ordered, indicating the main room with a fluid gesture.  As I eased past her, she grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me forward.

"Hey!"  That was all I had time to say before she had me on the tiled floor and was wrenching my hands behind my back.  Something cold and hard clicked around my wrists.  "No!" I complained, looked over my shoulder and pulled my hands to the side to see what she'd done to me.  My captor was more or less kneeling on my back, but I could still see my new restraints.  They were more manacles than handcuffs; wide and thick, and joined together by a swivel-joint rather than links of chain.

"You be quiet!" my handler ordered.  Meek and obedient (and scared), I obeyed.  She hauled me to my feet, then pushed me forward, bending me over a low cart.  The top was padded, but the impact forced the air from my lungs.  I gasped and struggled to breathe, and my head was spinning.  By the time things were back to "normal", a steel belt had been locked around my waist.  She flipped me over on my back, and I stared with wide-eyed wonder (meaning horror) as she reached between my legs and pulled a metal flange up through my crotch and to the front of the belt.

It was a chastity belt!  You know, one of those horrible, medieval things?  The section over my sex was about three inches wide and had a zigzag, sawtooth slot running its length.  That was all the time I had to examine the thing, 'cause she flipped me back onto my stomach.  I heard a click and a snap, and my manacles were now locked to the back of the belt.

"No—M'mmpfh!"  I'd tried protesting again, but this time the woman had me in a tight hand-gag.  I heard her open and close a drawer on the cart, and another rubber ball with a dangling strap was forced into my mouth.  The strap was tightened and buckled, and again, I was gagged.  It wasn't as big as the one I'd worn for most of the day... but it was big enough.

She forced me to the floor, crossed my ankles, and buckled them tightly together with a leather strap.

"You stay on floor," my captor warned me, shaking a finger in my face, "or you be very sorry."

Just then, two of the women emerged from another of the side rooms, and between them was the struggling and straining celebrity.  Her skin was goo free and wet, and her handlers were wet as well.  Their black hair was dripping and their simple frocks were plastered to their bodies. I surmised the celeb had made them give her a shower.

And speaking of bodies, did I mention that my companion-in-captivity, the unknown celebrity and fellow prisoner, had one?  She was a looker, Chrissy!  It wasn't just the proportions of her various parts and her smooth, tan skin, but the way she moved.  Even struggling in the grip of her two captors, she was graceful and beautiful.

So who was she, you ask?  I still couldn't tell, for two reasons.  The minor reason: My hair was still a wet, tangled mass, and half of it was plastered to my face.  The major reason: she (the celeb) was now wearing a full hood of what appeared to be black latex.  Her hair (long, dark brown, and also wet) emerged from a hole in the back in a dripping ponytail.  The face region of the hood had small, slanted eye openings, a pair of nostril holes, and an opening for her mouth.  A rather large and nasty gag with a ruby-red rubber ball and black strap was thrust in her mouth and buckled at the nape of her latex-collared neck.  Ponytail, eyes, lips, teeth—that was all I could see of her face and hair.  All the rest was skintight latex... and that exquisite, naked, wet, struggling body.

There was a squeaking-squealing noise at the door, and the fourth woman reappeared.  She was pushing a table-like thing that rolled on little wheels.  It was big, and flat, and circular, and covered with a silky, red, fluttering cloth.  She kicked a pair of the wheels, engaging the brake-locks, and removed the cover with one quick jerk.

The celebrity screamed through her gag (well, actually, it was more like a loud whine), and all four Asian women broke into bloodcurdlingly cruel smiles.

Even with one cheek on the floor I could see what the thing was.  Uh... remember that famous Leonardo da Vinci drawing of the naked dude standing in the middle of a circle with his arms outstretched?  It illustrates the proportions of the ideal human figure?  Well, imagine a circular frame, and suspended in the middle is something between a cage, a suit of banded armor, and a steel harness.  I didn't have to image anything.  I was staring at it!

The fourth woman released a series of spring-loaded clamps and lifted several sections of of the cage-suit-harness.  One, Two, and Three dragged the struggling celeb towards the frame, lifted her squirming body, and settled her into the frame.  Making her helpless was a matter of seconds.  Broad, padded clamps closed over her wrists and ankles, and that was it.  She was held in a spread-eagle, face-down, with her limbs splayed widely apart.  Adjusting the remaining countless clamps and bands of the apparatus took several additional minutes.

I'd been helpless back in that castle dungeon, when Rosa clamped me to that table, but this was worse, much worse.  The clamps binding the celeb were individually narrow, more like jewelry than manacles or shackles, but there were a lot of them, hundreds of them.  She was secured every two or three inches, a band above and below every joint of her body, and several in-between.  The women used ratchet tools to make careful adjustments, tightening the metal restraints until each and every one pressed her skin, making her tan, gleaming flesh bulge, ever so slightly, between the narrow silver bands.

They even captured and clamped her individual fingers, and her hooded head was secured at the throat, chin, and across her forehead.  They then flipped her over, the entire frame pivoting smoothly on silent bearings.  She was now face up, and they adjusted the bands again, taking in all the slack revealed by the change in gravity.

Her breasts received special attention.  They bulged against concentric rings of silvered steel connected by thin wires.  Small adjustments with the tools caused the wires to tighten against tiny reels built into the frame, making her flesh bulge between the rings and wires.  Her nipples poked through the center rings, but I couldn't see them for long.  The women produced a pair of what looked like cylindrical barrel clamps.  They closed around the nipples, and little attachment feet clamped to the sides of the first rings.  Adjustments were made, and the little feet elongated, clicked into place, and stretched the nipples.  The poor celeb whined through her gag.  That was all she could manage in the way of protest or complaint.  She couldn't even squirm.

The women flipped her again, this time leaving her face down, but with her face a few degrees above the horizontal.  They left the room, and we were alone.

I squirmed a little in my much less stringent but more than adequate bonds, and shook my head to clear the tangle of damp curls from my face.  My hair had dried a little, but it was still the proverbial mare's nest.

I gazed up into the eyes of the helpless actress.  They were brown, and very pretty.  I couldn't really see the shape of her mouth.  The ball-gag and tight hood made that impossible.  Her nipples were hidden by the barrel clamps, of course, but I could see enough of her aureoles to tell they were wide without being huge, about like mine.  Her sex was shaved, and something was clamped and/or stuffed inside.  Whatever it was, it was big enough to stretch her a little.  Back up at her face, drool was dripping from the corner of her mouth to the floor.  Gross?  Yes, but it's not like it was her fault.

About those eyes... pretty, like I said, but also sad.  My heart went out to her, whoever she was.  I couldn't comfort her, as I had ball-gag and drool issues of my own, but I think she could read my expression.  I like to think she could.  Poor kid... whoever she was.

Suddenly, the door opened and the Asian Women returned.  They'd changed clothes (the ones who had gotten wet "helping" the actress take her shower had, anyway), and they were all business.  The wheels of the celeb's frame were unlocked, and she was rolled away.  My ankles were released, I was hauled to my feet, and I was hustled along in her wake.

I got another look at the tattoo above her ass, but it was half-covered by a steel band.  Then we were across the threshold and outside, and it was too dark to see much of anything.

It was full night.  The resort grounds were dimly lit by distant torches and a few glowing windows.  Countless stars were overhead, and a zillion or so crickets and frogs were chirping and croaking their little hearts out.  We were winding down a path towards the ocean, and there was some sort of building ahead.  It had a thatched roof, like all the resort buildings, but no walls.  It was a pleasure pavilion.  Okay, fancy-schmancy name, but that's what it was.

There was a huge bed with satin sheets in a rainbow of colors, cushions all over the place, a low table off to the side with a hibachi of glowing coals and a dozen covered dishes.  (Pause while I bask in the memory of my then very empty stomach growling like an angry she-wolf.)  There were dozens of candles flickering in colored glass globes and fixtures, some on shelves and brackets attached to the timbers of the frame, and some dangling from the overhead beams on chains.

My escorts dumped me on the bed.  I rolled over and climbed to my knees, then watched as they dealt with my fellow captive.  Several chains were attached to the circular edge of the frame, and some clamps on the periphery of the hoop were released.  One of the women triggered a switch on one of the posts.  The frame rose into the air, leaving the uprights and wheels behind, and taking its helplessly restrained occupant along for a ride up to the rafters.  The chains snapped taut and the woman released the switch.  She closed a cover over the switch plate and it snapped closed with the unmistakable click of an engaging lock.

Two of the women rolled the empty rack from the pavilion and disappeared into the night.  Another busied herself making a series of cable connections between the base of the celeb's cage-like prison and a small electrical panel recessed into another of the posts.  The fourth woman crossed my ankles and secured them with a broad, tight, leather strap.  Both tasks accomplished, they also turned to leave.  The woman who had done my ankles paused to wave a finger in my direction.  "You no hop away," she warned, "or you be very sorry.  Much spankie."

And then they were gone... and we were alone.

I suppose I could have mounted an "escape" at that point.  I actually did squirm onto my knees and try and release the ankle strap, but the position of my manacles (locked to the back of my chastity belt, as you might recall) made this impossible.  I could touch the buckle of the strap with my fingers, but I couldn't really mount an effective attack on the mechanism—which seemed to be more complicated than the average buckle, by the way.  It had a spring-loaded catch or something, requiring two free hands to release the damn thing, or maybe I'm just a klutz (when I've been bound and gagged and tormented for several hours).

Anyway, hopping did appear to be my only option... but what was the point in that?  The entire resort was a prison.  There was no way I could get over the fences (even if I did manage to free my ankles).  Maybe I could sneak down to the beach and swim for it, but that was an iffy unknown.  And if I could swim out and circle back—I'd be helplessly manacled and chastity belted and gagged, wandering around naked and lost in the middle of a tropical jungle.

I flopped down on the bed, sighed through my gag, then stared up at the much more helpless celeb.  This was the point in the movie where the male star, dressed in a black commando outfit, of course, sneaks in from the beach and releases the heroine (the famous one in the da Vinci cage/frame, of course; not the un-famous one writhing on the bed) and they make their escape into the next act.  If I do get rescued and taken along for the ride, it's just so I can serve as damsel-fodder, to reveal the next death trap (revealing it the hard way, of course), or so I can be recaptured and used to demonstrate the Infernal Torture Engine the villain plans to use on the heroine (before her final rescue in the final act, of course).  In other words, I'd be a redshirt, the expendable member of the "Away Team".  "Look, Captain!  There's something over here—AAARRGH!!" {Insert sounds of horrible &/or gory demise here.}

I gazed up into the celeb's pretty brown eyes.  I know I mentioned her eyes earlier, Chrissy, but they were very pretty (and very brown).  I could see her looking down at me—but then she lifted her gaze towards the beach—and I heard a quiet little whimper of a moan escape the ball plugging her mouth.

I rolled over on my other side, and there was the cause of her distress—Ulrika!

She was emerging from the sea, graceful, wet, and totally, gloriously nude.  You know how a shark can be scary and beautiful at the same time?  Or a tigress?  A T-rex?  That was Ulrika.

How can she be that strong, and that powerful, and still be that feminine?  That's the real mystery, Chrissy.  She's sooo easy on the eyes... and sooo scary!

She emerged, inch by glorious inch, step by graceful step, the water draining and dripping from her beautiful face, and strong, smooth shoulders, and large, firm breasts...

I wanted to run, Chrissy, mostly away... but somewhere in the back of my terrified little mind I wanted to run towards her.  Isn't that funny?  I mean, you know I'm not a real subbie-type; but she was magic, Chrissy.

Anyway, I was in no position to do any running.  I watched, with wide eyes, of course, as Ulrika crossed the beach... and strolled across the grass to the edge of the pavilion.  A chilling (thrilling) smile was on her face, and an evil twinkle in her pale blue eyes.  She grabbed a big, thirsty towel and began drying her body.

I tugged on my manacles and strained against the strap binding my ankles.  I wanted to go to her, take the towel from her hands, and dry her myself, gently caressing every square inch of her firm, athletic, perfect physique with the soft terry cloth.  If it isn't obvious by now, Chrissy, I was really conflicted.  My heart was beating like crazy.  Ulrika was dangerous, I was helpless, and yet I wanted to be there, to be with her, with her doing things to me... not bad things, but nice things, of course.  Like I said—conflicted.

She tossed the towel aside, walked over to the table, and removed the cover from a couple of the bowls.  She used a pair of chopsticks to start several long strips of meat sizzling on the hibachi (and now my stomach was really growling).  Then, ignoring me, she walked around the bed and smiled up into the face of the spread-eagled celeb.

"So," she said, "you haven't escaped, I see."  She gazed closely into the prisoner's eyes.  "The defiance is gone.  All I see is fear."  She took a step back.  "Did I not tell you it would be so?  Did you think you were the first spoiled guest Ulrika has had the pleasure of breaking?"

Ulrika walked back to the hibachi and turned the sizzling meat, then her eyes locked on me, and she strode to the bed.  She sat, leaned close to my face, and began combing my tangled hair with her fingers.

I stared into her smiling eyes.  I could smell the sea in her damp hair.  I stole a quick glance at the celeb, then focused on our captor.

Ulrika noticed.  "Do not worry about her, Lorelai Meriwether," she whispered.  "La Marquesa would be very angry if I reduced one of her guests to a simpering animal.  She will be released tomorrow.  Not completely, of course.  I will keep her naked and in chains for a few days.  And instead of unmoving meditation, exercise shall be the order of the day.  When she finally leaves here, she will be in better shape, mentally and physically, than ever before."

She shifted position, grabbed my bound feet, and cradled them in her naked lap.  "Your concern does you credit, but you should be worried about yourself."  She began a slow, deep, gentle massage of my soles.  "La Marquesa does not care if I break the spirit of one of her lowly technical employees, as long as she can still perform her work."

Ulrika's fingers were skilled and strong.  My heart was still hammering, and I was still scared, but the massage felt goood!!

"Are you hungry?" Ulrika asked as my stomach growled again.

No, ya think??  I nodded with enthusiasm.

Ulrika made quick work of the strap around my ankles, then stood and walked back to the table.  I found my feet (rather awkwardly) and pattered after her.  "Kneel," she ordered, then sat cross-legged on something that was either a low ottoman or a huge cushion.

I sighed, went to the neighboring cushion, and sat cross-legged.

Ulrika gave a husky little laugh (which sent a shiver up my spine), reached out, and pulled me onto her lap.  She crossed her legs around my ankles, draped her right arm over my right shoulder, and pulled me close.  Her left hand cupped and squeezed my left breast, then began a gentle massage of the nipple.  "I told you to kneel, Lorelai Meriwether," she whispered in my ear, then gave the nipple a painful pinch!

I struggled and squirmed, but I might as well have been tied to a tree with a hundred yards of rope.  Ulrika controlled me with trivial ease.  She released the pinch, then thrust her tongue in my ear and gave it a wet swirl.  I shivered and moaned through my gag.

"I don't know why I am wasting time with words," Ulrika said, and cupped my breast again.  "I have been far less patient with other rule-breakers."  She was teasing the nipple again, and nibbling on my earlobe.  "In one case, at the first show of defiance, I pierced the slavegirl's nipples and fitted locking rings."  She kissed my neck.  "I kept her chained in one of the isolation cells until they healed, and then we had a lot of fun.  You see, there are many ways to torment a slavegirl with nipple rings.  Dancing on her toes with the rings tied up to the rafters by thin wire... that is rest period."

That can't have been true.  She wouldn't really do that to anyone... to me... would she?  She was just trying to scare me, right?  Anyway, it was working... the scaring, I mean.

"When Ulrika tells you to kneel, she means for you to kneel.  Understand?"

I nodded frantically.

Ulrika continued holding me close, reached across, and teased my right nipple.  "I don't know," Ulrika whispered.  "Your nipples would look pretty with golden rings.  Maybe I should pierce them anyway?"

I sat perfectly still, but a very negative little whimper leaked past my gag, as if on its own.

Ulrika was stroking my erect nips again, first the right, and then the left.  "It is painful, and they ache as they heal.  I use a special ointment.  It promotes rapid recovery, but has the unfortunate side effect of stimulating the nerves.  Hot flashes, burning waves of cold, crawling sensations like your entire breast is covered with ants.  They tell me it is most distressing."

I was shivering like crazy at that point, Chrissy.  I'd never been as scared as I was just then.  (Curiously, with the touch of her hands, her strong limbs holding me close, her breasts against my arms and back, her tongue licking my neck... I was also wet!  Yep, I hope that chastity belt was rust resistant, 'cause it was Musk City down there!)

Ulrika released me.

I sat there on her lap for a few seconds, then hauled myself up, took a step away, and knelt on the nearby cushion.  My feet and legs were together, my toes pointing, my breasts pressed against my knees, and my forehead touching the cushion.  I was still shivering, but not as much.

"Good slavegirl," Ulrika purred.  There was nothing mocking or gloating in her manner.  She parted the hair at the nape of my neck and released the buckle of my gag.  She then cupped my chin and lifted my head.  I followed the pressure of her hand and sat up, settling my butt back onto my heels.  Ulrika pulled the ball from my mouth and let it drop.  It dangled around my throat by the loosely buckled strap.  I licked my lips and worked my jaw a little.

Ulrika leaned close and gave my lips a quick kiss, then leaned back and smiled.  "Such a pretty mouth," she whispered, "now that the gag is removed and I can see it clearly."

I actually blushed, Chrissy.  Go figure.  I was still frightened and shivering, but my cheeks were burning... and I could tell I had a goofy little grin on my face.  I couldn't help it.

"Very nice," Ulrika said, leaned close, and kissed me again.  "You may kiss me back," she murmured.

I leaned forward and did just that.  Her lips were warm and soft, and her tongue wet and hot.  She was intoxicating.  Her taste and smell... delicious.  I wanted nothing more than to take her in my arms and explore every square inch of her firm, smooth, amazon body.

Ulrika pushed me away (gently).  "Enough," she said.  "While we eat, you shall tell me everything you have done since arriving on the island.  Leave nothing out, and speak only the truth."  She uncovered more bowls and began assembling plates of noodles and vegetables to go with the meat.  "Attempt to deceive Ulrika and you will suffer.  You cannot protect yourself, or Rosa."

"Rosa needs protecting?" I asked, then my jaw snapped shut.  I'd spoken without permission!  Was I in trouble?  (Meaning more trouble, of course.)

Ulrika used her chopsticks to capture a morsel of beef and a piece of roasted pepper and delivered them to my mouth.  I chewed and swallowed.  Delish!

"While we eat, you may speak freely," Ulrika said, pausing to feed herself.  "Be polite and respectful..." She opened a carafe and poured a pinkish liquid into a large goblet.  "...or I will gag you, have you sealed in a steel box, and you can tell your story tomorrow night."

I nodded.  "Yes, ma'am."  Ulrika's eyebrows raised.  "Mistress!" I corrected myself.  "Yes, Mistress."

Ulrika smiled and held the goblet so I could drink.  It was fruity.  A plum wine cocktail?  I don't know what it was, but I could tell from the aftertaste it had a kick.

"Thank you, Mistress," I muttered.  "I won't lie."

Ulrika was putting more meat on the grill.  "See that you don't.  Wait!"  She opened a drawer on the side of the table and produced, of all things, a remote control.  It was one of those really complicated ones, with a dozen rows of buttons and a tiny screen, like for a home theater.  "This will give us privacy."  She looked up towards the spread-eagled celeb and pressed a button.  Tiny red LED lights began flashing at the prisoner's crotch and nipples.

The celeb's only response (her only possible response) was a well-muffled scream.  The lights stopped blinking.

"Electrical stimulation," Ulrika explained to me, then pressed another button and raised her voice.  "The punishment system is now slaved to the throat microphone in your collar," she explained (to the celeb).  "If you make any more disturbing noises, you will shock yourself until you pass out from the pain."  She pressed another button and returned the remote to its drawer.  "I have also triggered the white-noise generators of the hood's earphones," she told me.  "Now our friend can hear nothing."

I shivered in my bonds.  Just when I was beginning to relax a little...

Ulrika fed me another mouthful, then went back to preparing more food.  "Begin your story!" she ordered.

I'll spare you the details, Chrissy.  I told my story, and I didn't lie.  I got to my arrival at the resort about an hour after the last of the meal had been consumed.  We continued sharing that goblet of plum liqueur cocktail stuff (I wish I'd asked for the recipe!) although I seemed to be drinking a lot more of it than my "hostess".  Of course, I was doing most of the talking.

Anyway...  I talked, we ate, and I got smashed (a little).

"Do you love her?" Ulrika asked as I finished describing the closing of the resort gate.

"Lucia?" I asked.  "No!  I mean, she's nice, in a bossy, cruel sort of way, but..."  I blushed.  "Oh, you mean Rosa."

Ulrika was lounging back on a pile of cushions, languid and (of course) still gloriously nude.  "I can tell you love her very much."  She sat up, and motioned towards her lap.  "Come here."

I swallowed nervously, and made my awkward way to the cushion in front of her splayed legs.  (Did I mention Ulrika's crotch?  Strong thighs, flat tummy, luxuriant bush of black curls, the delicate pink folds of her sex?  Well, consider it mentioned.)  She reached out, spun me around, and crossed her legs around my waist.  My fingers and hands were now pressed against the aforementioned crotch.  My fingers fluttered a little, and I could feel her pubic hair.

"Stop that," Ulrika scolded, with a bit of a laugh.  "That's work for your tongue and lips, later."  I swallowed nervously (blushing again) and watched her open another drawer and pull out a brush and comb set.  "I believe I asked you a question," she whispered in my left ear, and began brushing my hair.

"I... I love her, Mistress," I said, still blushing.  She used the comb to straighten any tangles.  Her hands were strong and skilled, and surprisingly gentle.

"Well..." Ulrika said as she worked, "I have decided your neglect of your duties is Rosa's fault.  Do not worry.  She will be punished."

Punished?  "No!" I blurted, and turned my head, trying to face her.

Ulrika laughed.  "Stop that!" she ordered, and physically turned my head back to the front.  "I'm not finished."  She began using her fingers and the comb to plait my hair.

"Please, Mistress," I begged.  "Please don't hurt her."

"Don't you worry, Lorelai," Ulrika said.  "I will only whip her a little, only a few hours, being careful not to cut her skin and draw blood, of course.  Then I will turn her over to the spa women, for a day or two of herbal wraps, and then she can make her final recovery in one of the castle dungeons, resting for a week or so.  I'll let you feed her as you complete your work on the castle systems.  You won't have the key to her chains, or her cell door, of course."

Tears were streaming down my face, and dripping on my breasts and thighs, and I started sobbing.

"Stop that!" Ulrika ordered again, but the tone of her voice was surprisingly kind.  "Rosa must be punished."

"Punish me," I gasped, still sobbing.  "I lied, Mistress.  It was all my idea.  I lied."

Ulrika hugged me close from behind.  "Oh, what to do with slavegirls in love?" she whispered.

The question was obviously rhetorical, but I tried answering it anyway.  "Punish me, Mistress."

Ulrika released her hug, and resumed messing with my hair.  I couldn't tell exactly what she was doing, but it felt complicated.  "I shall defer sentence on you both," she said, then reached back into the drawer and produced a short length of braided cord.  I could feel her whipping it around the bulk of my hair, about at the level of my shoulder blades.

Ulrika returned the brush and comb to the drawer, then spun me around.  I sat still, kneeling between her splayed legs.  "Very pretty," she said, turning my head to inspect her handiwork.  "A nice, loose, French braid.  It keeps those russet curls out of your face, yet provides sufficient slack for a nice firm grip, for handling; and away from your neck, for ease of buckling or tying gags."  She pulled me close and licked the tears from my cheeks.  Then, my head between both her hands, she held me at arms' length.  We locked eyes.  "How would you like to earn a reduction in sentence for your Rosa?"

"Anything, Mistress," I whispered.  At that point, I meant it, Chrissy.  I would have made any promise to prevent Ulrika from torturing my Rosa.

Ulrika smiled, released my head, and climbed to her feet.  I was now kneeling, gazing up into her eyes, my chin less than an inch from her sex.  She took a step back, walked to the bed, and sprawled on her back, her upper body reclined against a pile of pillows.  "I want you to crawl over here on your knees," she ordered.

I swallowed, and followed her command, keeping my head low.  I came to the bed, turned and crawled to the foot, then, pressing my breasts against the cool sheets, slid up and onto the bed itself.  I rolled once to improve my position, then began squirming towards my ultimate, obvious goal... Ulrika's crotch.

She watched my slow approach with an evil (beautiful) smile.  (I assumed the celeb was watching too, but didn't turn to check.)

Eventually, I was in position, my lips an inch from the pink, glistening folds of Ulrika's slit.  I could smell her, Chrissy.  She was ready for me.

"The belt remains locked around your steamy little sex, slavegirl," she explained, "for only my pleasure matters in this bed."

"I understand, Mistress," I whispered, shivering in my helplessness.  I gave her sex a delicate kiss, then extended my tongue and set to work.