| FROM THE CASE FILES OF KITTY WYNTER
| by Van ©2011
| Chapter 7
To see the actresses the author would cast in a KITTY
follow the link below,
and use your browser's "Back" feature to return.
|OUR STORY CONCLUDES
yawned, stretched, and opened her eyes. Slowly, the
ceiling of her bedroom—the bedroom of the office/apartment/condo
she shared with Bertie—came into focus. The drapes and
blinds were open and morning light, late morning light, was flooding the
room. Kitty yawned, again. She was wearing her usual
pajamas, nothing, and—
Kitty's eyes popped wide and she sat bolt-upright in bed.
Her memory had come flooding back. She'd been at Lady
Arabelle's, slumped in her bonds atop the sybian. It was
after her umpteenth orgasm
and Bertie was still bound and gagged in her puppy cage.
Dominique appeared, together with a Top (Kitty assumed she was a
Top) in a kinky nurse uniform. The "Nurse" gave Kitty an
injection, sliding the needle into the muscle of her left
Bitch! And then...
"Not yet," a quiet voice slurred, Bertie's quiet voice. "Lemme
sleep." The little Brit was sharing the bed, half-covered
by the tangled sheets, and she was naked, like Kitty.
We're home, Kitty
realized. They didn't
just release us, they took us home. Her head was
clearing, fast. "Great," she mumbled, "now we have to
sweep for bugs, check the computers for viruses and trojan
horses, and change the locks."
"Later," Bertie muttered. "Sleepy." She turned over
and snuggled against a pillow.
Well, Kitty sighed, that case went well.
She carefully eased off the mattress and padded to the
bathroom. She left the door open. If Bertie woke up
(or her injection
wore off) she didn't want her to think she was alone and
panic. Kitty smiled. Not that she would—panic,
that is—the brave little idiot. Kitty
took a tinkle, followed by a quick shower. The hot water
pummeling her sore muscles felt good, very good—but
she was starving.
Toweling her hair, Kitty walked back into the bedroom—to find
Bertie sitting up in the bed and staring at her with wide,
"Mornin'," Kitty said.
"How are you?" Bertie demanded.
"Aside from walking like a bowlegged cowgirl? Couldn't be
"A little stiff. A little sore. A few
rope-burns. Nothing serious."
"I could eat. How 'bout you?"
Bertie's answer was to jump off the bed, race to Kitty, and pull
her into a tight embrace.
Kitty tossed away the towel, smiled, and returned the hug.
"You came after me," she whispered.
"Uh-huh," Bertie sobbed.
"Don't cry," Kitty sighed.
"Don't cry." Kitty's own eyes were welling. The hug
continued. "Next time don't—"
"No!" Bertie wailed. "I'll always come after you, n-no
Kitty chuckled, kissed Bertie's lips, then tightened her
hug. "I was gonna say,
next time, don't get caught."
"Ha!" Bertie laughed. "Lady Arabelle is a
Dominatrix. We snooped around. We got caught.
Dominatrix stuff happened. Hardly surprising. If I ever have to
rescue you from an actual criminal,
I'll bring help."
"Good idea," Kitty chuckled. Her stomach growled, again.
"I'll cook something," Bertie offered.
"No, take a shower," Kitty chuckled. "You need it."
She kissed Bertie's lips, then released the hug, took a
half-step back, and examined the little blonde's body.
There were a few minor marks, but nothing that wouldn't fade in
a couple of days.
Her eyes still wet, Bertie gazed up at her senior partner.
"Was it bad?"
Kitty nodded. "I'll show you later, but give me
time. I'll have to borrow some equipment."
Bertie's lips curled in a rueful smile. "Cheeky monkey,"
she huffed, then headed for the bathroom.
Kitty watched her leave (focusing on the naked Brit's firm,
dimpled butt), then turned and headed for the kitchen.
| Chapter 7
About a week
Kitty was lounging in the office
with her bare feet up on her desk. She was wearing jeans
and a tank top, her "Kitty has claws" coffee mug was in her
right hand, and the latest paperback in the Quantum Gravity series by
Justina Robson was in her left. Weird shit, but masterfully written, was
Kitty's literary opinion, and she could identify with the
heroine. Wish I
had magically enhanced bionic
implants and super-weapons.
The doorbell chimed—Bing-bong!—and
Kitty's lips curled in a truly
evil smile. She took a last sip from the mug, placed it on
the desk, then slid a marker between the pages of the book and
dropped it next to the mug. She checked the safety on her
Glock, then returned it to the holster at the small of her
back. Still smiling, Kitty patted the object stowed in her
right hip pocket as she strolled to the door. She peered
through the peephole and watched for a few seconds as her
visitor—her expected visitor—cooled
her heels in the hallway, then released the deadbolt and opened
"Shyster," Kitty purred.
"Charming, as ever, Wynter," Kirsten Braslow sighed, shaking her
head. She eased past Kitty and entered, carrying a purse
and a designer overnight bag. The ADA was dressed for the
office (or court) in heels, hose, skirt, jacket, and silk
Kitty turned the deadbolt, then followed her guest.
"All right then," Kirsten said, setting her purse and duffel in
one of Kitty's visitor chairs. "I assume you've aware of
the current status of Ms. Zirner's supposed disappearance."
"Hold that thought," Kitty said. "Strip."
Kirsten turned and stared at Kitty, a hint of a smile curling
her full lips. "Do you frisk all your visitors, Wynter?"
"Just those that I don't trust," Kitty responded.
Kirsten unbuttoned and peeled off her jacket, then folded it
lengthwise and draped it over the chair with her purse and
bag. "Paranoid, much? What possible reason would I have for wearing a
wire?" She raised her arms and Kitty began patting down
her silk-clad torso.
"Ms. Zirner's ex-boyfriend is about to be splashed across the
front pages of the tabloids as the Sex-crazed Pervert of
Wallstreet," Kitty responded. "I wouldn't put it past you
to try and rope me into his legal
troubles by asking a bunch of leading questions and leaking it
to his defense team."
"That's insulting," Kirsten muttered. "I'm an officer of
the court and—Hey! Hands!"
"Stop squirming," Kitty chuckled. She'd expanded her
search to the area under Kirsten's skirt.
"Look, Wynter!" Kirsten complained. "Enough with
the—No! Not this time!
Kitty had gathered Kirsten's hands behind her back, pulled a
pair of hinged handcuffs from her hip pocket, and was deftly
locking them around the startled lawyer's wrists.
"I swear to god, Wynter," Kirsten huffed, "If you don't get
those things off me I will scream so loud—Mrrrf!"
Kitty had her right arm around Kirsten's waist and her left hand
over her mouth in a tight hand-gag. "I'll be forced to
make a citizen's arrest for disturbing the peace? Consider
it done. Besides, this building has thick walls and it's
late on a Friday. Who do you think will hear you if you do scream?" She
released her hand. "It's just a precaution, Shyster,"
Kitty purred, "in case you try and attack me." She
gestured at the empty visitor chair. "Sit."
A scowl on her angelic face and her blond tresses slightly
(sexily) tousled, Kirsten dropped into the chair. She
twisted her wrists and glared as Kitty walked around the desk
and flopped into her chair. "Just you wait, Wynter."
Kitty smiled. "Tell me about your interview with Liesl."
Kirsten's frown faded. "Ms. Zirner and her lawyer—"
"One Dominique Cardona," Kirsten responded. "I've never
been up against her in court, but she has a reputation."
"About my height?" Kitty asked, "Latina, killer cheekbones,
Kirsten nodded. "You know her?"
"We're acquainted," Kitty muttered. "I didn't know she was
"Yale, if I'm not mistaken." Kirsten continued testing the
cuffs. "Anyway... a statement was taken and Ms. Zirner has
agreed to make herself available and to testify before a grand
jury, if required. The short of it is, she's free and
clear of this mess. The ex-boyfriend... not so much.
Your check is in my purse."
"All in good time, Shyster," Kitty purred. "My fee is only
part of the
compensation package, remember?"
Kirsten forced a smile. "I appreciate your unique sense of
humor, Wynter, and I would like
us to be, uh, friends, but I'm not going to let you tie me up." Kitty
laughed and Kirsten blushed. "I'll make you an offer, a counter offer to getting
yourself in trouble by assaulting an ADA. I've booked a
"At the Ritz-Carlton."
Kirsten blinked in surprise. "How do you—"
Kitty chuckled. "Detective, remember? I have ways of
tracking an ADA's schedule." Her smile turned
sinister. "Especially if
I want to make sure she won't be missed for a couple of days;
until next Monday, for example."
Kirsten swallowed, nervously, then tried (and failed) to regain
her composure. "Okay, you hacked my day-planner or tricked
one of the secretaries. The hotel has five-star dining off
the lobby and up on
the roof, with a dozen more gourmet restaurants within easy
walking distance. Also, pool, gym, saunas and steam rooms,
"A double bed, or two singles?"
Kirsten swallowed, again. "Separate bedrooms off a
"And you pay for everything?"
"So I won't tie you up?"
Kirsten nodded, again.
Kitty smiled, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a
ball-gag—two-inch, red, medical silicon ball and a black leather
strap with a lockable buckle. "Exactly who do you think
you're foolin', Shyster? You let me frisk you and slap you
in handcuffs on two separate
occasions, and you expect me to believe you don't want to take things
to the next level?"
"Uh..." Kirsten tugged on her cuffs. "L-look, Wynter—"
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Kitty purred as she
rose from her chair, the ball-gag dangling from her right
hand. Smiling at her guest, she stepped from around the
"R-really, I don't want to—M'mmmpfh!"
In a flash of feline grace, Kitty was behind the chair and the
ball was in Kirsten's mouth. The strap tightened and the
buckle was secured. Kitty pulled her captive's blonde
curls out from under the strap, then snapped a small padlock
through the hasp in the buckle's tongue. Click.
"Mrrfh!" Kirsten was hauled to her feet. The ball
filled her mouth to capacity and her cheeks bulged above the tight
"Don't worry, Shyster," Kitty whispered in Kristen's ear, "I
won't hurt you... much." She took a firm grip on a fistful
of blonde hair. "Now," Kitty continued, "we have two
options. Option one: you strip to the skin while I
watch. Humiliating, to be sure, but your pretty clothes
don't get damaged. Option two: we have a wrestling
match. A fun workout, to be sure, but I can't make any
promises about your pretty blouse or your undies. They very well might
get ripped to shreds." She led Kirsten towards the side
door. "Think about it."
"I've never shown you my playroom, have I?" Kitty inquired.
| Chapter 7
the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton was quite impressive, but she wasn't quite sure
how to characterize the decor. The general ambiance was
more ornate than what she considered Modern, but decidedly less ornate than, say,
Buckingham Palace—not that Bertie Finch had even been invited
over for tea with the Queen. In any case, everything
certainly was impressive, and expensive. She was in her
best business attire: heels, hose, dove-gray skirt and jacket,
and white blouse—"Fancy-schmancy," as Kitty called it. An
overnight bag was in her right hand.
As Bertie crossed the lobby, Liesl Zirner rose from an easy
chair and approached. She was also dressed for business,
but her suit was a pale, dusky rose. "Hello," she said
with a friendly smile. Bertie returned the greeting and
they exchanged a polite kiss. Liesl gestured to her
left. "The elevators are through here."
Bertie nodded towards the reception desk. "Don't we have
to check in?"
Liesl pulled a key card from her jacket pocket. "Done, and
I've already been upstairs." They started towards the
elevators. "Also, I transferred the reservation to one of
Lady Arabelle's corporate cards."
"They let you do that?"
Liesl smiled. "Apparently, the management have an
arrangement with Her Ladyship."
Bertie shrugged. "Hardly surprising, when one thinks about
it. But why are we letting ADA Braslow off the hook?
We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves on her dime."
It was Liesl's turn to shrug. "I assume it is Mistress
Arabelle's way of making a new connection in the District
Attorney's office. Mistress is very, how you say, loaded? She will not
miss the money."
They went to the elevators servicing the upper floors.
They required a key card to operate. Liesl swiped her
card, a set of doors opened, they entered, and she pressed a
button. The ride up began. Liesl turned to Bertie
and grinned. "Do you think Kitty's lawyer friend intended
this luxury weekend getaway for Kitty and herself, or for Kitty
Bertie shrugged. "I don't know. It was clearly
intended to distract Kitty from wanting to tie her up. As
to who she assumed would be enjoying the amenities with Kitty... I
believe she intended it to be herself."
"I agree," Liesl purred. "You are very sure of Kitty's
loyalty, aren't you?"
Bertie locked eyes with the redhead. "Very sure. Her
weekend with Braslow will be innocent fun. Strike the
'innocent' part. The weekend will be fun, and nothing
"But you won't get to
play," Liesl noted, "or watch."
Bertie smiled, and decided not
to mention the video cameras hidden in the rafters of the
playroom. "I'm not jealous. Kitty can have her fun,
and we get to enjoy
the hotel. I'll have my Kitty back on Monday."
"Your Kitty," Liesl chuckled, then kissed Bertie's cheek.
"You are very lucky."
"I know," Bertie said with a smile (and a charming blush).
They arrived at their floor, Liesl used the card to open the
door to their suite, and they entered.
"Wow," Bertie said, dropping her bag in a chair. "This
place is huge!" There was a kitchenette, a dining area, a
conversation grouping of a large sofa and two easy chairs, a
work area with a desk, and even a fireplace. A bank of
windows provided a postcard view of the city's skyline.
Bertie turned to Liesl. "It's too late for lunch and far too early for
dinner. Do you want to order tea? Try the
pool? The gym?"
Liesl smiled. "Come, I want to show you something."
She led Bertie through a door and into what was obviously one of
the bedrooms. A double bed was prominent, and a small
suitcase was open on its neatly made surface. Liesl
reached inside and produced two fat, rolled pouches of ballistic
nylon. One was steel-blue and secured by a nylon ribbon of
antique gold tied in a neat bow. The other was rust-brown,
and its ribbon was a pastel shade of sage-green. The
smiling redhead released the bow of the blue bundle and unrolled
it on the foot of the bed.
Bertie stared in surprise. Inside the pouch was row upon
row of neatly coiled bundles of thin cord, all in the same
antique gold color as the pouch's ribbon. There were more
than twenty, cut to various lengths, some of them quite
substantial, and secured in place by velcro tabs. All were
three-millimeter, braided nylon "accessory cord" and every end
Bertie could see was heat-sealed. She turned to
"This one is for you," Liesl interrupted, then tapped the
rust-brown bundle with her right hand. "And this one is
Just then, three loud knocks sounded from the common room.
Someone was rapping on the front door.
Liesl's smile broadened. "Why don't you see go who that
is?" she suggested.
Bertie's gaze darted from Liesl, to the coils of golden cord,
then back to Liesl. "Uh... okay." She turned and
headed for the door, realizing that her heart was
pounding. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" she
muttered under her breath.
| Chapter 7
paid the delivery boy, then carried dinner to the kitchen and
set it on the counter. She'd changed to her black silk
Hapi-coat (with nothing underneath), and her hair was pulled
back in a tight ponytail. Kitty grinned. The
delivery boy had appreciated the fashion statement. She
turned and padded into the playroom.
Kirsten was waiting for her return, her only option.
Kitty walked a slow circuit around her prisoner. More than
two hours earlier, she had decided on the "wrestling match"
option for dealing with her weekend guest's clothing.
Kirsten had offered only token resistance, but Kitty had taken
no chances. She'd forced the frightened (and aroused)
lawyer down onto the large exercise mat between the stationary
bike and treadmill and held her close with her jeans-clad legs
scissored around the cuffed and ball-gagged captive's narrow
waist. The blouse's buttons were undone, the bra's clasp
released, the skirt unclasped and unbuttoned, and pantyhose
peeled from weakly thrashing legs, followed by Kirsten's
panties. It was an involved process, requiring the release
of the handcuffs to remove the tangled blouse and bra from
Kirsten's wrists. Once this was accomplished, the cuffs
were immediately reapplied.
Kirsten, now a nude and semi-helpless captive, lay on her side
on the mat and watching anxiously as Kitty gathered her rumpled
clothing and dumped it in a pile, well out of the way, then
began sorting through several coils of white nylon rope.
And then, ADA Braslow was bound with said rope.
Kirsten's wrists were crossed behind her back, between her
shoulder blades, and lashed in place by strands that encircled
her torso, passing under her armpits and above her
breasts. Additional strands pinned her bent arms to her
sides and yoked her shoulders. Everything was well-cinched
and tight, with the key knots nowhere near her fluttering
fingers. Her right leg was bent at the knee with her ankle
lashed to her upper thigh. Also—minor detail—her right big
toe was lashed to her thumbs by a length of cord as taut as the
proverbial fiddle string. Finally, she was up on the toes
of her left foot with her only other support a taut, vertical
rope linking the web lashed around her upper body to a steel
ring set in a rafter, directly overhead.
Her blue eyes wet, sweat glistening on her strained, helpless
body, and drool dripping from her ball-gagged mouth and onto her
full, firm breasts, Kirsten watched Kitty circle her like a
hungry (sexy) tigress eying a tethered goat.
Phase one of her gloating complete, Kitty unlocked Kirsten's
ball-gag, loosened the strap and pulled the two-inch red sphere
from her mouth, then let it drop to the captive's chest.
"Pop quiz time, Shyster," she purred, then patted Kirsten's
bound hands. "Let's see if you were paying
attention. This style of lawyer lashing is called..."
Kirsten licked her lips. "R-reverse-prayer," she
"Hush, I'm not finished. And leaving you up on your toes
like this for most of an hour is called..."
"Predicament bondage," Kirsten sighed. "Please, Wynter, I
can't take this much longer."
"Don't start whining on me, Shyster," Kitty chuckled.
"We've only just started."
Kitty had reached around Kirsten's body, cupped her breasts with
both hands, and was gently squeezing. "You're not foolin'
me, Shyster. You're a runner, you take yoga classes, and
I've seen you at the gym, swimming laps. You're in pretty
good shape for an old lady."
Truth be told, Kristen Braslow was in magnificent shape, for any age, and they both
knew it. She gasped as
Kitty's right hand slid down her abdomen, caressed her inner
thighs, then slid across her crotch. The left hand
remained on her left breast. "Please," she whispered.
"Wimp," Kitty chuckled. "We've only just begun."
Kristen shivered and struggled. "No." A tear rolled
down her cheek. Kitty was gently stroking her labia.
"Lucky for you, Shyster," Kitty purred, "dinner has arrived, so
we can move on to your next lesson."
"L-lesson?" Kirsten gasped.
Kitty grinned. "Chair-ties, one-oh-one."
| Chapter 7
sighed through her gag, which consisted of Liesl's panties, a
wide strip of Elastoplast, and several tight windings of blue
vet-wrap that mummified her lower face from just below her
nostrils and bulging, flushed and freckled cheeks to the point
of her chin.
The knock at the door had been Lady Arabelle's number two,
To make a long, sad, story of whining protests and half-hearted
struggling short, Dominique and Liesl had peeled Bertie out of
her business suit, pantyhose, and undies, then proceeded to bind
her from shoulders to toes with the golden cord from the blue
pouch. Liesl had done most of the tying, with Dominique
acting as her enforcer. The smiling redhead's efforts had
required most, if not all, of the cord bundles.
Japanese techniques were employed. Bertie's wrists were
bound against her spine with her arms pinned to her sides, her
breasts framed, and her shoulders yoked in a tight, well-cinched
box-tie. Next came an elaborate crotch-tie that encircled
her waist and hips, and first separately trapped and then
cleaved her labia in a cat's cradle of cinched and knotted
cords. A diamond-hitched web bound her torso and her legs
together, beginning at her shoulders and ending around her big
toes. When Liesl was finally satisfied, Bertie was a
helpless and naked work of art, reclined on the still neatly
made up double bed in all her Shibari
Less than an hour later, Bertie was joined by Liesl, who was now
also naked and bound,
and in exactly the same manner, cord-for-cord and
hitch-for-hitch. Dominique had done the deed, of course,
using the pale green rope from the rust-brown pouch, and with
Liesl's full cooperation. Liesl's mouth was stuffed with
Bertie's panties, and her vet-wrap
was rust-red in color. Apparently, having satisfied her
need to be a Top, at least for the moment, the little redhead
had reverted to Bottom.
Bertie and Liesl were sisters in bondage, with the hue of their
bonds complementing their respective tan and peachy-pink
complexions. Otherwise, they were a freckled, semi-matched
The bedroom curtains were closed and all the lights off, but the
door to the common room remained open a crack. Through
that crack, Bertie could see part of a portable massage table
covered with white towels, Dominique's naked butt, and the white
cotton uniform of a hotel masseuse. A dozen or more
aromatic candles provided the necessary light. Dominique
was on her stomach and the masseuse was running her dark brown,
oil-drenched hands over the Dominatrix' lighter brown,
Bertie sighed through her gag. Liesl stirred and Bertie
turned to gaze at her fellow captive (and captor). The German cutie gazed
back, the amused twinkle in her hazel eyes apparent even in the
near darkness. Bertie returned her gaze to Dominique's
firm, dimpled, glistening rear end. She had been hoping
for two and a half days and two nights of luxurious, Vanilla
enjoyment. Apparently, however, the flavor-of-the-month
was Rocky Road. Dominique had arrived with a pair of large
suitcases, and Bertie had no doubt they were filled to capacity
with everything required to "entertain" any captive blondes or
redheads who might fall under the gorgeous Latina's power for
At least I'll have some
'interesting stories' to share with Kitty, come Monday,
Bertie reasoned. God
knows she'll be bored to tears if I babble on about the
quality of room service or the thread-count of the sheets.
Just then, in the common room, Dominique hopped off the table
and Bertie watched her naked form approach. The smiling
Dominatrix opened the bedroom door. The masseuse was at
her side, and the tall, well-muscled black woman had attractive,
high-cheeked, smiling features and full lips.
"We'll start with the blonde," Dominique decided.
"As you wish," the masseuse chuckled. She went to the bed
and lifted Bertie's bound body in her arms with effortless
ease. She carried the wide-eyed, bound Brit into the
common room and gently placed her on the massage table.
"My name is Bethany," she purred. "If you squirm, I will
strap you down. You will lie still for Bethany,
yes?" She spoke with a melodious accent, possibly
Jamaican, in Bertie's opinion.
Bertie was on her back and bound arms. She gazed up at
Bethany's smiling face and nodded.
"Good girl," Bethany purred, poured a dollop of oil from a glass
vessel warming over a candle onto her left palm, then rubbed her
Bertie shifted her gaze to Dominique, who was standing near the
head of the table with her arms crossed under her breasts and an
evil smile on her face. "When Her Ladyship uses the
Ritz-Carlton to entertain clients," she explained to Bertie,
"selected members of the staff, like Bethany," she nodded at the
masseuse, "are cleared to help with the entertainment."
Bertie flinched, despite herself, then shivered when Bethany's strong, slippery
hands began gliding over her elaborately corded, totally
helpless body, starting with her bulging breasts.
"It is a challenge to properly massage a bound youngling,"
Bethany purred, continuing to slide her hands over Bertie's
body. "Look how she wiggles like the little fish."
"Wait 'til you get those talented hands on the redhead,"
Dominique chuckled. "She's ticklish." Her smile
turned decidedly sinister as she gazed at Bertie. "I
wonder if this one is
Bethany wiggled her fingers. "Would you like me to find
Bertie stared at her captors in horror.
Dominique shook her head. "I'll do it myself, tonight or
tomorrow. We'll be here all weekend. There's no need
to rush things."
Bertie closed her eyes and shuddered
in her bonds as the massage continued. I hope she's kidding... about the
tickling. I HATE tickling.
| Chapter 7
back at the Kitty Kave...
Kitty and Kirsten were on the
bed. Both were naked. It was well after supper
(General Tso's chicken, Kung Pao prawns, and pork fried rice),
well after Kirsten's closely supervised pre-bed toilette, and
well after midnight.
Kirsten's arms were behind her back and bound in a
single-sleeve. The glove-soft, skintight leather pressed
her hands together—palm-to-palm and finger-to-finger—and her
forearms and elbows together, as well. A pair of straps
attached to the top of the sleeve yoked and pulled her shoulders
back, thrusting out her full breasts. Secondary (and quite
redundant) straps were buckled around her wrists and
elbows. In addition, her ankles were strapped to their
respective thighs and leather thongs tied her big toes to a
steel ring attached to the tip of the single-sleeve. The
ball-gag was still around her neck, but hanging loosely.
Its red sphere shook and occasionally bounced against the
sweat-covered skin of her chest as she moved.
Kitty was reclined on her back with her left hand clamped over
her guest's mouth. Her legs were keeping Kirsten's
splayed, folded legs at full spread, and her right hand was
pressing the head of a wand-style Hitachi vibrator against the
desperate blonde's lewdly exposed pussy.
"Mrrrrf!" Kirsten shivered and jerked, fighting her bonds
and her tormentor's (lover's) embrace.
"I love the way your thigh muscles twitch when you cum," Kitty
whispered in Kirsten's ear. "It's a reliable tell. I
don't know about your poker face, Shyster, but you have a terrible poker
pussy." She released her hand-gag and clutched Kirsten's
right breast, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze.
Kirsten continued struggling, but she didn't scream.
"Please," she gasped. "Not. Again. I can't
take it. Again. Ahhh!"
Her body went completely rigid... then she collapsed in Kitty's
"What you need is
another spanking," Kitty chuckled. She clicked off the
Hitachi and set it aside, then turned Kirsten's face and kissed
her lips. The kiss lasted a while, and it was returned,
with hungry lips and thrusting tongues on both sides.
Finally, the kiss ended.
"Let me go," Kirsten sighed. "I've had enough."
"Oh, Shyster," Kitty laughed, and licked the side of her
captive's face. "It's Friday night. Saturday
morning, actually. In any case, it's definitely not Monday
"Please," Kirsten sighed.
"I'll let you rest," Kitty whispered, "but first, I want you to
flop over onto your tits, wiggle between my legs, and return the
"Again?" Kirsten whined.
"Again," Kitty confirmed, then kissed Kirsten's forehead.
"I know you're tired, Shyster. Take a breather, then munch
my carpet. Then, I'll let you sleep."
"I hate you," Kirsten muttered. They both knew it was a
Kitty kissed Kirsten again, then squeezed her beautiful
captive's toned, helpless body in her arms, and her legs.
"I can tell," she whispered, and kissed Kirsten's damp, tangled,
This case may have been a
cluster-fuck from the get-go, Kitty thought, but at least it all came together
in the end. She gently caressed what she could
reach of Kirsten's end, and the blond prisoner shivered in her
bonds. Once I figure
out how to get my claws on Dominique, everything will be
|The End of...
| Chapter 7...
|Bondage, My Sweet
| the story.