Château Mont Rapine
T H E F R E N C H A L P S
Petra La Roque was dressed in a floor length, strapless gown of white, shirred silk. Her short, blonde locks were lightly oiled and combed straight back, and her angelic face was set in a mildly angry frown. A hideously expensive diamond necklace and matching earrings were her only accessories. The gown's bodice hugged her torso like a laced corset, but the train was long and hung in straight, vertical pleats, dragging the floor. The tops of her breasts bulged like the proverbial melons, the tan, smooth flesh exposed nearly to the nipples. The toes of her sandaled feet peeked from under the gown's hem as she paced the room.
The room in question was the castle's expansive private office. The size of a small ballroom, its decor was an incongruous but surprisingly elegant mix of Late Medieval and Ultra Modern. Ancient tapestries hung from the stone walls, complementing both the massive, Gothic table of dark oak Petra used as her desk and its tall, throne-like chair. A massive stone fireplace and several mixed sets of old and modern sofas and chairs, in isolated conversation groupings, completed the vast chamber's furnishings. The antiques were hundreds of years old, but the new elements—including a pair of chrome and leather Italian visitors' chairs facing the desk, and a huge LCD HDTV near an adjacent wall—carried the room into the 21st century.
On the screen...
Lizette La Roque was spread-eagled on a large bed, her wrists and ankles bound with multiple bands of soft, cotton rope. Gloria Santoval was reclined on her left, and Fiona Lassiter on her right. All three were naked, and glistening with sweat. Lizette was wearing a ball-gag, but the rubber sphere was hanging by its strap, loose around her neck, rather than filling her mouth. What was in her mouth was Fiona's tongue. Gloria's tongue, on the other hand, was licking the helpless little blonde's left nipple, teasing the erect nubbin of pink flesh. Gloria and Fiona's hands were busy gliding over Lizette's ribs, abdomen, thighs and sex—especially her sex.
The helpless little blonde tugged on her bonds and thrashed on the rumpled sheets. Her toes curled and her hands closed in tight fists, and a shudder rocked her gleaming, diminutive frame. She tugged on her bonds, again, and an urgent whine escaped her gasping mouth, forcing its way past the obstruction of Fiona's lips and tongue.
Suddenly, Gloria and Fiona stopped licking and kissing their captive, stopped caressing her smooth, shining skin, and rolled away from her pinioned body.
"No—M'mrf!" Lizette screamed as Gloria returned the ball-gag to her mouth and Fiona tightened the buckle.
"Sorry, Lizzie," Gloria purred, "but that was only number four. You have six more play sessions to go, before we let you cum." The Latina grinned at Fiona. "We're getting pretty good at this, aren't we?"
"Yes, we are," Fiona agreed, "but we need to be more careful. She almost made it that time."
Both assistants rolled off the bed, to the left and right, climbed to their feet, and met at the foot of the bed. They embraced and kissed; then, still holding each other close, turned and gazed down at their petite prisoner.
Lizette was a pathetic sight. She pulled on her bonds and slowly writhed on the bed, helpless and frustrated.
"Yeah, we almost blew it," Gloria agreed. "Remember the rules, Lizzie," she said, addressing the captive. "You have to fight us. You have to try to not cum. If you cum before we tell you, we have to dig out that nasty wasp-whip and sting those pretty pink titties, and then start the game all over again, from round one."
"Those are the rules, Lizzie," Fiona purred, "and you know it. You played this game often enough with me, when I was the one tied to your bed."
Her eyes shining, Lizette watched as Gloria and Fiona donned light robes and cinched the sashes around their waists.
"Lunch?" Gloria suggested.
Fiona nodded. "Something light."
The assistants strolled to the bedroom door.
"See you in half-an-hour, Lizzie," Gloria said, with a teasing smile.
"And no sleeping," Fiona added, "or I'll break out that shock-pad thingie with the timer. It'll keep you awake. It always kept me awake."
Just then, back in the castle, the office's main door opened, admitting Mercy Dench.
|-||THE AMAZING AMANDA!||—EPILOGUE||-|
Mercy was dressed in a long sleeved, red silk blouse with vertical black stripes, a short black skirt, black pantyhose, and black heels. She walked across the room, stood beside her boss, and gazed at the screen. "The quick-reaction task force reports all equipment continues to function perfectly; and, by their words and actions, the subjects remain completely unaware of our continuing close surveillance."
Petra picked up a small pad from her desk, tapped its tiny screen, and the HDTV's screen went dark.
"The first of your guests have begun to arrive," Mercy announced, smiling at Petra's elegantly gowned form.
"You haven't changed," Petra noted.
Still smiling, Mercy waved the ubiquitous iPhone in her right hand. "No rest for the wicked," she sighed.
"No rest?" Petra's frown deepened to a scowl, she opened a desk drawer, extracted a large coil of thin cord, and strode towards her majordomo. "I'll give you rest." She grabbed a handful of Mercy's hair, and dragged her towards the desk.
"Ow!" Mercy complained. Her iPhone flew from her hand and bounced on the carpet. "Petra! What the hell have I done?"
Petra forced Mercy to her knees, then shoved her against the right front corner of the desk-table. Mercy sat, heavily, on the thick carpet. Her legs were together and folded to the side, and her back against the thick, elaborately carved leg of the table. "Don't move," Petra ordered. "If you make me rip this gown, I'll have your own minions drag you down to the dungeons for a week on the rack."
"Petra!" Mercy gasped.
Petra formed a handcuff knot in the middle of the cord, pulled Mercy's hands behind the table leg, and slipped the loops around her wrists.
"Ow!" Mercy complained, as the loops cinched tight.
Petra formed a second handcuff knot and captured Mercy's thumbs.
"It's too tight," Mercy complained.
"Ferme-la!" Petra hissed. "Not a word!" She used the long free end from the wrist knot to bind Mercy's ankles with a single, cinched loop, then took another loop around her insteps, securing her heels on her feet. The remaining cord was looped and cinched around Mercy's thighs, effectively locking her legs in their folded pose. The free end from the thumb knot was used to cinch her waist against the table leg, then bind her elbows as close as the wooden column would allow. About a meter of cord remained.
Petra stood, straightened her gown, and strolled around to stand before her now helplessly bound employee. "If you don't struggle, you'll be fine. If you do struggle, you'll mark your wrists, ankles, and thumbs. You won't be escaping, in either case."
"What have I done?" Mercy demanded, again.
"You know what you've done!" Petra barked. "You talked me into sending ma petite princesse into the clutches of those American harpies, to be tortured and abused!"
"That's a spectacular example of revisionism." Mercy objected. "It was your idea. I simply developed the plan, which is what you pay me for." She tried to keep the fear from her eyes, but she knew Petra could read her like the proverbial book. "Everything they've done is within your guidelines. You wanted her to experience what it's like to be totally powerless... something she can't experience in house, except as a feeble game... and she is."
Petra stared at Mercy, for several long seconds... then her frown slowly changed to a sinister smile. "Well... it is painful to watch, even though I can tell her tormentors love her. I feel guilty... and I can't very well punish myself, now can I?" She lifted the hem of her gown, hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her sheer, white silk panties, and peeled them down her legs. She wadded the flimsy garment into a loose ball, leaned close, and stuffed it into Mercy's mouth. "Hold that," she ordered, then strolled around the desk and opened another drawer. She returned to the front of the desk with a large, gossamer-thin scarf of black silk. She smiled down at Mercy as she folded and twisted the scarf into a long, thin, narrow band.
Petra knelt, thrust the center of the band between Mercy's teeth, then pulled the scarf to either side of Mercy's grimacing face and back to the nape of her neck. She cinched it tight, until the captive grunted in protest, then tied a double reef-knot. She was careful not to trap any of Mercy's dark, tousled hair under the gag. Petra then took the remaining length of cord dangling from between Mercy's elbows, took a loop around Mercy's throat and the table leg, and pulled it taut. She hooked her thumb under the cord as she made a cinch between Mercy's neck and the leg, creating slack and ensuring Mercy would be able to breathe.
Mercy twisted in her wire-thin bonds, and watched as Petra stood, retrieved her iPhone, and tapped the screen.
Petra locked eyes with her prisoner and smiled as she held the iPhone to her ear. "Petra La Roque here," she said. "You'll be assuming Ms. Dench's management duties, possibly for a day or two." Her smile turned even more sinister. "Yes, you'll have full decision-making authority; however, I want you to route copies of all calls, messages, memos, and relevant files to Mercy's number... Yes, that's right, I want her cc'd on everything, and make the necessary notifications to the various staffs... Very well, goodnight." She broke the connection, then tapped the iPhone's screen a couple of more times. "Hmm... nearly a full charge on the battery. Bon."
She knelt, lifted the hem of Mercy's already hiked skirt, pulled open the waistband of her pantyhose and panties, wedged the edge of the iPhone between her labia, then released the waistbands. The taut red silk of the panties and the dark silk of the pantyhose top would make sure the device remained as positioned.
Petra stood, again, and straightened the front of her gown.
Mercy stared up at her boss—then flinched in her bonds and yelped through her gag. Her iPhone was vibrating, signaling the first of what no doubt would be an endless series of calls—calls she was in no condition to answer.
"Well, I have a party to attend," Petra reminded her prisoner, then strolled away, towards the office door. "I'll be back," she promised, looking back over one smooth, tan shoulder, "and then we can play." She continued through the door, pulled it closed behind her, and turned the small, antique skeleton key in the lock. She tucked the key between her breasts, down the front of her gown; then sauntered away, to join her guests.
"No rest for the wicked, indeed," Petra purred, a coy, enigmatic smile curling her lips.