by Van ©2012
Chapter 11

TWO VERY FULL DAYS AFTER
"THE GREAT SKYSCRAPER RESCUE"
AT THE FBI NEW YORK FIELD OFFICE

---

Jane, Kate, and Olivia were very tired of going over what little they could remember of what had happened.  They'd been repeatedly interviewed (meaning politely interrogated) by various Agents and FBI shrinks, not to mention being poked and prodded by doctors who repeatedly demanded blood, saliva, and urine samples.  That didn't mean they hadn't been treated well, of course.  Underwear and changes of clothing were provided so the forensics lab could go over their original clothing, and the clothing provided was actually stylish and of high quality, but Kate demanded and received a promise her leather Armani jacket would be returned undamaged.  Also, meals had been regular and quite excellent and the sleeping facilities were comfortable.

That said, they were beginning to feel like lab animals and it was getting old.

They'd seen little of each other since the rescue and nothing of Executive Assistant Director Scully, but the three were together now, gathered in an executive conference room of some sort.  It was not one of the interrogation rooms in which they'd spent too many hours of the last two days.  There were no cameras mounted in the corners or one-way mirror-walls "concealing" unknown observers.  Nor was it a "relaxing" psychiatric interview space with overstuffed chairs and "soothing" generic art.  There was a long table surrounded by a dozen executive chairs.  A lectern at one end stood in front of a white-board and was flanked by a pair of huge, flat-screen TV/computer monitors.  The fabric-covered walls bore the seals of the FBI, DHS, and DoJ.  Old Glory and the flags of those same agencies stood in stands against the opposite wall.  A dozen water glasses and a dozen saucers with inverted coffee cups, carafes of hot coffee, bottles of water, and tiny bins holding packets of sugar, various brands of artificial sweeteners, creamer, and plastic stir-sticks formed a neat row down the middle of the table.

Jane poured herself a cup of coffee, then took a sip.  "I swear, if they don't let us out of here soon—"

Suddenly, the conference room opened and Dana entered.  "Very soon, I promise."  The others started to stand, but settled back when she waved a dismissive hand and sat in a chair.  Obviously, she had heard Jane's complaint.  She was dressed in one of her power suits (with skirt) and was carrying a file folder with a cover-sheet designating some sort of classification.  The others were in boots and pants suits, ready to return to work—if only the powers-that-be would release them.  And speaking of the powers-that-be...

"The Bureau will send med-techs to take blood samples once a week for the next month," Dana announced, "but you're all cleared to return to duty as soon as I finish this briefing."

"About time," Jane huffed, eliciting a smile from the others.

"By the way," Dana continued, "about the time we all arrived here, a courier delivered a package with our sidearms and everything else that was missing, except for our underwear."

Jane, Kate, and Olivia digested this information.  "I don't suppose—" Kate ventured.

"No such luck," Dana interrupted with a head shake.  "The delivery was another dead end.  The courier service was a cutout.  The weapons have been thoroughly examined and test fired.  Nothing of forensic value was found.  The same with the clips, ammunition, holsters, and handcuffs."

"So, all we're out is a change of undies," Jane muttered.

"And someone has added ours to their collection," Kate added.  "That's not at all creepy."

"Not at all," Olivia agreed.  The exchange was an exercise in sarcasm, of course.

Dana smiled and nodded.  "You can keep what you have on, courtesy of the Bureau."

"That's something, anyway," Jane sighed, then managed a sheepish smile.  "Sorry, I'm anxious to get back to work and catch Rupie-what's-her-name."

"Rupandra," Kate and Olivia said in unison.  That name was one they all remembered or had heard repeatedly during their questioning.

Dana cleared her throat.  "Ahem, now..."  She opened the folder, withdrew two printed forms, and slid them across the table to Jane and Kate.

"Nondisclosure forms?" Jane demanded.  "Really?"

Dana nodded with an apologetic smile, then focused on Olivia.  "You're cleared for this, Agent Dunham."  Olivia nodded.  Meanwhile, Dana had pulled a writing pen from her jacket pocket and passed it across to Jane.  "What I'm about to tell you is covered by—"

"Section whatever of Federal Statute blah-blah-blah on penalty of yadda-yadda-yadda," Jane interrupted, clicked the pen, and signed her form, then handed the pen to Kate and the form to Dana.  "Anything to get us out of here."

Kate smiled as she signed her form, then slid the pen and form to Dana.  "Amen to that."

Dana slid the forms into the folder and pocketed her pen.  "I head a division of the Bureau that deals with highly unusual cases," she said.  "Agent Dunham is one of my best operatives."

"Unusual in what way?" Kate inquired.

Dana smiled.  "Let's just say cases in which advanced technology or science seems to be a significant factor."

"Industrial espionage?" Kate suggested.

Dana shook her head.  "Not necessarily.  Cases in which advanced technology or science are being used to perpetrate a crime.  Also, cases in which elements of the crime would seem to suggest unusual talents or powers on the part of the perpetrators."

"Nothing vague about that," Jane muttered, then her eyes widened and she sat up straight in her chair.  "You're the 'Men in Black!'" she gasped.

"My money was on the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense," Kate chuckled, then focused on Jane's blank stare.  "Hellboy?  Don't you read comics or go to the movies?"

"Anyway," Dana continued.  "Rupandra has been apprehended.  I'm afraid I can't go into the details.  International organizations are involved, and I'm not free to divulge the details.  However, I can assure you that justice has been served.  Rupandra will pay for her crimes and an international victims' rights agency is compensating her victims for any losses.  As law enforcement professionals, I'm afraid you can't accept any gifts or gratuities; however, the Bureau has decided to make a minor exception in this case."  She reached into the folder and produced three small envelopes which she distributed to Jane, Kate, and Olivia.  "Courtesy of the international agency I mentioned."

Jane opened her envelope and pulled out a plastic card.  "A five-hundred dollar gift card to Victoria's Secret?" she demanded.  "Really?"

"Somebody has a sense of humor," Kate muttered, and Olivia nodded in agreement.

"You have no idea," Dana chuckled.  "And speaking of our collective amnesia, the best-and-brightest of the Bureau are baffled.  There are very minor abnormalities in our blood chemistry, none of which are consistent with any know drug or pathology.  That's the reason for the taking of more blood samples.  I know it's inconvenient, but I assure you it's necessary."  Dana indicated the inside elbow of her own left arm with her right hand.  "I'll be contributing to the research effort as well."  She focused on Kate.  "Your file is being forwarded to Dr. Burke, and he's been asked to contribute to our efforts."

Kate nodded.  Burke was the NYPD psychiatrist who had counseled her after her shooting.  Kate still confided in him from time to time.

Dana shifted her smile to Jane.

"I'm not getting my head shrunk," Jane huffed.

"We've asked Dr. Isles to talk to you about that," Dana responded.  "She's a brilliant scientist and your friend."

"That's hitting below the belt," Jane growled.  She knew Maura would pester her until she agreed to talk to a psychiatrist—but then, Maura probably knew someone who wasn't half bad.

Dana shifted her gaze to Olivia.  "You'll be working with a Dr. Sweets from D.C."

Olivia nodded.  She knew better than to press the issue.

"I know none of this constitutes full closure," Dana admitted, "but it's the best I can do.  I give you my word Rupandra is no longer a threat to the public."

Jane very much wanted to know what had happened to her—to them—but at the same time, in the back of her mind, she was convinced that nothing good would come of pressing the issue.  A delicate shudder rippled up her spine and her stomach twinged, ever so slightly.  Whatever had happened to them had been bad, and not something it was healthy to dwell upon.  It wasn't like Jane to take the easy way out on a case, but Dana said Rupandra had been handled, and Dana could be trusted.  Jane decided to let it drop—unless something new developed, of course.  As far as she could tell, the others were having similar thoughts.

"Now," Dana continued, "it's late in the day, very late in the day, actually.  I'd like to invite you all for a steak dinner, my treat."  She smiled at Kate.  "Afterwards, you're free to go home.  I've spoken with your Captain Gates, thanking her for her cooperation and for yours."  She focused on Jane.  "As for you, one more night as our guest, then Olivia will give you a ride to Boston in the morning."

"I'm based out of Cambridge," Olivia explained.

"I've also spoken with your Lieutenant Cavanaugh," Dana added, "citing your indispensable help in resolving this case."

Jane managed a rueful smile.  "I owe you big, Assistant Director."

"Nonsense," Dana laughed.  "Cavanaugh sounds like a reasonable person."

"He is," Jane admitted, "but he'll still give me grief."

"All right then," Dana said.  She rose from her chair and the others did as well.  "It's time we put all this behind us, as best we can, and get back to work.  I'm sure my in-basket back in Washington is overflowing."

AT ROUGHLY THE SAME TIME,
IN A SECURE LAB OF THE
NORTH AMERICAN SANCTUARY

---

Helen was exhausted.  She was also thoroughly satiated... on a sexual level.  That last part was something she'd vehemently deny, of course; but it was true, nonetheless.  At the moment, denial of anything was impossible, verbal denial, anyway.  The panel-gag—with its mouth-filling plug, wide, mouth-covering strip of stretched rubber, leather main strap and secondary chinstrap—was performing its intended function.

Helen was also tied up.   Rupandra's order of conditioned jute rope had been delivered via the small airlock used to transfer meals and supplies into the sealed lab and bring out scientific samples.  Accompanying the several neat coils of rope had been an open cardboard box of various steel brackets, clamps, and shackles, standard Sanctuary hardware used to suspend and mount lab equipment from the tracks and hard-points in the lab ceiling.  The added appearance of the box was either Henry being "helpful" (and thereby adding another black mark to his charge sheet) or, like the rope, in answer to one of Rupandra's earlier requests made while Helen was still unconscious.  In any case, the rope and hardware had been used to demonstrate Rupandra's expertise in nawa shibari, with Helen's "cooperation," of course.

Again, Rupandra had used her "scent-of-terror" to render Helen unconscious.  When once again she became aware of her surroundings, she was free of the leather cuffs and straps of the examining table but bound with a generous portion of the newly arrived rope.  She was still gagged (as previously mentioned) and naked, but now she was suspended from the ceiling.

Helen's arms were folded behind her back with her wrists, torso, and upper arms bound in a tight, symmetrical, and very elaborate box-tie.  With regard to her arms and hands, it wasn't a full reverse-prayer, but her forearms were not parallel.  A vertical series of lift-hitches linked the back of the box-tie to a steel shackle clamped to a track in the ceiling.  The excess rope was neatly wrapped around the vertical strands, many, many times, then tied off with a complex, flower-like hitch.  Additional lengths of rope banded her waist, lower thighs, and upper thighs, then passed back and forth between her body and more overhead lashing points.

Basically, with the exception of her no longer outstretched arms, she was in the same semi-reclined pose as when she'd been on the examining table, with her knees bent and legs splayed.  All of the many elements of the suspension were elegant and complex, but none were identical in detail.  Helen had to admit Rupandra had made her a semi-symmetrical and aesthetically pleasing work-of-art—not that she was happy about it, of course.  Also, and this was no minor detail, her body was still completely available to satisfy Rupandra's continuing need to feed her aura and there was absolutely nothing Helen could do to stop her.

And speaking of feeding...

Dangling and helpless in her web of conditioned jute, Helen had wiggled, writhed, thrashed, and shivered through several sessions of pussy licking and probing.  There had also been nipple teasing and toe sucking.  The threatened substitute nipple clamps—forceps and hemostats—hadn't yet been deployed; however, Rupandra had whipped up a clear, oily, edible fluid from bacterial culture medium, dissolved sugar, and a couple of packets of Ranch salad dressing delivered with one of the meals, and had used it to coat most if not all of Helen's body.  She then proceeded to lick it off—some of it, anyway.  Helen still glistened like she'd been dipped in oil.

On the scientific front, Helen was unable to carry out any of the tests she'd hoped to perform (to say the least); however, Rupandra was drawing samples of her own blood at regular intervals, labeling the vials, and placing them in a lab refrigerator, displaying some degree of medical training.  The lab's ventilation system was automatically taking periodic air samples and Helen would have the video recordings from the cameras covering Rupandra's activities (and her ordeal), so at least with regards to data collection the debacle wasn't a total loss.

Further evidence of Rupandra's medical training took the form of two enemas Rupandra administered to her "patient," one while Helen was still on the examining table and the second after her rope suspension.  Rupandra's preparations, execution, and follow-through had been clinical and sanitary in every way, but Helen chose not to dwell on the physiologically necessary but highly embarrassing and humiliating procedures.  Granted, there had been some gratuitous touching and giggling before, during, and after each cleansing, but Rupandra's technique had been flawless.

And speaking of giggling...

The mood swings Irena had warned Helen about were beginning to manifest.  During one bout of feeding—with Rupandra licking and sucking Helen's pussy in the same old way, and Helen struggling, writhing and mewling in the same old way—Rupandra had suddenly starting giggling, uncontrollably.  Her eyes wide and leaking tears, she twittered and laughed, pausing now and then to lick Helen's labia, squeeze her captive's bulging, shining, rope-framed breasts, and tweak her erect nipples.

Another time, Rupandra had arisen from a catnap, rolled off the patient bed, and sauntered towards Helen with slow, deliberate, steps—her hair a tousled mass, a disturbingly feral expression on her beautiful, wild, sweating face, and her perfect, nude body moving with the grace of a dancer... or a stalking jungle cat.  Without a word, she began tickling Helen's ribs, what she could reach of them between the many rope bands of her bondage.  Helen thrashed, squirmed, and mewled through her gag in response.  Helen's thighs and feet were next, and they had no protection.  The leering Incufumara's fingers and nails danced and delicately scratched Helen's skin for something like fifteen minutes while she fought her bonds with increasing desperation.  Apparently, her aura-draining touch could also be used for tickling.  Helen duly noted the new data, but very much wished it could have been collected in some other manner.

Finally, Rupandra licked Helen's flushed, sweat-glistening breasts, stomach, and thighs, then fed upon her aura, teasing her labia with her lips and tongue.  As Rupandra fed—whenever Rupandra fed—Helen's mind exploded with pleasure.  Even as she struggled to escape her bondage and twist her body away from her "tormentor," Helen surrendered to the erotic aspect of her predicament.

To use an old American expression, "this wasn't Helen's first rodeo."  Aside from Lisbon—the scene of her decades-in-the-past ravishment at the fingers, lips, and tongue of Irena—Helen had been captured and ravished at other times in the course of her Sanctuary duties.  For example:  (1) She'd been ravished by an amorous chupacabra.  (2) She'd been cocooned in the slime of a frogman (a literal frogman) and ravished.  (3) She'd been held prisoner (and ravished) by a Hungarian scientist who was attempting to interbreed various abnormals and create super-soldiers.

The Sanctuary archives bulged with instances of Helen Magnus experiencing peril and distress.  She'd been doused until she was soaking wet and miserable, stripped of all or part of her clothing, knocked around like a prizefighter, usually giving as good as she received, or had been captured and bound in some manner—or combinations thereof.  And, on rare occasion, she'd been ravished.  Her youthful, Victorian self would have been mortified and appalled, of course, but the Vampiric serum she had allowed to be injected into her veins in the interests of science, all those many long years ago, had given her unusual physical strength, lightning-quick reflexes, an uncanny ability to heal, and the strength of character to persevere—although those that knew her well and whose opinions she respected maintained her character had always been strong. 

Anyway, that was then.  This was now.

The chupacabra was her guest in one of the containment environments.  They played chess now and then.  The frogman had returned to the headwaters of the Amazon, to his kind.  Every few years he sent her cards with heartbreaking romantic poems lamenting how beautiful their tadpoles would have been.  The Hungarian was long dead.  His super-soldier hybrids had been short lived, but had helped defeat the Nazis before they passed.  And Helen Magnus persevered.  She had important work to accomplish, and soon—and it couldn't be too soon—she would get back to it.

Still and all—when Rupandra fed upon her aura, it felt good!

At the moment, Rupandra was asleep on the patient bed and Helen was hanging in her bonds; bound, gagged, and exhausted.  To use another old American expression, Helen had been "rode hard and put away wet."  She closed her eyes—rested the back of her head against the web of single strands Rupandra had tied, for that very purpose, between the vertical ropes suspending her upper body—and tried to join her "guest" in slumber.

Helen opened her eyes and twisted her bound body, fighting the ropes holding her captive.  Quickly, she remembered where she was and why she was a bound, gagged, and suspended prisoner, and stopped moving.  Her body swayed for a few seconds, then was still.  She focused on the patient bed and found Rupandra staring back at her.  The redhead was curled in a loose ball on her side.  Her eyes were wet and she was softly keening.  It was that sound that had roused Helen from her much needed sleep.  Rupandra was crying.

Another mood swing, Helen realized, and it looks serious.

"Oh, Helen!" Rupandra wailed.  "Everything has gone wrong!"  She rolled off the bed, rushed to Helen, embraced her bound body from the left side, rested her head against Helen's breasts, and sobbed.

Helen didn't know what to do.  Of course, and perhaps thankfully, there was nothing she could do.  She hung in her bonds and gazed at the back of Rupandra's head.  The Incufumara's clutching hands tingled against her skin, as did her captor's breasts where they were pressed against her left arm and side.  It was similar to the sensation when Rupandra fed, not as intense, but similar.  Is this normal? Helen wondered as she shivered in her bonds.  Is increased contact sensitivity part of the change process?

"I wanted to be different," Rupandra sobbed.  "Most make their first change in the safety of the enclave, the Red Dragon's Outer Lair, in the care of the old crones who train the younglings.  I was gonna be one of the select few.  I was gonna make my very first change in my own lair, with my own loving s-s-slaves!"  She began crying in earnest.  "It's all gone wrong!"  She continued in this vein for several minutes, her words growing increasingly incoherent.

Eventually, Rupandra seemed to wind down and simply held Helen and keened, softly, almost like a purring cat.  Well, Helen thought, this is awkward.  Rupandra's touch continued sending mild, tingling waves through Helen's body.
  
Finally, Rupandra raised her head, released her embrace, and met Helen's eyes.  "I wish you could be my slave, Helen," she sighed.  Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet.  "I know I can't make you love me, Helen, but I wish I could."  She squeezed Helen's breasts, and the tingling intensified.  "I will have slaves like you, Helen... smart, strong, and beautiful.... so very beautiful."  She stepped between Helen's legs, leaned close, and gave her pubic hair a delicate sniff.

Another thrill coursed through Helen's body.  Rupandra wasn't even touching her, and she could feel her aura responding.

"It will be soon, Helen," Rupandra sighed.  "Very soon, I think, perhaps early tomorrow morning.  I must feed, perhaps for the last time before the change... perhaps not."  She gave Helen's labia a lick, as she had so many times before.

Helen's eyes popped wide and she screamed—"MRRRF!"—through her gag.  She had cum, instantly and hard, her pussy convulsing with waves of rippling contractions!

"Oh Helen," Rupandra growled, "I think this will be the last time.  This happens just before the sleep-of-change.  My power to feed becomes very strong.  I will drink your aura and you will cum as never before.  I will make it last for you for as long as I can, Helen, but I'm afraid that at some point you will be able to take no more and will sleep."

Sleep? Helen thought as she shivered in her bonds.  I'm worried about surviving!

"You're practically dripping, Helen," Rupandra chuckled.  "Your honey-milk flows.  Are you ready?"

Helen realized her pulse was pounding and her eyes wide and staring.  She very much wanted to shake her head no, but found the courage to remain still.

Rupandra smiled, extended her tongue, leaned close, and made contact with Helen's pussy.

"MRRRRPFH!!"

ONE DAY LATER
THE HOME OF DR. MAURA ISLES
CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER OF THE COMMONWEALTH OF MASSACHUSETTS

---

Jane reached for the handle of Maura's front door—but it was jerked open before she could grip the handle.  "Jeez, Maura, watch the fingers—Ooof!"

Maura had Jane in a crushing bear hug.  "I was so worried," she sighed.

"You're crushin' my ribs," Jane complained.

"That's impossible," Maura scoffed.  "The rib cage distributes compressive force.  Besides, a person with my upper body strength couldn't possibly generate the 150 pounds per square inch required to—"

"Enough with the fun facts!" Jane chortled.

Jane was in boots, slacks, a jersey top over a t-shirt, and jacket.  Her weapon, clip-on badge, and handcuffs were on her belt and her backup piece was holstered on her right ankle, just above the boot-top.  Maura was in one of her typically stylish, attractive, and hideously overpriced (in Jane's opinion) designer ensembles: high heels, pencil skirt, and silk blouse.

"I was so worried," Maura reiterated.

"I'm okay," Jane said, returning the hug.  "Is ma here?"

"Nobody's here," Maura answered.  "Just us."  She broke the hug, turned to her alarm system's keypad and tapped several buttons.  "There, the system is armed and in privacy mode.  Your mother knows I need to examine you in private, and she agreed—"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Jane interrupted.  "Examine me?"  She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on one of the entryway's coat hooks.  "I've been examined to death over the last few days.  Why do you need to examine me?"

Maura's dimpled, endearingly childlike smile widened.  "The FBI couriered over your file and I simply have to see.  Take off your top."

"What?"

"Your top, your top!" Maura reached for the waist of Jane's short sleeved top.

Jane batted her hands away.  "No!  See what?"

"Your scars," Maura explained.

"I don't have any scars," Jane muttered.

"Show me!  Show me!"  Maura was jumping up and down like an eight year old on Christmas morning.

Jane rolled her eyes, crossed her arms and grabbed the bottom hem of her top and the underlying gray t-shirt and lifted them up, exposing her flat, well-sculpted abdomen.

"Amazing!" Maura gasped as she leaned close, her eyes wide with wonder.  "I can't see anything!  They're completely gone, the entry wound, the surgical scar—"  Her fingers slid behind Jane's back.  "—and the exit wound scar!"  She looked up and met Jane's amused gaze.  "You used to have a slight adhesion under the entry wound.  Can you tell if it's still there?"

"I think it was gone before... before whatever happened," Jane mumbled.  "Hey!  Maura, stop!"

Maura was pressing her fingertips against Jane's tummy, trying to feel for underlying scar tissue.

"Stop pawing me!" Jane complained.  "It tickles!"

"Okay."  Maura withdrew her fingers and stood erect.  "Now, remove all your clothing so I can do this properly."

"Like that's gonna happen," Jane chuckled.  "Like I'm gonna strip so ma and Frankie and Tommy can barge in and find me standing here like Venus de freakin' Milo with you pokin' me in the belly."  Like Jane's mom, her brothers had a habit of dropping by Maura's place without notice and entering without knocking.  Maura didn't mind in the least, of course.  To Maura the Rizzoli clan were family in all but blood, but Jane shuddered at the thought of ma and her brothers seeing her naked.

"I told you," Maura said, "Angela won't be bothering us.  It was her idea for us to spend a quiet evening together, so we can talk.  And I've reprogrammed the system so your brothers' keys won't work on the privacy mode setting."

"Ma wants us to talk?"

Maura blushed.  "I was really upset when you disappeared.  I controlled myself, I am a professional, but Angela could tell how much I was worried."

Jane smiled.  "That's sweet, Maura, but you know I can handle myself and—"  Her expression froze.  "We're alone?  Alone?"

Maura nodded.  "We aren't even on call.  Angela pestered Lt. Cavenaugh until he agreed to give you the weekend off, and I'm taking a couple of vacation days.  Jane, what is it?"

Jane was still staring.  "Alone.  Safe.  No disturbances."  Suddenly, she turned and headed for the kitchen.

Maura was confused.  "Jane?"

Jane was opening cabinets and rummaging through drawers in the kitchen island.  "Where is it?" she mumbled.

Maura followed her into the kitchen.  "Where is what?  What are you—"

"Found it!"  Jane held up a large and nearly unused roll of silver-gray duct tape.  "I knew it was here."

"What do you need duct tape for?" Maura asked.  She watched as Jane ripped a seven inch strip from the roll and tacked it by one corner to the island counter, then reached behind her back and produced her handcuffs.  "What are you—Jane?  Jane!"

With practiced skill, Detective Rizzoli had grabbed Maura, spun her around, forced her face down on the island counter, and was cuffing her wrists behind her back.

"Is this a joke?  Why are you—M'mmpfh!"

Jane had plastered the strip of tape over Maura's mouth.  Without saying a word, her eyes staring and the ghost of a sinister smile curling her lips, she hoisted Maura onto her shoulder in a fireman's carry and started towards the bedroom.  The roll of duct tape was in her right hand.

Her gray eye's wide and staring, mewling through the tape-gag, tummy down and head to the rear, Maura kicked, squirmed, tossed her head, and tugged on her BFF's handcuffs.

"A joke," Jane muttered in a distracted, monotone voice.  "Yes... it's a joke."