by Van ©2013
		Epilogue

LEWIS & CLARK UNIVERSITY
A WEEK BEFORE FALL QUARTER

---

Rook House is a modest, even cozy structure with a small front garden and a picket fence.  It has a complex, steeply pitched roof line, and its style might best be described as English Country Cottage meets Arts & Crafts.  The BFFs were walking towards the front porch with a suitcase, duffel, or garment bag in either hand.  Both were wearing sneakers, jeans and cotton blouses.  It was still too hot for jackets or sweaters.  The rest of the girls' possessions designated for their new accommodations were waiting in the trunk and back seat of Gwen's car.

"So, is this place on or off campus?" Gwen asked.

"I assume you mean officially," Clem responded.  "You'll have to ask Administration."  Clearly, all the structures on this side of the block had been built as private homes, but now all appeared to have something to do with the University.  Subdued and tasteful signs listed various scholarship organizations, academic foundations, or departmental affiliations.  They'd have to take a stroll through the neighborhood and sort things out.

In any case, what was unequivocally the main campus was directly across the street.  The two nearest buildings—Bishop Hall, shared by the Mathematics and Physics Departments—and Stanton Hall, the exclusive domain of the Philosophy Department—were visible through an arm of the Environmental and Forest Science Departments' arboretum.

The front door opened as the girls reached the porch and they continued across the threshold and into the entryway.  They'd visited Rook House early in the summer and already knew their student IDs were the only keys they'd need as long as they were residents.  They didn't even have to take them out of their pockets.  The security system's sensors pinged the cards' transponders automatically.

"Welcome, Clem.  Welcome, Gwen."  They were being greeted by the Rook House avatar, "Sally," and she (it) spoke with the voice of Sigourney Weaver.

"Hey, Sally," Clem answered.

"Yeah, Hi," Gwen added, then whispered to her BFF.  "Are all smart-house avatars named Sally, and do they all sound like Siggy Weaver?"

Clem shrugged.  "Salamandras Corporation.  I think Dr. Pappas said it's the default setting."

"The others are in the basement," Sally continued.  "Updating.  Siri is coming to meet you."

Seconds later a smiling blond appeared wearing sneakers, jeans, and a knit top.  She was Clem's height, or maybe a little taller, and had a slender build, attractive face, laughing blue eyes, and a quirky smile.  Her straw-colored hair was fine, straight, and long.  She extended her right hand.  "Hi, I'm Siri Nesbitt, Design major."

Clem smiled, dropped her bags, and shook the offered hand.  "Clem Ricci, English."  She noted Siri's strong grip.

"Gwen Percy," Gwen said when it was her turn to pump the blond's hand.  "English and Drama."

"As in drama queen," Clem muttered under her breath.

"Shut it!" Gwen snapped at Clem as Siri giggled.  She turned back to the smiling blond.  "Siri?  Like the iPhone thingie?"

Siri sighed before answering.  "Yeah, my real name is Sigrid, but I've always gone by Siri.  I'm thinking of suing Apple for defamation and emotional damage."

"I would," Clem chuckled as she exchanged a grin with Gwen.  So far, so good.

"I'll help you move in," Siri offered.  "Sally said you guys already chose your rooms.  But first, you need to meet Rory.  C'mon."  She turned and walked away without waiting for a response.

Clem and Gwen shared another grin, then hurried after.

They had chosen their rooms on their first visit, but the selection had been largely arbitrary.  All four residents would have their own private bedrooms with full-size beds, a comfortable reading chair, and study nooks.  There was one common bathroom, but it had two washbasins, two enclosed toilet stalls, a huge communal walk-in shower, a separate bath tub for soaking, and a large dry sauna.  There was also a dedicated, fully-equipped exercise room, a common lounge with a wall-sized HDTV and state-of-the-art audio system, and a kitchen that would make Rachael Ray squeal and cum in her pants.

It turned out Rook House was not just subsidized housing for scholarship students, it was also an ongoing R&D project for Salamandras International.  Smart-house features were added or upgraded on a regular basis, and the girls' use of the various subsystems was passively and unobtrusively monitored and the data uploaded to the project research team on a regular basis.  Sally had explained all this during Clem and Gwen's first visit.

Whatever the case, living at Rook House looked to be the very definition of a sweet deal and the girls weren't about to complain.

They'd reached the kitchen and Siri stopped and faced her new housemates.  "Uh, by the way, Dr. Pappas stopped by yesterday and casually explained a few things."

Clem and Gwen exchanged a frown.  "Like what?" Clem asked.

Siri wet her lips before answering.  "Well..."  Her smile brightened.  "Tell ya what.  Let's go downstairs and meet Rory and all will become clear."  She turned, again, opened a door, and headed down a set of stairs.

Clem and Gwen shared a shrug and followed.

The basement was unremarkable, at least in terms of construction and decor.  The only improvement was a suspended ceiling of acoustic tiles in a metal framework.  The walls and floor were sealed concrete with a clear, satin finish and the electrical panel and plumbing tie-ins were along one wall, as were a large washer, an equally large dryer, and a table for folding clean laundry.  Natural light streamed from window-wells widely spaced around the periphery and artificial light from cans recessed in the ceiling tiles.

"Only the best for Rook House," Siri explained as she let the way across the basement.  "Radiant heating underfoot, programmable LED lighting, geothermal heat-pump, flash heaters, photovoltaic roof shingles, the works."  They were approaching a ceiling-to-floor folding partition running in a metal track from wall to wall.

"Flash heaters?" Gwen inquired.

"There's a holding tank for the heat-pump, but no hot water tank," Siri explained.  "Instant hot water on demand.  It's more energy efficient.  All our rooms have work-stations that would make a Computer Science major turn green."  She thumbed the latch on the partition and began sliding it open.  "And this is my design studio."

The studio space was half the size of the main basement, with the same sealed concrete and acoustic ceiling ambiance.  There were more window wells and more of the recessed cans.  In addition, there was a small track-lighting system with adjustable mini-spotlights centered over a large work table and a very modernistic sewing machine, one of those super-expensive deluxe models with a computer touch-screen.  Shelving, cabinets, and clothing racks were spaced around the room, cluttered with bolts of cloth, rolls of synthetic leather, and binders of swatch samples.

"I won a design competition my senior year in high school," Siri explained, "and it led to a summer internship at La Roque's Pacific Rim Headquarters in Seattle.  That led to a full scholarship.  She pointed at the sewing machine.  "That was developed in partnership between La Roque Special Projects and Salamandras R&D.  It's a sewing machine and CAD station linked to a rapid-prototyping system in a Salamandras lab about two miles from here.  I can lay out and sew something, all or in part, using any material with the required thickness and tensile properties, then refine the design using Salamandras expert systems software.  When I'm satisfied, the lab turns out the actual garment with the specified colors and finishes and it's delivered to the house the next day.  Right now I'm working on—"

Siri noticed she'd lost her audience.  Clem and Gwen were staring across the studio with wide-eyed amazement.  Siri's studio and the La Roque/Salamandras machine were fascinating, but what Clem and Gwen beheld across the room was truly fascinating.

Set in the far wall was a small, closet-like alcove, approximately five-feet by five feet, enclosed by a steel door that was mostly a grid of thick wire.  It was like a secure storage space or a small holding cell, exactly like a secure storage space or small holding cell, and inside the space/cell was a young woman about their age with long, straight, ginger hair, a fair, peachy-pink complexion, and a very attractive face.  The face in question held green eyes, a button nose, dimpled cheeks, and coral lips, which at the moment were curled in a decidedly embarrassed and blushing smile.

"Oh, where are my manners?"  Siri made a sweeping gesture.  "Clem, Gwen, allow me to present Rory Macy, the fourth resident of Rook House."

"Uh, hi," was all Clem could manage in response.

"Hi," Gwen added.

"Hi," Rory answered, then glared at Siri.  "I am so going to kick you in the muffin basket when I get out of here," she muttered.  Rory was dressed in jeans and a cotton tank-top and was holding her arms and hands behind her back.

"I'm making a leather jacket for the Fox," Siri explained with a grin, "and in return she's helping me with one of my other design projects."  She pointed to one of the clothing racks.  "Actually, the jacket's finished.  It's the butternut number."

"Ooooh, pretty!" Gwen gushed as she rushed to the rack.  The jacket was a deep, golden tan, and the leather richly textured and slightly distressed.  The hardware was dark bronze and included several small buckles and closed rings joining the various straps and curved panels comprising the jacket's sleeves, shoulders, waist.  A serene smile curling her lips, Gwen caressed the smooth leather.  "It'll go great with Rory's complexion and hair," she purred.  "Or mine," she added in a whisper.

Clem smiled, her BFF was lost in "consumer-bliss" and it would be up to her to break the trance.  "Gwen!" she snapped.  "Heel!"

Gwen favored her friend with a scathing scowl.  "Bossy much?" she muttered as she stomped back to the others.  She turned to Rory and smiled.  "Hi."

"Hi," Rory repeated.  She was still blushing.

Clem turned to Siri.  "Uh, 'other' design project?"

Siri turned to the cage and its mortified occupant.  "Show us," she ordered.

Rory sighed, then shuffled 180°, presenting her back to her audience.  Her fingers and hands were encased in sheathes of the same butternut leather as the jacket on the rack.  In addition, a long, skintight sheath pressed her forearms together from wrists to elbows.  Finally, broad cuffs were strapped around her upper arms.  The buckles and rings of the various components were dark bronze, also like the jacket on the rack.

"The mitts are separate," Siri explained with a proud smile.  "The arm sheath closes with a zipper and then five straps snug it up tight.  The above-the-elbow cuffs are also separate and more straps and buckles lock everything together.  It's part of a flexible, mix-and-match system I'm developing.  Next comes the corset/bustier, then the collar, body harness, leg sheathes, a leg harness, and—"

"That's what Dr. Pappas 'casually explained' when she was here yesterday," Clem interrupted.  "She told you Gwen and I are also into this kinda stuff."

"Yeah," Siri nodded.  "By the way, Pappas and Dr. Whelan will be over tomorrow to go over the house rules, now that we're all here."

"She's my aunt," Rory said.  The group gave the captive redhead their full attention and her blush deepened.  "Megan Whelan.  She's my aunt."

"So," Gwen asked, "is this Rook House... or Bondage House?"

Siri giggled before answering.  "If we changed the signage we'd probably get a lot of strange looks, but... yeah."  She nodded towards Rory.  "We met last year in the dorm and... we play.  No big deal, it's all just for fun."

Rory affected a sad pout.  "Unless you're the one she decides to use as the guinea pig for her latest kinky project and you find yourself locked in one of her cages."

"And you always put up such a fight," Siri giggled.  "Anyways, I have to test the final designs, don't I?  And you can't have a controlled test without... control."

"Wait," Gwen frowned.  "Cages, plural?"

Siri took several steps to the side and pulled a dustcover from a large rectangular object.  Revealed was a stainless steel cage with vertical, closely-spaced bars set in a cubical frame.  "It's a meter on a side," Siri explained, "and the lock is electronic and controlled by Sally."  She nodded towards Rory, again.  "Same as the Fox cage."

Gwen rushed to the cubical cage, pulled open the door, and peered inside.  The floor was a grid of shining bars, like the walls and roof, but was cushioned by a thick pad covered in smooth, textured black leather.  "It looks like a close fit."  She then proceeded to crawl inside, turn until she was facing the others, and pull the door closed.  "It is close," she observed.

Clem rolled her eyes and smiled at Siri.  "You've heard of curiosity and the cat?"  She waved a vague hand towards the small cage.  "Meet curiosity and the twerp."

"Oh, very funny," Gwen huffed as Siri and Rory giggled.  She opened the door—or rather, she tried to open the door.  The steel bars didn't even rattle in the frame.  "Hey."

"Controlled by Sally, remember?" Siri purred.

"Oh," Gwen said primly.  "Sally, open the door, please."  She pulled on the door, again, with the same non-result.  She spoke in a louder voice.  "Sally!  Open the cage door, please!"

An electronic chime sounded, then Sally's voice answered.  "Special protocols will remain on interim settings until Doctors Pappas and Whelan brief all residents on the house rules.  The object relationship designated 'lock-slash-small cage' is under the exclusive permissive control of Resident Nesbitt."

Gwen heaved a huge sigh and directed a forlorn smile towards Siri.

"I call that her Sad Puppy Face," Clem chuckled.

"Shut up," Gwen huffed, then, once again, focused the awesome power of her sad, pathetic smile on Siri.

"Sally," Siri said, "please transfer control of the small cage to Clem, okay?"

Bong!  "Exclusive permissive control of the small cage is transferred to Resident Ricci," Sally intoned, "pending the formal reset of all house protocols."

"I wouldn't want to intrude on your relationship," Siri explained.

"That's sweet," Clem smiled.  Her eyes were on the small cage, and its pouting occupant's eyes were on her.  "Gwen and I don't have what you'd call an actual relationship, other than our mutual, uh, hobby."  She shifted her smile to Siri.  "But I appreciate the thought.  Why don't we chat while I move our stuff up to our rooms?"

"Sounds like a plan," Siri giggled, and the brunette and blond headed for the stairs.  "I'll help carry," she added.

"Hey!" Gwen called from the cage.  "Don't you dare!  Clem!  Clem!"

Clem and Siri didn't even turn around.

"Clem Ricci!" Gwen screamed at the disappearing backs of her traitorous BFF and new housemate.  By this time they were climbing the stairs and were deep in giggling conversation.  "Hey, Four Eyes!" Gwen screamed.  It always got a rise out of Clem when she called her Four Eyes... but not this time.  The door at the top of the stairs closed and Gwen and Rory were alone, locked in their respective cages.

Gwen watched as Rory heaved a Pathetic Sigh and sat cross-legged on the concrete floor of her cage.  She's nearly as good at that as I am, Gwen noted.  I like her.

"So," Rory said.  "You and Clem?"

Gwen got as comfortable as she could in the Cruel Confines of her Tiny Cage.  "Uh... yeah, I suppose.  You and Siri?"

Rory nodded.  "I suppose."

Silence stretched for several seconds... and was finally broken by Gwen.  "Dr. Whelan is your aunt?  I met her once, but I didn't know it was her.  I was blindfolded and..."  She noted Rory's confused expression.  "It's complicated."

Rory smiled.  "I know about complicated."

I do like her, Gwen decided.  "I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours.  Mine involves a secret room, hidden underground passageways, and a mysterious phantom."

"I've got wicked relatives with a fully equipped dungeon," Rory countered.

Gwen's eyes widened.  "Wow."

"Wow," Rory agreed.  "A phantom?"

"A mysterious phantom," Gwen confirmed.  "I guess I'll go first.  Early last year, Clem stumbled across an unused attic room in Nicholson Hall."

Gwen continued telling her story and Rory listened with rapt attention.

AN ISLAND
SOMEWHERE IN THE CARIBBEAN

---

Inga tested her bonds.  More precisely, she continued testing her bonds.  Escape was impossible, but her employer had ordered her to make the attempt, and she had to try... or else.

Inga was naked.  In fact, she hadn't worn clothing for more than three months, not since the night of the party at Kim Pappas' house.  Upon returning to her Lair she'd removed her gown before retiring, not knowing she was about to be abducted and that clothing would be a privilege not yet granted by her new employer.

The memory of the way she was manhandled by her camouflaged, masked amazon captors—the enemas, the insertion of the catheter and butt-plug, the callous ease with which she was strapped inside the "transport sarcophagus," the terror she'd felt as the lid of the coffin-like container closed and sealed with a dry hiss—the memory of all that was quite vivid; however, the actual transport was not.  She suspected drugs were involved, as well as the continuing distractions of the vibrators, the quiet voices whispering vague, half-understood, erotic warnings, and the kaleidoscope of disturbing images flashing across the video-visor strapped over her staring eyes.  In any case, after a journey of indeterminate length, she'd awakened to find herself naked and in chains in a dark, plain cell.  And her employment had begun.

Food, water, exercise—a regular routine developed.

Inga was handled by one or more of several different tall, strong women, all clad in bikinis or exercise togs, and all very beautiful.  She suspected at least some of them might be the same amazons who had abducted her, now without their urban-camouflaged, skintight, catsuit uniforms, but there was no way for her to be sure.  They were of every race and color—Nordic, Mediterranean, African, Asian—and all moved with the athletic grace and self-assurance of martial artists.  They spoke little, allowed Inga to speak less, and enforced discipline with shock batons, riding crops, and painful, joint-straining punishment holds.  Further punishment took the form of bland food, predicament bondage, and floggings.  Rewards for cooperation included gourmet food, a comfortable bed at night, minimal restraint, and orgasms extracted by various humiliating but quite effective methods.

Exercise took the form of extended jogs down jungle trails and across the sands of tropical beaches, swimming in either a small exercise pool or the turquoise waters of a shallow lagoon, grueling sessions strapped to various exercise machines, and personalized power-yoga classes that were as much one-sided wrestling matches as instruction.  Inga's efforts were always closely supervised, and with the sole exception of the yoga lessons, some manner of inescapable restraint was always involved.  The regimen had already begun to have an effect.  Inga had always been fit, but now she was in the best shape of her life.  Her skin had taken on a deep, "beach-bunny" tan, and her body was increasingly lithe and well-toned.  Finally, she received regular full-body massages from the ultra-skilled hands of her handlers.

Her employer had decreed other changes to Inga's appearance.  Soon after her arrival, Inga's long, blond hair had been expertly cropped into a short, shaggy, boyish pixie.  She'd been strapped to a well-padded chair at the time, with a broad strip of tape sealing her lips.  She remembered weeping bitter tears as her tresses were cut and the feathered bob had taken its place.  She'd continued weeping as her pubic hair was trimmed with a buzzing electric razor, shaving cream applied—"soothing" menthol shaving cream—and the residual stubble gently removed with a safety razor.

And all the while her employer had watched, a gloating smile on her beautiful face.  Her smooth, strong fingers and hands had gently inspected the final results, sliding across Inga's smooth crotch... then through the short locks of her new coif.  Then, she turned and left, leaving Inga in the care of her handlers.

The "little girl" look of her shaved pussy was something Inga could do without, but she had to admit she looked good as a blond Audrey Hepburn or post-Hermione Emma Watson.

Truth be told, her captivity wasn't quite the horrific ordeal it might seem to an objective observer.  Her "new colleagues" might be dedicated, no-nonsense types—or, without mincing words, professional slave-handlers—but Inga could tell they also cared about her—and she was sure she wasn't coming down with Stockholm Syndrome.  When Inga was rewarded for good behavior, when she was pampered and petted (and especially when they tied her down, diddled her silly, then cuddled 'til dawn) she could sense genuine affection on the part of her handlers.  She was sure of it.  The game might be sadistic, but it wasn't being played by sadists.

Mistress, her new employer, was another matter.  Inga was not at all sure she wasn't a true sadist, at least to some extent, and her next two personal encounters with Mistress only reinforced this impression.

The first time, Inga was marched down a jungle trail and into the interior of the island.  Her wrists were crossed and lashed behind her back, her lips taped, and a rope leash around her neck.  Her handler of the day was a Latina with long, black hair and a stunning body clad only in a minimal string bikini of tan, chamois-thin leather.  After a hike of some distance they came to a small clearing overlooking a spectacular valley with a waterfall falling into a small, natural pool.  Set in the green turf was a vertical post of weathered wood, possibly teak, about nine feet in height and rounded at the top.

Also in the clearing was Inga's employer, comfortably reclined in a folding camp chair and being served high tea by her personal maids: a petite redhead with her face hidden behind a mask in the stylized form of a fox, and an equally petite, fair-skinned girl with long, black hair and her face hidden by a traditional Japanese Noh mask.  Both were naked and in serving chains.  The all-over freckles in the case of the redhead and slight coloring but lack of tan-lines in the case of the raven-haired maiden suggested an unfamiliarity with clothing similar to Inga's current condition.

Inga's new boss rose from her chair, straightened the front of her light, airy sundress, and smiled.

With the Latina enforcing cooperation, Inga's wrists were untied, then crossed and retied behind the post.  And then, her employer added more rope—a lot more rope—until Inga was lashed to the post from ankles to throat.  The bondage was intricate and tight and its application required most of an hour and several yards of well-condition, five-twist, quarter-inch jute.  When her employer pulled the final hitch and tied the final knot, Inga could barely move.  The neat horizontal bands and diagonal strands tightened and made their presence known with every breath or attempt to squirm and find some modicum of relief from their relentless grip.  Even her fingers and toes were included in her bondage.

Her mistress smiled, kissed Inga's tape-gagged lips, cupped her bulging, rope-framed breasts, and gave them a gentle squeeze.  She then turned and left the clearing.  While she'd been binding Inga to the post the maids had packed away the chair, its accompanying table, and the hamper of tea service and the remaining tidbits.  They made their departure as well, followed by the grinning Latina.

And Inga was alone in the jungle, as helpless as she had ever been in her entire life.

An hour passed, during which Inga's only companions were the occasional buzzing insect or brightly colored parrot gliding from tree to tree across the valley below—that and the relentless ropes.  The waterfall thundered into the pool, churning the surface and generating distant water music.  The air in Inga's clearing was still, hot, and humid.

Then, Inga noticed movement.  Her employer and the two tiny maids-in-chains were at the pool, and the captive duo were helping their mistress undress.  Soon, as naked as Inga and her servants, Mistress dove into the clear water of the pool and enjoyed a no doubt cool and refreshing swim.  Minutes passed, then she climbed from the dark, clear waters, the maids toweled her dry and dressed her tan, exquisite body, and they were gone.

Inga was alone, again.

Afternoon turned to evening.  The sun set, night fell, and still Inga was alone, bound and helpless.

In the morning the Latina and a second handler appeared, a Viking amazon with a deep tan and long, sun-bleached hair so pale it was almost white.  They released Inga from the post, then retied her wrists behind her back and her ankles together.  The blond lifted her onto her shoulder in a fireman's carry, face down and legs and bare feet to the front, and she was hauled back to Mistress' estate.  She was fed and watered and allowed to recover for the rest of the day.  A few of the rope-marks crisscrossing her tan skin turned into faint, linear bruises, but they faded completely after three days.

Inga's second personal encounter happened in a dungeon cell with stone walls and a vaulted ceiling.  In the center was a simple table constructed of heavy timbers.  Dozens of iron rings dangled from iron spikes hammered into its periphery and Inga recognized a classic "bondage table."  Suspended several feet over the table and stretching from wall-to-wall was a taut, horizontal net of iron chains, like the orb-web of some large, fantastic, steampunk spider.

That day Inga had three handlers, and they held her down on the table while her employer bound her wrists together in front.  Then, the handlers flipped her onto her stomach and lifted her arms behind her head.  Mistress wound rope around her neck, snug but not tight enough to restrict her breathing, and a harness was tied linking her wrists, throat, and upper arms.  Next, her ankles were lashed to their respective thighs and she was turned over, leaving her on her back with all four limbs folded and bound.  Mistress wove rope through and around her crooked elbows and bent knees, then lashed the free ends to the four corners of the table, enforcing what might be called a bent-limb spread-eagle.  More rope followed, hitched around Inga's waist, torso, thighs, and arms and further lashing her to the table. 

Thin cord was next.  It was looped around her breasts and tightened until they bulged and took on a pinkish-mauve blush.  Then, more cord was used to lash her big toes and link them to her other bonds and the table.

All the while a ring-gag was strapped in Inga's mouth.  She stared up at her employer as she worked, pulling pass after pass of rope and cord, tightening hitch after hitch and making her progressively more helpless.  Inga tried to keep the fear and distress from her eyes, but knew she was failing.  She could tell by the wicked curve of her employer's sadistic smile.  This was going to be a bad session.

Lashed down and barely able to squirm, Inga watched as the amazon minions lifted wire baskets with blocks of ice and hooked them to the chain web, carefully positioning them over her helpless, naked, rope-dimpled flesh.  Beyond the web Inga had already noticed the staring lenses of at least two video cameras mounted on iron brackets.  Mistress would be able to enjoy her ordeal from her office or other venues as she went about her daily routine.  Why loiter in a dreary dungeon when she could watch high-definition video of Inga's exquisite suffering from any monitor on the island?

The dungeon's barred gate closed with a clang, a bolt was thrown, and a key turned in a lock.  Then, with a dry scrape, a slab of rough-faced granite slid closed across the door beyond the grid of heavy iron.

And Inga was alone.

Soon, as was inevitable in the hot, humid cell, the ice began to melt.  Frigid drops began to pelt Inga's forehead, armpits, bulging breasts, flat tummy, thighs, feet, and pussy; and more drops fell into her open, ring-gagged mouth.  Drop followed drop followed drop.  She squirmed and wiggled, but the ropes only seemed to grow tighter.  Inga knew that was in her mind.  Her employer was far too skilled a rigger to make such a mistake.  Her bonds enforced total immobility but would not strangle her.  It was her imagination that was making them constrict.

The ordeal lasted at least two hours past the melting of the last of the ice blocks.  Finally, thankfully, the minions returned and Inga's ropes melted away, but she found she couldn't move.  As limp as the proverbial wet noodle, Inga was carried to a comfortable bed in a small cell.  Sometime later she received a therapeutic massage and that was followed by a gourmet meal... with wine.  That night her handler-of-the-day, a tall, well-muscled brunette with brown doe eyes, was unusually gentle and generous.  The amazon licked and sucked Inga's pussy as she lay on her back with her legs splayed and her hands gripping her ankles.  She wasn't bound, but it didn't matter.  Her lover was strong, Mistress' dungeons were inescapable, and Inga needed the relief.

Tropical days continued grinding into steamy weeks.  There was more exercise, and sometimes the crushing boredom of being chained in a dungeon cell.  Alternatively, there was the joy of being bound to a tree in the jungle or a post on the beach, in which case her bonds would be inescapable but far less elaborate than anything Mistress would have crafted.  Inga was also subjected to the "ordeal" of being diddled by one or more of the beautiful amazons.  She suspected these occurrences were diversions for her handlers, rather than for her benefit.  Inga was also forced to lick and suck an array of amazon pussies, a task she sometimes shared with various anonymous captive maidens who appeared and disappeared at the whim of her handlers.

And now she was in the intimate embrace of her employer's ropes a third time—and Inga feared if said employer didn't reappear and release her soon, she would lose it, and Mistress would finally succeed in breaking her spirit.

Three jargon terms described her predicament.  (1) Box-tie.  Inga's wrists were crossed and pinned against her spine and just below her shoulder blades, with neat bands of rope binding her upper arms to her sides, yoking her shoulders, and framing her breasts.  (2) Frog-tie.  Inga's knees were bent and her ankles lashed to their respective thighs.  And finally, (3) Hogtie; however, Inga's ankles were not lashed to her wrists.  It was a suspended or flying hogtie, with a dozen vertical runs of rope conspiring with gravity to lock Inga's body into the classic, back-arching position.  She hovered in the still, humid air about six feet above the abstract, naturalistic mosaic decorating the floor of a tower of Mistress' island estate.

Inga was shielded from the direct sun by the tower's conical roof.  The structure was supported by widely spaced steel columns and the open sides provided a near 360° panorama of the island's central mountains, the surrounding waters, and the estate's other towers, some of which were festooned with satellite dishes, whip antennas, or microwave repeaters.  A squall was building on the eastern horizon, but at the moment not so much as a hint of a breeze stirred the hot, humid air, not even at this height, meaning the height of the tower and Inga's hovering suspension.  Her smooth, tan skin glistened with sweat and the occasional string of drool dripped from the ball-gag imperfectly plugging her mouth to collect in a grouping of dark spots on the mosaic below.

A taut, doubled strand of rope was looped through a D-ring sewn into the back of the gag's strap, and Inga was grateful for its assistance.  Okay, "grateful" was a bit generous, but she was glad her neck muscles alone weren't being asked to support her head.  The rest of her body was cradled by wide, tight bands carefully engineered to evenly support her weight.

In some ways, Inga recognized her current predicament as "simple" Shibari, far less elaborate than the bondage of her first two sessions with her employer.  Her bonds were neat, symmetrical, and elegant, with the suspension points supporting her contorted body with uniform tension and no restriction of her pressure points.  Even without being able to visually examine the final result, Inga was certain her employer had transformed her into a work of art, a study in helpless beauty worthy of a world-class bondage artiste.

Time was another issue.  Inga had been hanging in her employer's open air gallery for hours.  Her muscles were threatening to cramp and even her yoga-trained joints were beginning to file grievances.  "Less is more" was taking on a new and insidious meaning.

And then she appeared, rising like a tan, blond Valkyrie as she rose into Inga's view, climbing the tower's spiral staircase.  Mistress had returned.

Petra Le Roque strolled towards her latest acquisition.  She was dressed in a light, gauze-thin leopard print gown, a queen's ransom in jewelry, and gold-toned sandals.  Petra hesitated to think of Dr. Inga Berg as her slave.  A large number of her employees qualified as slaves in all but legal status, and that included Mercy Dench, her senior executive assistant.  Yes, she thought, Mercy is the Alfred to my Bruce Wayne, the Pepper Potts to my Tony Stark, and she's also my slave... but Inga is not... not yet.  Note to self: see if Gwyneth Paltrow is available for another 'island vacation.'  Dr. Berg definitely had slave potential, but it was premature to think of her as such.  Inga's ultimate position in the La Roque hierarchy and the Sisterhood might be very different.

Petra's smile broadened.  Inga had made absolutely no progress whatsoever in escaping her ropes.  Every strand, hitch, and macramé-like knot was exactly where Petra had placed them.  She knew this from memory and from monitoring Dr. Berg's diligent but ineffectual efforts via the cameras hidden in the rafters.  Exquisite.  Inga's tan, toned body was still tightly clutched in the embrace of her bondage.  Her smooth skin glistened in the still heat and her blue eyes begged for release.  The captive didn't wiggle or moan, but the message was clear.  Inga had had enough.  Her days as a Feisty Damsel and Proud Prisoner were over, and Petra hoped she hadn't taken things too far.

"I have good news," Petra purred as she stood before her prisoner's sad, gagged face.  She reached out and straightened Inga's sweat-dampened bangs before continuing.  "The initial phase of your executive orientation is over.  I'm quite pleased, my dear.  You haven't run with scissors, not once."  She leaned in until her smiling face was inches from Inga's, then slid her right hand along the captive's glistening body, pausing to lightly caress her left breast, gently squeezing the hanging globe of tan flesh, then continued down her flat, taut abdomen to stroke her flushed labia.  "Now we'll see if you play well with others, like a truly good little girl."

Inga glared at her employer and shivered in her bonds.

Excellent.  She isn't broken after all.  Petra continued her slow, gliding caress of Inga's pussy.  "Your resident colleagues in Long Range Development are most anxious to meet you in person.  They've all read your dissertation and are bursting with questions."  She slid her index finger between Inga's labia and continued her massage.  Inga quivered and a mewling moan escaped her gagged mouth, accompanied by a dripping rope of saliva.  "Of course, as junior member of the team you'll start at the bottom, but I'll be very surprised if you aren't one of the leaders in no time... three or four years at most."

Inga continued squirming and her eyes were clenched tightly closed.

"Phase-I of the resort's Pirate Queen's Castle venue is more than 90% complete," Petra said.  It wasn't at all clear whether or not Inga was listening.  "It should be ready for our first guests in about six months. [Author's note: Petra's plans for her private island resort are discussed in the later chapters of The Amazing Amanda.] "The final outfitting will take an additional year, but the guest dungeons, torture chambers, feasting hall, and kitchens are finished.  Finished enough, that is."  She used her right hand to tease Inga's rigid, pointing nipples.  "La Roque International aside, I see a great future for you in this branch of the Sisterhood, Inga; not simply as one of our academic contributors, but as an intellectual leader, working with the best of our technologists, artists, and celebrity personalities.  A great future."

Petra's hands continuing working their magic, and Inga continued to respond.

"There is one final test," Petra whispered in Inga's left ear, "one more hurdle to pass before you can move on.  No matter what I do, do not cum.  If you cum without permission, I'll tear up your report card and you'll begin your orientation all over again, from the very beginning."  She tickled Inga's clitoris and gently tugged on her right nipple.  "Do not cum, Inga."

Inga went rigid in her bonds.  She was trying her best not to quiver and cum... trying her best.  The ordeal continued, and Inga began panting and whining softly through her gag with every breath.

"Good girl," Petra whispered, continuing to frig Inga's pussy.  "And now... you may cum."

Inga's whines rose in crescendo and she writhed and convulsed in her bonds, in the throes of an obvious, crashing orgasm.

"Isn't that cute," Petra chuckled.  "Did you know you squirt when you cum?"  She kissed the tip of Inga's button nose.  "Just a little.  Very cute."  She then turned and strolled towards the spiral staircase.  "Welcome to the ranks of La Roque International's Special Projects Division, Doctor.  Career Development personnel will arrive an hour before sundown to prepare you for dinner.  I have an interesting salon planned, a distinguished group of artists and authors who are most anxious to meet you.  Excellent food, fine wine, and sparkling conversation, followed by an evening of celebratory sex, of course."  She paused on the first step to smile at the still panting and sweating captive.  "Hmmm... no clothing... and golden chains, I think.  No clothing for the rest of the week, Doctor.  After that—"  She started down the stairs.  "We'll see."

Petra paused again, when only her head and shoulders were visible from Inga's hovering perspective of her rope cradle.  "Oh, and call Kimberly Pappas tomorrow, please.  She's been pestering me incessantly, demanding to know what I've been doing to her 'favorite student.'  And I don't think it was purient interest.  Anyway, call her."

Inga smiled behind her gag.  That's sweet.  Petra continued down the stairs and soon was gone... and Inga was alone... helpless and hanging in Mistress' inescapable ropes.  I wonder how soon Mistress will let me invite Kim out to the island for a 'consulting visit?'

The wind ahead of the approaching squall had arrived in the form of a gentle breeze and Inga sighed through her gag.  Her new job was a nightmare—and everything she'd ever hoped it would be.

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Chapter 12

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