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by Van ©2008---
Chapter 7_
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By the time Amanda was really sure the prisoner in the fox costume standing beside Petra La Roque was, in fact, Chessy Golden, the two glamazons had pulled her to her feet and were half-dragging, half-carrying her from the office.  She looked back over her shoulder and forced a questioning whine through her gag, but all she achieved was a last, confirming glimpse of the sad, beautiful eyes of her fellow captive—then the door closed and they were in the hallway.

That La Roque bitch kidnapped Chessy, too?  How?  When?

Still weak from her hogtie ordeal, Amanda's legs couldn't support much of her weight, and her arms were too weak for her to offer much in the way of resistance.  Nonetheless, Amanda had her pride, despite all that had happened.  She marshaled her remaining strength and pulled against her handlers' grips.  In response, the glamazons paused, crossed her wrists behind her back, and zipped them together with a pair of plasti-cuffs.

The journey continued.  One office corridor led to another, then to an elevator.  It dropped them several stories to another series of corridors; but now the walls were concrete and the general ambiance decidedly more utilitarian than the finished spaces above.

Amanda had regained the full use of her limbs, discounting her bonds, and was walking under her own power.  However, her handlers still had their gloved hands firmly clamped around her arms and were, as always, very much in control.  What she could see of her body was creased with countless rope-marks, but in her expert, highly experienced opinion, the bands of pink stripes and indentations would probably fade without bruising—the marks she could see, anyway.  This was surprising, and was yet another tribute to Petra's great skill as a Rope Mistress.  Sadistic?  Cruel?  Hell yes, but she had to admit the smug bitch knew how to apply the rope (or cord) without inflicting any lasting harm.  In point of fact, if Amanda was heartless enough to duplicate her recent ordeal with Gloria as victim—which she was not, and would not—she wasn't sure she could bring it off with comparably harmless results.

They came to a steel door painted a deep shade of cobalt blue.  Above the keypad of its cypher-lock was a small, highly polished steel sign in a decorative script font that read: "Sirènes".  One of the glamazons entered a code (using her body to block Amanda's view) and opened the door.  They entered, and the door slammed behind.

The floor, ceiling, and walls of this new room were tiled in glistening cobalt.  The air was humid and hot, and a curtain of water was splashing across a meter-wide opening near the base of the far wall.  Set in one wall was a large cabinet, painted to match the tiles.

One of the glamazons opened the cabinet, produced a pair of black plastic cuffs, and snapped them around Amanda's ankles.  They were about three inches wide, thickly padded with blue-gray neoprene, and followed the contours of her ankles with anatomical detail.  More custom-manufactured restraints, Amanda observed.  The walls of the cuffs incorporated stainless steel rings on swivel mounts, and the glamazon seized Amanda's ankles and brought them together, then snapped a locking steel clip through the rings, binding her ankles close.

The glamazon stood and removed the plasti-cuffs binding Amanda's wrists.  She was still somewhat weak—but now her hands were free!  Perhaps...  She stole a glance at the second glamazon and found her standing a good two paces to the side.  It was impossible to read her expression through the reflective faceplate of her helmet, but her body language was unmistakable.  Amanda had her full attention, and the fingertips of her right glove were poised above the handle of the shock-baton holstered in her right knee-boot.

Amanda sighed through her gag.  Highly-trained, well-armed, glamazon handlers aside, with her ankles locked together, she might fantasize about a spectacular kung-fu escape, but it was not going to happen—not at the moment, anyway.  She returned her full attention to the first glamazon, and found her brief interval of semi-freedom was about to pass.

The glamazon had pulled a rigid, black plastic sheath from the cabinet, and began fitting it around Amanda's right forearm, wrist, and hand.  It was like a medical cast or brace, with the same stainless steel hardware and blue-gray neoprene lining as the ankle cuffs.  Amanda curled her fingers and thumb around a padded rod across the palm of the interior, forming a fist.  The two halves of the sheath came together, and a series of locking clasps engaged along the seams.  Amanda's fingers, hand, wrist, and forearm were now trapped and completely immobilized.

Her left hand was next.  She gripped the second sheath's padded rod, the halves snapped closed, and now both her hands were encased and useless.  She considered the possibility of using her new restraints as clubs; but even this vain hope was taken away when her handler spun her around, folded her arms behind her back, and snapped the two sheaths together.  They now formed a single unit, binding her forearm-to-forearm, and with each fist tucked against its opposite elbow.

A change of gags was next.  The hateful bit-ball she had been wearing for most of the day was unlocked and removed—but before she could do more than stretch her jaw and lick her lips—it was replaced with what she could only describe as a combination gas-mask and plug-gag.  It had a clear, oval faceplate, several dangling straps, and the plug was a small whiffle-ball sandwiched between the two halves of a rubber mouthpiece.  Attached to the front, over the plug, was a disk-shaped steel housing that was probably a compact air regulator.

The plug was seated in her mouth, the faceplate was fitted, and the straps pulled around Amanda's head and snapped together.  Care was taken to arrange her hair so that it was evenly distributed between the various parts of the resulting harness, then the straps were pulled taut, creating an airtight seal.

The apparatus was a surprisingly effective gag.  The regulator allowed her to take shallow breaths, but if she tried to expel the volume of air required to make significant noise, its diaphragm snapped shut, blocking all air movement and thus preventing her vocal cords from functioning.

Before Amanda had a chance to do more than wonder about the significance of this new "scuba-gag", the glamazons lifted her by the torso and legs, carried her to the splashing curtain of water—and tossed her headfirst through the opening beyond!

Amanda tried to scream through her gag, with no result!  She was plunging down a watery chute, in total darkness!  Churning water cushioned her body and carried her along.  It was like a water park slide, twisting and turning, and it went on and on!  She had the impression of light ahead—then found herself falling through air, still surrounded by cascading water!

She tried to scream, again—and plunged into a deep, dark pool!

Amanda twisted and squirmed, fighting her bonds and drifting in warm, dark water.  Her eyes adjusted... and she could see that she was surrounded by bubbles... and they were rising... and so was she.

Her head broke the surface, and she found herself in a very strange place.  It was quite large, and the ceiling was sculpted and textured like the roof of a vast cavern.  Embedded in the hanging stalactites and clustered in large veins, jutting crystals emitted a soft, bluish glow.  It was like being on the inside of a gymnasium-sized geode.

It was all very beautiful, but Amanda had a concern more compelling than sightseeing, namely, breathing!  Less than a minute had passed since her glamazonian handlers had tossed her through the wall of the blue room above and down the slide, but it was time enough for the air trapped in her mask to become stale.  The problem was, the regulator wouldn't allow her to take in more than tiny gulps of air.  She calmed herself by force of will and floated, slowly kicked her bound legs, keeping her head above the churning surface, and breathing in shallow pants.

As she adjusted to the limits of the regulator, her eyes fully adjusted to the dim light.  Whoever had designed this subterranean, aquatic wonderland had done a masterful job.  The faux-rock stalactites and stalagmites and the irregularly placed crystals looked entirely natural.  Of course, Amanda knew that none of her surroundings were natural.  They couldn't be.  If there was such a cavern, anywhere on the planet—much less buried under Manhattan—it would be world famous.

She looked up, and beheld the churning mouth of the water slide/waterfall that had been her mode of entry.  At the far end of the roughly rectangular pool there was a second waterfall, but this one poured from the side of the cavern wall, between two magnificent stalagmites, then ran down a narrow channel before entering the main pool.  There were also a number of dry cave openings in the surrounding walls, as well as several flat, open spaces, and—"Nurmmfh!"

Amanda's arms and legs had been seized by several pair of hands and she was dragged under the water!

Amanda's eyes popped wide!  She'd been captured by a small school of mermaids!

There were four of them, with fantastic full-head masks.  From the waist down, they were encased in flexible, close-fitting, rubber sheathes that held their legs together.  The sheathes terminated in transverse flukes, like a set of swim fins that had been molded as one unit.

Their masks were sculpted to resemble human faces with oversize, glassy eyes and elongated features.  Midsagittal fins crested their skulls, running from front to back; their "ears" were pointed and fringed; and neat rows of gill slits fluttered on either side of their throats.  Their long hair floated free. Either that, or the masks had attached wigs.  The overall result was alien and exotic, with a streamlined, fey, and undeniable beauty.

In addition, each mermaid's mask, sheath, fins, and fluke had been fabricated to suggest a different "species".  They were: 

1. A raven-haired, pale-skinned Koi, with large, mottling patches of orange, black, and white scales.
2. Some sort of salmon or trout, with brown hair and skin, gray-green scales with dark spots, a pale throat and underside, and a pink blush to her cheeks that also ran in a band down her flanks.
3. A blonde goldfish with bronze dorsal scales and a ventral counter-shading of pale gold.
4. A redhead tigerfish with copper scales broken on the dorsal surface by broad, olive-green stripes.

Amanda was flabbergasted.  Petra La Roque built herself an underground pool—and stocked it with mermaids??  Meanwhile, her aquatic captors had taken her deep, had attached an air hose to her mask—Ah, normal breathing!!  Thank you!!—and were releasing the clips connecting her ankle cuffs and arm sheathes.  She struggled, but couldn't prevent them from attaching chains to all four restraints and pulling her into a loose, face down spread-eagle.  There were strings of small floats on the chains—glowing globes in tiny nets—and as a result, she drifted in the dark, warm water, rather than having the chains drag her to the bottom.

The surface was at least ten feet overhead; and the pool floor, strewn with rocks, sand, and more of the glowing crystals, was about five feet below.  Amanda could see other life, in addition to the mermaids, in the form of shoals of large fish swimming among the rock formations and exploring the various crevices and caves.  Pool and aquarium, Amanda amended her previous assessment.

Suddenly, something warm and delightfully tingly was gliding down Amanda's spine.  She looked back over her shoulder, and through the curtain of her own drifting hair she could see that one of the mermaids, the Koi-maid, was running some sort of glove with a very thin attached air hose up and down her back.  Millions of tiny bubbles erupted from the palm of the device and gently pummeled her aching muscles.  It was wonderful!  The Koi-maid was joined by the trout-maid and the others—and now four separate bubble-gloves were caressing and exploring Amanda's spreadeagled form.  The pool itself was heated, but the bubbling massage-gloves even more so, and the mermaids were obviously quite expert in the art of massage.

Captivity and strange, extravagant surroundings aside, it was just what Amanda's aching body needed.  She squirmed and shivered in her bonds, drifting in the dark water.  Fear, anger, discomfort—all that could wait.  The gloves caressed her back, shoulders, neck, arms, thighs, calves, stomach, breasts—Ooh!—and sex.  Two of the maids continued their strictly therapeutic efforts, but the blonde goldfish was spending an inordinate amount of time on her breasts, and the red-haired tigerfish was focusing exclusively on her thighs and sex!  Amanda moaned through her gag-mouthpiece, and tugged on her bonds.  No!  Stop it!  The bubbles were unrelenting, their application skilled and inexorable.  No!  Ahhh!

She couldn't fight what the glove was doing to her, but she tried.  The massage was more than welcome, but this calico carp-maiden had no right to take erotic liberties—no right!  Damn her, and damn Petra La Roque!!  Ahhh!!  It felt good—very good—and it would not stop!  Orgasm was approaching like a cresting wave, building and building to a rolling mountain of passion, and she couldn't stop it!

Amanda shuddered, tugged on her cuffs and chains, and thrashed her head, imparting a jerking, drifting dance to her raven tresses.   Great globs of air erupted from her regulator as she screamed through her gag and fought her bonds with all her strength—but it was useless.  Finally, she shuddered, her body went rigid, she screamed for all she was worth——and she came.

Amanda drifted, helpless in her bonds, savoring the afterglow of what had been one crashing multiple orgasm.  Slowly, she became aware that the mermaids were releasing her arm sheaths from the floating chains and snapping them together behind her back, reestablishing her former box-tie.  Her ankle cuffs were also released, then rejoined, cuff-to-cuff, also as before.

Two of the mermaids continued Amanda's massage.  Manuvering her upright and keeping her at depth, they controlled her helpless, drifting body with one hand, and caressed her skin with the other.  The millions of tiny bubbles issuing from their gloves tickled her skin and lifted her hair as they rose to the surface.  The other mermaids were stowing the chains and air hoses—then they loosened the straps of Amanda's mask, pulled the gag/mouthpiece from her mouth—and gave her a gentle upwards push.

Amanda slowly ascended, surrounded by a curtain of bubbles.  Her head broke the surface, and she gasped, filling her lungs with the warm, humid air.  She slowly kicked her joined legs, easily maintaining her position.  She had to admit, she felt much better than she had before entering the pool.  She was still tired, and also a little hungry... but the ache of her muscles was now a warm glow, rather than its former dull soreness.  And, of course, she still tingled from what that naughty, red-haired tigerfish had done to her.

The popping, snapping field of bubbles surrounding and tickling her body dwindled... then disappeared... and Amanda found herself kick-treading in the middle of the pool, midway between the ceiling waterfall and the outflow from the sidewall cascade.  There was now no sign of the mermaids, the fish populating this subterranean aquatic wonderland, or of any other living thing.  Amanda maneuvered her floating body in a slow spin, surveying the margins of the pool.  Only one area seemed to be designed to allow easy egress.  It had a series of broad, very shallow steps sculpted into the rock, and the area above appeared to be flat and smooth.

Amanda dolphin-kicked in that direction, the only stroke possible in her bound condition, and found that a broad, fully-submerged ledge formed the first step of the gentle staircase.  She eased onto the ledge, struggled to her feet, and hopped from the water.  She was careful, but negotiating the steps up to the "patio" was not difficult, despite her bonds.

She sat on the top step and surveyed her immediate surroundings.  The floor was concrete, colored and textured like sand, and there was a "cave entrance" in the far wall, roughly the size of a double door.  It was probably a passage leading back to the more mundane areas of Petra's Tower, but the designers had paid as much attention to making it appear natural as they had to the rest of the "cavern".  In addition, she beheld the ominous sight of a pair of steel collars on heavy chains attached to staples in the rock, one on either side of the entrance.

Amanda turned to watch the pool.  There was still no sign of the mermaids.  Are they completely aquatic? she wondered.  They weren't really mermaids, of course, but did some feature of their costumes prevent them from leaving the water?  Did the rebreathers, or whatever air-supplying mechanisms were built into their masks, make them captives of the pool?  That sounded like just the sort of cruel trick Petra La Roque might find amusing.

Suddenly, Amanda heard a scraping noise from the direction of the cave, and turned to find two female figures emerging from the darkness of the entrance: Petra and Chessy!

"Did you enjoy your hydrotherapy?" Petra inquired.  She was completely naked.  Her tan, toned body was flushed and shining with sweat, and her short, blonde hair was plastered to her head.

Chessy was also nude and sweaty.  Her long hair was damp and auburn, and her fair, freckled skin was flushed a peachy pink.  She was ball-gagged, and was also box-tied and ankle-cuffed, with restraints identical to Amanda's; however, Chessy's arm sheathes and cuffs were molded from a deep bronze plastic, and the neoprene linings and the strap of her gag were olive-green.  The ball in her mouth was a dark, translucent rubber, with bronze swirls.

Amanda met Chessy's eyes, and they exchanged a brief interval of mutual commiseration.

"I asked you a question," Petra reminded Amanda, but her eyes were on Chessy, and she was pointing at the collar and chain to the left side of the cave entrance.

"Hydrotherapy?" Amanda answered.  "Yes, just the thing after a day of pointless, sadistic torture."

"Excellent," the smug blonde chuckled.  Meanwhile, Chessy had settled to the ground and Petra was snapping the collar around her throat.  She knelt at Chessy's feet, pulled them together, and engaged a locking clip.  Chessy's ankle cuffs were now joined, like Amanda's.  Petra stood and turned to face her other captive.  "While you've been frolicking with my mermaids, Ms. Golden and I have been enjoying a nice steam," she explained, then pointed to the right.  "Slither over to the other collar," she ordered.

"Go fuck yourself," Amanda responded in a quiet, determined voice.

Petra laughed.  "I have several highly trained employees, male and female, who do that for me; but if you insist on being disobedient, I'll buzz Ms. Dench, have her bring a double penis-gag and whip, and you can do it for me.  Now, quickly!"  She snapped her fingers and pointed, again.  "And are you forgetting your lovely assistant?  I can have her brought to watch your humiliation and degradation, and when you're finished with me... you can do her... and then Ms. Golden.  Afterwards, all three of you can enjoy a night of extended torture—Mercy's choice, of course, as your intransigence will have disrupted her busy schedule."

Amanda stared daggers at her smiling "employer", then shook the wet hair from her face, with limited success.  "There's no need to be crude," she intoned.

"You started it," Petra responded.  "In any case, I tend to dispense with the social amenities when dealing with my Special Apparel employees, but if it makes you feel better... please?"

Amanda snorted in disgust, then struggled to her feet and began hopping towards the second collar and chain.  Petra stood and waited, hands on hips, continuing to smile her infuriating, gloating smile.  Scowling and cheeks flushed, Amanda reached her destination and settled to the smooth, hard concrete.

"That's a good girl," Petra cooed, as she locked the collar around Amanda's throat, "and I do so enjoy watching those magnificent tits flop and wobble like that."

Amanda held her tongue, refusing to be baited.  The neck chains were only a few feet in length.  The two captives were close enough that they would be able to touch toes, if they both stretched themselves full-length, but they would not be helping each other work on removing their bonds.  Of course, that wouldn't have been possible, in any case, even if they had been chained side-by-side.

Petra strolled into the cave's entrance alcove, and seconds later, returned with a second ball-gag and a comb and brush set.  The gag had a blue-gray neoprene strap, matching Amanda's restraint linings, and its ball was like Chessy's, only the translucent rubber had silver swirls.  She sat on a nearby rock, spread her legs, then pulled the still glowering Amanda close, until the prisoner's back was against the rock, with her shoulders between the grinning blonde's knees.  "So," Petra purred, as she began combing Amanda's long, wet, raven hair, "nothing to say about the presence of your arch enemy?"

Amanda snorted in disgust.  "You're my arch enemy."

Petra continued grooming her captive.  "But I'm not the one who allowed your father to die.  I'm not the one who went into town, leaving the late, great Peter Pressfield to practice a new deathtrap escape all by himself.  And with you away at school, of course, there was no one to save him.  Such a tragedy.  So very heartless on Ms. Golden's part.  Lack of due diligence, at the very least."

Amanda raised her chin to gaze at Chessy.  "It wasn't her fault," she said quietly.  "The apparatus was overly complex.  She warned him it was a stupid and dangerous trick; told him she wouldn't have anything to do with it.  But he always was stubborn and proud.  He went ahead with the trick anyway, in secret and alone, breaking his own, most important rule."

"All of which is true," Petra agreed, "but at the coroner's inquest you weren't quite so understanding.  According to all accounts, you made quite a scene, and you haven't spoken to her since."

"I was angry," Amanda admitted.  "I was still grieving."

"And you're not angry now?"

Amanda gazed into Chessy's sad eyes.  The cavern's strange, dim lighting was making them seem more green than usual—and, as always—they were very beautiful.  "No... I'm not.  I was over all that years ago, although I never let anybody know."  Blinking back tears, she dropped her gaze to the floor.  "Sorry, Chester,"  she added, in a hoarse whisper.

Chessy turned her face away, but not before it could be seen her eyes were wet, as well.

"I see."  Petra continued, carefully, gently pulling the comb through Amanda's hair, eliminating all snarls and tangles.  "Such a pity.  I was willing to let you witness substantial punishment for Ms. Golden: whipping, racking, bastinado, the horse... up to and including nipple and labial piercing, without benefit of anesthetic, of course... perhaps even a nice brand on her heinie.  I might even have let you inflict the punishments yourself.  Are you sure you aren't angry?"

"Evil witch!" Amanda growled.

Petra laughed, tossed the brush and comb aside, then reached for the gag.  "Well...  The reconciliation of old friends!  At least one good thing has come from your deciding to enter my employ."  She pushed the ball into Amanda's unresisting mouth, snapped the plastic buckle at the nape of her neck, then pulled the ends of the straps through the friction clamps until Amanda's cheeks bulged and the gag was firmly seated between her teeth.

The Mistress of the Tower stood and sauntered gracefully to the edge of pool, then hopped up onto a large boulder to the right of the steps.  "Dinner will arrive shortly," she announced.  "I'm going for a swim."  She turned and smiled at the pair of naked, bound, gagged, collared, and chained captives.  "I imagine you two have a lot of catching up to do... quite a few things to sort out... heartfelt apologies, emotional catharsis, exchange of recipes, etc., etc.  A pity the resident 'evil witch' enjoys keeping you so tightly gagged, isn't it?"  She laughed, executed a graceful back dive into the dark waters, and was gone.

Amanda and Chessy turned their heads and locked eyes, yet again—and sighed.

ELSEWHERE IN THE TOWER

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Gloria hadn't even tried to maintain focus, in the aftermath of the "Pogo Stick Ordeal" she had suffered, along with Fiona.  In what was very nearly a post-orgasmic coma, she remembered being released from the pole, strapped to a gurney, and rolled away.  There had been a shower and scrub-down, she was toweled off by a pair of attendants—anonymous female drones clad head to toe in blue latex catsuits with full-head masks, gloves, and booties—then she was fed some sort of warm paste from a large tube.  While hardly an epicurean delight, it had been palatable, and she'd been very hungry—but, above all else, she just wanted the whole thing to be over, so she could sleep—please!  Her teeth were brushed and her mouth rinsed, then it was back on the gurney, the straps were tightened, and she was out the door.

She fell asleep during the next phase of her journey—then woke, briefly, to find herself back in Lizette's pink-bedroom-from-hell.  She was tossed on the bed, someone was folding her hands behind her back and doing something—then she was out again.

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Gloria awoke... and found herself still in Lizette's bed.  The room was dark, save for the feeble glow of a couple of night lights... pink, of course.  Gloria yawned.  She was naked... still naked, of course.  Her arms were folded behind her back and wrapped in pink, elastic tape, from elbow-to-elbow, including her fingers and hands.  A leather collar was around her throat, and linked by four or five feet of light chain to the right post of the headboard.  It clinked and rattled as she lifted her head and looked around.

She was sharing the bed with Lizette, who was asleep.  The little blonde was also nude, but was very much not bound.  Gloria lifted her body further, causing her chain to rattle, once again, and found Fiona, snuggled against Lizette's left side.  She was bound and collared, in the same manner as Gloria, herself, but her chain trailed up to the left headboard post.  Pink sheets were draped and loosely tangled over and around all three of their bodies.

Gloria sighed, and let her head drop, causing her chain to rattle, yet again.

Lizette stirred, and yawned.  She lifted her head from the pillow and focused on Gloria.  "You woke me up," she accused, in a sleepy whisper.

"Sorry," Gloria whispered back.

"Sorry isn't good enough," Lizette huffed.

The other chain rattled.  "Lizzie, don't be a bitch," Fiona muttered.  Obviously, she was awake, as well.  "I know it's an effort..."  Yawn.  "...but make the try."

Lizette yawned again, then smiled.  She climbed over Gloria, stood, and unhooked her chain from the headboard.  "On the floor," she ordered, giving Gloria's chain a tug.  "Now!"

"Lizette!" Gloria and Fiona complained, in unison.

"Now!" the petulant blonde reiterated.

"I'm too tired to argue," Gloria sighed, rolled off the bed, and followed her captor to the foot of the bed.

"Arguing has nothing to do with it, Glowie," Lizette snapped.  "Down!" she ordered, pointing at the fluffy, pink, focaccia rug beneath their feet.

Gloria sighed, again, knelt, and settled onto her side, into a semi-fetal tuck.  She watched as Lizette clipped the end of her chain to an eye bolt discretely installed in the base of the right bedpost.

"C'mon, Lizzie," Fiona begged, "be nice."

Meanwhile, Lizette had strolled away, then returned with a roll of pink tape and a wad of pink silk.  The tape was the same as the tight bands binding Fiona and Gloria's arms, fingers, and hands.  She tossed the silk beside Gloria's head, and the frowning Latina could now see that it was a pair of panties—crumpled, probably used, and sized to fit a petite sadist.  Lizette knelt, crossed Gloria's legs, and took a half-dozen turns of tape around her ankles, the soles of her pointing feet, and her knees.  "You have to learn the rules," the infuriatingly smug little blonde stated.

"Rules," Gloria scoffed, in a sleepy voice.  "There are no damn rules.  You do what you want, when you want; and whatever you do, it's mean and cruel."

Lizette rolled Gloria onto her back and straddled her waist, then reached for the panties.  "Oh," she giggled, "I guess you do know the rules."  She stuffed the panties into Gloria's mouth and sealed her lips with three strips of pink tape.  She then used the remainder of the roll to take turns around the helpless Latina's head, giving her a tight blindfold, reinforcing her gag, and stretching tight bands under her chin and across her crown.

"What are you doing?" Fiona demanded.  Chained to the headboard and with the footboard in the way, she couldn't really see.

"Quiet, Fifi," Lizette ordered, "or you'll join Glowie on the floor, and I'll use that vibro-shock dildo belt you love so much to make you my wake-up call."

"Been there and done that, you little monster," Fiona huffed.  "Sorry, Glo," she sighed, addressing her fellow prisoner.

"M'rmfrr," Gloria responded, and relaxed in her bonds.  Vibro-shock dildo belt? she mused.  That doesn't sound good.

Lizette kissed Gloria's right nipple, then patted her shoulder.  "Now, you be quiet, Glowie," she ordered.  "If you wake me up again, I'll be back with a pair of clover clamps."

That doesn't sound good, either, Gloria decided.  The rug wasn't that bad.  It wasn't the warm, soft bed, but at least she wasn't cold... for now.  She heard the covers rustle, and surmised Lizette was climbing back into the warm, soft bed in question.  Bitch!

"Bitch!" Fiona muttered, mirroring Gloria's assessment.

"Hush," Lizette ordered, "and as long as we're up..."

"Insatiable little slut.  I'm tired."

"So what?" Lizette laughed.  "Wiggle down there and do that thing you do so well, or I really will put you on alarm clock duty."

"Bitch!" Fiona repeated.

There followed a period of rustling, squirming, and chain rattling, which led to increasingly enthusiastic thrashing, gasping, and moaning—but, well before Fiona earned her much-needed rest—Gloria was asleep.