||FROM THE CASE FILES OF KITTY WYNTER|
| by Van ©2011
|OUR STORY CONTINUES
Fingers—Kitty assumed they were fingers—were fiddling with the buckles of her hood. She was still groggy, but came somewhat awake as the hood was pulled from her head. Kitty blinked in the sudden light. Her hair was damp and matted and her exposed skin shining. The hood and body-sheath had grown stifling during the night, and it felt like her tightly-strapped and helpless body was swimming in steamy sweat. She continued waking up, and by the time the buds were pulled from her ears, she was able to focus on her rescuer—make that her Mistress—make that The Dominique Bitch.
The bitch in question was dressed in the same body-hugging leather and steel costume as yesterday. "And how are we this morning, slave?" she inquired in her husky, sexy voice.
Thankfully, Dominique was content to let the question remain rhetorical. Not only was Kitty tape-gagged, but she was still a little dopey and hadn't even tried to force an answering moan past the Elastoplast sealing her lips. She'd managed to get some sleep, despite the brainwashing message whispering in her ears all night—she assumed it had droned all night—but she had hardly enjoyed anything you could call refreshing slumber.
Dominique continued releasing Kitty from her bondage, unstrapping the sheath from the table, unbuckling the sheath's straps, and finally, unzipping the zipper. Eventually, Kitty's slick, flushed body was more or less free.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Get off the table."
Kitty managed to extract herself from the open sheath and the tangle of straps, then weakly rolled herself off the table and managed to stand erect. She noticed Dominique's hand easing towards the handle of the crop dangling from her wrist and quickly placed her hands atop her sweaty, tangled hair and went up on her toes.
A sinister smile curled Dominique's lips. "Good slave. You remember yesterday's lesson in deportment. Perhaps you aren't as completely hopeless as I'd feared. Turn."
Suppressing the urge to glare at her "Mistress," Kitty did a mincing shuffle until her back was turned to the gloating bitch.
Dominique stepped forward, grabbed Kitty's wrists, and cuffed them together behind her back. Clic-c-c-ck—clic-c-c-ck.
Hinged handcuffs, was Kitty's professional opinion. Clic-c-c-ck—clic-c-c-ck. Steel had tightened around her thumbs. And thumb-cuffs. Her elbows were next. Clic-c-c-ck—clic-c-c-ck. This time the cuffs were the conventional kind, separated by about three links of chain. Overkill, Kitty realized, solely for dramatic purposes. At least it's not a second pair of hinged cuffs. The bitch is being 'nice.' Just then, the business end of the crop lightly tapped Kitty's left buttock.
"Out the door, slave," Dominique ordered, "and to the right."
Kitty exited the "Sleeping Chamber" or "Leather Mummy Tomb" or whatever the hell Arabelle and her ladies called it, and tiptoed down the hallway to the right. Yes, the bitch is going easy on me, Kitty thought. She's letting me wake up before turning the screw. I'm being handled, and these people know what they're doing... I hope. Taps from the riding crop guided her to another door, it was opened by her bitch-Mistress, and she crossed the threshold into a dark room.
Wham—click. The door had slammed behind her—click—and overhead lights began to shine, slowly increasing in brightness.
Kitty found herself in a small room. The walls, ceiling, and floor were clad in white ceramic tiles, and dozens of chromed steel nozzles were mounted in regular rows. Half were covered by simple, stainless steel grids, and the other half—gurgle-gurgle-SPLOOOOOSH!—were shower-heads.
Kitty was being drenched by a stinging, pelting shower of cold water—and it didn't stop. Okay, it was cold, but it wasn't that cold. Kitty spun in place and looked around, rather frantically, but no part of the room was safe from the vertical and horizontal monsoon. Drains in the floor were handling the runoff, but all she could do was stand there and take it. Bitch! Kitty was getting "clean," but in a most unpleasant and humiliating manner.
The shower continued... and continued, for something like a full minute. The water had warmed, a little, but was still what Kitty would call "cold," and the steady stream was draining the heat from her body. She felt herself beginning to shiver—SplooooOSH! Drip-drip-drip—and the water stopped.
Kitty's drenched, tangled hair covered and clung to her face and shoulders, her skin was a mass of goosebumps, and her nipples were fully erect. She stood in the middle of the wet, dripping room, shuddering and miserable and trying to think warm thoughts.
Warm air began blowing from the grid-covered nozzles. It was still humiliating, and Kitty was still very much aware that she was being handled, but at least she wasn't going to succumb to hypothermia.
The air continued to blow, warm and dry. Naked, bound, tape-gagged, and decreasingly damp, Kitty's morning also continued to blow.
|| Chapter 4
Dominique left Kitty in the "Shower and Blow" chamber for several minutes, long enough for her body to get dry, her hair to get somewhat dry, and for her grumbling stomach and parched throat to start registering complaints. Finally, the door opened and now she was stomping (tiptoeing) down the corridor with the Bitch and her crop leading from the rear, via taps on her rear.
After several dozen mincing steps, Kitty reached yet another door, it was opened, and she passed through into a pleasantly appointed dining room with plush carpeting and rich wood paneling. (Her stomach grumbled in approval.) Against one wall was a long table with a row of chafing dishes, a coffee urn, and stacks of cups, saucers, and plates. A dining table and a dozen chairs were in the center. Sitting at the table were three very attractive women Kitty very much suspected were Dominique's fellow Tops.
Two were brunettes, like Dominique, and were in leather sheath-dresses. Details varied from Dominique's ensemble, but both were true to the theme of tight leather, thin straps, and lots of skin.
The third was a blonde. Her long, straight hair was parted down the middle, braided into a pair of pigtails, and tied at the ends with blue ribbons. Her costume, like her 'do, was juvenile, and suggested a school uniform; however, it included: (1) knee-boots with spike heels over white tights; (2) a pleated mini-skirt in a blue and green plaid; (3) a white blouse with the tails out in a slovenly manner and half unbuttoned to reveal a generous cleavage bulging from a black, lacy bra; and (4) a school tie, knotted but loose around her neck and dangling between her breasts. Any schoolgirl showing up for class in such an outfit would have faced instant detention and mandatory counseling. A riding crop was thrust in the top of her right boot and half of a pair of handcuffs dangled from her skirt's waistband.
The "Schoolgirl/Slut" was carrying a plate of food from the buffet to the table. "Hey, Dom-Dom," she said as she set down her plate. The two brunettes waved their forks in greeting and continued to eat. "That's the new girl?" the blonde added. "Who does her hair? The Tangle Fairy?"
"What a mess," one of the brunettes agreed. "You might as well shave her head and start over."
"The day is young," Dominique chuckled. She led Kitty to the area in front of the dining table and pointed at the carpet. "Stand here," she ordered.
Kitty stood, feet apart and up on her toes, facing the eating doms. She watched out of the corner of her downcast eyes as Dominique walked to the buffet and began piling food on a plate.
"She does have nice tits," one of the brunettes conceded. "Not especially big, but nice. Nipple rings?"
"That's up to Her Ladyship," Dominique purred.
"Will she let her become a Top?" the other brunette asked.
"Too soon to tell," Dominique answered, carrying her plate to the table. She returned to the table and filled a coffee cup at the urn. "Maybe she'll wind up in the slave pens, maybe not." She returned to the buffet and began scooping something into a bowl.
Kitty continued gazing at the floor. They're goofing on me, of course... I hope. Meanwhile, Dominique was carrying a tray with two bowls around the dining table. She set it on the floor and Kitty beheld a bowl of oatmeal and a bowl of water.
Dominique peeled off Kitty's tape gag, stretching her lips and face as the adhesive surrendered. "Your breakfast, slave," she said, pointing at the tray, then stepped behind Kitty, gathered her tousled hair and used something—Vrrrrrip—a cable-tie, to enforce a slovenly ponytail. "Not a word. Not a sound."
Kitty gazed at her "breakfast." Better than nothing. Having missed supper, it was far better than nothing.
"Well, what are you waiting for, slave?" Dominique growled (in her low, coarse, super-sexy voice). "On your knees."
Kitty knelt and considered the food. Brown sugar was sprinkled on the oatmeal, and a lemon slice was floating in the water. All the comforts of home.
"Eat," Dominique ordered.
Kitty tongued a dollop of oatmeal into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, then quickly followed it with several laps of water.
Dominique had returned to the table, sat, and was eating her own breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and diced potatoes.
"What comes next for our new slave?" one of the brunettes asked.
Dominique chewed, swallowed, and took a sip of coffee before answering. "That would be telling."
The breakfasting Tops all chuckled and continued eating. The breakfasting "new slave" heaved a quiet (carefully quiet) sigh, between mouthfuls, and also continued eating.
|Bondage, My Sweet|| Chapter 4
So far, Kitty's first full day as a Provisional Dominatrix-in-Training (Slave) had, to put it bluntly, sucked—both figuratively and, as she was about to learn, literally.
After breakfast, Dominique had taken her to another small room. A thinly padded table was centered under an array of spotlights and the walls lined with darkly-stained wooden cabinets.
Kitty's cuffs were unlocked and removed, both sets of handcuffs and the thumbcuffs. "Up and on your stomach," Dominique ordered, and Kitty obeyed.
Kitty watched as Dominique opened one of the cabinets, revealing an array of neatly coiled bundles of conditioned hemp rope hanging from hooks. Gee, I wonder what she's gonna do? Kitty wondered. The sarcastic, internalized "joke" failed to lift her spirits.
What Dominique did, of course, was bind Kitty in a tight hogtie, as tight as anything Kitty, herself, had ever inflicted on Bertie or any of the miscreants she'd captured in the course of her career as a P.I.
The technique used was what aficionados of bondage classify as "Western." Kitty's hands were arranged behind her back, palm-to-palm, and her wrists bound. More rope bound her elbows together—touching, of course—and pinned her upper arms to her torso, passing above and below her breasts in multiple tight, neat bands. Everything was frapped. That is, in each case the final strands were passed between her wrists, between her elbows, and between her arms and the ropes encircling her torso. Everything was cinched tight, and the knots were all well beyond the reach of her fingers. Kitty's legs were next, both above and below her knees and around her ankles. Then came the hogtie. Her legs were bent back and her wrist and ankle bonds joined. The rope tightened until her heels rested on her hands and her hands rested on her butt.
Was Dominique satisfied? In a word, no.
Kitty was repeatedly rolled on her sides, left and right, as required, and additional rope tightened around her arms and torso, forearms and waist, thighs and ankles, and thighs and shins. As before, everything was frapped, cinched, and knotted. Kitty's predicament was now nearly as much a ball-tie as a hogtie.
Next, Dominique produced a brush and comb set and with surprising gentleness, considering the circumstances, dealt with the tangled, tousled mess that was Kitty's hair. When she was finished, the helpless prisoner was sporting a single ponytail braid, and the braid was doubled back on itself and bound with one half of a hank of hemp rope.
Kitty felt something, probably twine, tighten around her big toes. Then, the rope from her hair was passed between her bound toes and pulled tight. She had no choice but to lift her chin and arch her back. The rope continued tightening until her breasts threatened to lift off the table.
Through the entire process of being rendered a bundled package of tight rope and dimpled skin, Kitty had remained silent. Nary a moan, gasp, or sigh escaped her clenched lips. She watched Dominique step out of her now rather limited range of vision, another cabinet opened and closed, and Dominique returned. The grinning Latina had a large, padded oval ring in her hand. Its purpose was unclear.
"What's missing, slave?" Dominique purred.
"A gag, Mistress?" Kitty answered.
Dominique smiled. "Now, now, slave. You supposedly aspiring to be a Top, remember? What's missing?"
"A crotch rope, Mistress," Kitty admitted, hoping her answer wouldn't be taken as a suggestion.
"Yes," Dominique nodded, "but Kitty-slave doesn't get a crotch rope, 'cause Kitty-slave would use it to distract herself from the morning's lesson. And speaking of which..."
Dominique left Kitty's line of sight, again. A cabinet opened... and the gloating bitch returned holding some sort of steel frame. Kitty couldn't follow every detail, but its base was clamped to the edge of the table, Dominique fiddled with various clamps and fittings, the padded oval was attached, and the oval and rods were extended forward until the padding touched Kitty's grimacing face. It pressed against her forehead and cheeks and cupped her chin. Dominique pulled straps from either side of the frame and buckled them tight around Kitty's head, above and below her ponytail braid, and at the nape of her neck. The super-hogtie had already rendered her more-or-less immobilized, and now the steel frame and padded oval had dealt with the more-or-less part.
Additional trips to the cabinets happened and things, some of them heavy, were deposited on the table, next to or inside the base of framework, Kitty wasn't sure. Then, a translucent, purple-pink dong (phallus, dildo, schlong, Johnson, whatever) appeared before the prisoner's pinioned, immobilized face.
"Note the tiny little hole in the tip," Dominique purred. "Don't worry, it isn't gonna squirt anything disgusting down your throat. It's attached to a pressure sensor." She slid the steel rod attached to the dong through fittings in the framework, then forward until its tip touched Kitty's lips. "Open," Dominique ordered, Kitty complied, and the dong slid forward and into her mouth.
"Gack!" The tip had brushed the back of Kitty's throat, triggering her gag reflex—but Dominique immediately withdrew the floppy, purple-pink member about an inch, then tightened a pair of clamps.
"There," Dominique said, then smiled. "Now, here's the game. The 'Purple Avenger,' will slooooowly slide in and out of your mouth. It will pause at both ends of the cycle, and each pause will be your cue to suck the hell out of it. Now..." Her smile broadened. "I'm sure as much as a casual suggestion from your beloved Mistress is enough to motivate a slave, such as yourself, to suck the chrome off a trailer-hitch... but Dominique is a considerate Mistress and will be providing additional incentive."
Dominique stepped away and Kitty felt something—pads of some sort—being taped to her outer thighs.
"Testing, one-two-three," Dominique purred.
"Schlurrr!" Kitty screamed. The pads had shocked the hell out of her. It had started low and rapidly escalated to a highly motivational level.
"That's what happens if you're a naughty slave and don't suck the Avenger, as ordered," Dominique said. "The basic 'Suck Trainer' is a House of Gord idea, as you might know. The House of Arabelle can't claim credit."
Kitty heard what was probably the click of a switch being thrown, a quiet hum sounded, and the "Purple Avenger" began to slide. Kitty had already begun to drool, so the smooth, thick, realistically veined shaft passed easily. It paused at full extension, as promised, Kitty felt the preliminary jolt of the shock pads, also as promised, and she began to suck. The pain stopped, instantly. Seconds passed, with Kitty continuing to suck... then, the dong slowly withdrew. It never actually left Kitty's mouth, but came reasonably close. There was another pause, and Kitty puckered up and sucked on the tip. Then, the Avenger extended, again.
"All right, then," Dominique purred, "you seem to have a firm grasp of the situation. See you in a while."
Kitty heard the tap of departing boots, followed by the opening and closing of the door, followed by the click of a key turning in a lock. Well... she mused, this certainly isn't humiliating.
|Bondage, My Sweet|| Chapter 4
Kitty's mouth and jaw were numb by the time she was released from the "Purple Avenger Suck Trainer." And after she was released from the super-hogtie, it took a few minutes and a little massage before she was able to stand erect.
Lunch consisted of a generous mug of steaming hot chicken noodle soup. It was delicious, and thank GOD her Beloved Mistress held the mug to her lips so she could take repeated, cautious sips. Her wrists remained bound behind her back, so, if Kitty had been forced to lap from a bowl on the floor... she wasn't sure she could have done so without her tongue cramping in an agonizing knot.
Once the mug was empty, Kitty received a dessert of two-inch rubber ball-gag and was allowed to relax in the corner. It was another hogtie, but this time a much more gentle hogtie with padded leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles linked by an eighteen-inch chain.
They were in the same dining room where Kitty had "enjoyed" her breakfast, but this time there was no buffet and only one of the leather-clad brunettes was present. She had just finishing her lunch, whatever it was, and climbed to her feet. "Softie," she chuckled, addressing Dominique.
Dominique smiled and shrugged, then disappeared through a side door.
The other Top made her exit and Kitty was alone. Finally, she thought, my chance to escape. Fat chance. The cuffs were padlocked.
Dominique returned with a plate laden with half of some sort of sandwich, a small salad, and a glass of iced tea.
Kitty watched as Dominique consumed her lunch. Kitty didn't glare or fidget in her bonds. She suspected this might be the lull before another storm and forced herself to relax.
She turned out to be correct. Dominique unlocked the connecting chain and the connection between Kitty's ankle cuffs, then led her to an exercise room. There were stationary bikes, Nautilus stations, stair-step machines, treadmills, etc. In short order, Kitty found herself running on a treadmill, her wrists still cuffed behind her back and her ball-gag replaced with a ring-gag. This continued for more than an hour, with the treadmill automatically varying its speed and angle of incline.
All the while, her riding crop at the ready, Dominique relaxed in a comfortable lounge chair and read from an iPad.
Finally (thankfully), Dominique turned off the treadmill, dragged the sweating, panting Kitty to an exercise mat, and restored her hogtie—the eighteen-inch chain variety. Then, Dominique strolled through a side door, leaving Kitty alone, once again. My second chance to escape, Kitty huffed. The padlocks remained the problem. She knew she'd need a pair of picks to defeat this style of lock.
A couple of minutes later, Dominique returned.
Kitty's eyes popped wide. The Latin beauty was naked, and her hair was loose and flowing down her back. Her brown, toned, athletic form bore the fading marks left by her tight costume, but she was, in a word, magnificent! Okay, Kitty mused, her tits are a little small—nice and firm and a little small—but her abs are rock solid and her figure lithe. She can eat crackers in my bed any time... although how she'd do that while bound and gagged is her problem.
Dominique ignored her helpless (leering) charge as she began a series of warm-up stretches.
Yeah, Kitty sighed, revenge aside, I can hardly wait to show her the ropes. She imagined Dominique naked—as she was now—back in the Kitty Kave and stretched over the hassock of one of the pair of easy chairs facing the TV, bound at the wrists and ankles, gagged, and watching an equally naked and grinning Bertie—no, Bertie in knee boots and tight riding pants. Note to self: buy Bertie some knee boots and riding pants. She'd be limbering up, twisting at the waist, arms raised, and clutching the braided handle of a flogger in one gloved hand and the dozen or so polished leather ribbons of the business end in the other. Kitty would be flopped in the other easy chair, her feet up on the matching hassock and nursing a Jameson. She'd get her turn with the flogger later, once Bertie had warmed up the Dominique Bitch's back, butt, and thighs.
Kitty frowned. Bertie! I have got to find a way to contact her. I bet she's worried.
|Bondage, My Sweet|| Chapter 4
Bertie was worried. Bertie was very worried. Kitty should have called. There was no excuse for Kitty not calling as soon as she got the job at Lady Arabelle's—for not calling the next morning—for not calling all day. If anyone could take care of herself it was Kitty Wynter, but still... Kitty should have called.
Last night had been bad. Not only was Bertie worried, but her partner (senior partner) wasn't there to do something to her. Bertie didn't spent every night naked and bound and gagged and being ravished by Kitty—but she did spend most nights naked and being ravished, and under Kitty's control in some manner. A wrist chained to the headboard, an ankle chained to one of the lower bedposts, something chained to something—Bertie always had an excuse for why she was powerless to prevent Kitty from doing all sorts of deviant and/or depraved and/or wonderful things to her "helplessly restrained" and naked body. She always had an excuse for why she had no excuse not to allow herself to be "forced" to do similar deviant and/or depraved things to Kitty's naked and very much not helpless body... usually... most nights.
There was always her old friend, self-bondage (something Bertie had experimented with since childhood); but, under the circumstances, that would be entirely inappropriate. What if Kitty finally called and needed help and Bertie was "indisposed?"
Last night, Bertie had settled on a compromise. She'd gone to bed naked (as usual), with her ankles cuffed together, her wrists cuffed together in front, and a silk scarf tied over her eyes as a blindfold. Oh yes, there was also the matter of the eight-inch, pink, missile-shaped vibrator (with fresh batteries), clutched in her right hand. Keys to the cuffs were within easy reach. One set was on the nightstand, next to Bertie's iPhone, and a second, redundant set was tied to the headboard with a piece of string.
The game was simple: Kitty had ordered her to pleasure herself (although Kitty would have put it much more crudely), repeatedly, on pain of having her fanny spanked. They'd actually played variations of this game for real, but always with Bertie much more stringently (and inescapably) bound, and usually gagged. (Kitty was always considerate of the neighbors.) Anyway, to make a long, hot, sweaty, quietly moaning, well-lubricated, breast-heaving, and nipple pointing story short... Bertie managed to get to sleep... but she was still worried.
And now it was getting towards bedtime... again... and Kitty still hadn't called.
Tomorrow, Bertie decided. Tomorrow I have to do something... but what?
|The End of...
|Bondage, My Sweet||Chapter 4|