| by Van ©2012
never find your body," Clem promised. "I haven't decided
between a steel drum dropped in the ocean or a shallow grave out
in the boonies, but they'll never find your body."
"Seventeen type-B desks, all intact," Gwen responded, "and
you've already told me all that, like a gazillion
times. I'm terrified." Obviously, the grinning
redhead was not terrified.
Clem tapped the iPad's touch-screen, entering the inventory
data. "But first—"
"I know, I know!" Gwen interrupted. "I'll suffer the
tortures of the damned. You'll tie me up so tight I won't
be able to squirm, tickle my feet, spank my butt, dye my hair
lime green, day-glow orange, or half-and-half. One medium
table and a lectern, both intact."
Clem added the new information and the BFFs turned to the back
of the classroom.
"Two more medium tables, intact, and two straight chairs, also
intact," Gwen counted. "All I did was tie you to a
chair. I don't know why you're making such a Federal Case
out of it. And I already said you can take your revenge
whenever you want."
"That's it for this floor," Clem said, tapping the iPad, "except
for that storeroom. Maybe I'll tie you to a tree, miles
and miles from nowhere, pour a gallon of honey over your naked
body, and let the ants and bears eat you."
"Whatever," Gwen said, still smiling. The girls left the
classroom. Gwen locked the door, then slapped a sticker on
the plastic room number sign designating its status as already
having been inventoried.
They were three days into the task of tabulating the furniture
in Nicholson Hall's classrooms and other spaces. Campus
Housing had kicked them out of their old room. The entire
dorm was scheduled for industrial cleaning and repainting before
the start of the next academic year; however, they'd been
assigned one of the tiny bungalows in what was jokingly called
the Grad Student Ghetto. It was a small neighborhood next
to the main campus of townhouse-like buildings comprised of
one-bedroom and studio apartments. They were normally
reserved for grad students and visiting faculty, but this time
of year there was room for a pair of undergrads, especially
since the Salamandras Corporation would be paying their rent at
the premium contractor rate.
"Tell me again, what are we supposed to do in the storerooms?"
Gwen asked as they walked down the hall to the space in
question. "I forget."
Clem rolled her eyes. "We count any furniture, including
built-in shelves, note the presence of books and other items
that might require the attention of a librarian or a curator
from one of the campus museums, etc."
Clem grinned. "It's Latin for—"
"I know what it means!" Gwen huffed. They'd reached the
storeroom door and she was turning a key in the lock. "In
the case of 'other items' what does it mean?"
Clem sighed. "We open any boxes or cases and look
inside. We put anything like old cleaning supplies or
obvious trash out in the hallway for disposal, and everything
else is left in situ."
"More Latin," Gwen noted as she opened the door. The space
beyond was more walk-in closet than storeroom. Gwen
clicked on the overhead light. There were a few dozen very
old, very dusty books scattered in stacks on built-in
shelves. The only other thing present was a single
cardboard box. It was not sealed, but the top flaps where
interlaced to keep it closed.
"These look like old texts," Clem said, nodding at the nearest
stack of books, "like from when Truman was President. I'll
flag them for the Librarians."
Meanwhile, Gwen had opened the box. "Oh my!" she gasped.
"What?" Clem asked as she tapped the iPad.
Gwen held up what was unmistakably a straitjacket!
Clem blinked in surprise. "Oh my, indeed," she agreed.
The jacket was heavy-duty, natural canvas reinforced with tan
leather, and was what the average person would classify as a
"basic" or "typical" straightjacket. It closed in the back
by means of five leather straps and steel roller-buckles.
Then, the hypothetical wearer's arms would be folded across her
chest and the straps at the ends of the leather-reinforced
closed sleeves buckled together behind her back. Finally,
the leather crotch-strap dangling from the front would be
buckled, also in the back, to prevent her from somehow lifting
the closed jacket over her head.
"What does that say?" Clem asked, pointing at the slip of folded
paper that had fluttered to the floor when Gwen lifted the
Gwen stooped and retrieved the note. "May be worn with or
without clothing," she read, then frowned at her roommate.
"Huh? Written instructions about what clothes to wear?"
Clem nodded at the box. "There's something else."
The bottom half of the box was occupied by a folded something
of black leather with many small, shiny steel buckles, and there
was another note.
Clem lifted the note and read. Her frown returned.
"Well?" Gwen demanded after a few seconds.
Clem focused on her BFF, then her eyes went back to the
note. "Wearer must be completely nude. For best fit,
buckle upper-arm strap behind back after buckling
sleeves. 'After' is underlined." She dropped the
canvas straitjacket, then picked up the leather object. "Double
wow!" she gasped.
It was another straitjacket, or more correctly, a bolero
straitjacket, a restraining garment with a very high waist,
closed sleeves, and a number of dangling straps and rattling
buckles at various locations.
Clem smiled as she stared at the garment. "Your boobs will
be totally exposed, and there's no crotch strap. Catch."
"My boobs?" Gwen gasped as she caught the jacket.
"I'm certainly not gonna let you put me in that thing,"
Clem chuckled. "You can't be trusted. You proved
that our last night in the dorm."
"But..." Gwen was blushing. The buckles continued
rattling as she turned the jacket and examined its gleaming,
slightly pebbled finish and the heavy-duty, riveted attachment
points of the straps. "I can't wear this. Uh, it
isn't ours." She focused on the cardboard box. "The
shipping label says 'Drama Department,' although it seems to be
from a publisher, not a kinky fashion house. I think it's
an old box somebody reused. Anyway, we should take it over
there and let them sort it out."
"No," Clem corrected, "we should take it up to the Room of
Requirement, and we shouldn't log it in until after we
finish the rest of the inventory."
"No buts," Clem decreed. "Up it goes, and as this
completes the floor, we're done for the day."
Gwen was still blushing, but now a ghost of a smile was curling
her lips. "I suppose." She folded the jackets and
both notes, returned them to the box, then closed the flaps and
lifted it into her arms. "Ready," she announced.
They exited the storeroom, locked the door, then strolled
towards the main stairway.
|Oh, the Humanities!
some stupid, anonymous note says I have to be naked," Gwen
muttered, "that doesn't mean I have to be naked." The
girls were in the Room of Requirement (a.k.a. ATTIC 3B NORTH,
Nicholson Hall) and Gwen was holding the black leather
bolero-straitjacket at arms length. The canvas
straitjacket remained neatly folded in the box.
Clem smiled. "When the gods give you a gift, don't thumb
your nose at the written instructions. Besides, you know
you want to."
Gwen favored her friend with a dimpled smirk. "Yeah, I
do. Catch." She tossed the jacket to Clem, then
unzipped her hoodie.
Clem caught the straitjacket and watched her BFF disrobe.
Soon, Gwen's hoodie, the underlying T-shirt, as well as her
jeans, bra, and panties were folded and in a neat stack on the
floor next to her sneakers. The smiling redhead was
completely nude, as per the written instructions of "the gods."
Gwen stretched, turned in a slow pirouette, then struck a coy
pose and smiled at Clem. "Ready."
Clem didn't waste any time. She held the jacket so Gwen
could slide her hands and arms into the sleeves. Once
enough of the garment was draped over Gwen's arms and shoulders
that it wouldn't fall off, Clem started tugging on the leather
of the sleeves, eliminating every crease and fold that she
Soon, Gwen's fingertips touched the closed ends of the sleeves
and could go no further. "This thing is tight," she noted.
"It seems to be your size, more or less," Clem shrugged, "but if
you think it's tight now..." She buckled a pair of
cuff-like straps around Gwen's wrists, then stepped behind her
BFF, zipped the jacket's heavy-duty zipper closed, then started
buckling the straps in back. There were three horizontal
straps evenly spaced from just above Gwen's shoulder blades to
just above the jacket's lower hem at mid-torso. A fourth
strap secured what was more-or-less a wide, well-padded collar
integrated into the jacket. She secured a much more
complicated fifth strap as well. It was a chest harness
and buckled to the collar in front, dangled between Gwen's
breasts, then snaked around her upper body (just under her
boobs), and was buckled together in back.
"Okay, cross your arms," Clem ordered. Gwen complied,
crossing her leather-sheathed arms under her breasts. Clem
gathered the straps dangling from the ends of the sleeves,
threaded the buckle, and pulled out the slack. "See what I
"Yes, it's tight, genius," Gwen muttered. "Hey!"
Clem had tightened the sleeve-ends strap even further and
secured the buckle. She then went over each and every
buckle, except for the collar, tightening the straps as far as
they would go. "This is mean," Gwen complained. Smack!
Clem had delivered a businesslike slap to Gwen's left
butt cheek. "What part of epic revenge has you confused?"
she purred. She spun her captive around and secured yet
another strap. It was part of the chest harness and
tightened around Gwen's crossed, leather-encased forearms.
Clem then released the buckle that secured the chest harness to
the collar and tightened it as well.
"Are you quite finished?" Gwen huffed.
"There's still the upper-arm strap," Clem chuckled. "It's
mentioned in the note, remember?"
"Oh," Gwen sighed. "That's right."
Clem spun Gwen around, again, threaded the upper-arm strap
buckle, and tugged it tight.
"Wow!" Gwen gasped. "You were right, this thing is way
Clem took two steps back and smiled. "Give us a nice slow
turn," she purred. "Let's see how you look."
Gwen favored her gloating captor with a withering stare that
almost, but not quite, disguised the wicked smile struggling to
curl her lips. Her red hair a tousled mass, tightly
strapped in the black leather jacket, and naked from her narrow
waist to her bare feet, Gwen slowly shuffled in a slow
pirouette, then struck a coy pose, pointing her right
foot. "You'll never get away with this," she said.
"Superman will save me."
Gwen shrugged, or maybe she was giving the straitjacket a
halfhearted test. "Batman? Spiderman?" Her
eyes popped wide. "Ooo! James Bond!"
"Daniel Craig, of course," Gwen answered.
"Of course," Clem chuckled. They'd moved Gwen's duffel
bags of "hobby supplies" up to the Room of Requirement, the big
duffel with the bulk of her rope collection and the small
duffel. Clem reached down, unzipped the side pocket of the
small duffel, and pulled out the black rubber and black leather
"You aren't going to gag me, are you?" Gwen whined, batting her
eyes for effect.
"Oh, please," Clem muttered, rolling her eyes. "That's
terrible. You call yourself an actress?"
"I am an actress," Gwen huffed. "M'mmpfh!"
The ball was in her mouth and Clem was buckling the strap at the
nape of her neck, under her hair. "Nrrf!" Her Cruel
Kidnapper had tightened the strap until her cheeks bulged, then
buckled the chinstrap as well, pulling it extra
tight.. She watched as Clem opened the big duffel bag's
main compartment and produced one of her longest coils of cotton
A smile on her lips, Clem released the coil, threaded one end
through the D-ring in the front of Gwen's straitjacket collar,
tied a tight knot, then took a few steps back and tied the other
end around one of the attic support posts. "There, now you
have a little room to wander around." She pointed at the
futon cushion on the floor. "You can roll around and get
comfortable." She nodded towards the stairs. "But not
Gwen rolled her shoulders and twisted at the waist. This
time it was an overt test of the jacket, a contest Gwen abjectly
"You look so cute like that," Clem sighed. She gathered
Gwen's folded clothes, placed them in the small duffel, zipped
it closed, then tossed it next to the large duffel. Both
were well beyond the reach of Gwen's tether, even if she
stretched out with one leg. "Now," Clem said, smiling at
her captive. "I'm going to the Sac for dinner. When
I get back, I'm going to lash your ankles to one of these posts,
chair height, and tickle your feet. Won't that be fun?"
Gwen's green eyes were wide with horror. "Nrrf!"
"I take it back," Clem chuckled as she walked to the
stairs. "You are an actress."
Gwen watched Clem bounce down the stairs. She heard the
deadbolt turn, the door open and close, and the deadbolt being
locked. She was alone in the Room of Requirement.
Early evening light was still leaking past the closed slats of
the attic windows, but the strings of purple icicle lights were
glowing overhead. When night had fully fallen they would
be the only illumination.
Is she really gonna tickle me? Gwen wondered
(worried). She was strapped in a cruel jacket, virtually
naked, gagged, tethered in place (with considerable slack), and
no one knew she was here but her captor! A shudder rippled
through her crotch. I'm a damsel in distress!
Clem's gonna take her revenge and I'm a real damsel in
distress! Gwen struggled against the jacket,
twisting and fighting the tight leather for all she was
Gwen sat on the futon cushion and settled in to wait. The skin
of her naked butt felt strange against the cotton fabric. The
game is at a new level, she realized.
|Oh, the Humanities!
of the Steam Tunnels approached one of the entrances to her
domain. It was a solid steel door at the foot of a set of
concrete steps, one of several such nondescript portals
scattered around the campus, usually tucked against the base of
one of the buildings or a utility structure and screened by
landscaping. The doors led to a veritable maze of narrow,
concrete-walled, subterranean passageways linking the University
buildings. They were commonly referred to as "the steam
tunnels," even though the last of the campus buildings had been
retrofitted with forced-air heat-pumps years ago and the pipes
that formerly distributed steam from the central heating plant
had been removed, as had the steam plant itself. The
tunnels were now given over to plumbing mains and power and
fiber-optic cable conduits. There was no steam.
The Phantom unlocked the door, eased it open and stepped
through, then pulled it closed and turned the lock. She
then paused for several seconds to listen. The tunnels
were only used by campus maintenance personnel to inspect or
repair the cable runs, and only on a very infrequent
basis. At least, that was the official story.
On occasion, roving bands of heavily armed and armored students
(nerds) wandered the tunnels questing for treasure and battling
orcs, goblins, lizard men, huge spiders, giant ants, giant
giants, etc. Either that or they LARPed (Live Action Role
Played), whacking on each other with their "fearsome
weapons." The steam tunnels were perfect for such
activities—dark, dirty and forbidden—a veritable Mines of Moria
(if you ignored the clutter of pipes, the widely spaced electric
lights, and the total lack of Dwarvish architectural
detail). However, such incursions were increasingly rare,
not that they were ever that common. The rise of MMORPGs
(Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games) mirrored a
decline in nerd invasions.
That left only—The Phantom of the Steam Tunnels!
Dressed all in black from head to toe, the Phantom had made the
claustrophobic, dark, underground labyrinth her own.
It started as simple exploration with a flashlight, a set of old
blueprints "borrowed" from the library, and a master key
"borrowed" from the Maintenance office. The key had let
her into the tunnels and allowed her to explore, but she found
it didn't fit every door in the maze—most, but not all.
Tracking down the missing keys and making the entire network and
all its chambers her own had taken time, but now the Phantom
knew the maze by heart and had a full set of working keys,
masters duplicated on the key grinding machine of her uncle's
hardware store in her home town.
The Phantom made her way to her Secret Lair. As always,
she was very careful, treading lightly with her soft
sneaker-boots and disturbing the dirt on the floor as little as
possible. And all the while she scanned for footprints
made by others. Above all, she continued to listen.
At least for the moment and in this part of the tunnels, the
Phantom was alone—or rather—none disturbed the Phantom's
Her Lair was actually the subbasement of the former steam
plant. The above-ground structure had been razed, paved
over, and made part of a park and mini-quad during a campus
expansion. As they walked the sidewalks on their way to
and from class, or relaxed on the concrete benches built into
the bases of the various raised planting beds, none of the
students even suspected the existence of the dark and supposedly
abandoned chambers far below.
Even Maintenance was unaware. The phantom had hacked their
database and altered the records. As far as the University
was concerned, beyond the heavy steel door she was about to
unlock was nothing but solid rubble and fill dirt. The
Phantom had even replaced the lock so that now only she had a
The Phantom inserted said key, turned the well-oiled lock,
opened the thick steel portal on its well-oiled hinges, and
crossed the threshold. She then eased the door closed
behind her and turned the deadbolt, took two steps forward into
the total darkness, a motion sensor activated nightlight winked
on, and she had sufficient light to insert the key in a second
heavy steel door at the end of a short hallway.
Beyond the second door was The Lair Proper.
She'd tried for the classic Phantom of the Opera
ambiance, and in her opinion had largely succeeded. She
might not have the vast storerooms of the Opéra de Paris from which to loot decorations,
but she had been able to satisfy most of her needs by
"borrowing" old props from the University Drama
Department. Local thrift stores had provided the rest.
Now, the depths of the former steam plant were illuminated by
various scarf-draped lamps and a damaged crystal chandelier
rewired for LED bulbs, as well as dangling strings of LED
Christmas lights. Swaths of fabric served as tapestries
and drapes, and a scattering of Victorian chairs and a
threadbare couch provided seating.
There was also... The Phantom's Repose, an old king-size
mattress and heaps of pillows and bolsters, all covered with
satin bedsheets and pillowcases in various deep colors.
And across the Lair was... The Phantom's Laboratory. A
large worktable that separated into small sections (otherwise
she wouldn't have been able to get it down here) was laden with
racks of old chemistry glassware filled with colored liquids and
tastefully lit from below, as well as old desktop computers,
some from the 1980s. The glassware was entirely for show,
but she'd repaired and/or rewired most of the computers.
Their flickering screens showed slideshows of weird diagrams of
strange devices and lines of scrolling text, adding a retro
Sci-Fi element to the Shabby Victorian decor. There was
also a modern laptop on the table, and it was fully functional.
The Phantom settled into a chair at the table, tapped the
laptop's keys, and navigated a menu. The screen flashed to
display a slightly grainy view of a dark room with a wooden
floor and unfinished walls. It was clear the camera was
positioned up among the room's exposed rafters and was focused
on an old futon cushion on the floor. And reclined on that
A sinister smile curled the Phantom's lips. Her carefully
prepared trap had snared a pretty, red-haired butterfly.
She stepped to a wheeled rack of clothing, removed its black
dust cover, and began changing from her usual black
sneaker-boots, black jeans, black top, and black hoodie, and
into her actual Phantom costume.
"Tonight is the night," she chuckled to herself.
|Oh, the Humanities!
squirmed in the tight, inescapable bolero-jacket and moaned
softly through her gag. She'd been trying to take a nap on
the futon cushion for the last hour, but was too excited.
Clem's gonna take her revenge! And there's absolutely
nothing I can do to stop her! Adding titillation to
"terror," being completely naked—not counting the spectacularly
serendipitous and wonderful find that was the "horrible"
jacket—was supremely naughty!
Gwen sighed through her gag. The situation was
absolutely... squiggly. "Squiggles" was Gwen's
private term for the tiny thrills of anticipation that sometimes
tickled their way across the nerve endings of some of her favorite
Suddenly, Gwen heard the sound of the door at the bottom of the
steps being unlocked—and the pussy-squiggling shifted into
Slow, deliberate footsteps sounded on the wooden steps...
Tap, tap, tap... And a strange, bizarre figure
ascended into view.
Gwen's eyes popped wide. Clem changed into a kinky
costume! And now things are getting really
Her roomie was wearing black leather knee-boots, a skintight,
black leather catsuit, black gloves, and a black cloth and
leather mask and hood! The catsuit's various leather
panels were laced and buckled tight, compressing the garment to
her body. It reminded Gwen of the outfit Kate Beckinsale
had worn—meaning had been poured into—in the last Underworld
When did she buy that thing? Gwen wondered. And
where did she buy it?
And then there was the mask. Clem's head was completely
covered by the cloth hood, and her face hidden behind a full
mask sculpted in the visage of a beautiful woman, something very
much like a Venetian carnivale mask.
Hips swinging gracefully, her decidedly kinky costume emitting
quiet squeaks and squeals as she walked, Clem slowly approached
The Prisoner of the Futon. Tap, tap, tap...
Then, she stood, gloved hands on leather-clad hips, and stared
down at Gwen through the beautiful, expressionless (and
therefore sinister) mask.
Gwen's heart was pounding. Clem looked sooooo sexy
like that, all dangerous and domineering and in charge!
Her gorgeous blue eyes gazed down at Gwen and—
Gwen froze in genuine terror! Blue eyes!
And it wasn't a trick of the purple lighting! And no
glasses! The kinky figure was a stranger!
Whoever this sexy vision in gleaming black leather might be—SHE
|Oh, the Humanities!