Kitty Wynter

 Bondage, My Sweet by Van ©2011

  Chapter 7

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Kitty 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 butt-cheek.  Ow!  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, anxious eyes.

"Mornin'," Kitty said.

"How are you?" Bertie demanded.

"Aside from walking like a bowlegged cowgirl?  Couldn't be better.  You?"

"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.

"C-can't-hic-help it."

"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 matter what."

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.
Bondage, My Sweet 
 Chapter 7
About a week later...

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 the door.

"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 blouse.

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.  "Jacket."

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! Stop!"

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, husky voice?"

Kirsten nodded.  "You know her?"

"We're acquainted," Kitty muttered.  "I didn't know she was a lawyer."

"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 suite—"

"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, in-suite massage—"

"A double bed, or two singles?"

Kirsten swallowed, again.  "Separate bedrooms off a common-room."

"And you pay for everything?"

Kirsten nodded.

"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 desk.

"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 strap.

"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.
Bondage, My Sweet  meow
 Chapter 7
Bertie thought 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 and yourself?"

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 more."

"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 Liesl.  "What—"

"This one is for you," Liesl interrupted, then tapped the rust-brown bundle with her right hand.  "And this one is for me."

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.
Bondage, My Sweet  meow
 Chapter 7
Kitty 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 gasped.  "Please—"

"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."
Bondage, My Sweet  meow
 Chapter 7
Bertie 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, Dominique.

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 splendor.

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 pair.

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, glistening body.

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 the weekend.

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 hands together.

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 ticklish."

Bethany wiggled her fingers.  "Would you like me to find out?"

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.
Bondage, My Sweet  meow
 Chapter 7
Meanwhile, 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 arms.

"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 morning."

"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 favor."

"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 lie.

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, blond locks.

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 perfect.
The End of...
Bondage, My Sweet  meow
 Chapter 7...
Bondage, My Sweet 
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