Tales of Chattel Mountain Lodge

by Van (c) 2003





Robyn Tolliver was cold and tired and miserable. The cabin of the helicopter was noisy and the headset the pilot had given her didn't seem to work very well. She could barely hear his voice, on the rare occasions the laconic cowboy decided he had something to say. The thriving metropolis of Saddlehorn, Idaho was thirty minutes behind, and had quickly given way to isolated ranches, then mountains, and now a trackless wilderness of jagged peaks, forested valleys, and frozen lakes. She looked down at the snow covered crags passing below. Something like thirty hours from Manhattan, her point of origin... two jets, one commuter hop, and now one helicopter ride; not to mention pointless ground delays, one cancelled flight, and a short night of inadequate sleep in a frigid cabin the Saddlehorn Motel laughingly called a "luxury suite"... Robyn was cold, tired, and miserable.

"Can you turn up the heat?" Robyn asked the pilot.

A tinny voice in her headset answered, "What?"

"Can you turn up the heat?" Robyn shouted.

"Nope," the pilot replied. "Maxed out. Dress for winter next time."

Robyn rolled her eyes. 'Dress for winter...' I thought I had. Knee boots; panty hose; a wool suit with a knee-length skirt and double breasted jacket over a turtleneck, a camel coat, gloves, and a long muffler. I might as well be in a sun dress and sweater.

"There," the pilot said, pointing out the window as they made a slow descent into a valley between two ridges. They were passing over a magnificent building, perched atop the nearest ridge. "Chattel Mountain Lodge," he explained, unnecessarily.

Robyn recognized the log and timber mansion from the file she'd been given to study. The landing area in the valley was little more than a clear patch of snow beside a small barn-like building and a frozen lake. As they landed, Robyn caught a glimpse of a lone figure waiting beside a four passenger snowcat, then the blowing snow obscured everything.

Once they were on the ground, Robyn unbuckled her harness and pulled off her headset, then the door on her side opened and blowing snow was everywhere. Robyn's long, curly, copper-red hair flailed around her face, and the icy particles stung like tiny needles. Someone (someone strong), half lifted, half helped her out of the cabin. Robyn ducked instinctively. The helicopter's blades were still turning. Her helper, a woman in a black snowsuit, pointed towards the snowcat with one ski glove.

"Wait over there and I'll get the luggage," the woman shouted over the idling engine. Her hair was long and black, pulled back in a ponytail and further restrained by a wide fleece headband. Her face was beautiful, but her eyes were hidden behind reflective sunglasses. "I'm Frieda Saberhagen!" she yelled.

"Robyn Tolliver!" the new arrival shouted back. "Pleased to..." Frieda had already opened the cargo space and was pulling out Robyn's one small and two large suitcases. Robyn grabbed one of the large ones and headed for the snowmobile. Her boots were breaking the crust on the frozen snow and she almost tripped twice. Frieda passed her, carrying the remaining bags, negotiating the snow without difficulty in her snowpacks.

Behind, the helicopter revved to full power and lifted into the air. Robyn's hair, coat tails, skirt, and scarf flailed in all directions and she squealed under the assault of driven snow and frigid air. The artificial blizzard passed and Robyn squinted upwards. The helicopter was disappearing over the far ridge... and already the valley was eerily still.

"Don't be cross with Tony," Frieda said as she secured the bags to the back of the snowcat with a bungee cord net. "The weather can turn in an hour this time of year, and you don't want to get caught by a front in these mountains." She climbed into the snowcat and pointed to the seat beside her. "C'mon. You look like you're freezing."

Robyn crunched around to the far side of the cab, opened the door, and climbed in beside Frieda. "I... I'm all out of breath," she said. "The altitude?" Her hair was a cloud of red curls surrounding her flushed face.

"The altitude," Frieda agreed, removing her shades. Her eyes were a gorgeous pale blue. "You'll get used to it."

Robyn pulled a tissue from her coat pocket and dabbed her eyes and nose. "I don't expect to be here that long," she muttered.

Frieda smiled, hit the start button, the snowcat's engine roared to life, and she maneuvered the vehicle towards the trail leading up to the Lodge.




Robyn finished brushing her hair and straightened the front of her turtleneck. Frieda had shown her to one of the guest rooms, suggesting she freshen up, then suggested they meet in the Lodge's main office. The central heating was very efficient, so Robyn dispensed with her jacket. In boots, skirt, and turtleneck, she carefully retraced her steps through the spacious and still largely unknown mansion.

The decor was classic Arts and Crafts: rich wood paneling, exposed joists and rafters, and heavy, well-padded, custom built furniture. The door to the office Frieda had indicated earlier was open, and Robyn knocked and entered.

"Come in," Frieda said with a warm smile. "Coffee?"

"Thank you." Robyn moved towards the sole chair facing the massive desk.

"Cream and sugar?" Frieda inquired, pouring coffee from an insulated carafe into a green, glazed stoneware cup decorated with stylized pine cones.

"Black, please," Robyn answered. The chair was... curious. It looked comfortable, thickly padded and well proportioned, but was unusually heavy for a visitor's chair. The hardwood arms and legs were thick and solidly cross-braced. The leather upholstery was soft suede, and was decorated with overlaying leather straps that encircled its arms and legs at irregular intervals.

Frieda handed Robyn a cup and saucer and motioned for her to sit. While Robyn settled into the curious chair, Frieda poured herself a cup and sat behind the desk. "Good trip?"

"Not too bad," Robyn lied, taking a careful sip of coffee and maintaining a stoic front. "Yum!"

"Yes, Hawaiian Kona. The Warburgs insist on only the best." She sampled her own cup. Frieda had shucked her snow suit and was dressed in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt in an Indian blanket pattern. Her raven hair was long and loose and her expression friendly, but her blue eyes peered at Robyn with laser intensity. "What did they tell you in New York about this assignment?"

Robyn took another sip of coffee and squirmed in her chair. "Uh... not as much as I would have liked. I'm to help you 'evaluate' the minor property of the Lodge. I take it the Warburgs are thinking of selling?"

Frieda smiled, coyly. "If they are, it's news to me," she answered. "What did they tell you about the Lodge?"

"The file is rather limited," Robyn responded, shaking her head. "I was told there are extensive records here, in the library."

"I'll assume you know nothing and start at the beginning," Frieda said. "The Lodge was built in the 1890's. It was going to be one of the Great Railroad Hotels, but there was a financial setback and the direct line through the valley that might have made the Lodge a going concern was never completed."

Robyn sipped her coffee. "Then it was converted to a private hospital."

"The Chattel Mountain Sanitarium for Troubled Women," Frieda nodded. "An asylum catering to very rich clients who required complete privacy and freedom from the press."

"You couldn't get more private than this place," Robyn muttered.

Frieda's smile turned rather coy. "Agreed. Anyway, the asylum went bankrupt following the Great Crash of '29 and Arthur Warburg acquired the property for the proverbial song. Hotel development was considered, but a series of landslides in the late thirties destroyed the railroad spur. Rebuilding the line or converting it to an improved road was and remains prohibitive. The only access in or out of the valley is a very un-improved road that's closed six to nine months of the year.

"We're trapped up here?" Robyn blurted.

"There are the snowmobiles and snowcats," Frieda explained, "and one can ski out in about three days. Do you ski, Ms. Tolliver?"

"A little," Robyn answered.

"I mean cross-country." Robyn shook her head and Frieda continued. "It's a difficult journey. The trail is hard to follow and parts are quite treacherous. I make the trip every two years, just to make sure the blazes were still readable. The last time I did it... I crossed the tracks of a wolf pack twice."

Robyn's eyes popped wide. "Wolves?"

Frieda smiled. "You can hear them sing some nights, from the Lodge; but they never bother me. The doors and windows are all very solid and I keep everything locked up tight." She locked eyes with Robyn and grinned. "You'll be safe and snug up here, I promise."

Robyn dropped her gaze (squirmed in her seat) and drank more coffee. "So, what will I be doing here?"

"There are some very interesting furnishings in the Lodge," Frieda said, "some unique rooms and equipment, all left over from the sanitarium period. The Warburgs want everything catalogued and evaluated for repair and refurbishment. You're to help me in this effort."

Robyn sighed. "Seems like a ridiculous task to assign a financial specialist with an MBA. Sounds like a job for a curator from one of the better auction services."

"Like I said," Frieda said, "the sanitarium was for the very rich. The furnishings and equipment are probably worth a great deal... for an exclusive community of collectors. The use of an auction service is considered... premature. For now, the Warburgs want this kept in-house. Discretion is the order of the day."

"Which explains why I was told not to discuss this trip with anyone," Robyn muttered. "It still seems to me they might have chosen someone better qualified. What sort of 'furnishings' are we talking about?"

Frieda gestured towards Robyn. "Your chair is a perfect example."

Robyn blinked in surprise. "I don't understand."

Frieda's smile broadened and turned a little predatory (or was it Robyn's imagination?) "Do you know the origin of the word 'tranquilizer?' ...as used in medicine, I mean." Robyn shook her head. Frieda sipped her coffee and continued. "Doctor Benjamin Rush, the 'Father of American Psychiatry,' believed that madness was caused by an imbalance of blood flow to the brain. By restricting a patient's movement, he believed the natural flow could be restored."

Robyn squirmed nervously. "Sounds a little... simplistic."

Frieda laughed. "We're talking the late Eighteenth Century here," she explained. "The competing theory was demonic possession. Anyway... set down your coffee. I'll show you." She came around the desk, took the cup and saucer from Robyn's hands, and set it on the desk. She then stepped behind Robyn and did something at the chair's back.

There was a series of quiet clicks and the straps overlaying the cushions and under Robyn's seat and back came loose and the straps on the armrests dangled free. "What-?"

"Hold still," Frieda purred, giving Robyn's shoulder a reassuring tap. "This is just a demonstration. Let me see your wrist."

Before Robyn could react, Frieda had taken her left arm and placed it on the armrest. A strap was passed over her wrist and the metal flange at its end inserted into a slot. It clicked home and the strap automatically tightened, as if a spring clamp inside the armrest had taken up the available slack. "Hey!" Robyn's right wrist was receiving similar treatment before it occurred to her to physically resist. By then it was too late. "Hey!!!"

"Calm down," Frieda reassured the flustered redhead. "You can't really appreciate this thing until you experience it."

Robyn pulled on her strapped wrists and watched as Frieda added straps over her forearms; and around her biceps, pinning her upper arms against the outer edges of the chair back. "I-I can't move my arms," she stammered.

"That's the idea," Frieda purred, kneeling and capturing Robyn's booted ankles in straps, first the left, then the right. "The therapy supposedly worked better the more the patient was immobilized." She then reached under Robyn's skirt and strapped her knees to the sides of of the chair.

"I don't like this!" Robyn complained, squirming and tugging on her bonds as Frieda added more straps, first around her waist, then from above each shoulder, between her sweater-covered breasts, and to the opposite side of the chair back.

"Which is how the patients felt," Frieda said, "I'm sure." She stepped away to a credenza against the far wall and opened a drawer.

Robyn twisted in the chair as far as the straps would allow and craned her neck to follow Frieda's actions. "Okay... I get it. Would you release these straps now, please?"

Frieda grinned and held up a tangle of leather straps. "The demonstration isn't complete," she explained, and returned to the chair. She shook out the straps and leaned forward.

"That's a gag!" Robyn gasped, pulling on her wrist straps with all her strength. "No-m'mmpfh!!!"

Smiling sweetly, Frieda thrust a large mushroom-shaped pad into Robyn's mouth and buckled a narrow strap at the nape of the struggling prisoner's neck. The initial strap was followed by several more, caging her head in a network of tight leather. A broad, heavily padded, mask-like strap was added that covered Robyn's grimacing face from chin to nose. Finally, straps from the chair were threaded through rings in the harness, tightened, and pinned Robyn's head against the chair's headrest. "There," Frieda purred. "Only one more thing to do."

Robyn fought her bonds and mewed through her gag. Frieda was turning something on the chair back, and she heard and felt a series of vibrating clicks, a spring being wound against a ratchet and pawl mechanism. The turning stopped and Robyn heard a loud click, a lever being thrown. Frieda walked back to her desk and Robyn continued struggling-only now, whenever she moved, there was a slight give in whichever strap she was testing, followed immediately by two of three clicks and increased pressure. In other words, as she struggled, when she struggled, her bonds became ever more stringent. By the time Robyn figured this out, all of her bonds had tightened significantly.

Frieda sat back in her chair and smiled at Robyn, her expression decidedly more feral than when Robyn had first entered the office. Robyn stared back at her smug, raven-haired captor, her eyes wide above her gag. She was panting through her flaring nostrils, her bosom heaved against the straps pressing her spine into the well-padded chair back. "Now... what were we talking about?" Frieda purred. "Oh yes, the word 'tranquilizer.' You're sitting in an unusually comfortable version of what Doctor Rush would have called a 'tranquilizing chair.' Eventually, it became vogue to apply the adjective to any effort to calm a patient, including the use of drugs... and the adjective became the noun 'tranquilizer'."

Frieda poured herself a refill of coffee. "Back to the history of Chattel Mountain Lodge..." She took a careful sip as Robyn twisted her wrists against the straps. The captive's green eyes were angry (and fearful), and her face glistening with sweat. Her red curls were tousled and disorderly, a thin, twisting strand plastered to the portions of her forehead and left cheek not covered by tight leather. Frieda savored her coffee (and the sight of her beautiful, helpless captive) and continued. "When the Warburgs renovated the upper floors in the 50's, a hidden vault was discovered. Reams of papers were inside, and they turned out to be copies of the confidential notes of the sanitarium staff. A casual study revealed the sanitarium was less a psychiatric hospital... than a private jail. Money can solve any problem, even problematic women. Do you have a teenage daughter who requires more discipline than you can provide? Does your husband have an ex-mistress who desperately needs to be taught a lesson? Is there an overly inquisitive female reporter digging into your affairs? Perhaps a private detective is sticking her pretty little button nose in all the wrong places? For the right price, all such 'problems' can be handled... and they were." Frieda set down her coffee and tapped several keys on the computer keyboard on her desk. "Imagine the value of such documents," she said as she worked. "The Warburg family went from very wealthy to obscenely wealthy in just a few years. Raising capital never seemed to be a problem... and now you know why."

Robyn watched as Frieda stared at the flat screen above the keyboard, then picked up her telephone's handset and hit a speed dial button. Captor and captive locked eyes as a connection was made. Seconds passed, then Frieda spoke into the handset. "Holding for Ms. Warburg."

Robyn's eyes popped wide. 'Ms. Warburg?' Chandler Warburg? The 'Dragon Lady' herself???

Frieda was speaking again. "Good evening, ma'am. You asked me to call when Ms. Tolliver was... settled in?" Frieda's smile broadened. "Yes ma'am... easier than I ever imagined. No drugs were required; not even one of the traps... Yes ma'am. The connection is pending." Frieda tapped a key on the base station, hung up the handset, and shifted her full attention to the computer. Several seconds passed, then she nodded at the screen and spun a small camera pod to face Robyn.

Trapped in her web of tight leather, Robyn squirmed in the soft cushions and blinked at the staring eye of the camera lens.

Suddenly a voice filled the room, emanating from the computer's stereo speakers. "Poor Robyn... poor treacherous little Robyn... Turn the screen. I want her to see me."

Frieda rotated the flat screen monitor, and Robyn beheld a hard, unsmiling, beautiful face she recognized instantly. It was the wife of Ryan Warburg, the CEO of The Warburg Group and Robyn's ultimate boss... It was Chandler Warburg.




Chandler Warburg was an ex-model. She was very beautiful, but the "runway scowl" came naturally to her balanced, photogenic features. Robyn had never met her before (if these bizarre circumstances could be called a "meeting"), but like every management level employee of the Warburg Group's many subsidiaries, she was familiar with "The Face." Chandler had no official role in the running of the Warburg empire, but Robyn knew she wielded great power, nonetheless.

Chandler stared into Robyn's eyes. "Conrad Lacey has been arrested," she announced, then a smile curled her lips at Robyn's reaction. "Yes, that's right, your partner in crime is in the hands of the police. Oh, don't act so innocent, Ms. Tolliver. We know you conspired with your former boss to embezzle Warburg accounts to the tune of more than seventeen million dollars."

Robyn pulled on her bonds, ignoring the answering pings and fractional tightening of restraints her actions caused. Embezzlement? Seventeen million?

"Yes, it was quite the clever scheme; very clever, and you might have gotten away with it if one of the bank transfers hadn't been flagged by one of our overseas operatives. And don't feel sorry for Conrad. You may have been lovers, but it appears he was maneuvering things to leave you holding the bag for the entire scheme. We're still sorting out the details, but the NYPD forensic accountants have more that enough to put Mr. Lacey away for many, many years... and he won't be playing golf in a white collar prison."

Chandler's smile turned decidedly sinister as she watched Robyn struggle and mew through her gag. "Yesss... very clever. You covered your tracks much better than Conrad. Our lawyers tell us you might not even be prosecuted, as things stand. We found the full seventeen million..." Chandler leaned forward and her smile became downright evil. "...but your 'flight' and 'disappearance' gives us a unique opportunity: we can declare the 'stolen' seventeen million a loss; then put the now thoroughly laundered funds back to work, off the books and tax free. So... there's only one thing left to decide... what to do with Robyn Tolliver?"

Robyn froze in her bonds and stared above her gag at the flat screen. Chandler Warburg gazed back, clearly enjoying Robyn's plight.

"I sentence you to five years at hard labor," Chandler continued. "Ms. Saberhagen will be your warden."

Robyn's eyes darted to Frieda. She found no sympathy, but rather, the raven-haired beauty was smiling at her with an unmistakable hunger, a tigress eyeing a plump, helpless goat.

"Frieda has extensive experience in such matters," Chandler continued. "She's not simply our caretaker, you see; but a world class dominatrix, catering to the very rich."

"It's sort of a side business," Frieda purred. "And Chattel Mountain Lodge is perfect for such a purpose. Well equipped... No place on earth is better equipped... Private... Simply perfect."

"Everything you own is now mine," Chandler Warburg continued. "You are now mine." Chandler's smile faded. "In the Spring I plan on taking a brief mountain vacation. At that time I look forward to expressing the full measure of my disappointment at your breach of trust." Her image winked out, replaced by the Warburg Group logo.

Robyn continued staring at the glowing screen for several seconds. I... I didn't steal anything! She shifted her gaze to Frieda and forced a pitiful moan past her gag. I didn't steal anything!

Frieda turned the flat screen back around, tapped a few keys, then slowly, gracefully stood, and ambled towards her captive, a cruel smile on her angelic face. "Five years," she purred. Her right hand reached out and caressed Robyn's left breast. "That's five years if you exhibit good behavior. Failure to follow orders will result in punishment and additional months added to your sentence. An attempted escape will result in severe punishment, and an additional year." Her hand squeezed until her knuckles turned white.

Robyn mewed through her gag and squeezed her eyes shut in pain. Then her captor's hand released and Robyn blinked back tears.

"You have beautiful skin," Frieda purred, "and very beautiful hair. I wonder how you'd look if I shaved it all off." Robyn's eyes popped wide and she pulled on her restraints. "Oh, don't worry, Pretty Robyn. It'll grow back... if I decide to do it." Frieda walked to the office doorway, out of Robyn's dramatically limited line of sight. "I'll be back in a few hours to... shall we say... in- process my new plaything. In the meantime, I'm going to go through your things and decide if I want any of it, or if any of it will be useful for your... 'rehabilitation.' Then the remainder goes into the incinerator, luggage and all."

The overhead lights clicked off, the door closed, and a key turned in the lock. The drapes and blinds of the office window were open, providing a magnificent view of the opposite ridge and the peaks beyond. A storm was approaching from the opposite direction and the sky above the Lodge was darkening. Delicate fat flakes of snow were drifting past the triple pane glass. Robyn forced a despairing whine past her gag, tugged on her bonds, and wept. Tears streaming down her face, channeled by the straps and buckles of her gag, and splashed her leather framed, sweater-covered breasts. I didn't steal anything!





Chapter 2: THE NILE

Frieda climbed the Grand Stairs to the Lodge's top floor and made her way to the south wing. She came to the entrance to the solarium and paused, her hand on the doorknob, smiling as she stared through the thick panes of the French doors. Joelle's back was to the entrance. She had abandoned her easel and paints and was at the far window wall, watching the snow squall blow across the neighboring peaks (unaware that she was being watched as well.) Dark clouds were still over the Lodge, but the trailing edge of the brief storm was fast approaching.

Frieda smiled. Joelle was beautiful, a mix of Scotch-Irish, French Canadian, African American, and Cree. Her skin was smooth and dark; her high-cheeked features even and exotic; the long, black waves of her hair sleek and glossy, with bronze highlights. Even in boots, jeans, and a thick sweater, one could tell that her tall, lithe, athletic figure was feminine perfection itself. Frieda sighed, and turned the knob.

Joelle spun on her heels and frowned. "When are you going to take her?" she muttered.

Frieda entered the room and closed the doors behind. "I've already done it," she said, unable to hide her smile. "She sat in one of the tranquilizing chairs and actually allowed me to strap her in. Very trusting... for a thief." She sat on a stool near the door and began unlacing her boots.

Joelle stepped back to her easel. The canvas was covered with a white cloth and the small table to its left cluttered with tubes of paint and a sprawl of brushes. "This is wrong. A mistake."

Her boots and socks removed, Frieda was unbuttoning her flannel shirt. "We've been over this," she sighed. "It's not like she doesn't deserve what's happening to her."

"You're dancing with the devil," Joelle muttered.

Her shirt removed, Frieda unzipped her jeans. Her remaining clothing was a body-hugging, two piece set of thermaskin long underwear, in heather gray. She stood, pulled the jeans down her legs, and stepped out of them. "Chandler thinks she's the devil," Frieda quipped, "but she's only a minor demon, at best."

Joelle was not amused. "It's wrong. Playing Leather-Bitch-Goddess for Chandler and her spoiled friends is one thing. False imprisonment of an unwilling-"

"She's a damn thief!" Frieda interrupted. She pulled her top over her head and tossed it atop her boots and socks, then stooped and stripped off her bottom. Nude and a little peeved, she shook her raven hair out of her face and glared at her friend, hands on hips, her blue eyes flashing.

The sun returned, bathing the solarium and its occupants in white mountain light. Frieda's pale, perfect body glowed like polished ivory. Even the shadows of her figure were lit by the indirect brilliance bouncing off the hardwood floor. Her large breasts were full and firm; her abdomen sculpted and defined; her waist narrow; her black, abundant pubic bush a stark contrast to her fair complexion; her muscles long, toned, and firm. Frieda's defensive frown softened as she noted her friend's expression.

Joelle was staring at her naked model with naked appreciation. "I'm sorry," she whispered, smiling sheepishly. "What were we talking about?"

Frieda's smile widened as she pattered forward and kissed Joelle's lips. The two embraced as the kiss continued. "The Dragon Lady didn't give me any real choice," Frieda mumbled, and they kissed again.

Joelle pushed back and frowned at her friend. "There's always a choice," she admonished, then pulled Frieda close and resumed the kiss... then slid her right hand towards her partner's glistening sex.

Frieda yelped and pulled back. "Your hands are cold!" she complained.

"And you're wet as a mink," Joelle purred, rubbing her musk filmed fingers together. "You like being a Wicked Warden. Admit it!"

Frieda's smile turned deliciously sinister. "Who... little ol' me?" She pulled away and gracefully (seductively swinging her hips) walked to the far side of the easel, straightened a pale blue sheet draped over a lounge chair cushion, and knelt, her buttocks touching her heels. She put her hands behind her neck and under her hair, arched her back, pulled her elbows back, smiled, and batted her eyes. "Is this the pose?" she cooed.

"You think I'm channeling Vargas or something?" Joelle muttered, flipping the cover off her canvas. "Do it right, like before."

Frieda sprawled comfortably on her right side, her legs scissored, feet pointing, her upper body supported on her left elbow, and the right arm draped languidly along her side. "How long this time," she asked. "I have to get our new guest ready for bed... eventually."

Joelle stared intently at her model for several seconds... then flipped the cover back over the canvas. "We're done," she announced. "The light's wrong."

Frieda gasped in outrage. "Then why'd you make me-?"

"I like looking at your naked, pleasingly plump, lily white body," Joelle interrupted, perfectly deadpan.

Frieda's frown slowly changed to an evil smile. "Just you wait. Just you wait 'til tonight. You just earned yourself a nasty punishment."

Joelle was busy capping her paint tubes and putting them away. "Imagine my distress and dismay," she purred (obviously neither distressed nor dismayed.)

Still nude and comfortably reclined, basking in the warm sun, Frieda watched her friend sort her brushes for cleaning. "Just you wait."





The sun was setting behind the far range. The office was growing steadily darker; the low-angle, waning light yellow, then gold, and finally orange. Under other conditions Robyn might have considered the rose tinted snow and gold tinged clouds quite beautiful, but she was... preoccupied.

This can't be happening! Robyn had given up fighting her bonds hours before. Strapped to the "tranquilizing chair" at the wrists, forearms, upper arms, ankles, knees, waist, and shoulders; gagged, her head caged in a leather harness and pinned to the chair's headrest... she couldn't move... other than to flutter her fingers, flex her toes inside her boots, or blink her eyes. All she could do was sit... and think.

Chandler Warburg had accused her of theft. But I didn't do anything! I didn't steal anything!

She'd also said Conrad was arrested. Okay, Robyn had been helping him with a financial project for several months; but it was to create a family of sheltered accounts for some of the Warburg overseas subsidiaries. It had been done in secret, with special precautions to isolate the transfers from the home office comptrollers (plausible deniability in case the SEC got wind of anything); but it wasn't illegal... probably; and it certainly wasn't embezzling.

Conrad was arrested... Too bad. Conrad was great in bed... but basically a self-centered prick, more in love with himself than anything else on the planet. He certainly wasn't in love with Robyn Tolliver. She'd stopped sleeping with him a month before; not because of anything he'd done, but because he was taking her for granted... and it hadn't even seemed to bother him... the prick!

The Dragon Lady had also said Conrad had set her up. Robyn sat in the chair and visualized the complex system of transfers and reallocations she'd been party to. Nothing... Trace the pattern and an idiot could see Robyn hadn't done anything wrong. Then she saw it. Assume Conrad had been embezzling, and he was trying to set her up... An additional transfer here, a shift in the reporting there... and it all fell into place. That prick BASTARD!

But how to convince The Dragon Lady she was innocent? Five years hard labor? She was kidding! She had to be kidding! They were just trying to scare her. That was it! That had to be it! She'd explain what happened. She'd go over every transfer with them... and then they'd let her go. They had to. That prick BASTARD! This isn't happening!!!

A key turned in the lock and the office door opened. Strapped down and helpless, Robyn couldn't see who had arrived, but it had to be her supposed jailer. Then Frieda stepped into view and Robyn's thoughts (and fears) were confirmed.

Wearing the same flannel shirt, jeans, and boots; smiling sweetly; Frieda dropped a bundle of white canvas and jingling straps on her desk and stood facing her captive. She was silhouetted by the sunset, her dark hair outlined by a flaming halo, the last red light from the far peaks. Her beautiful (cruel) face glowed with indirect light. Her pale blue eyes focused on her captive. "Do you enjoy pain? " she inquired.

Robyn stared back at her gloating captor. What? She tried shaking her head, but the straps pinning her to the headrest were too tight; the motion was almost imperceptible.

"Blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'," Frieda suggested. Robyn forced a mewing moan past her gag and blinked twice. "I thought not," Frieda purred, extracted a long, thin, metal wand from the canvas bundle behind her, and held it before Robyn's worried green eyes. She thumbed a switch on the wand's padded handle, there was a quiet, sizzling pop, and blue sparks danced between two small, blunt, copper studs at the forked tip. "11,000 volts on 'high'," Frieda announced, "and 4,000 on 'low'. The low setting hurts like the devil; like a wasp sting. The high setting knocks you into next Tuesday. It's currently set on low." She reached down and lifted Robyn's skirt, baring the helpless prisoner's nylon covered thighs and providing a peek of the crotch panel of her pantyhose and underlying panties. The business end of the wand hovered less than an inch from her right thigh, midway from the strap pinning her knee to the side of the chair and her squirming crotch. "Would you like a demonstration?" Frieda asked. Robyn blinked twice and continued squirming and shivering in her bonds. "Are you quite sure?" Robyn blinked once. Frieda smiled and held the wand above Robyn's thigh for several seconds, thumbed the switch, and gently tapped the captive's thigh.

Robyn flinched in her bonds, even though the wand had not given her a shock. This isn't happening!

"Do I have your full attention?" Frieda inquired. Robyn blinked once. "Good." Frieda set the wand on the desk and turned back to smile at her prisoner. "The first rule is obedience. You will do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it, no matter how humiliating or demeaning the task, understood?" Robyn squirmed in the tight leather embrace of the tranquilizing chair. Frieda put her hand on the wand. "I said... understood?"

Robyn blinked once, emphatically. This isn't happening!

"Gooood," Frieda purred, and stepped behind Robyn's chair. "I'm going to release your upper body. I know your jaw is beginning to ache from that gag, but if you touch so much as one buckle of the harness... you'll wear it all night." There was a click, and all the straps holding her in the chair loosened considerably, but not enough for Robyn to free herself. Frieda's hands reached around from behind the chair and released the straps pinning the gag harness to the headrest. The shoulder and waist straps were next, and finally the straps over her upper arms and forearms clicked and dangled free. The straps around her wrists remained in place, but they now had considerably more slack. "Keep your hands where they are," Frieda ordered, stepped back to the desk, and picked up the wand. She sat on the edge of the desk, facing Robyn. "You've been a very good girl, so far," she purred, a gloating smile on her face. "Keep this up and the first night of your sentence will be only mildly uncomfortable. Remove your top."

Robyn's eyes popped wide. This isn't happening!

Frieda thumbed the switch and her wand popped and sparked. "Do it, Red. You have five seconds. After that, every additional second's delay will mean additional torment. One-one thousand..."

Robyn blinked uncertainly.

"Two-one thousand..."

This isn't happening!

"Three-one thousand..."

Robyn mewed in despair, pulled her hands from under the wrist straps, pulled her turtleneck over her head, shook her head to straighten her hair, and dropped the sweater to the floor.

"Arms back on the rests," Frieda ordered.

Robyn complied, gripping the ends of the armrests with her fingers. Her upper body might be free, but she was still helpless. Her knees and legs remained strapped to the chair, and although she might eventually figure out how to get them free, her captor had that hellish wand.

"Continue," Frieda said, nodding at Robyn's demi bra. "That's right. Off it comes."

Robyn mewed a despairing sigh, then reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, slowly shrugged the straps off her shoulders, pulled her arms free, dropped the bra atop her crumpled sweater; then crossed her arms and cupped her breasts in her hands. She stared at her gloating captor, her cheeks blushing bright pink above the padded leather panel strapped across her lower face.

"How charmingly coy," Frieda cooed. "Put your hands on the armrests, Red." She waved the tip of the shock wand for emphasis. "Now."

Still blushing, Robyn lowered her arms to the rests.

Frieda smiled and gazed at her prisoner's bare torso, graceful shoulders, and toned arms. "I like your complexion," she said. "Peaches and cream... alabaster with just a hint of coral... the last fading freckles of Summer... I've always been partial to redheads, you see." She slapped her palm with the shaft of the wand. "They color so nicely under the whip."

Robyn's knuckles whitened as she gripped the ends of the armrests. Her breasts bobbed slightly as she breathed.

"And such pretty tits," Frieda continued. "Not big, of course, but a most pleasing shape. Put your wrists back under the straps."

Robyn hesitated... then followed Frieda's instructions, sliding her fingers and hands under the loose leather loops.

"Pull up."

Robyn did so. At first the straps gave slightly, then they slammed her wrists down to the armrest cushion with considerable force and locked tight.

Taking the shock wand with her, Frieda strolled around to the back of the chair. Robyn turned her leather caged head to follow. "Eyes front!" Frieda barked, and Robyn complied. Seconds passed, then Frieda leaned over the back of the chair. Her face close to Robyn's; she locked her left arm around the mewing, squirming redhead's throat, pinning her head to the headrest; and her right hand gently squeezed the captive's right breast. "Just as I thought," Frieda whispered in her struggling prisoner's right ear. "A meager handful, but firm and warm. My hand isn't too cold, I hope?" She continued kneading Robyn's breast, then toyed with her right nipple. "Yes... very nice. Charmingly compact... maybe even a little girlish, don't you think?" She shifted her attention to Robyn's left breast. "Goodness, look at these little fellas pop!" She flicked the left nipple, then the right. "I guess my hands are cold."

Frieda's hands disappeared... and the wand reappeared. The forked tip waved before Robyn's face. Her green eyes followed the slowly bobbing copper contacts like a songbird paralyzed with fear and watching a looming serpent's flicking tongue.

"You're my very first convict," Frieda whispered. "But I have a great deal of experience in the handling of prisoners... including their breasts... be they firm, generous D-cups like mine... or precious little 32-B's, like yours. You see... I've never gone in for simpering, masochistic slaves. I don't do doormats. My clientele all fight for their freedom. They never win, of course... but they fight. It's a game, but I've already developed the proper techniques; already made my mistakes; already corrected my techniques... Chattel Mountain Lodge is a trap; a luxurious, inescapable trap; my luxurious, inescapable trap. The slaves wander in... but they don't wander out... not until I decide to let them wander out." The wand disappeared.

Robyn flinched when Frieda's hands appeared on either side of her head. "Here's what's going to happen, Red," Frieda said, gripping Robyn's hair. "That bundle on the desk in front of you is a straitjacket. In a few seconds I'm going to release your wrists and your knees. You're going to pull your skirt, pantyhose, and panties down over your boot tops. Then I'm going to toss the jacket in your lap, you're going to spread it open, put your arms in the sleeves, lean forward, and put your head between your knees. I will then zip you into the jacket and buckle the sleeves. Give me one iota of trouble... and each of your tits will learn exactly how every setting on this wand feels, understand?"

Frieda released Robyn's head. The prisoner shuddered in her bonds and slowly nodded her gagged head. This isn't happening!!!





Robyn stumbled down the dimly lit corridor. She had followed her captor's orders (and thus far avoided the touch of the dreaded wand.) She was now naked, her only "clothing" the leather cuffs and connecting strap hobbling her ankles, the leather gag harness still caging her head, and the canvas and leather straitjacket strapped tightly around her upper body.

The jacket was nasty. Robyn had forced her hands and arms down its long, narrow, closed sleeves with difficulty, then Frieda had zipped up the back. Already snug, it was made more so when laces running through grommets down the sleeves and sides were tugged tight. The laces broadened at the ends and terminated in "D" rings. Rather than being knotted, the laces' rings were threaded through strategically placed straps and buckled taut. Her arms were folded across her chest and her hands tucked under her armpits in the traditional self-hugging pose, and held there by more straps; a lot more straps. They encircled her wrists like wide cuffs; they pulled the canvas taut over her hands and fingers and joined the ends of the sleeves at the small of her back; they looped over her crossed forearms and snugged them against her chest; they cuffed her upper arms and pinned them against her sides; they looped each of her upper thighs and anchored the shoulder straps sewn between the layers of canvas and the stiff collar buckled around her throat. All of the buckles had flush flaps that snapped over their clasps and locked, as did the zipper's pull tab. The design was clever, cunning, and cruel. It fit like a thick, heavy, canvas and leather second skin, and Robyn knew in her very soul that not even Harry Houdini himself would have been able to escape the nasty thing.

Between her ankle hobbles and the jacket's thigh straps, Robyn's legs were bare. Her feet, becoming progressively more dirty as the journey continued, were bare. Her crotch was equally bare, embarrassingly bare. The straitjacket seemed to be specifically designed to expose her auburn pubic thatch, sex, and most of her dimpled behind.

Robyn was in the lead with her captor following closely behind, issuing gentle and (thankfully) non-enerqized taps with the shock wand by way of direction. The Arts and Crafts decor of the upper floors had given way to what could only be called Institutional Drab: concrete block walls and poured concrete columns; dim, antique, industrial lighting; exposed pipes in the depressingly low ceiling; and smooth (cold) concrete floors. Thus far their passage had been interrupted three times by steel doors and they had twice descended narrow, twisting, turning staircases. The deeper they penetrated what was obviously the "sanitarium" portion of the Lodge, the dirtier things became. Obviously no one had pushed a broom or dusted the pipes or cleared the cobwebs for a very long time.

Finally, they came to a solid steel door with a very heavy bolt, a very business-like dead bolt lock, and a tiny peephole. Frieda clicked a wall switch and unlocked the door. It swung open on hinges desperately in need of oil. Beyond was a large room with a high ceiling. It was brightly lit by wire-protected fixtures recessed in the concrete ceiling. In the center of the room was a cubical cage, approximately ten feet on a side: steel bars, closely spaced and regularly cross-braced with all connections welded and ground smooth. It was bolted to the concrete floor on all sides. Inside were two stainless steel dishes (dog dishes); an empty steel bucket; and a ratty, stained, dirty mattress.

With one hand gripping her captive's copper-red curls, Frieda dragged Robyn to the cage. "One dish is full of water, the other of something the Purina people call 'primate chow.' It's everything a damsel needs to maintain a glossy coat and wet nose... or is that 'dog chow'? Anyway, I've got bags of the stuff, and need to use it before it goes bad." She unlocked the cage door, then began unbuckling Robyn's gag harness. The headstall came free, and the gag panel and underlying plug were pulled from Robyn's mouth. The prisoner was given a shove into the cage, and the door locked behind her.

Robyn coughed and licked her lips with her dry tongue. By the time she was ready to attempt speech, Frieda was already walking towards the main door. "W-wa-cough!-wait! Please WAIT!"

Frieda paused in the doorway, a sardonic smile on her beautiful, cruel features. "Yes? You have a request?"

Robyn twisted her encased arms and torso in her leather and canvas prison. "I-I didn't steal anything. Please believe me. I didn't steal anything!"

Frieda chuckled. "So... denial is more than just a river in Egypt. Red, believe me when I tell you, it makes absolutely no difference whatsoever whether or not I think you're guilty. It's Chandler Warburg you have to convince... whenever she decides to grace us with her presence." Freida slowly pulled the chamber door closed. She raised her voice to compete with the squealing hinges. "In the meanwhile... you're a convict." The door closed with a resounding clang, followed by the rasp of the bolt sliding home, and the lock turning.

Robyn slammed her straitjacketed body against the bars of her cage and screamed. "I DIDN'T STEAL ANYTHING!" As her words echoed, the overhead lights winked out. The only remaining illumination was a single small green lamp, directly overhead. It bathed the chamber in a dim, eerie, viridescent glow. "I... I didn't steal anything," Robyn whispered.





Back on the clean, luxurious, Arts and Crafts top floor, Frieda stalked into the huge bedroom suite she shared with Joelle. She dropped Robyn's gag-harness on the floor next to the door and continued on to the bathroom, stripping her clothes as she walked.

Joelle watched her pass and waited patiently. Waiting was her only option. She was hogtied on the bed, white cotton rope banding and criss-crossing her naked body from shoulders to toes. Hands behind her back, knees together, elbows touching, wrists lashed to her ankles, even the dusky beauty's big toes, the insteps of her wrinkled feet, and thumbs were bound. Her mouth was filled to capacity by a ball-gag of jaw-stretching proportions; and the back of the strap had been added to her bondage, making the limb-straining, backbreaking arc of the hog-tie even more punishing.

The shower started in the bathroom. Time passed. Joelle squirmed in her bonds... and waited. More time passed. The shower stopped. Joelle waited. Finally, Frieda came strolling back into the bedroom, nude and toweling her damp, raven hair with a fluffy towel. She climbed onto the bed, crossed her legs, and settled into a graceful semi-lotus. Joelle's drool dripping chin was inches from her naked lap.

Blue eyes locked with brown... and more time passed... Finally, Frieda reached out and untied the knot at the nape of her captive's neck, then unbuckled the ball-gag and helped Joelle expel the red rubber sphere from her mouth.

Joelle licked her lips, swallowed, and smiled at her captor. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

Frieda sighed and used the edge of the towel to wipe the drool from Joelle's chin. "Oh... nothing." Joelle stared at her skeptically. Frieda smiled sheepishly and continued. "Okay... It's not as much fun being a Wicked Warden as I thought it would."

Joelle smiled coyly. "Not the colossal Überbitch you thought you were?"

"Watch your mouth!" Frieda barked (a poorly suppressed smile belying her tone.) She laughed and ran her hands through her damp hair, surrendering all pretense. "Okay, okay, I admit it. I hate being Dragon Lady's jailer. Spanking spoiled, fabulously wealthy heinies is fun. Being Chandler Warburg's surrogate demon is not... much to my surprise."

Joelle's smile broadened. "Not for me, Honey-pie. I know you, remember?"

"Oh, eat me!" Frieda mumbled.

"All in good time," Joelle purred, smiling at her captor's curly black bush. "We need to discuss this first. If you want to go easy on our new guest, go easy."

"It's not that simple," Frieda sighed, gently caressing her captive's cheek with the back of her hand. "Dragon Lady sent detailed instructions. I'll go as easy as I can, but I don't have a lot of leeway. Besides... our lithe, lanky, Celtic captive is an involuntary prisoner. I can't let her get the drop on me."

"Hence the need to put the fear of the Bitch-goddess in her," Joelle suggested.

Frieda nodded absently, then her expression slowly became... wolfish. She reached out and stroked Joelle's dark, rope harnessed shoulders. "How you doin' there, Joe?" she purred. "Would you like me to untie a few of these ropes? Maybe let you stretch those long legs and ease that pretzel-like spine for a while?"

Joelle squirmed in her stringent bonds (carefully suppressing a grimace of pain.) "Like I'm really stupid enough to start begging," she muttered, a sardonic smile on her glistening features.

Frieda ran her fingers through her prisoner's black, bronze-streaked hair. "Like you said... you know me. I have no qualms whatsoever about fiendishly torturing your warm, dark, smooth, firm body. But I'm in a magnanimous mood tonight." She spread her strong white legs to either side of her helpless captive, and eased her sex towards Joelle's smiling lips. "Do a good job with Round One and maybe I will let you out of that hog-tie. I may even feed you."

Joelle's smile turned wolfish as well. "Just you wait. Have you checked the calendar lately?"

Frieda shook the hair out of her eyes, put her hands in Joelle's hair, and pulled the captive's face even closer to her glistening labia. "I know... This time next week it'll be your turn to be Bitch-goddess... But that's next week. Now, earn your supper!" The grinning "Bitch-goddess" shuddered and gasped as her captive gave her moist sex a kittenish, preliminary lick... then set to work in earnest.

Outside the suite's picture window the full moon was lifting above the distant peaks. If the occupants of the bed hadn't been preoccupied, they might have heard the pack beyond the far ridge raise their lupine voices in howling song.





Chapter 3: CRANKY ARE WE?

Robyn came awake when the overhead lights snapped on and she heard the key rattling in the chamber door's dead bolt lock. She pulled her hobbled feet under her straitjacked body and struggled to her knees. By the time she was able to stand, the bolt had been thrown and the door was squealing open on its rusty hinges. The prisoner had spent a hungry, miserable night; unable to stomach the pellets of "Primate Chow" in one stainless steel bowl, humiliated to be lapping water like a dog from the other, and even more humiliated when she'd been forced to use the steel bucket as a toilet. The cage's mattress was filthy, musty and covered with gray dust, and now, so was Robyn. The air in the chamber was stiflingly hot, and Robyn had been sweating all night, especially within the tight confines of the canvas and leather jacket. Her bare feet and legs were soiled and glistening. She couldn't see her face, of course, but she knew it had to be equally smudged and streaked with greasy dirt.

During the long night, lying awake in her filthy prison between fitful catnaps, helpless and frightened, Robyn had rehearsed her arguments, preparing the speech she hoped would get her out of this mess... but found herself struck dumb by the sight of her captor.

Frieda was in gleaming black leather from head to toe: knee-high riding boots, skintight catsuit, tightly cinched corset, and gloves. Her long, raven hair flowed to her shoulders and down her back in elegant waves. The catsuit had a scoop front, and the upper halves of her large, firm breasts were revealed by its generous décolletage. The heels of her boots tapped as she strolled forward, a seductively evil smile on her face, her pale blue eyes staring at her cowering captive with laser intensity.

Robyn took an involuntary step back, and came up against the wall of her cage. Incredibly... she felt a thrill of desire at the sight of her polished, gleaming, elegant and graceful nemesis. She... she can do anything she wants to me, Robyn realized; then shuddered and shook the tousled red curls out of her face. The spell broke as Frieda unlocked the cage door. "I-I didn't do anything," the terrified captive stammered, "and I can prove it. Get me to a computer and I can access the files and-" Frieda had entered the cage and was pressing her right index finger against Robyn's lips. (Robyn could smell the leather of her captor's glove... It was... intoxicating.)

Her eyes still locked with her captive, Frieda nodded down, towards the bowls of food and water. "I suppose I was delinquent in explaining the house rules," she said, a cruel, mocking smile curling her lips. "We don't waste food at Chattel Mountain Lodge. We're at the end of a very long, very expensive logistical pipeline here. You'll eat what I give you, when I give it to you. We can't have you losing weight, can we? You're skinny enough as it is."

Robyn's fear evaporated (as did any lingering arousal caused by the appearance of her captor), and was replaced by a burning, righteous anger. "You bitch!" she found herself saying. "You have no right to-m'mmpfh- M'MMPFH!!!"

Frieda's right hand was over Robyn's mouth in a tight hand gag, and her left cupped Robyn's sex. The captive squirmed in her straitjacket, her back to the bars, and tried to knee her tormentor in the crotch, but Frieda had taken the precaution of stepping on the leather strap connecting Robyn's hobbles. "Naughty girl," Frieda scolded, and began a gentle massage of her prisoner's labia. "You're cranky this morning, aren't you, Naughty Girl. It looks like I'm going to have to make sure you get your nourishment." Her left hand left Robyn's nether lips... and reappeared before the writhing captive's wet, angry, glaring eyes with the leather padded hoop of a ring-gag in her gloved fingers.




Robyn squirmed in her bonds, mewing angry, well-muffled complaints past the apparatus Frieda was clamping in place over and in her ring-gagged mouth. She had been marched down a dirty, narrow hallway and into this tiled chamber; slammed into a rigid chair of bent pipes, leather straps, and minimal padding, and secured in place. Her hobbles had been removed and her splayed ankles and knees and her straitjacked upper body strapped to the chair, leaving her in a semi-reclined pose. In addition, her head was pinned back by a strap across her forehead, and Frieda was making final adjustments to what she referred to as a "feeding machine."

The machine was some sort of stainless steel hopper and motor-driven mechanism on a tall stand. A very short vertical tube attached to a large funnel slid through Robyn's ring gag and an attached rubber shield sealed her lower face from chin to nose. As a final (alarming) touch, Frieda pinched Robyn's nostrils closed with a padded clip. "I've ground up your Primate Chow pellets and dissolved them in water, making it almost liquid," Frieda explained, "and a mist blows into the funnel with each dollop, providing even further lubrication. The machine delivers a heaping teaspoon of... umm... shall we say... yummy nourishment... every thirty seconds." She tightened the final clamp and moved her head slightly, so she could smile down into Robyn's glaring eyes. "Your choice is simple," she explained. "Either swallow each dollop as it's delivered... or discover how difficult it is to breath with your mouth packed with soft, wet, gravy-soaked gorp."

There was a quiet chime, a geared mechanism turned, and a slug of slimy brown "yummy nourishment" plopped into Robyn's involuntarily open mouth. The helpless captive shuddered in disgust. "Primate Chow" wasn't as terrible as she feared, but it was definitely an acquired taste. Having no choice (other than suicide by Primate Chow suffocation), Robyn swallowed the wet mass, relieved to find it was possible, despite her ring-gag. Several seconds later there was another chime, followed by another plopping dose of brown sludge.

"Well, I'll leave you to enjoy your breakfast," Frieda announced. "I have to rinse out the 'number one' you did in your bucket last night. I'll be back in about a half hour... to give you your enema."




An hour later, after breakfast and the promised enema, Robyn was stomping down a dimly lit corridor, her captor directing her travel with irritating but not particularly painful taps from a black leather riding crop. The angry redhead's ensemble had been changed back in the tiled chamber. She was finally free of the straitjacket, but it had been replaced with what Frieda called her "work clothes." Her wrists were locked in stainless steel manacles, her ankles in steel shackles, a steel "belt" was locked around her waist, and a steel collar was around her throat. Each element of her new restraints had a single steel ring on a ball and socket joint, and a steel chain joined them all, sliding freely (and noisily) through each ring. The length of the chain was carefully adjusted to restrict Robyn's range of motion, yet allow her to fully extend any one limb. Standing erect (as now), the only way for the captive to gain sufficient slack to allow her to walk (as now), was to hold her hands close to the belt.

She would have complained (in a spectacularly vulgar manner), but a rather large ball-gag was strapped in her mouth. In addition, her head was encased. It looked like a black latex gas mask, but Frieda called it a "dust hood." Robyn's angry green eyes were clearly visible through its broad, curved face plate; but her nose, gagged mouth, and chin were covered by the hood's conforming breathing mask with its attached filter canister. The skintight, overlying rubber hood was stretched, zipped, and padlocked over her head, her red curls emerging from a generous hole in the rear and cascading down her bare back.

Except for her chains and hood, Robyn was completely bare, not counting the patina of greasy dirt soiling her legs and feet. Her torso, breasts, arms, and shoulders glistened with sweat as she shuffled down the dirty, narrow, overheated corridor.

They came to an iron gate. It was unlocked and Robyn clattered through. Frieda tossed a broom and large feather duster at her captive's feet, then closed and locked the gate. "I'll be back for you in a few hours," she explained. "I expect the overhead pipes to be dusted, the cobwebs cleared, and the floor swept from here to the far gate, including the side corridors. If you slack off or do a poor job... I'll have no choice but to punish you... severely." The smiling, catsuited, raven-haired beauty then spun on her booted heel and gracefully walked away.

Robyn screamed a muffled protest at Frieda's disappearing back, and was ignored. The naked, chained, and hooded captive stamped her dirty feet in frustration, then stooped and examined the broom and duster. Both had long, rather flexible rubber handles, making them difficult tools for their designed tasks; but more importantly, rendering them utterly useless as weapons. Robyn screamed again, in frustration and anger, then picked up the duster, planted her feet together to gain sufficient slack in her chains to lift her right arm, and began dusting the overhead pipes. A cloud of dust and old cobwebs descended, including several dead (and a few not so dead) spiders. Robyn shuddered in disgust and continued her labors. Just you wait, she fumed. My time will come. Just you wait.




"She's entered the 'Anger Phase'," Frieda announced as she walked into the main kitchen.

Joelle was flipping the last of a stack of perfectly browned pancakes. She was dressed in boots, jeans, and sweater, her usual everyday clothes. "All hail the Leather Bitch Goddess," she muttered, turned off the griddle, and carried the platter of pancakes to the breakfast nook.

Frieda smiled and executed a graceful curtsey (a rather incongruous gesture in her kinky leather garb), then settled into her chair. Orange juice, coffee, and bacon were already waiting. Plates were loaded as Frieda recounted the morning's events down below.

"I hate that damn machine," Joelle mumbled as she poured syrup over her pancakes, "and I really hate Primate Chow."

"I do too," Frieda agreed, "but it's important to demonstrate complete and total control of every aspect of the bottom's life. I'll make her meals more palatable... once she's learned her place."

"She's a prisoner, not a bottom," Joelle pointed out.

Frieda's smile turned decidedly coy. "Oh... I think Ms. Tolliver's more than a little of both." She chewed and swallowed a mouthful of pancakes, then continued. "Or will be, if I play her correctly." Joelle raised a skeptical eyebrow as Frieda sipped her coffee. "I have an instinct about such things," the catsuited beauty explained.

"Instinct!" Joelle snorted. "More like a delusive pride. Do you still want me to meet our new guest after lunch?"

Frieda nodded, smiling sweetly. "I have the perfect costume all picked out," she purred.

"I'm sure you do," Joelle muttered, "and speaking of costumes; finish your breakfast and get up to the solarium. I don't want to miss the morning light."

"What's the rush?"

Joelle sipped her juice and smiled at her model. "I'm almost finished, and I need you out of that catsuit and especially that corset as soon as possible. We have to allow time for the marks they leave on your pasty white skin to fade."

Frieda paused, a slice of bacon poised before her smiling lips. "You do that on purpose," she accused, "just to goad me into doing cruel and unusual things to your pretty brown body. Admit it."

"I don't know what you mean," Joelle answered innocently. "Now hurry up! You can do some push-ups and sit-ups once you strip down. That'll shorten the fade time on the marks... and I don't mind waiting for the resulting flush to fade."




Robyn had been cleaning for hours. She'd dusted and cleared the cobwebs from what had to be fifty miles of pipes, conduits, and ductwork. Well... it feels like fifty miles, she fumed. Her arms and shoulders ached, as did her back and neck, from having to strain back against the stiff collar of her "Filter Hood" in order to see what she was doing. A veritable cloud of very fine dust hung in the air, and Robyn was filthy from neck to toes. She was also growing desperately thirsty, continuing to perspire in the close heat as she worked. Robyn blinked sweat out of her eyes (unable to wipe them, of course, because of the hood.) She'd finished dusting (not that anything would stay clean in this gray fog), and had moved on to sweeping.

Robyn had sublimated her anger, concentrating on her cleaning labors for two reasons: the obvious, to avoid punishment; and the not so obvious (she hoped), to lull her captor into complacency through her apparent surrender. The pile of dirt (and spider carcasses) at her feet was quite substantial, and ever growing. She was debating starting a second pile, when she noticed movement in the distance.

Frieda was walking down the passage towards her, and at her side was another woman! ...a stranger! ...a naked, chained stranger! The newcomer was carrying a steel bucket, and was dark-skinned; her body toned and athletic. Her dark hair was streaked with bronze, and her smooth, coffee skin glistened in the heat. Her chains were identical to Robyn's, but in place of a Filter Hood she was wearing a disposable paper dust mask (as did Frieda.). As the stranger came closer, Robyn could see that her almond-shaped eyes were a deep brown... and they were smiling.

Robyn's green eyes blinked behind the dusty, streaked glass of the hood's face plate. Then, before she knew what was happening, Frieda had stepped behind her and was buckling leather cuffs around her upper arms. She mewed and complained, stamping her dirty feet and rattling her chains, but could do nothing to prevent Frieda from pulling the connecting strap taut and thus pulling her elbows together behind her back. She was also forced to her knees (and directly into the pile of dust she had been sweeping), something was done to her chains, and she was unable to rise. Her fellow captive set down the bucket, and Robyn could now see it contained a dustpan, a large container of sports drink (citrus flavored), and a plastic bottle.

Frieda removed the newcomer's paper mask. Underneath, a large ball of translucent red rubber filled her mouth and was held there by a narrow strap of black leather with a tiny padlock securing the buckle. Frieda fitted an equally tiny key, opened the lock, loosened the strap to its first hole, and resecured the buckle and lock. She then pulled the ball from the unmistakably smiling newcomer's mouth and let it dangle around her steel-collared throat.

"Thank you, Mistress," Robyn's fellow captive whispered, licking her dark lips with her pink, wet tongue.

"You're welcome, Jet," Frieda answered. "This is my newest acquisition," she added, nodding down at Robyn. "She's untrained, but I think she'll make a fine addition to the stable. I've been calling her 'Red', but I'm sure I'll think of a better name... eventually. Yes, it's nice to have a strawberry roan... but she's more a strawberry sorrel, don't you think?" Frieda paused, reached into a side pocket of her catsuit, and pulled out a small vibrating pager. She thumbed a switch (the vibrating stopped), and she squinted at the device's small display window. "Curious," she muttered, then walked back the way she'd come. "I want her watered," she called back over her shoulder, "and you have my permission to welcome her to the stable."

"Jet" and "Red" watched Frieda round a corner in the corridor; heard the far gate being opened, closed, and locked; then their heads turned and Joelle's smiling brown eyes locked with Robyn's worried green eyes.




Joelle pulled the sports drink and plastic bottle from the bucket, popped the bottle's cap, and filled it with about a quart of the orange drink. She then attached a second cap with a long, dangling, clear plastic tube; hung the bottle from a convenient pipe bracket, and thumbed a clip at the tube's far end. Robyn watched bubbles rise in the bottle overhead and orange liquid slowly fill the tube. As it neared the end, Joelle snapped the clip, then reached for something on the front of Robyn's Filter Hood.

Robyn flinched at the contact. "Easy, Red," Joelle whispered with a reassuring smile. "I'm just attaching to the drinking tube built into your mask. You'll be able to suck through the hole in your ball-gag. There... All done." She snapped the clip again, then sat on the floor (apparently very much at home in her chains), put her back to the concrete wall, and pulled Robyn into her lap. The hooded, filthy captive complained, then shuddered with delight as her mouth filled with a delicious, wet, lemon-orange flavor. She sucked on the pliant rubber filling her mouth as Joelle settled her in a semi-reclined position. (In her now closely chained condition, she couldn't offer any real resistance... even if she'd wanted to.)

Joelle hugged her "fellow captive" close, and let her hands wander over the squirming redhead's helpless, naked body. The passage of her strong, dark hands was eased by the sweat glistening on their skins. "Don't let Frieda get your goat with her 'stable' talk," Joelle said. "It's merely one of her several games. Being Mistress... she gets to play however she wants." Joelle's hands cupped Robyn's breasts, then began gently toying with her nipples. Robyn continued squirming, and sucking on her gag. Despite the distraction of what "Jet" was doing to her captive, unwilling body, her thirst required at least part of her attention.

"What a filthy thing you are," Joelle whispered, continuing to caress Robyn's now erect and sensitive nipples, then she let her hands wander down Robyn's abdomen, smearing and streaking the greasy film of dirt covering the shuddering redhead. Her hands continued to Robyn's sex, and the helpless captive screamed through her gag in alarm. "Shhhhh..." Joelle whispered. "Easy, girl... Easy... Let me make it all better." Her fingers caressed Robyn's labia, and gently probed her flushed, glistening slit.

Joelle smiled. Her "fellow slave's" sex was wet, despite her continuing struggles and gagged protests. "Hush, Red," she cooed. "You can't do anything to stop me, and it feels so good." She found Robyn's clitoris (already firm and flushed) and the helpless prisoner squealed through her gag and hood. Joelle settled into a slow steady rhythm of teasing massage. Robyn fought her bonds... bit down on her gag... and shuddered with delight. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity of helpless, humiliating, wonderful, manipulation... she climaxed.

Exhausted, relaxed for the first time since her capture (and more than a little confused), Robyn lay against her fellow captive's warm, firm body... continued sucking on her orange-flavored gag... and gazed into her lover's kind eyes.

Joelle smiled. "You're welcome," she cooed. "And welcome to Chattel Mountain Lodge."




Frieda entered the Lodge office, wondering what Chandler Warburg wanted to talk about with such urgency. She'd taken the time to towel the dust from her catsuit and boots and scrub her face, but her hair was a dusty mess. She'd have to have "Jet" shampoo it for her. I'll leave her in chains, she mused. I like playing Queen, being waited on by naked, helpless slave girls.

She settled into her desk chair, stabbed the button for the secure (encrypted) line, then stabbed the appropriate speed dial button. It took several seconds for the call to connect, then (surprisingly) Chandler Warburg herself was chattering on the line.

"Slow down, slow down," Frieda said. "Yes, the 'new guest' is settled in and I've started working my way down your checklist... No, I'm not very far down the list; why?" Seconds passed as the Chandler's tinny voice continued rattling in Frieda's earpiece. The catsuited beauty sat upright in her chair. "Say that again," she growled. "What? WHAT???" Her blue eyes flashing, Frieda held the handset against her side, breathing deeply and staring out the window at the far peaks. Chandler continued speaking, and was ignored.

Finally, Frieda put the handset back to her ear and spoke clearly and calmly. "Get your ass on a plane and get out here," she ordered. Seconds passed as Chandler's voice responded... and Frieda's calm evaporated. "I don't care what party you were planning on attending or what new gown you bought just for the occasion! Get your skinny ass to the airport... Plunk it in a seat on a Warburg company jet... and GET IT OUT HERE!!!"

Frieda slammed down the handset and continued staring out the window. "Innocent... innocent all along," she muttered under her breath.




Chapter 4: WHAT THE...?

Robyn lay in her fellow captive's arms... and it felt good. She'd consumed more than a pint of orange sports drink through the plastic tube dangling from the bottle suspended overhead, suckling the delicious liquid through a hole in the ball-gag of her "filter hood." Her dark-skinned benefactor had unplugged the tube and restowed the hanging bottle, then settled back against the wall, and pulled Robyn back into her arms. She let her hands wander over Robyn's pale, sweat-slick, dirty, greasy skin... and it felt good. "My real name's Joelle, by the way," she explained, "not 'Jet'."

Still basking in the afterglow of orgasm, sore and aching from her labors and the restriction of her restraints, Robyn snuggled against Joelle's body and tried to organize her thoughts. She was still angry... outraged at her capture, incarceration, forced labor, and general abuse... although she had to admit her most recent treatment hadn't exactly been abuse... but it hadn't been voluntary either! I'll kick Frieda Saberhagen's 'Mistress' butt! Robyn fumed silently, biting on the ball strapped in her mouth in frustration. First chance I get! Joelle's strong hands began kneading her sore shoulders and Robyn's eyes rolled in ecstasy. Oooh... I'll kick her butt... Oooh...

Just then they both heard the sound of the iron gate down the corridor being unlocked, closely followed by the click of Frieda's boots on the concrete floor. She turned the corner and came into view... and Robyn's semi-complacent mood was shattered. Clearly the catsuited beauty was furious! Her blue eyes were flashing and her mouth was set in an angry scowl as she stomped towards the chained, naked prisoners.

Robyn whined through her gag and hood and shivered in Joelle's gentle embrace. "Shhh, easy," Joelle whispered. "I'll sort this out." Helpless in her elbow cuffs and close chains, Robyn was eased to the floor. Joelle stood, fluidly graceful in her chained nudity, and superimposed herself between Robyn and Frieda.

"What's your problem?" the dark captive asked. Frieda tried pushing past her, but (to Robyn's great surprise) Joelle gripped her right hand. Joelle's chains rattled and swayed as Frieda turned and glared in her face. "What's happened?" Joelle demanded. "What's wrong?"

To Robyn's even greater surprise, Frieda did not do something cruel and unusual to her inquisitive slave... but leaned forward and whispered in Joelle's ear... then handed her a pair of keys. Her head swiveled to glare down at Robyn. "Now!" she growled, then spun on her heel and stomped away.

Joelle continued staring at Frieda's disappearing back, then turned and knelt beside Robyn. She fitted one key to the padlock securing Robyn's filter hood, then began the lengthy process of removing the tight, latex encasement. Eventually the hood came free, she unstrapped the filter mask itself, and pulled the rubber ball from Robyn's grimacing mouth.

Robyn was relieved to be free of the hood (of course), but very confused. She licked her lips and stared up at Joelle's smiling, friendly face. "I... What...?"

Joelle's smile widened, and she used her fingers to part Robyn's tousled, dirty locks. "I don't know what her problem is; not yet," she answered, then reached behind Robyn's back and began unbuckling her elbow cuffs. The redhead twisted her torso to make the task easier. The cuffs came free and the clips restricting Robyn's chains were next. Finally, Robyn was helped to her feet. Her fetters, identical to Joelle's, were now restored to their original "work clothes" mode: a loop of chain traveling through rings in her manacles, collar, belt, and shackles.

The captives stood facing one another in the half-cleaned corridor. Both were glistening with sweat and Joelle was in need of a bath; but Robyn was absolutely filthy, covered with a film of greasy dirt from head to toe. Even Robyn's face, which had been "protected" by the filter hood until seconds before, was streaked and smudged, from her night of tossing and turning on the dirty mattress back in her dusty cell.

"We've been ordered to get cleaned up," Joelle announced. Then, with practiced precision, she began using the second, slightly larger key to unlock her own manacles, shackles, belt, and collar. The translucent red ball-gag dangling around her neck remained, the tiny key required to unlock its padlocked buckle remaining with Frieda.

Robyn held up her manacles, but Joelle shook her head sadly. "Sorry," she said. "Different key, and I'm afraid you haven't earned trustee status; not yet."

Robyn bit her lower lip, disappointed but not angry (not with her new friend, anyway.) "Please," the chained redhead whispered. "Can you help me? I didn't do anything."

Joelle smiled, put her left arm over Robyn's shoulders, and led her away. "I won't lie to you," the nude, dark-skinned beauty said. "I'm as much a part of this place as our 'Mistress.' You know the old 'Good Cop-Bad Cop' routine?" Robyn nodded. "Well..." Joelle continued, "think of this as 'Good Slave-Bad Mistress'."

Robyn stumbled in her chains and dropped her head. Joelle held her close and lifted the redhead's chin. Robyn's eyes were welling. "I... I swear... I didn't do anything. I'm not a thief."

Joelle smiled sadly and kissed Robyn's trembling lips. "It's not up to me," she said. "I can't change anything... but I make you a promise." She straightened Robyn's tousled hair and kissed her again. "I'll be your friend, and I'll make things as pleasant for you as I can."

"I'm not a thief," Robyn whispered. A tear rolling down her left cheek, leaving a track in the patina of dirt. "I... I can prove it."

"C'mon," Joelle sighed, put Robyn's head on her shoulder, and led her down the corridor. "Let's get cleaned up."




Their destination was a large, tiled chamber (different from the chamber with the hated "feeding machine.") At one end was an alcove with a dozen shower heads set at different heights. There were also stainless steel eyebolts with dangling chains set in the ceiling, walls, and floor. Elsewhere in the room there were a large, stainless steel bathtub, steel cabinets, and a padded table.

Her arm still around Robyn's shoulders, Joelle led her towards the shower. She turned a faucet, and water streamed from all the shower heads, converging above a large drain. Robyn noticed (with trepidation) that the various dangling chains framed the same position. "This is normally used with the water set on full cold and the 'patient' in a standing spread-eagle," Joelle explained (causing Robyn's eyes to pop wide), "but we'll just use it for a nice, long, hot shower with plenty of soap and shampoo. You don't mind, do you?"

"Uh... no," Robyn answered, then gasped as Joelle gave her a gentle shove into the stream. Once she got over the initial shock, it felt glorious! The water was hot, but not too hot... it was perfect! Steam was filling the air as Joelle joined her under the water. She had a large, soapy, sponge mitten on one hand, and used it to give the chained, smiling redhead a thorough scrubbing, replenishing the soap from a wall dispenser as required. She ran the sudsy mitt over her own body as well. Robyn stood, turned, and lifted her chained limbs one-by-one, as required to cooperate with her new friend and as dictated by her restraints. Joelle shampooed her own hair, then lathered and massaged Robyn's scalp and hair. Robyn shuddered with delight. She received a thorough rinse, then the water stopped.

Joelle fetched a thick, fluffy towel from one of the cabinets and used it to dry Robyn's pale, pink, lightly freckled body. "Did you enjoy your shower?" the dusky beauty whispered.

Robyn stood in her chains, shuddering delicately under the soft caress of the thick terry cloth. "Uh-huh," she whispered back, smiling coyly.

A second towel was used to dry Robyn's hair, then was deftly wrapped and twisted around her head and folded into a turban. Joelle held her close and kissed her lips. Robyn felt a frisson of pleasure course through her sex and up her spine as the combination of her implacable chains and Joelle's tight, warm, naked embrace held her completely helpless.

"Next time I'll string you up nice and taut and wide..." She nodded at the stainless steel chains dangling around them. "...and really take my time."

Robyn shuddered again, and let her chained hands embrace Joelle's narrow waist. "Next time?" she whispered, kissed Joelle's dark, full lips-then her eyes popped wide and she hummed a warning through Joelle's mouth. The steam had dissipated and the naked pair found Frieda standing nearby, in all her catsuited glory. Her gloved hands were on hips, but a strangely sad smile was on her face.

Her eyes still wide, Robyn stood as close to Joelle as she could. The dusky beauty was toweling herself dry and giving herself a towel turban. "Well," she demanded, "are you finally going to tell me-"

"Put her on the massage table," Frieda interrupted, gesturing at the padded table in the center of the room. "Then we'll talk."

Joelle led the captive towards the table. "What's she gonna do to me?" Robyn whispered.

"Shh," Joelle whispered back. "Just do as you're told, Red Robyn. On your stomach."

Robyn rolled onto the table. Her chains made this difficult, but she finally managed. The table was narrow and well padded, with an oval cutout for her face. She snuggled into the oval, and found herself staring into her own face. A mirror was mounted below, far enough to catch light from the room and give her eyes room to focus. Frieda joined Joelle at the table, and together they simultaneously removed Robyn's steel manacles, shackles, belt, and collar, and used tan, padded, leather restraints to bind her to the table. Frieda handled the glittering steel (having the required key, of course), and Joelle the buff leather. Their actions were quick, professional, and well-rehearsed. Robyn was never in a position to offer any meaningful resistance as her restraints were swapped, even if she hadn't been too frightened, confused, and exhausted to attempt escape. In less than two minutes she found herself comfortably stretched in a relaxed spread-eagle with broad padded cuffs linking her wrists and ankles to the steel rail running the periphery of the table. In addition, leather straps pinned her body to the table across her shoulder blades, the small of her back, and her thighs, just below her naked butt. Finally, a padded frame of some sort was inserted in two holes on either side of her throat. It slid in place and locked with an authoritative click, and Robyn found herself unable to lift her head free of the padded oval.

"What are you going to do to me," the helpless redhead whined, squirming in her new bonds (and clinching her dimpled buttocks, realizing how vulnerable she was to a spanking, paddling... or even a whipping.)

"Quiet, or you'll be gagged," Frieda muttered, then mumbled something, apparently to Joelle.

Robyn was confused. Frieda's attitude was... different. She was still very much in charge, but... different. "P-please don't hurt me," Robyn whined, unable to stifle the outburst.

"I told you-umm-Just be quiet." It was Frieda's voice, but very different at the end, almost as if she were crying! Robyn was even more confused.

Apparently, Robyn wasn't alone. "Darling, what's wrong?" Joelle demanded. Much whispering ensued, then Frieda's boots clicked away, fading into the distance and through the chamber door. Robyn felt several thick, fluffy towels being laid across her strapped, naked body. "These will keep you warm and toasty," Joelle purred in Robyn's ear. "Mistress and I have something to discuss. You take a nice nap, okay?"

"J-joelle?" Robyn whispered. "Please... I'm scared."

"Trust me," Joelle's strong alto voice murmured in Robyn's ear, followed closely by a kiss.

Seconds passed, then the lights clicked out and the door closed. Robyn sighed and wiggled in her bonds. Suddenly, she heard shouting from the corridor. She surmised Frieda and Joelle were just outside, and the discussion Joelle had mentioned had rapidly degenerated into a full-blown argument. Robyn couldn't understand words, but she could recognize the voices. To her infinite surprise and even further confusion, Joelle seemed to be doing most of the yelling! After several seconds, the voices faded.

Robyn could just make out the reflection of her face in the mirror below. Apparently the bathing chamber had some sort of night light. She twisted her wrists in their tight cuffs, then tried to lift her head... and was defeated by the padded stock clamped around her neck. She sighed and closed her eyes... and within seconds... was asleep.




Naked and very angry, the translucent red ball-gag still bobbing under her chin like some absurd bauble, Joelle stomped into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and started gathering the makings of a light meal.

Frieda was right behind, her eyes on the floor. The fair-skinned, raven-haired beauty was in tight black leather from head to toe, the very image of a dominatrix: boots, catsuit, corset, and gloves. For several seconds she watched Joelle prepare some bacon for frying, then licked her lips and spoke. "Look," she muttered, "we have to-"

"I told you to shut up!" Joelle barked. She arranged the strips of raw bacon on a griddle, set the burner on low, then turned to her suddenly submissive Mistress. "Innocent. Not a thief. Just doing her job. So sorry. Mistakes happen."

"Look, I'm pissed too," Frieda growled, her eyes flashing. "When Chandler gets here-"

"Oh no you don't!" Joelle interrupted. "Don't even try pushing this off on Dragon Lady. Of course it's all her fault, but you're the one who sold this mess to me! It's your fault I'm a felon and... and... a Bitch!"

"We can't just let her go," Frieda mumbled, her eyes on the floor again.

Joelle flipped the bacon, returned to the refrigerator, and pulled out a package of thin-sliced, smoked turkey. "I know that," she said. "The situation's just too complicated... especially in New York. Too many unknowns. We need time to think... time to find a new arrangement."

"Well," Frieda said, "for starters-"

"For starters, you can shut up!" Joelle interrupted. Her hand went to the ball-gag around her neck. "Key!" she barked. Frieda fumbled in the pockets of her catsuit and produced the tiny key required to unlock the tiny padlock securing the buckle. Joelle unlocked the gag and tossed it to Frieda. "In your mouth, good and tight," she ordered.

"Joey," Frieda whined, "it's not time to swap roles 'til next week. I know I-"

"Shut it!" Joelle shouted. "This has nothing to do with schedules and who's on top. This is about you dragging me into that Evil Warburg Bitch's evil scheme when I told you it was wrong! This is about me paddling your Snow White behind 'til you develop some sense! In your mouth!"

Frieda sighed, stared at the translucent red rubber ball for several seconds, then followed her orders. She threaded the buckle and tightened the strap until the corners of her mouth were pulled back in a permanent grimace. She then interlaced her fingers atop her head and spun on her booted heels.

Joelle slid the padlock through the hasp in the gag's buckle and clicked it closed. She then spun Frieda around and tested the fit of the ball. It filled Frieda's mouth to capacity and was obviously a very effective silencer. The gagged, catsuited "Top" locked eyes with the naked "Bottom." Brown eyes stared into pale blue for several long seconds... then Joelle's scowl faded. "We need time to think," she repeated. "We also need time to calm down. I'll vent my anger on you for a while..." She reached out and caressed Frieda's leather covered breasts with her strong, dark hands. "You can vent your anger on Chandler, whenever she gets here..." Her hands traveled down over Frieda's tight corset and on to her leather-clad loins. "And we can both start apologizing to poor Robyn, even if we can't set her free." Frieda nodded. "I'm a little underdressed for the part of Avenging Bitch-Goddess," Joelle said, "so I'm going upstairs to correct that oversight. In the meanwhile, I want you to prepare a light supper for two: club sandwiches, fruit salad, and white wine." She pattered to the kitchen door and favored Frieda with a coy smile. "If you're wondering how you're going to eat with that gag in your mouth... you aren't. The other sandwich is for Robyn. You're fasting 'til breakfast; and when I get back, we'll see about getting you a little less over-dressed." She blew Frieda a kiss, and was gone.

Frieda sighed and turned to the browning bacon. She flipped it again, then set about making toast.




Robyn came awake as the last of the towels were pulled from her body. She was momentarily chilled. "Who's there?" she muttered, pulling on her leather wrist cuffs.

"Don't be afraid, Red," Joelle's voice answered. "It's just your fellow slave, Jet." The straps over her upper back, lower back, and thighs were unbuckled and pulled back.

Robyn's nostrils flared. A complex, musky scent with floral highlights filled the room. Red heat lamps clicked on and her exposed skin began warming rapidly. "What-oh-ah!" Someone (presumably Joelle) was rubbing her hands over Robyn's back and spine. Their passage was eased by warm, fragrant oil. Robyn pulled on her wrist and ankle cuffs and slowly twisted her neck in its padded stock-clamp, reassuring herself that she was still helpless. "That feels goooood," she whispered. The clamp pinning her neck was pulled away, and the massage continued. All thoughts of her helpless plight and uncertain future were gone. Robyn lay in her restraints and let the delicious feelings wash over her.

"You have the prettiest skin," Joelle purred, pouring a fresh dollop of heated oil on her hands, rubbing them together, then resuming her massage.

Robyn was limp as the proverbial dishrag. "I... thankss," she whispered, her voice slurred. Joelle massaged her shoulders, upper and lower back, her spine from neck to buttocks, her thighs, each of her limbs... the languid prisoner neither noticed not resisted as her cuffs were released, one-by-one, re-secured to the top and bottom rails of the table, and she was rolled onto her back.

The massage continued, but now Robyn could see her masseuse. She was a little surprised to find Joelle clad in skintight leather from head to toe. Her costume was similar to Frieda's black catsuit, but this one was medium brown with butternut trim and accents. It was skintight, but had no corset. Robyn shuddered in her bonds, intoxicated by the sight of her "fellow slave." A shy smile curled the naked redhead's coral lips. "I... I like your skin too," she whispered as Joelle's strong, dark hands caressed her breasts. "And I like your outfit. It's... oh..." (Joelle's hands manipulated Robyn's erect nipples.) "...oh... It's perfect... oh..."

Joelle smiled, replenished the oil on her hands, and resumed her massage of Robyn's breasts and abdomen. "Feeling hungry, Red?" she inquired.

"Oh... oh..." Joelle's hands had reached Robyn's sex. The panting redhead closed her eyes and she shuddered in her bonds. "H...hungry? Yesss... oh..."

"Good," Joelle purred, continuing her skilled manipulation of Robyn's captive flesh. "We have sandwiches waiting for us upstairs. Does that sound good?"

Robyn's was writhing in her bonds, increasingly oblivious to everything but Joelle's continuing massage of her most intimate person. "Oh... oh..." Her panting gasps became a squeal of delight, and she bucked and fought her inescapable restraints-and came. Her frenzied, shuddering, squirming reactions continued for several seconds, then she collapsed in her bonds... still panting... and smiled up at Joelle through half-closed lids.

Joelle smiled down at the happy captive. "I'll take that as a yes," she said with a chuckle.




Robyn was happy. She basked in the afterglow of her massage and orgasm at the very skilled hands of her "fellow slave." Always keeping her helplessly tethered to the massage table by at least three cuffs, Joelle dressed Robyn in a fluffy robe, placed fluffy slippers on her feet, then snapped her leather wrist cuffs together behind her back. Robyn wasn't afraid. Frieda might be her enemy, but Joelle was her friend.

Robyn was led upstairs to the kitchen, deposited in a comfortable chair, and was hand fed by Joelle. The club sandwiches and fruit salad were accompanied by excellent wine... an abundance of excellent wine. Conversation became more and more... giggly. Eventually Robyn found herself being led from the kitchen, up the grand staircase, and into a large bedroom with a large bed. (The bedroom also had a large bathroom, and things got even more giggly when Joelle helped Robyn answer the call of nature, then washed her face and brushed her teeth.) The slightly tipsy redhead then found herself in the bed.

Joelle climbed in behind her captive, pulled Robyn's robe off her shoulders, reached around and opened its sash, then pulled the thick, fluffy garment down and over her captive's cuffed wrists. "I have to make you a little more secure," she explained as she buckled a collar of tan leather around Robyn's throat, "so I can let you share my bed without fear of you escaping in the night." The collar was followed by a matching tan harness than pinned Robyn's arms to her sides.

"I... I don't mind," Robyn whispered as she was rolled onto her stomach, "not if it's you." The harness buckled to the back of the collar. Her wrist cuffs were separated, the robe pulled free and tossed aside, her arms folded across her back, and each cuff secured to the harness. Finally, a broad flap of leather was buckled over her forearms. Even if she had wanted to resist, Joelle had taken full precautions, pinning her arms first, sitting with her weight astride Robyn's buttocks, and working quickly and efficiently; but truth be told, the grinning redhead didn't want to resist (didn't mind being controlled.) The prospect of sharing a warm bed with her "fellow slave" was... delicious... "delicious as cool, white wine."

"What did you say, darling?" Joelle asked as she rolled off the bed.

Robyn blushed, and giggled. She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud. "Nothing," she answered, then whispered "oh" when Joelle snapped one end of a light chain to the front of her collar. The prisoner followed the chain with her eyes and found its other end snapped to a decorative iron ring in the bed's headboard.

Meanwhile, resplendent in her skintight catsuit, Joelle was standing, hands on hips, and smiling down at her captive. "I have a surprise for you," she said. "Wait here."

"'Wait here'," Robyn quoted, a sardonic smile curling her lips. Joelle laughed, spun on her heel, and left the bedroom. Robyn tested her bonds. They were tight, inescapable, but comfortable. 'Surprise', she mused. I wonder what-

Robyn gasped. Frieda Saberhagen had stumbled into the room. A large red ball-gag was strapped in her mouth, and she was bound in black, gleaming leather! A wide, stiff collar was around her throat. A heavily boned corset was laced tightly around her waist. Behind her back a single-sleeve encased her hands, wrists, and arms, pulling her elbows together and causing her large, firm, pale breasts to point. The sleeve incorporated straps that encircled her wrists and elbows, pinned her forearms to the corset, linked the top of the sleeve to the back of her collar, and linked the fingertips of the sleeve to the front of the corset (cleaving her buttocks and sex in the process, of course.) Finally, her ankles were cuffed and linked by a hobbling strap. All her restraints were cruelly tight, and obviously completely inescapable.

Frieda's pale skin glistened with sweat. Her blue eyes peered through a curtain of tousled raven curls, locking with her fellow captive's amazed green eyes. Her nipples were flushed and erect, her breasts heaving slightly above the tight restriction of the corset.

There was a loud whack and the business end of a riding crop landed on Frieda's right buttock. The crop was Joelle's, of course. The dusky, catsuited beauty grabbed a handful of Frieda's hair, and dragged her towards the bed. "On your knees," she hissed and Frieda complied instantly. "I told you you'd be surprised," Joelle said to Robyn.

In fact, the redhead was dumbstruck! Her eyes darted from Joelle to Frieda and back, her mouth hanging open in amazement. Joelle stooped and unbuckled Frieda's ball-gag, tossed it aside, placed the shaft of her crop in its place, and Frieda submissively bit down and held it like a thin, overly long bit. Joelle stood and began peeling off her catsuit.

Robyn was finally able to speak. "What the...?"

Joelle sat on the bed and was pulling off her boots. "Hush, Red," she scolded, a smile on her face. Nude at last, she crawled onto the bed, behind Robyn, and pulled the still amazed redhead with her to nestle against the pillows piled at the headboard. She reached out and adjusted a control on the night stand, and the lights slowly faded, leaving only the dozen candles burning at various locations around the bedroom.

Joelle snuggled against the pillows, hugged Robyn close from behind, and spoke softly in her ear. "There's something I have to tell you, Robyn," she said. "We know you're innocent."

Robyn half turned her head, but her eyes were still on Frieda. "You what?"

"We know you're innocent," Joelle repeated. "More precisely, we know now. Chandler Warburg has admitted she screwed up. You didn't steal anything, and you're not a thief. We're sorry we let her talk us into this mess."

Robyn squirmed in her bonds. "You're letting me go?"

"We can talk about that in the morning," Joelle answered, then gestured towards Frieda. "Get up here, slave," she ordered. Encumbered by her bonds, the crop still in her mouth, Frieda climbed to her feet, then onto the bed.

"I... I want to be let go now," Robyn whined. There was a hint of anger in her voice... but only a hint.

By this time, Frieda was kneeling on the bed. "We can't do that, Honey," Joelle whispered, then intertwined her legs with Robyn's, and pulled the squirming redhead's legs apart, enforcing a wide splay. "We'll talk in the morning."

Robyn struggled, but Joelle's legs were too strong. "No! Let me go-m'mmpfh!"

Joelle's right hand was over Robyn's lips in a tight hand-gag. "Hush," she cooed, then spoke to Frieda. "I believe you have something to say to our guest?"

Frieda dropped the riding crop, licked her lips, then flopped onto her stomach, her mouth inches from Robyn's sex. "Robyn, I'm truly sorry for all the cruel things I did to you earlier. Of course, it's really Chandler who-"

"None of that!" Joelle barked, continuing her hand-gag, and letting her free hand wander over Robyn's pert breasts.

"You're right," Frieda muttered, then locked eyes with Robyn. "I'm really, really sorry. Please accept this small token of sincere apology." With that she wiggled even closer to Robyn's splayed crotch, extended her tongue, and gave the redhead's glistening labia a long, languid lick.

Robyn rolled her eyes and squealed through Joelle's hand, then shuddered as Frieda's tongue slid between her nether lips.

"The first of many such tokens," Joelle purred, "from both of us." She maintained her hand-gag, and concentrated on gently teasing the writhing captive's left nipple. "It's going to be a loooooong night," she said, pausing to insert her tongue in Robyn's right ear, then nibble the lobe, "...but we've got a lot to apologize for, don't we?"




Chapter 5: SNOW DAY

The day had dawned gray, very late, and full of blowing snow. Robyn lay sprawled on her back in the crumpled sheets of the huge bed and watched the fat flakes fall against the bedroom's large windows. Her only restraints were the tan leather collar padlocked around her throat and its long, thin, trailing chain padlocked to the headboard. Nude, her copper-red curls a tousled mess, her body delightfully funky (as only a long night of extended love-making could make it)... Robyn shifted her gaze to the beamed ceiling... and smiled. She stretched and shivered. "I am so confused," she whispered. Lured to the isolated middle of the godforsaken Idaho wilderness, kidnapped, tortured and abused (...well, okay, teased and abused... okay, teased and toyed with), and here I am grinning like a fool... and wondering when my kidnappers will come back... and hoping it'll be soon. She stretched again and fingered a few links of her chain. "Woe is me," she whispered, still smiling.

It had been a long night indeed, as Joelle had warned. After Robyn's initial tongue lashing from Frieda (and the resulting crashing orgasm), her captors had traded places and Joelle had licked her pussy. Robyn shivered and bit her lower lip. 'Licked my pussy'... I am such a wicked, naughty, little girl. Yes, one licked her pussy while the other kissed her breasts, shoulders, neck, face, and mouth... Then her captors (lovers) swapped roles again... and again... and again! ...until Robyn found herself floating an an exhausted, helpless, contented cloud of smooth, warm flesh; hot, wet tongues; and full, flushed lips... Then, at some point, Robyn found herself doing the licking and kissing and suckling... of glistening skin, dark and fair, of both her captors' (lovers') smiling faces and glistening cunnys... freed from her wrist cuffs and harness, her sole restraints her collar and chain (...and... dare she even imagine it? ...her love of her captors?)

And finally... Robyn had slept... and woken to find herself alone. She'd roused herself enough to drag her chain into the bathroom and use the facilities, then had climbed back onto the bed and snuggled amongst the tangled, musk-scented sheets to sleep some more... and now it was morning... my second morning as a prisoner, the languid beauty realized. Robyn was no longer frightened of her captors, certainly not of sweet Joelle, or even (much to her surprise) of Frieda. She still wanted to regain her freedom, of course; but was betting (hoping) that that would be the business of the day.

Just then a key turned in the bedroom door, it swung open, and Joelle walked through, dressed in yet another leather catsuit. Riding boots, leather opera gloves, and a tight corset completed the ensemble. The skintight suit was oxblood with black trim, and all the "accessories" were reversed, black with oxblood trim. Her dark hair (with its wonderful bronze highlights) was loose around her shoulders. The overall effect was... shiveringly delicious. Robyn smiled and bit her lower lip, an echoing thrill of the previous night's festivities quivered deep within her sex; then Joelle slapped her right flank with a riding crop, and the thrill shivered up her spine. "M-morning," Robyn stammered, a blush coloring her cheeks.

"Good morning, Red," Joelle purred, stepped to the side, and slapped her flank again.

A serving cart rolled into view, and pushing the cart was Frieda. The raven-haired beauty was nude, save for a heavily boned corset laced around her waist (the same black leather corset she had worn the previous night), and a set of chains similar to the chains Robyn and Joelle had worn yesterday. There was no steel belt, but the manacles and shackles were broad and heavy. The chain joining the shackles was about eighteen inches; however, the long vertical chain connecting her steel collar to the center ring of the hobble chain lifted it off the ground and limited her step to less than nine. The manacle chain was also about eighteen inches, and as its center ring slid freely along the vertical chain, Frieda's hands enjoyed more freedom of motion; more than Robyn had been allowed by her "work clothes" chains, that was for sure. The fair-skinned captive's nipples were squeezed by steel clamps joined by a pair of light, swinging, swaying chains that traveled up to a black rubber ball firmly clutched between Frieda's gleaming white teeth. The ball had no strap, and Frieda seemed to be accepting its intrusion... voluntarily. A thin line of drool trailed from the right corner of her mouth and dripped from her chin on her right breast. Her hair was pulled straight back and clamped in a tight bun. A jingle bell dangled from each nipple clamp, and they tinkled as she walked.

"Close your mouth, Red," Joelle purred, and took up a position near the bed.

Robyn's jaw snapped closed. (She hadn't even realized she'd been openly staring at Frieda's condition.) Briefly, her fear (terror) of her captor had surfaced... but now she also felt unmistakable affection for her former captor; fellow captive; and highly skilled, generous lover of the previous night. Most confusing of all... Robyn felt a wave of regret that Frieda wasn't in her skintight catsuit of gleaming black leather... back in charge... back in charge of Robyn.

Blushing still, Robyn directed her attention to the cart... and her stomach rumbled. Frieda smiled around her gag and began uncovering dishes, revealing scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, ham, mixed fruit in yogurt, biscuits, and diced, pan-fried potatoes with onions. There were also carafes of hot coffee and cold orange juice. Robyn sat against the pillows piled at the headboard and watched, wide-eyed, as Frieda deployed a lap tray and quickly, deftly arranged a napkin and place setting, loaded a plate, and placed it before the still amazed redhead.

"T-thank you," Robyn said quietly as coffee and orange juice were added to the tray. Frieda held up a small creamer, Robyn nodded, and a dollop of cream was poured into the coffee. Next, she held up a cube of sugar using a tiny pair of silver tongs; but Robyn shook her head and the cube was returned to the sugar bowl. Frieda took a step back, knelt beside the cart, interlaced her fingers behind her head, and pulled her elbows back. This caused her full, white, cruelly clipped nipples to point and her firm, generous D-cups to (ever so slightly) bob. Robyn's big green eyes darted from Frieda's breasts, to the plate of delicious food before her, to Joelle's grinning visage. "Uh-is it, uh, okay if I eat?" she asked.

Joelle and Frieda locked eyes. "She has the right instincts, anyway," Joelle purred, speaking to Frieda.

Robyn was confused. "Huh?"

Joelle leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "Of course you can eat, Sweetness," she said. "Enjoy!"

"You guys ate already?" Robyn asked, reaching for a fork.

"I did, anyway," Joelle answered, smiling sweetly at Frieda (who glared above her gag at her catsuited friend.) "You start eating... and we can talk."

Robyn loaded her fork with eggs. "Talk about what?" She paused, the eggs halfway to her mouth. "Oh..." she whispered. "You mean... talk. Talk about me."

Joelle nodded, stepped to the cart, and poured herself a cup of coffee. She took a sip, turned, and nodded. "Uh-huh."




Robyn chewed and swallowed a small (delicious) sausage, then took a sip of orange juice. "Uh... I guess I might as well ask the big question," she mumbled. "Are, uh, I mean when are you gonna let me go?"

Joelle smiled sadly and combed a few errant red curls from Robyn's brow. "We've been on the phone all morning, talking to some of our contacts at Warburg HQ in New York," she explained. "The seventeen million you supposedly stole is already so well laundered it can't be, shall we say, un-laundered without the Feds getting wind. The prosecution of the actual thief, Conrad Lacey, complicates things ten fold. NYPD Forensic Accountants are already pouring over all the records, paper and electronic. Your apparent role in Lacey's crime and supposed flight with most of the embezzled funds... well... which metaphor do you prefer: ...a bell that can't be un-rung? ...a house of cards that can't withstand "renovation?"

Robyn stared at her plate. "I... I can't go back." It was a statement, not a question.

Joelle leaned closer and kissed Robyn's forehead. "I'm afraid not, Sweetness. The Manhattan DA will indict you immediately; and given the choice between letting you be the scapegoat or letting them go after half the corporate leadership; who do you think the Warburgs will throw to the dogs?"

Robyn's eyes welled. "I... I didn't... This is so unfair."

Joelle kissed Robyn's lips. "I know, I know, but there is hope... of sorts. Frieda has an idea." Both heads swiveled to the gagged, kneeling, black-haired beauty. Joelle smiled and Robyn found herself staring with wide eyes (again.) Tall and graceful in her leather skin, Joelle strolled over to stand beside the glaring Frieda. "Well..." the dark-skinned amazon purred, "are you going to join the conversation or not?"

Frieda growled something unintelligible (and no doubt very rude) around her gag, and stared straight ahead.

"Chicken!" Joelle teased, patting Frieda lightly on her head. "I suppose I should explain," Joelle said to Robyn, then leaned down to smile at Frieda. "The ball in Bitchie-poo's mouth is actually a steel sphere dipped in latex." She flicked each of Frieda's nipple clamps with her right index finger, causing their jingle bells to tinkle and the fine chains trailing up to the gag to sway. "I forget how many ounces it weighs, but it causes these clamps to deliver quite a sting after an eighteen inch drop." She patted Frieda's head again. "Of course, it's quite tiring to simply hold the sphere in your mouth, isn't it darling?" Frieda snorted in disgust and continued glaring. Joelle reached behind Frieda's head, grabbed the prisoner's crossed thumbs, and held them tight. "It's up to you, Red," Joelle said quietly. "Say the word and I'll order her to drop the ball."

Robyn and Frieda locked eyes.

"If she refuses," Frieda continued, "I'll tickle her until she drops it anyway... then punish her for disobedience."

Seconds passed as Robyn continued staring at her helpless captor, delivered to her for some small measure of retribution. Finally... she licked her lips and spoke. "Don't hurt her."

Joelle smiled (but maintained her hold on Frieda's thumbs.) "Oh, Red Robyn... you sweet thing. Why not?"

"It's not right," Robyn said, then took a sip of coffee. "I... I don't mean hurting her isn't right... I mean hurting her isn't right. She... she isn't one who... Don't hurt her."

"Sweet thing," Joelle repeated, tightened her grasp on Frieda's thumbs, and reached for the right nipple clip. She kissed Frieda's cheek and whispered in her ear (loud enough for Robyn to hear), "brace yourself, darling..." and she released the clip.

Frieda blinked, shuddered, and whined through the ball in her mouth, then glared at Joelle.

"An important thing to know about nipple clamps," Joelle told Robyn, an evil smile on her angelic face, "is that they hurt worse coming off... then going on." Her head swiveled to smile at the still glaring Frieda. "Isn't that right, darling?"

Frieda forced a gagged tirade past her gag, all of it totally unintelligible and directed at Joelle-which turned into an immediate whine when Joelle released the second clamp without warning. Frieda's pale blue eyes actually crossed, then she shuddered, blinked, and resumed her angry, gagged lecture.

The business end of Joelle's crop swished into view and lightly tapped Frieda's right nipple. "Quiet, slave," she hissed. "I'm not done with you yet." Frieda was instantly silent. (Robyn gasped... then took a gulp of orange juice.) Her smile returned, Joelle let the crop dangle from her wrist, reached down, and plucked the ball from Frieda's mouth. From the way it was extracted, Robyn could tell it was indeed quite heavy, an impression confirmed when Joelle dropped the black, glistening sphere to the floor. It landed with an authoritative thud on the thick carpet and rolled a few inches, carrying the tinkling, jingling clamps and chains with it.

Frieda licked her lips (favoring her aching jaw) and growled, "Just you wait, you-ah!"

Instantly the crop was back in Joelle's hand. She tightened her grip on Frieda's thumbs until the kneeling captive gasped, and gave the prisoner's left nipple a decidedly un-gentle snap with the crop. "What did I tell you were to be the first words out of your mouth when I removed your gag?"

Frieda's eyes darted to Robyn (who involuntarily flinched), then glared at Joelle (who continued to smile), then returned to Robyn. "I... I apologize again for being so mean to you," she said softly, "before... before we-"

"It's okay," Robyn interrupted, then her eyes locked with Joelle. "Don't hurt her, please?"

Joelle let the crop dangle again, then locked eyes with Frieda. "I like her," the dusky beauty purred. "Can we keep her?"

Frieda smiled back at her catsuited companion. "We have to keep her, remember?" Her gaze shifted to Robyn. "We have to keep you."

Robyn's sad green eyes stared at Frieda, then at Joelle, and finally focused on the snow still falling beyond the bedroom windows. "There has to be a way," she said quietly.

"I think there is a way," Frieda responded. "We can't let you go, the Warburgs can't let you go... but what if we make it a career change, rather than imprisonment?"

Robyn blinked in surprise. "Huh?"

"Wait," Joelle said, pulled the wrist strap free and tossed the crop on the bed. She then began fumbling with the chains at Frieda's collar. "Let's get more comfortable, shall we?"

"It's about time," Frieda muttered.

Joelle's smile turned decidedly evil as she continued unlocking and resecuring various clips and rings of Frieda's restraints. "By 'we' I was referring to Red and myself," she purred. "I'm not done punishing you, Ice Queen." Joelle lifted her gaze to Robyn. "And as for you, Red... finish your breakfast."




By the time Robyn's plate was cleared (including seconds on the eggs), Frieda's bonds had become substantially more stringent. Her position was unchanged, but now it would remain so. Her manacles were locked to the back of her collar and thumb cuffs held her thumbs together like tiny steel stocks. Her shackles were locked together, enforcing her splayed knees, ankles crossed, kneeling pose. The vertical connecting chain had been doubled and reversed, and now it ran from the back of Frieda's collar, took a tight turn around her corseted waist, and was locked to her shackles. In essence, Frieda was in a kneeling hog-tie. If she fell, she might roll on her side, or her stomach, or her back (with difficulty), but her basic pose would be unchanged, enforced by implacable, inescapable, stainless steel.

Joelle lifted Robyn's tray from the bed and set it aside, then returned to the bed. "Scoot," she ordered, gesturing for Robyn to move aside. She then climbed on the bed, leaned back against the pillows, and pulled Robyn close. The nude, pale, red-haired captive snuggled against Joelle's leather-clad form, arranging her tethering chain so it draped to the far side. "Kiss," Joelle whispered, and their lips touched. Crossing her booted feet for comfort, Joelle shifted her attention to Frieda. "You were saying?"

Frieda cleared her throat. "Here's the plan," she said, her eyes on Robyn. "You were lured out here by a temporary assignment. Well... consider the assignment a relocation. We give you a room-"

"Your choice of the luxury guest rooms," Joelle interrupted.

Frieda nodded, and continued. "You get internet/intranet access, so you can do your job-"

"My job?" Robyn asked... then bit her lip when she realized she'd interrupted. (Interrupting the "Ice Queen" was okay for Joelle, but somehow not for Robyn.)

Frieda cleared her throat again, and continued. "I have something of a business going here. The Dragon Lady and her friends travel out here now and then to play slave girl. Free room and board for me, a substantial expense account, rather unique fringe benefits, and substantial gratuities from the 'slave girls', which I invest."

"Which you try and invest," Joelle teased. "On my part... I'm an artist."

Frieda smiled. "A highly successful artist."

Joelle smiled back, and continued. "Oils, mostly. Some mixed media. I have a gallery that handles my work. The statements they send me are impressive... but I confess I don't have much of a head for business."

"You, on the other hand," Frieda said, "have an MBA from Harvard Business School. "You could be my business manager-"

"And investment counselor," Joelle interrupted, again.

Frieda scowled and squirmed in her chains. "It's not like I'm broke," she mumbled.

"Not from lack of trying," Joelle responded, then shifted position to drape one gloved and leather-clad arm across Robyn's shoulders.

Frieda's eyes flashed. "Any-way... You handle the business end of things-my accounts, the Lodge, Joe's money relations with her gallery; and in return, we keep you safe and warm."

Joelle kissed Robyn's forehead and they snuggled. "By making a show of your captivity, especially when Dragon Lady's here to witness, we keep the Warburgs happy."

"I'll still be a prisoner," Robyn whispered.

"Think of it as hiding in plain sight," Joelle said, patting Robyn's tummy. "It'll be nothing like the first day. Chandler Warburg wants you out of the way... What could be more out of the way than Chattel Mountain Lodge? Frieda and I will make sure you don't go anywhere... not for a long while, anyway. Eventually, there may be shopping trips, business trips..."

"Emphasis on 'eventually'," Frieda added. "And there's one more account you'll be managing... your own."

Robyn blinked in surprise, her arms around Joelle's corseted waist, her head resting on her leather-covered breast. "My own?"

"Dragon Lady has confiscated all your worldly possessions," Frieda continued. "I'm pretty sure I can persuade her to un-confiscate them."

"I'm pretty sure you can too," Joelle purred, smiling coyly.

"We'll see that your salary continues," Frieda said, "possibly with a raise... and as all your living expenses will be taken care of..."

Joelle held Robyn close and kissed her cheek, then began combing the nude captive's red curls with one gloved hand. "A strange situation," she said quietly. "A lot to think about... but nothing to decide." Robyn snuggled against her breasts and the dark-skinned beauty stared out the window, watching the white flakes continue to fall. "Just what snow days are for... thinking."

"Dragon Lady can't possibly get here until noon tomorrow," Frieda said, "not with this storm."

"Chandler Warburg is coming here?" Robyn whispered.

Joelle kissed Robyn, then gently extricated herself from the nude captive's embrace and stood. "Nothing for you to worry about, Sweet Thing," Joelle purred, then smiled down at Frieda. "I'm going do some chores; and in the meanwhile, do me a favor and see that the Ice Queen here gets fed, would you please?"

Robyn stared at Frieda, her green eyes wide, then shifted her gaze to Frieda, and nodded.

Joelle strolled over to Frieda's side and placed her gloved right hand atop the closely chained captive's head. There's clean plates on the bottom shelf of the cart; also a nice doggie dish..." She leaned down to grin in Frieda's face. "...if you decide to go that way." Frieda favored her catsuited friend with a decidedly unfriendly scowl. Joelle continued. "I'm declaring a Snow Day; no school, no work, no hideous tortures." She patted Frieda's head (in an infuriatingly condescending manner) and sauntered towards the door. "You kids play nice, okay?"




The bedroom door closed and locked... and Robyn and Frieda's heads swiveled and their eyes locked. Robyn smiled... rather shyly. "When did you eat last?" the redhead asked.

"Lunch," Frieda mumbled, "yesterday."

Robyn climbed off the bed (controlling her chain with her left hand) and stooped to examine the contents of the cart's bottom shelf. Sure enough, there was a large ceramic 'doggie dish' atop a stack of dinner plates. She paused for several seconds... then lifted the dish and extracted a plate. She stood; loaded it with eggs, sausages, bacon, and potatoes; found a clean fork; and sat cross-legged on the carpet directly before the kneeling Frieda. She loaded the fork with eggs, and shoveled it into Frieda's mouth.

Frieda chewed and swallowed. "Thank you," she muttered, and accepted a sausage.

Robyn smiled and continued feeding her charge. After three more forkloads, she set the plate on the floor, stood, and filled a glass with orange juice. She then sat back down, gave Frieda a drink, then resumed her feeding duties. Eventually... the plate was empty. "More?"

Frieda shook her head and swallowed the last bite. "Maybe some of that fruit and yogurt stuff... a little later. Right now, I want to tell you how things work around here."

Robyn sat back and settled into a semi-lotus, idly fingering her chain with her left hand. "Okay."

"I'm in charge," Frieda announced, a stern expression on her angelic face. "What I say-goes. Joelle's number two, and you, whenever we decide to let you settle into a role around here, you'll be number three, and-What are you laughing at?"

Robyn hid her mouth with her right hand. "I'm not laughing." Frieda continued glaring. "I'm not!" Robyn continued. "Giggling a little, maybe-"

Frieda squirmed in her steel bonds and growled an inarticulate warning.

Instantly (if incompletely) contrite, Robyn cleared her throat. "Sorry... you were saying?"

"I'm in charge." She squirmed in her bonds again... and sighed. "...inexplicably complex and personal things that happen between Joey and myself not withstanding."

Robyn smiled and moved closer to Frieda, close enough to reach out and run her right hand along the chain cinched around the prisoner's corseted waist. "I think I've got it. You're Number One... Top Dog... Dominatrix Supreme... 'She who must be obeyed'... Wicked Witch of the Lodge... I've got it." She squirmed closer and slightly to the side... and let her right hand trace the top Frieda's corset. "Joelle's Number Two... And Poor Little Robyn...?" She used both hands to cup Frieda's breasts. "Poor Little Robyn's the bottom of the heap."

Frieda squirmed, then shuddered in her bonds as Robyn gently teased her increasingly erect nipples. "Stop that!" she snapped. "Hey!"

Robyn had eased Frieda onto her back. She lifted her left leg and settled her weight on Frieda's corset, snuggling her thighs and sex against the cold chain. She continued teasing "Number One's" nipples. "I'm sorry... did you say something?"

Frieda's eyes flashed. "I said stop it!"

Robyn's smile broadened. "You're ticklish?" she gasped. "What a curious thing to say... considering the circumstances." She let her fingers wander up to Frieda's deliciously exposed armpits. "Let's see how ticklish."

"Look you," Frieda growled, "if you know what's good for yoUUU-NOOO-EEEEH!!!"

Robyn stopped dragging her nails across Frieda's quivering flesh and leaned close, until her face was inches from her helpless victim. "I think we can safely classify you as very ticklish." She leaned closer and kissed Frieda's lips. "Now... what to do... tickle you senseless, take a nap, then tickle you some more?" She kissed Frieda again, only this time she let her tongue slide into the squirming prisoner's mouth. Seconds passed, then Frieda returned the kiss in kind. More seconds passed, then Robyn lifted free with a final lip smack. "...or," she continued, "I can let you apologize to me a few more times." She let her right hand wander down and cup Frieda's sex. "My-oh-my... nice and wet," she purred, then kissed her fellow captive again. "I may apologize a little myself." She locked eyes with Frieda. "Well... what's it gonna be, Number One? Seeing how you're in charge and all... I'll let you decide."

Frieda wiggled under Robyn's weight and tugged on her inescapable bonds. There was genuine surprise in her expression. "You know..." she whispered, "since you're not going anywhere... not right away, anyway... how'd you like another job?"

"In addition to managing the finances of everyone on the mountain?" Robyn purred, and kissed Frieda again.

"I assumed 'Number Three' would make you 'Resident Slave'," Frieda said, smiling seductively. "I sense a natural aptitude, ripe for training. How'd you like 'Number Three' to mean 'Junior Dominatrix in Training'?"

"I'd get to paddle fabulously wealthy naked heinies?"

"Not right away," Frieda said. "We all need to get to know each other better."

"I think we know each other pretty darn well right now," Robyn observed, lifting her weight and moving forward, until her red bush and glistening sex were less than an inch from Frieda's smiling lips. "Show me you're sorry," she purred.

"That's 'show me you're sorry', Mistress!" Frieda purred, then lifted her head and gave Robyn's labia a slow lick.

Robyn closed her eyes, shuddered, clasped her hands behind her neck, and let her weight settle, just a little, on Frieda's mouth. "Mistress!" she whispered, and shuddered again as Frieda's lips and tongue began to move.




Joelle watched the enthusiastic "apologizing" happening on the bedroom floor for most of an hour. The quality of the image on the security monitor wasn't great, nor was the sound, but she'd been able to follow the action and eavesdrop on all that had been said. After about ten minutes, Frieda's initial solo effort had given way to mutual love-making when Robyn lifted her hips, shifted her position one hundred eighty degrees, settled her weight atop Frieda's prone form, and began licking her fellow captive's sex. "And the score is... Frieda and Robyn-sixty nine," the catsuited watcher purred, "Joelle-zero." She tossed her cattle prod on the desk. She'd been ready to rush to Frieda's rescue, if they'd misread Robyn's attitude (and character)... but obviously rescue wasn't going to be necessary. She stared at Robyn's naked back and dimpled rump. What did we do to deserve you, Red? Joelle wondered, continuing to stare at the monitor. How'd we get so lucky?

Joelle finally stood, switched off the monitor, and began loosening the straps and laces of her corset. Laundry... plan some menus and check the freezer and pantry... polish some leather... The catsuited beauty stretched... and sighed. Let Frieda go... later, which means I'm probably gonna spend the next who-knows-how-long tied up and/or in chains and/or gagged and/or strapped to something hard and uncomfortable... How'd I get so lucky?




Day Three of Robyn's captivity dawned gray and cold. The snow had stopped falling during the night, low clouds obscured the nearby peaks, and a chill fog hung in the air between the snow laden conifers. Robyn stood at the window of the bedroom, her stainless steel collar and its long, dangling chain still linking her to the huge bed. She was otherwise nude.

The collar had been changed in the late afternoon of the previous day. Joelle had returned, her arms laden with fresh sheets, and atop the sheets was the gleaming, chrome-bright torus. Robyn had dragged Frieda up onto the bed some time earlier, not an easy feat, given the raven-haired beauty's bound condition: arms raised, folded back, and wrists manacled to the back of her own steel collar; thumbs cuffed together; ankles crossed and shackled; a connecting chain linking collar and shackles behind her back, pausing only to take a turn around the captive's corseted waist... The chain was short enough to make the pose a stringent hog-tie. Yes, getting Frieda on the bed had been a struggle, but Robyn had finally managed... and the pair, one chained to the bed by leather collar and a long, thin chain, the other closely chained and completely helpless... had snuggled close and slept, totally exhausted by their extended love-making.

Robyn was awakened by a kiss from Joelle. Frieda had already been freed from her chains and was slowly, carefully climbing off the bed, her limbs stiff from hours of bondage. Joelle had changed to sweat clothes, all in a subdued salmon pink. Matching sneakers were on her feet. "What time is it?" Robyn asked, smiling at her captors and stretching luxuriously among the bed's tangled sheets.

Frieda stretched, retrieved the riding crop Joelle had left at the foot of the bed, and struck a dominant pose. Robyn froze in mid-stretch and stared. Joelle was also impressed. Frieda's black hair was a tangled mess and she was naked, save her tight, black, leather corset, but blue fire was in her eyes. There was no doubt who was in charge of the Lodge. "What time is it, Red?" Frieda repeated. "It's time for you to get out of bed and kneel before your mistress." Robyn continued staring. "Now, Red!" Frieda thundered, slapping her thigh with the crop.

Robyn scrambled off the bed, pulling her chain with her left hand, and knelt before the glowering Frieda.

"First position!" Frieda barked.

Robyn blinked in confusion, her heart hammering. A kind smile on her face, Joelle stepped forward and took Robyn's hands. "Hands clasped at the nape of your neck," the dark-skinned beauty explained, pulling Robyn's hands behind her head. The kneeling redhead interlaced her fingers. "If you're gagged," Joelle continued, "raise your hands to the top of your head. Under no circumstances are you to touch the gag's buckle or lock. Elbows back..." Robyn complied, and her perky breasts pointed, her nipples flushed and erect. Joelle gently nudged Robyn's bare feet with one sneakered foot. "Ankles crossed..." Again, Robyn complied. "Knees apart... Wider!" Robyn shuffled in place until her knees were widely splayed. "Your center of gravity is to be back, over your ankles, but hold your weight off your feet. Up... Higher! That's good. Mistress should be able to see your sex. Your thigh muscles and abs should be firm, taking your weight. Your eyes should be on mistress' boots...or in this case, her perfect, pale, strong feet."

Robyn lifted her gaze and caught a hint of a smile on Frieda's cruel face, directed at Joelle, then her mistress' icy blue eyes returned to the naked, collared, insignificant slave before her, and Robyn's eyes darted back to her mistress' feet. 'Perfect, pale, strong...' Robyn mused, a frisson of desire shivering up her naked spine.

Joelle took a step back and continued her lecture. "This is 'First Position.' Unless otherwise ordered, this is your natural state in the presence of your mistress. You will not move. You will not fidget. You will not look around the room. You will not grow tired. Your thighs will not ache; nor will your stomach muscles burn. Your spine will not grow sore. It pleases your mistress to see you as you are, and that is all that matters."

The end of Frieda's riding crop appeared before Robyn's eyes and slowly lifted her chin. The kneeling slave gazed at her mistress' long legs; glistening sex and thicket of black curls; wasp-like, corseted waist; full, firm, glorious breasts with their dark pink teats; strong, white shoulders and long neck; full, flushed, cruel (kind) lips; and finally... piercing blue eyes. "Lesson One for my new 'Junior Dominatrix in Training'... Position One." Robyn began to say something, but caught herself and coyly bit her lower lip (the ghost of a smile quivering on her lips.) Blue eyes bored into green for several seconds... and finally Frieda cleared her throat. "You may speak, slave."

Holding her position ("Position One") Robyn licked her lips. "Uh, I seem to recall the alternative to 'Junior Dominatrix' was 'Resident Slave'?" Frieda and Joelle exchanged an amused glance, and Frieda nodded. "What exactly is the difference?"

Joelle's right hand shot up to cover her own mouth and she turned to gaze out the window (more or less disguising her amusement.) A smile quivered on Frieda's lips... and was finally suppressed. "The difference is as follows," she explained. "A Junior Dominatrix does all the dirty, unpleasant, demeaning work that goes with running a working Dominatrix' Lair. She also lives the life of a docile, obedient slave in order to better understand the craft and vocation which, one day, if she works very very hard and is a very very good slave, she may be allowed to practice." Robyn nodded. "On the other hand," Frieda continued, "a Resident Slave does all the dirty, unpleasant, demeaning work that goes with running a working Dominatrix' Lair. She also lives the life of a docile, obedient slave in order to not have her heinie, tits, and koochie whipped; to not spend her nights tied up like a pretzel in a dark, dirty dungeon; and to not eat Purina Primate Chow for the rest of her miserable life. Understand?"

Robyn nodded. "Uh... yeah," she muttered.

Joelle laughed, stepped forward and kissed Robyn's lips. "Don't worry, 'Junior'," she purred, "as 'Assistant Dominatrix' I'll help you..."

Frieda and Joelle locked eyes and spoke in unison, "...learn the ropes!"

All three laughed, then Joelle leaned down and kissed Robyn's forehead. "Seriously, I'll help. For example... If you don't tack a 'Mistress' on that 'uh, yeah' ASAP, you can probably expect six of the best on each nipple."

Smiling sweetly, Frieda swished the crop through the air, and nodded.

"Uh—yeah, Mistress!" Robyn yelped, then bit her lip as the crop's business end slowly traveled down to wave from nipple to nipple, almost touching each in turn.

"And what are you doing wrong, right now?" Frieda asked.

Robyn watched the crop, her eyes swiveling left to right and back—then yelped when Frieda delivered a smack to her right nipple. "Uh... uh.." {smack!} "I, uh..."

Joelle leaned close. "Eyes!" she whispered.

"Eyes!" Robyn yelled, narrowly avoiding a third smack. "My eyes should be on your boots! ...which you're not wearing! ...your feet! ...my eyes!"

Frieda sighed. "Your eyes." Robyn nodded. "The big green eyes you're staring at me with right now?" Frieda continued. Robyn nodded again—then dropped her gaze to Frieda's feet.

"My eyes, Mistress!" the redhead whispered, and steeled herself for another stinging blow.

The blow never landed. "Collar," Frieda said, and Joelle leaned forward. A key turned in a padlock, the chain fell away, the buckle of Robyn's collar was loosened... and then it too was gone. Robyn was completely free of restraints for the first time since Frieda had strapped her to the "Tranquilizing Chair" something like two days before. Joelle handed something to Frieda, and the steel collar appeared before Robyn's eyes.

The collar was stainless steel, smooth and gleaming, its only hard edges at the closure in the back. It was nearly as thick as it was wide, and a one inch steel ring dangled from a ball and socket joint in the front. "The pins in the back rotate and interlock when I turn the first key," Frieda explained, showing Robyn the closure. "Then a plug with a second ring is inserted, it turns, an interrupted screw mechanism, you see..." She slowly rotated the collar, and Robyn's big green eyes studied every gleaming detail. "The second key," Frieda continued, "much smaller than the first, turns a second set of pins to lock the interrupted screw. It's incredibly strong; the lock impossible to pick."

Joelle stepped forward and gathered Robyn's tousled red curls atop her head, baring her long, pale neck. "Your arms are in Mistress' way," Joelle purred. "Reach down and cup your sex with your left hand," she ordered, and Robyn complied. "Now," Joelle continued, "tuck your left middle finger all the way inside." With a barely audible gasp and a delicate shudder, again, Robyn complied. "Wet your lips..." Robyn did so. "Wet your right thumb and index finger..." It was done. "Now tease each of your nipples... first the right... and now the left... Good, now fold your arm across your chest, just under your breasts. Yes, that's right; now lift them a little with your forearm... Perfect. Hold. You are a good slave, Robyn. You make me very proud."

Robyn shuddered again. God, I am such a... a slut! she marveled. Why does this feel so...? I should be pissed! Frieda held the collar to Robyn's lips, and without prompting (and to her infinite amazement), she kissed it. The steel was cool and smooth, and Robyn detected the slight odor of machine oil. The lock mechanism, she realized. Robyn closed her eyes as the collar was closed around her throat; then shuddered yet again as the double lock was secured, as the pins slid into their shafts, the interrupted screw plug mated and turned, the final pins snapped into their housings... Oh, God! The chain from the headboard was locked to the collar's back ring, and Joelle released her hair. It fell in a copper-red riot to bounce around her shoulders and slither down her back.

"No one told you to frig yourself," Frieda growled.

Robyn was distressed to find that her left middle finger had indeed been slowly moving, sliding against her outer and inner labia, the tip brushing her throbbing, erect clitoris. She instantly froze in place, struggling to ignore the quivering in her most intimate person. Oh, God!

"I'm not as easily pleased as some people around here," Frieda continued. "You are a poorly disciplined slave who has barely begun her training, and only your clumsy attempts at obedience are keeping me from roping you into a tight ball-tie and locking you in the spider pit 'til morning!"

Robyn had no idea what a "ball-tie" was, and whatever the "spider-pit" was, it didn't sound inviting. She hung her head, shuddered yet again, and kept silent.

"You could use a bath, Red," Frieda announced. "After we leave, you are to hold position for a count of one hundred; then you are to play with yourself until you cum... one time, and one time only! Then you are to drag your chain into the bathroom, shower and shampoo, dry yourself, then get back into bed and rest. You are not to play with yourself again. Do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, Mistress," Robyn whispered.

"Position One!" Frieda barked.

Robyn clasped her fingers at the nape of her neck. Frieda and Joelle stepped away, towards the bed, and for the next minute Robyn heard the sounds of the sheets being stripped and replaced... then her mistresses walked to the bedroom door. It opened, closed, and was locked. Robyn could just hear Frieda and Joelle talking on the other side, as their voices faded into the distance.

"What the hell was that?" Frieda was asking; "...a dramatic reading from Overactors of Gor?"

"Oh, you should talk," Joelle responded. "'No one told you to frig yourself!' Tryin' out for Stentorian Bitch of the Year?"

"Look you...!" Frieda barked (laughing); then Robyn could hear only fading noise.

'Overactors of Gor'? Robyn wondered. What the hell is 'Gor'? Then she shuddered in her heavy, inescapable collar. Her sex felt... swollen... and wet. One... Two... Three...

Robyn did indeed count to one hundred, did indeed make herself cum (one time and one time only), and did indeed drag her chain into the bathroom and make herself clean. When she returned to the bedroom, she found a covered tray of cheese, sliced fruit, and fresh-baked bread on a side table, as well as a small carafe of ice water. A note was propped against the tray. It read:

Supper. Regular meals once we work out the chores & get you on an exercise schedule.



Robyn smiled, sampled the fruit, then climbed into bed... and slept.

And now it was morning... Robyn felt rested, unafraid, even a little excited (in more than one sense of the word), almost like she was starting a new job... and wasn't simply a naked, helpless prisoner, chained by the neck and at the mercy of two women I hardly know... except in complete carnal detail, of course.

The sun was peeking through the clouds and suddenly the snow was blindingly white. Shafts of light pierced the gloom between the trees, and the snow on the branches glittered like countless diamonds.

Just then the key rattled in the bedroom door. Robyn grabbed her chain, rushed to the middle of the room, knelt in "Position One," and dropped her gaze to the carpet. And the adventure continues.

Nude but for her collar, her wrists crossed and bound behind her back with a yard of cotton rope, Robyn had been led from the bedroom to the kitchen and hand fed a bowl of oatmeal and cream by Joelle. Frieda was nowhere to be seen, and Joelle was dressed in the same salmon pink sweats from yesterday.

Breakfast over, Robyn was led down two flights of stairs, down a winding corridor, and into the Lodge stables. They looked like stables, anyway. The high windows were the same triple pane style as the rest of the Lodge, and the huge, barn-style, outer door was solid and well-sealed against the weather; but the complex was substantially colder than either the main Lodge or the "sanitarium" levels. Curiously, there was no sign (or smell) of horses. They passed a row of stalls, small enclosures with tall, narrow, sliding doors. The bottom two thirds of the doors and separating walls were thick, solid planks, and the upper thirds closely spaced iron bars. The door to the last stall was open, and Robyn beheld a clean, smooth, concrete floor, and tucked in one corner was a stainless steel commode. Numerous pad eyes and ring bolts festooned the stalls, and chains dangled from ceiling mounts.

Oh... Robyn realized, a people stable. She was led past the stall and into a large room with several neat racks of leather and steel tack, and a row of large steel lockers. A chain was snapped to the front ring of Robyn's collar, a second chain to the back ring, then Joelle walked to the wall, shortened the second chain's length, and Robyn found herself tethered in the middle of the room between two taut, horizontal chains.

Joelle smiled at her pink, shivering captive. "Brisk this morning," she purred, "don't you agree?"

Both their breaths hung in the frigid air in vanishing clouds. "It's like a freakin' meat locker in here," Robyn complained, her teeth chattering.

"Big baby!" Joelle teased. "You'll get used to the cold up here, believe me." She opened one of the lockers and pulled a long garment off a hanger. "We don't use these stables much in Winter, but Summer is another matter. Here, let's get you dressed." The garment was a one-piece set of thermal underwear, in military brown. Robyn noticed stirrup openings in the ends of the legs, but the sleeves ended in closed mitts. She lifted her right foot, then her left, and let Joelle slide the suit up her legs. The instep stirrups left her heels, balls of her feet, and toes exposed; but loops of the stretchy fabric captured her big toes for added security. Joelle continued tugging and the tight sheath slid up to her thighs, over her hips, and up to her waist. It was thicker than a leotard, but still thin. It was also crotchless! A neat, teardrop-shaped window left Robyn's sex, pubic bush, and half her butt-crack fully exposed.

Robyn's wrists were untied, and Joelle helped her snug her hands into the ends of the sleeves. She stood still as her "Handler" smoothed the upper garment, settled the shoulders, and zipped the neck closed in the back. The suit was skin tight, and there were tiny windows in the chest region, over Robyn's breasts. Joelle made sure Robyn's nipples peeked through the button-sized openings. "Better than nothing, I guess," Robyn groused, still shivering.

"This is only the first layer," Joelle explained, returning from the locker with a second one-piece garment. It was military brown, like the first, but was considerably thicker. It was entirely lined with fleecy, synthetic pile, and had ankle and wrist cuffs (elastic cloth, not the restraint kind.) There were also a cutout at the crotch, and coin sized cutouts over each nipple.

"A little warmer," Robyn conceded. "Got any socks? This floor is freezing."

Joelle smiled, zipped the second layer closed, and returned to the locker. "Hold on, Princess," she said. "We're nearly there." The third layer was thin, similar to the first, but not quite as stretchy. It was hunter green. Joelle took her time pulling it over Robyn's cooperative form. "This layer's a windbreak," she explained as she made the final adjustments. "Gortex." She zipped the zippers at each ankle and wrist and the final zipper at Robyn's throat.

Robyn held her arms straight out and scowled down at her costume. But for her nipples, crotch, feet, and head, she was now completely covered in three tight layers, with a quarter inch of pile trapping air next to her skin. She had to admit she was warm (but not toasty.) "I didn't know Notre Dame even had a speed skating team," she muttered.

Joelle laughed. "Good one, Red." She returned from the locker with a thick pair of wool socks and a pair of boots; big, loooong boots.

"Holy crap!" Robyn gasped, staring at the boots in question. They were gleaming brown leather; thigh boots that laced up the front. They had medium heels and broad soles, yet the overall design was surprisingly elegant, as if Gucci had made a line of waffle-stomper snow boots for runway models. Joelle slid the socks over Robyn's feet, then helped her step into the boots themselves. The lacing took a very long time. The number of eyelets seemed endless. Finally, a bow was tied at each top, overhand knots tied in the doubled laces for insurance, the ends tucked under velcroed tabs, and broad straps buckled over the bows and boot tops. "Holy crap!" Robyn repeated, this time in a whisper.

"How do they feel?" Joelle asked.

Robyn took a few tentative steps in place. "Uh... stiff... heavy... but okay."

Joelle nodded, then returned to the locker and produced... something... a stiff tube of brown leather. It matched the boots in color and grain. Then Joelle shook out the dangling straps (there were a lot of dangling straps), and Robyn recognized it for what it was: a corset!


"I know," Joelle laughed, "'divine doo-doo.' Hold still." Robyn lifted her arms and Joelle wrapped the corset around the wide-eyed redhead's narrow waist, a waist made even narrower when the corset was laced and its lace panel secured with a dozen tiny buckles.

"I can't breath!" Robyn complained.

"Liar!" Joelle responded, with a good-natured chuckle. "Wait 'til Summer, when you wear all this tackle with nothing underneath. Then I'll lace this thing 'til the back panels overlap completely and the eyelets actually meet."

Robyn stared at Joelle, speechless.

Joelle laughed and kissed the redhead's lips. "Don't worry. You'll be used to corsets by then... promise."

Robyn continued to stare. "That's supposed to reassure me?" she muttered.

Joelle returned from the locker with a pair of long leather sleeves and a harness of dangling straps. "We'll start with your right arm," she announced. The sleeves were like fingerless opera gloves. Laces at the wrist and upper arm made for a snug fit, and with the addition of the harness that draped across her shoulders and buckled to the top of the corset, Robyn soon found her arms folded behind her back and tightly buckled to the corset and harness in broad, stiff cuffs at the wrists and upper arms. Rings at the tips of the mitts were buckled to the sides of the corset, and a leather flap with five buckles was secured over her forearms. "There," Joelle muttered, took a step back, and returned to the locker.

Robyn stutter-stepped in place and gave her upper body a tentative twist and shake. The boots were stiff, but not overly restrictive. The corset, sleeves, and harness were another matter. Robyn's arms might as well be welded to her body.

Joelle appeared behind Robyn with a hood. It was of the same green material as the outer suit. "Hold still," she instructed and gathered Robyn's red locks, passed them through a generous hole in the back; then carefully, gently pulled the hood over Robyn's head. The main opening framed the redhead's face in a neat oval. Joelle tucked the hood's neck under Robyn's steel collar, unzipped the neck of the green suit, tucked the margin of the hood underneath, and zipped the suit closed. "One last thing," Joelle said, and returned from the locker with a harness of thin leather straps.

Robyn stamped one booted foot and sighed. "Is that a bit?" she whined in complaint.

"Part of it is," Joelle said. She found an inch thick rod of hard rubber and held it up for Robyn's inspection. "This part. The remaining straps are, I believe, called the 'headstall', and together they comprise a 'bridle.' And that's about the limit of my equestrian lexicon." Robyn let her place the bit between her teeth, but was obviously less than thrilled. "Good girl," she purred as she adjusted the many small buckles of the headstall. With a final tug she seated the bit well back in Robyn's grimacing (pouting) mouth, and secured the final buckle. "There. Such a good girl," Joelle said, then cupped Robyn's sex with her left hand. "Such a wet girl."

Suddenly a familiar, authoritative voice sounded from the main stable. "Stop playing with the livestock!"

Robyn and Joelle found Frieda standing in the doorway, and both stared in wide-eyed amazement at the sight.

Frieda was in another catsuit, but this one was an interlaced mesh of black leather straps. Its countless narrow, glistening bands hugged her perfect body like a second skin, slithering over and around every curve. Countless peeks of Frieda's pale white skin were afforded by the loose weave of the design. A black leather bra covered and supported her breasts, a corset compressed her naturally narrow waist, and the triangular shield of a leather bikini bottom covered her sex. A black riding crop dangled from her right wrist. Black riding boots, gloves, and a leather collar with a score of short, sharp, chrome spikes completed the ensemble. Her raven hair was loose about her shoulders.

As she stepped into the room, a subtle, whisper-soft chorus of creaks and groans heralded her every movement, as the myriad straps of the catsuit slid across one another. The leather goddess extended her right hand and took Joelle by the chin, then leaned forward and gave her a long, deep kiss.

Robyn stared at Frieda's leather-clad form. As her muscles flexed and moved, the countless tiny diamonds of exposed flesh were gently squeezed by the interlaced straps, then released, then squeezed again. She's so beautiful, the helpless redhead mused, squirming in her own tight, common, utilitarian leather restraints. I'm the leather's prisoner... but she... she's tamed it. She's no one and nothing's prisoner.

The kiss ended and Frieda released Joelle's chin. "Go get ready," Frieda purred. "We have a schedule to keep." Joelle scampered away, towards the lockers, and Frieda directed her full attention to Robyn.

Instantly, Robyn's gaze dropped to the floor, to Frieda's boots. Was I fast enough? she wondered. Did I please her? A gloved hand lifted her chin, and blue eyes gazed into green for several long seconds.

"Good girl," Frieda whispered (sending a thrill of pleasure through Robyn's sex and up her spine.) Frieda favored the captive redhead with a knowing smile, then pulled her wrist free of the riding crop's strap, took a step back, and dropped it to the floor. "Your eyes are not to leave it," she instructed, pointing at the long, thin, elegant shaft with its braided handle and leaf-shaped tip. She then stepped away, towards Joelle and the lockers.

Minutes passed. Robyn's eyes remained on the crop, but she could hear the incidental sounds of zippers zipping, buckles being secured, and quiet conversation coming from the direction of the lockers. Finally, two pairs of boots tapped across the concrete and joined her around the crop: Frieda's black riding boots, and a second pair of brown thigh boots, identical to the pair laced on Robyn's own legs.

Frieda reached down and retrieved the crop. "You may look, Red," she purred.

Robyn raised her eyes... and beheld Joelle... in matching boots, corset, harness, arm-binders, and bit-harness; however, her body suit was not green. It was the color of... Joelle! The tight, silky fabric was dyed to match the exact hue of the "Assistant Dominatrix'" skin tone, and the illusion of nudity was enhanced by what appeared to be subtly airbrushed shadows and highlights to match Joelle's underlying musculature and curves. In addition, a stiff, neatly trimmed crest of black hair was atop her head and it matched and was blended into Joelle's natural hair with flawless perfection.

Joelle's boots and restraints were identical to Robyn's; however, her bit was dangling from the side of her headstall and was not in her mouth. She also had a steel collar around her throat, but in addition to a steel ring, an engraved tag dangled from the front. Robyn leaned close and read the single word: "Jet."

"Isn't she pretty, Red?" Frieda asked, running the tip he her crop along Joelle's flank. "I'm sorry we don't have a skin suit that matches your complexion. The racing green will have to do until I can place an order."

"She thinks it makes her look like a Notre Dame speed skater," Joelle said, a coy smile curling her lips.

Frieda laughed. "Yesss. I think we should match Red's skin as closely as possible, only give her a generous counter shading of freckles."

Joelle nodded. "Hmm... how about giant freckles dappling her flanks, like a Celtic appaloosa?"

"Oh, perfect!" Frieda whispered, and smiled at her dark-skinned friend. "That's why you're the artist." She turned back to Robyn and her smile broadened. "I've got it!" She took a step forward and hooked Robyn's collar ring with her left index finger, pulled the wide-eyed redhead close, and kissed her bit-gagged mouth. "Your ponygirl name is 'Irish.' I'll have a tag made for you right away."

"'Irish'..." Joelle whispered, and nodded.

"I'm glad you approve," Frieda purred, then stepped behind Joelle, seated the bit in her grimacing mouth, and tightened its strap with a savage jerk. "Time to complete your costumes."

Robyn watched as Frieda stepped to the racks of leather... things near the lockers. 'Irish', she mused. 'Irish'... I like it, then her eyes popped wide as Frieda returned. In her gloved hands was a leather thong bikini bottom, a triangular front piece with buckling straps for the hips and butt-crack. The disturbing feature was a pair of black rubber... protuberances. Their purpose was unmistakable. They were a dildo... and a butt plug! They didn't look especially thick or overly long (granted, Robyn's experience with such things bordered on the nonexistent), but she knew for sure—she wasn't interested!

"Easy," Frieda said to Robyn, then locked eyes with Joelle. "This isn't for you, Irish." Frieda smiled (and Joelle smiled back, around her gag.) "So... do I have to find a tube of K-Y," she said, "or are you as wet as you usually are in such circumstances?" Robyn stared as Frieda slid the butt-plug into Joelle's sex. It came out glistening and well-coated with Joelle's musk. She then slid the plug into Joelle's anus, the dildo into her sex, and buckled the hip and thong straps to the bottom of her corset. Robyn continued staring as Joelle shuddered and stutter-stepped in place. Meanwhile, Frieda stepped to the lockers and returned with a leather bra. Joelle's suit had nipple openings, like Robyn's, and Robyn stared with renewed horror as what appeared to be alligator clamps mounted inside of the bra cups were closed over Joelle's nipples, and the cups buckled to the corset and arm-binding harness. Silver bells dangled from the points of the cups and they jingled as Joelle bit down on her gag and shuddered once again.

Frieda returned from the racks with a second leather bottom. The way it was held, Robyn couldn't see any interior details, but fearing the worst, she took two involuntary steps backwards, and was checked by the chains clipped to her collar. She whined through her gag, waiting for the wrath of her mistress to descend. She stared at the front panel of the bottom, then lifted her eyes. To Robyn's infinite surprise... Frieda was smiling.

"Mistress may take you to places you don't want to go," Frieda whispered, " but never to places you aren't yet ready to go." She turned the shield over and Robyn beheld a layer of thick fleece; but no dildo, and no butt plug. Frieda knelt before her green pony. "I want you to stand with your legs apart," she ordered. "Wider. Good girl. Now..." She produced two long, thick, black, rubber bands, and began making very intimate adjustments between Robyn's legs. "Steady!"

Robyn shuddered, but resisted the urge to try and move away. Frieda had snapped the bands over tiny hooks in the back of the corset, pulled them through Robyn's crack, gently stretched her labia to either side, and used the bands to hold the pink, glistening folds of flesh open and exposed. The ends of the bands snapped over hooks on the front of the corset. Robyn continued shivering, but not from the cold.

"Such a brave pony," Frieda cooed and gave Robyn's pinioned sex a gentle caress with the smooth leather of her right palm. Robyn bit down on her gag and an involuntary whine escaped her grimacing lips. Then Frieda slid the fleece lined bikini bottom through Robyn's crotch, and the whine became a piteous squeal. "Yesss," Frieda whispered as she buckled the bottom in place. "The trick is to make things juuuuust loose enough, so that when you move, it moves. It feels good, doesn't it, Irish?"

Robyn squirmed in her bonds and stamped her feet, reeling at the teasing, titillating, tickling sensations delivered by the friction of the soft, stiff lining. Meanwhile, Frieda had made a trip to the lockers and returned with a leather bra. At the sight, Robyn's heart began pounding and she stared in dread at the pointing cups with their mocking, tinkling bells. Then Frieda reversed the bra, and Robyn saw it was lined with more of the soft fleece, and had no clamps.

Frieda draped the bra over one of Robyn's neck chains, and held up a pair of tiny metal rings. "Irish, I need you to hold perfectly still, for Mistress. Can you do that?" Robyn nodded, Frieda pocketed one ring, snapped the other open on a tiny hinge, then seized Robyn's left nipple in a tight pinch and stretched it out; not painfully, but far enough to make Robyn's eye's pop wide. "Trust Mistress," Frieda cooed, and snapped the ring around the nipple's base. The right nipple received similar treatment, and Robyn found herself staring down at a pair of rigid, engorged, dark coral nubbins. There was no pain, but her tits... tingled. "They'll get more sensitive as time passes," Frieda explained, and began buckling on the bra. Robyn gasped as the fleece-lined cups settled (loosely) over her breasts. "The bells are weighted," Frieda explained, "to make the cups slide as they swing and bob."

The leather-clad beauty unclipped one of Robyn's neck chains and snapped it to Joelle's collar ring. "There," she said, and stepped to the door. "I'm going to get the small sleigh ready." Her eyes focused on Robyn. "Don't worry, Irish. You'll find it an easy pull... going down the trail, at least. Just follow Jet's lead. Mistress isn't concerned with dressage today. You'll get your style training later." She paused in the doorway, an evil smile on her angelic face. "You two have a drooling contest while I'm gone. The loser gets her butt whipped with my new flogger, tonight, before bed."

Noon found Robyn waiting beside Joelle in the hanger shed down by the lake. Through the open door she could see the helicopter landing area, where Robyn herself had first set foot on Chattel Mountain.

The "small sleigh" had proved to be a strong, light, airy vehicle with waxed runners and a single seat, a cross between a dog sled and a traditional sleigh. The trip down from the lodge had been surprisingly easy. The trail wasn't excessively steep and the sleigh's runners and ponygirls' boots had proved quite stable, even in new snow. The return trip up the trail would be more challenging, but Robyn knew she was in good shape and wasn't worried, despite her lack of acclimatization (and the tight corset.)

"Jet" and "Irish" were standing in harness and reins, but "Mistress" had been kind enough to drape thick wool blankets over their shoulders. Frieda was at the door, a thick, hooded cape of white wool wrapped around her body.

By a trick of mountain acoustics they heard the approaching helicopter for some time, but it was a distant, echoing windmill clatter, not seeming to get any closer—then suddenly, it was there, snow blowing and engine roaring as it landed. As when Robyn arrived, its blades never stopped turning, and it departed in less than a minute. The snow settled... and a lone figure with a single bag was in its place.

Frieda pulled the blankets off her "ponies," climbed into the sleigh, and took the reins. In seconds, they were moving towards the landing area.

Chandler Warburg was the waiting arrival, of course. Her boots were medium brown, with a rich, pebbled texture. Her coat was a camel-tan wool blend, with cape shoulders and a hood trimmed with brown faux fur. Her bag, a small Gucci overnighter with gold trim, matched her boots. Her pale face was flushed with the cold and her short, straight bob tousled by the helicopter's artificial blizzard, but she looked every inch the ex-model and fabulously wealthy urbanite.

Chandler's blue-gray eyes examined every detail of Robyn's costumed and captive form, from her tightly laced thigh boots to her staring (frightened) green eyes. "I see you're taken Ms. Tolliver firmly in hand," Chandler purred, then shifted her gaze to Frieda—and her expression froze.

Frieda stepped from the sleigh and threw back her cape, revealing the black catsuit of woven leather straps beneath. All trace of the helicopter and its sound were long gone. The air around the frozen lake and surrounding trees was cold and still. Finally... Frieda spoke. "Strip!" she barked, "to the skin!" Chandler continued to stare (in fear), then reached for the top button of her coat with trembling, gloved fingers. "I've changed my mind," Frieda snapped. "Keep the boots! Now, strip!"




Chandler Warburg shrugged out of her wool coat and began fumbling with the buttons of her suit jacket (faded plum with matching skirt over a white blouse.) An obscenely expensive designer scarf was tied around her throat. She was careful to keep her eyes on the packed snow of the helipad (and off her Mistress) as she worried open the jacket's buttons. Finally, she paused to pull off her gloves, tossed them atop her crumpled coat, and attacked the jacket anew.

Staring with wide, green eyes at Chandler's striptease, Robyn stamped her booted feet for warmth, and shuddered in her ponygirl harness and bonds. The reins clipped to her rubber bit shook, and the metal fittings rattled. Louder still, the bells dangling from the points of her bra cups swayed and tinkled. Joelle, standing next to Robyn in matching ponygirl regalia, turned slightly and shook her head.

Too late! Frieda's head swiveled at the sound of the bells and reins and she glared at her "ponies." Both went stock still in their matching boots and harness restraints; Robyn in her skin-tight, hunter green costume; Joelle her costume, colored to match her dark flesh. Resplendent in her catsuit of narrow, interwoven, black leather straps and cape of white wool, Frieda walked over and looked Robyn's helpless form up and down, then lifted the redhead's chin, gazed into her worried eyes... and smiled affectionately.

Despite the cold, Robyn felt a thrill of delight at her mistress' expression. (Or was it the aftermath of the constant teasing and tickling her nipples and sex had endured on the trip down from the Lodge? Lightly stroked with every step by the pile lining of her costume's leather bra and bikini bottom... it was most distracting.)

"Poor Irish," Frieda cooed. "I know you're not used to the cold, and the run from the Lodge was hardly a warm-up, was it? But you have to learn to stand still in harness, Winter and Summer, rain and shine. Still as a statue..." She turned to Joelle and gave the patiently standing ponygirl an affectionate pat between her legs. Joelle flinched, but stifled whatever sensation the love tap had sent through her dildo stuffed and anal plugged loins. "Follow Jet's example," Frieda told Robyn. "She's very well trained."

Frieda turned back to face Chandler and shook her head, clucking her tongue and frowning in disgust. She went to the sleigh and pulled a thick coil of cotton rope from under the seat, then stomped to the still half-dressed newcomer. "Too slow, useless slave!" she snarled, grabbed the top of the slip still tucked under Chandler's skirt, and ripped it off her cringing, shivering body. The bra was next, then Frieda set to work with the rope. In seconds, she had Chandler's wrists bound behind her back.

"Mistress, please!" the shivering brunette whined. "I'm sorry—m' mmpfh!"

Frieda had jerked the scarf from Chandler's throat and stuffed it in her mouth, then reached into an inside pocket of her cape and produced a long, thin bandage of soft linen. "If I want to hear your treacherous, lying voice," Frieda snarled as she stuffed the entire scarf past Chandler's lips and seated the center of the narrow linen strip over the silky mass, "I'll whip you 'til you scream." The initial band of linen was followed by several more, all tightly wrapped around Chandler's head and between her teeth. The half-naked captive winced as Frieda cinched each layer, then tied a final flat, redundant knot at the nape of her neck.

Chandler grunted through her obviously quite effective gag as Frieda folded and lifted her arms until her wrist bonds were between her shoulder blades in the "reverse prayer" position. Rope tightened around Chandler's arms, torso, and shoulders, until her upper body was bound in a tight, symmetrical, well-hitched, arm pinning, breast pinching, elbow locking harness of rope.

Frieda unbuttoned Chandler's skirt, pulled it down her legs, and over her booted feet. It was tossed atop the rest of her clothes, then Frieda pulled a small blade from a hidden sheath in her corset. "Hold still, slave," she snarled. "I'm going to skin your legs, and we want to keep the gore to a minimum." Chandler's pantyhose were pulled away from her body and sliced to ribbons. Frieda stretched each remnant taut and cut it free close to the boot tops, causing the remainder to snap out of sight inside Chandler's brown, pebbled, terribly expensive knee boots. Her bikini panties were cut free, and Chandler was nude, but for her boots, gag, and intricate rope bonds.

Frieda grabbed a handful of Chandler's hair and hauled her to her feet. "Get over there and kneel at Irish' feet. She's the pony in green, the one you caused me to kidnap and torture, even though she didn't do a damn thing wrong and has been your loyal and hardworking employee from the moment she was hired!" She gave Chandler a shove, and the roped captive stumbled towards Robyn, knelt in the snow, and lowered her head.

Robyn stared down at Chandler's pale, flushed, shivering body. The "Dragon Lady" was thin, her breasts small and pert; but she had the long, defined muscles of a world class athlete, which she most certainly was. Robyn knew from Warburg corporate newsletters and e-zines that Chandler was a regular participant in Ironman Competitions around the world. Her times weren't competitive, but were nonetheless highly respectable. She was in exquisite condition... and was obviously cold, miserable, and frightened. Robyn tried to summon the anger she had felt earlier and direct it towards the true author of her predicament... but all she felt was pity for the helpless, shivering wretch at her feet.

Meanwhile, Frieda had tossed Chandler's clothing (intact and ruined) into a trash bag and stuffed it under the seat of the sleigh, next to her overnight bag. She then grabbed Chandler by the hair, hauled her to her feet, and shoved her across the clearing. The captive staggered, stumbled, and fell into a pile of new snow drifted against the limbs of a small grove of spruce saplings. This caused even more snow to slide from the branches and bury her in a powdery avalanche. By the time the violently shivering prisoner struggled to her feet and shook as much of the clinging snow from her pink body and brown hair as she could, Frieda was seated comfortably in the sleigh, her wool cape tightly wrapped and tucked around her person, and the ponygirls' reins in her gloved hands.

"If you aren't up at the Lodge by the time I close the stable door," Frieda announced (speaking to Chandler, of course), "you can freeze." She snapped the reins, her ponies pulled, and she was off.

Early in the trip from the helipad up to the Lodge, Robyn's mind had been on Chandler and whether or not the naked captive would survive; but after a hundred strides, her only concern was herself. The harnessed redhead was in excellent physical condition, but her hours in the gym (and dietary restraint) were to maintain her physique. She wasn't used to dragging half a grown woman and half a sleigh up a steep trail, especially not at something close to 5,000 feet above sea level! Robyn was wheezing by the time they made it back to the top of the ridge. By the time they were pulling the sleigh through the stable doors, her vision was beginning to tunnel. She dropped to her booted knees and gasped the thin, cold air, sucking and blowing past her bit-gag.

Joelle was only mildly taxed by the task of pulling the sleigh, and she stood patiently in her bonds as Frieda un-snapped her reins and set to work unbuckling her harness and arm binders. The dusky skinned beauty nodded at Robyn's panting form and forced an imperious sound past her gag. Frieda smiled, knelt, un-buckled Robyn's bit strap, and pulled the bit from the heaving redhead's mouth.

"I–I'm sorry, Mistress," Robyn gasped.

Frieda's smile was genuinely affectionate. "Are you going to be sick, Irish?" she asked.

"N–no, Mistress," Robyn responded. "I–I don't think so."

"You'll be running on the treadmill, one hour every day," Frieda announced. "This time next month, you'll be able to pull me to the far ridge and back without difficulty."

"Alone?" Robyn gasped.

Frieda laughed. "No, Silly Pony; with Joelle pulling lead, of course."

By this time Joelle had shrugged out of her binders and the restraining portions of her harness and was unbuckling her own bit. "C'mon, Irish," she said, as soon as her mouth was clear of the rubber rod. "The 'Ice Queen' may ride us hard, but we don't get put away wet."

Just then Chandler staggered into the stable. She was very pale and her lips had a bluish cast. She sank to her knees and panted, her sides heaving. Her rope bonds were still tight and inescapable, her gag taut and secure. Her long, sculpted muscles quivered as she shivered. She might be a gifted athlete, but was no more at home at this altitude than Robyn.

Frieda stuffed Robyn's bit back in her mouth. "Hold that for me," she whispered in the redhead's ear, "until I get the Dragon Lady out of here." She then walked over to Chandler, grabbed her by the hair, and hauled her to her feet. "Take care of Irish," she told Joelle. "I'm going to dump this one in a hot hydrospa before she catches cold. It's a lot more fun punishing a healthy slave than a sick one... don't you agree?"

With that, Frieda and Chandler were gone. Joelle walked over and muscled the outer door closed, then slid a substantial bolt into a socket in the door frame. Robyn (very much aware she was still strapped into an inescapable, arm-binding harness) watched with wide green eyes. Joelle smiled sweetly. "Steam room?"

Robyn nodded (and sighed in relief.)

Joelle was semi-reclined, her back against one of the tiled walls of the steam room. Robyn was flat on her back, her head resting on Joelle's lap. Both were completely naked (save Robyn's collar), dripping with sweat, and utterly relaxed. Joelle took a drink from an insulated bottle of water, then poured a few tablespoons of the cool, clear liquid over Robyn's flushed, already wet breasts and flat tummy.

"Stop it!" Robyn giggled, wiggling under the teasing shower; then reached up, seized the bottle, took a drink herself, and set it aside.

"Feeling better, Irish?" Joelle asked with a coy smile.

Robyn grinned up at Joelle's sweat-slick, dark, beautiful face. "Uh-huh."

"Good, 'cause there's something we need to discuss." Joelle began combing Robyn's damp, auburn locks with the fingers of her left hand. "Frieda and I have come up with two options for how to, ooh... handle the problem of your interactions with the Dragon Lady, while she's here."

"That's a problem?"

Joelle leaned down and kissed Robyn's lips, then sat back. "A minor problem. When she gets back to New York, we want her utterly convinced you're not a threat, remember?" Robyn nodded. "Good," Joelle purred. "Now... two options. The weak option: We give Dragon Lady a running commentary about all the, ooh, restrictive things we're doing to you. Meanwhile, you're locked in a room... reading, exercising, no doubt playing with yourself on an hourly basis."

"Joelle!" Robyn complained, a blush turning her already flushed, peachy, over-heated complexion bright crimson.

"Just teasing," Joelle whispered, and kissed Robyn again. "The strong option: Chandler actually sees you under control."


"Control," Joelle said, nodding.

"Control," Robyn whispered.

"No torture," Joelle explained. "We keep you locked up; but every now and then we parade you past Chandler in a condition that leaves no possible doubt in her mind as to whether or not you're completely in our power."

"In your power," Robyn whispered, staring into the distance. She shuddered slightly, then shifted her gaze to Joelle's smiling eyes. "I guess the strong option's best," Robyn conceded. "I'm not going to regret this... am I?"

Joelle kissed Robyn's lips a third time. "Possibly... but after Chandler drags her tail back to New York, I'm sure we'll find ways to make it up to you."

Still sweaty from the steam room, her red hair curly and damp, Robyn watched jealously as Joelle soaped and shampooed her body and scrubbed herself clean. "Explain again why I have to be a funky mess?" Robyn demanded.

Joelle turned off the shower and began toweling herself dry. "General ambiance," she answered with a coy smirk. "Now, finish your drink."

Robyn took a final swig of sports drink and set down the empty bottle.

Meanwhile, Joelle had pulled on a pair of bikini panties and was dressing in sweat pants and sweatshirt, this time in a faded brick color. She sat, pulled on a pair of socks, laced on a pair of sneakers, then stood and walked towards the waiting, visibly nervous Robyn. "Ready?"

Robyn nodded, and began twirling a strand of hair with her right hand. "What are you going to—?"

"Position one!" Joelle barked.

Robyn gracefully sank to her knees; interlaced her fingers behind her head; pulled her elbows back; lifted her weight off her heels and carried it with her flat, hard abdomen and toned thighs; and dropped her gaze to the floor. She was still nervous, and became aware that her pulse was pounding.

Joelle stepped behind Robyn and seized her thumbs and a handful of hair in a tight one-handed grip. "Up, slave," she purred, and hauled Robyn to her feet. "Come with me to wardrobe, would you please?"

Robyn winced as she was hustled out the door and down the hall. "Joelle, I—"

"Not a word!" Joelle warned as she hauled her naked captive through a doorway and into a room lined with storage lockers. She forced Robyn to her knees and opened a locker.

Robyn swallowed in a nervous gulp. Before dropping her gaze to the floor she'd caught a glimpse of a neat row of canvas coats with long, dangling, closed sleeves. One of the garments landed on the floor in front of her in a tinkling mass of rough canvas, gleaming tan leather, and steel buckles.

"Put it on," Joelle ordered. "Don't worry. I'll help."

The straitjacket wasn't quite as stringent as the one Robyn had endured her first night as a guest of the Lodge, but it would do. It buckled up the back, and was tight enough across her breasts and around her waist to make its presence known with every breath. Her arms were crossed below her breasts in the traditional self-hug, and would remain that way, thanks to leather straps down the front and over her forearms, encircling each upper arm and wrist, and channeling the sleeves' terminal straps. This was not a crotchless model, like the one she'd worn before. A narrow diaper flap traveled from front to back and buckled through the rings at the end of each sleeve. Robyn rolled her shoulders, pulled against the sleeves and the straps pinning her arms, and sighed. "Déjà vu, all over again," she muttered.

Joelle grinned. "Poor Red Robyn," she cooed, giving the crotch strap a final jerk.

"Hey!" Robyn complained. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"I don't need to remove your diaper to tell that you're enjoying it too," Joelle whispered in the captive's ear.

Robyn blushed, but didn't answer (which was an answer in itself.)

"Besides," Joelle continued, "why shouldn't I be enjoying myself?" She led Robyn to another locker and began fitting her with a pair of leather hobbles joined by a twelve-inch leather strap. "After all," Joelle continued, "I am your superior, Junior."

"Junior Dominatrix in Training," Robyn snorted in disgust. "This is like learning to drive while riding in the back seat."

Joelle laughed, fumbling in a drawer inside the locker. "More like while tied up in the trunk; but don't criticize the curriculum. You'll get your turn at the wheel... eventually."

"Eventually," Robyn mumbled, still skeptical. Then she noticed the rubber ball and tangle of straps in Joelle's hands. "Oh!"

"I know the ball looks big..." Joelle gave the four-inch sphere a squeeze and it compressed between her fingers. "...but it's foam. Open wide!"

Robyn complied and Joelle stuffed the now slowly expanding ball into her mouth, then buckled a strap at the nape of her neck. The ball continued expanding, until it seemed to fill every nook and cranny of Robyn's mouth. Her cheeks bulged and she forced a piteously quiet sound past the heavy foam. A second strap was buckled, and a fleece-lined mask was over her lower face. A pair of thin straps were crossed under her chin and a third buckle engaged at the nape of her neck, and the mask seemed to press her lips and compact her jaws as efficiently as a hand-gag. She shook her head, mewed a stifled complaint past ball and mask, and glared at her smug, smiling captor.

Joelle laughed and gave her prisoner a close hug. "Let's go visit Chandler, shall we?" Joelle gave Robyn a gentle shove towards the door, followed by a mild whack on the right thigh from a riding crop she'd found somewhere among the dangling jackets, cuffs, straps, and gags in the lockers. "Dragon Lady will probably appreciate any interruption, if Frieda's plans are on track."

With Robyn in the lead, directed by a stream of painless (but humiliating) taps from Joelle's crop, they descended into the sanitarium levels of the Lodge. Before the heavy steel door of a chamber, Joelle pulled Robyn close and whispered in her right ear. "I want to warn you, Irish. This is going to seem very cruel... and it is; but Frieda has been doing this sort of thing for a long time; and Chandler's been her guest before... many times. Don't be frightened." She pounded her fist three times on the door, then turned the latch and swung it open. Despite Joelle's warning, Robyn's eyes popped wide at the sight of what was happening in the chamber beyond.

Chandler, still rope bound and gagged, was reclined on a nightmare version of a gynecological examining table. It was a frame of stainless steel pipes and brackets with taut canvas panels to provide "comfort." She was on her back (and bound arms), her legs bent and widely splayed. She was held in this position by leather cuffs around her ankles and above her knees and leather straps across her waist, above and below her breasts, and across her throat.

"Clover clamps" held each of her nipples, and thin cords tied to each clamp traveled up to pulleys on the crossbar of a steel frame, over to other pulleys, then joined to suspend a large (heavy) steel vessel. Suspended over the mouth of the vessel and cradled in a net of steel wire was a block of ice, roughly the size of a football. The chamber was hot, and the ice was melting... into the vessel... very slowly... and every clear drop added to the weight pulling Chandler's small nipples upwards and stretching her small breasts into taut cones.

The nipple clamps were not the worst of her predicament. Frieda, still dressed in her catsuit of interwoven black leather straps, was seated before Chandler's splayed crotch. A bright pinspot was focused on the prisoner's glistening sex. "I'll be with you in a minute," Frieda mumbled absently, leaned forward, and used a pair of stainless steel forceps to pluck a single pubic hair from Chandler's bush. (Chandler flinched as the hair was pulled.) Frieda had been at this for some time, for a pan into which she dropped the curly filament already contained hundreds of similar hairs, and Chandler's pubic patch was quite a bit smaller than Robyn remembered.

Frieda set down the forceps, picked up a small bottle with a atomizer top from a tray of ice, and gave Chandler's pubic region a generous spray. "Alcohol," she explained, then turned to smile at Robyn.

The straitjacked, hobbled, and gagged redhead stared at Chandler's helpless, writhing, mewing form, took an involuntary step back, and was stopped by Joelle, who held her close and took a firm grip on her hair.

"Easy, Irish," Joelle whispered in Robyn's ear. Joelle then forced Robyn to her knees, and maintained her grip on the captive's hair. "You still intend to give her a clear-cut, Mistress?" Joelle asked Frieda, nodding at Chandler.

Frieda nodded and gazed down at the spotlighted, obscenely splayed crotch before her, and delicately flexed her gloved hands. "If my fingers grow tired, I'll wax the rest." She picked up a steel probe and used it to tease the glistening folds of Chandler's labia. "Look at how wet she is... the slut. I'll probably wax her anyway, regardless, in case I miss any of the small ones." She returned the probe to the tray and picked up the forceps. "Take Red someplace secure and tuck her in. She was a good pony. Untrained, but she tried very hard. No punishment today."

"Yes, Mistress," Joelle responded, and hauled Robyn to her hobbled feet.

"Oh, wait!" Frieda said, with a sardonic smile. "I believe Slave Chandler would like to apologize to Slave Robyn for getting her into this nightmare."

Chandler took her cue. She lifted her head as far as the strap across her throat would allow and directed a series of piteous gagged noises towards Robyn.

"Did that sound sincere to you?" Frieda purred.

Joelle shook her head. "I couldn't even understand her."

Frieda shook her head as well. "Talking with your mouth full," she scolded, then leaned forward and plucked a pubic hair. "Such an ill-mannered slut-slave."

Joelle dragged Robyn through the door. Robyn's last view of the room was Chandler's pale, sweat-beaded, restrained arms and torso, and her stretched, conical breasts; then the door was closed.

Joelle hugged Robyn close and looked into her eyes. "The Dragon Lady is used to stuff like that, understand?"

Still a little frightened, Robyn nodded.

Joelle smiled and continued. "I don't think Chandler's ever been completely plucked before," she explained, "but she is being punished. Now... how 'bout a nice nap?"

Robyn nodded again, and was led away.

Frieda pulled the last strip of waxed cotton gauze, and Chandler shuddered in her bonds. "There," the catsuited beauty said, a wicked smile curling her lips, "all nice and slick." She then reached up and released the right nipple clamp. Chandler screamed through her gag; then screamed again as the left clamp was released. She shivered and squirmed in her bonds as Frieda released the leather cuffs and straps pinning her to the table.

Grabbing a handful of rope bonds, Frieda hauled Chandler off the table and forced her to the floor. "Stay!" she ordered, walked to a low cabinet, and returned with coils of cotton rope. Over the next several minutes, Chandler was bound at the ankles, above and below her knees, and through her bare crotch. More rope was draped over her shoulders. The doubled strands were knotted every few inches, and Frieda pulled more rope from either side, hitched it between the knots, and back to the rear. Eventually, Chandler was bound in an overlying, diamond-hitched net of rope, from her throat to her big toes.

Frieda cinched the last knot (a double-tucked hitch around Chandler's thumbs), then picked the naked captive up and onto her shoulder. Gagged head to the rear and bound legs to the front, the helpless captive was carried deeper and lower into the sanitarium. All pretense of cleanliness was left behind. The concrete floors were layered with dust. Cobwebs hung in ropes from the overhead pipes and the eerily dim light fixtures.

Eventually they came to a heavy steel door set in a concrete wall. Frieda produced a ring of keys, opened a padlock and then the door, carried Chandler into the small, dark chamber beyond, and set her on the filthy floor. Heavy pipes criss-crossed the low ceiling, radiating heat and making the air uncomfortably hot. Chandler writhed in her bonds and mewed through her gag, shaking her head... and was ignored. There was a square grid of heavy iron bars set in an iron frame sunk in the concrete floor. Iron hinges were welded to grid and frame at one end, and a thick iron hasp and high security padlock opposite. Frieda unlocked the padlock and heaved on the hasp. The grid opened with a rusty squeal. The space underneath was dark and shrouded in countless cobwebs. Chandler rolled her body, struggled to raise her head and shoulders off the concrete, and locked eyes with her mistress, her steel-blue eyes begging for mercy.

Frieda smiled and slowly shook her head. "No, I'm afraid not, slut. You sent me a long list of entertainments and punishments I was to visit upon poor, innocent Ms. Tolliver, remember? I think it's only right you experience a little of what you had in mind for your victim. You'll sleep in the 'spider pit' every night this visit... or until you convince me of your contrition."

Resistance was impossible. Frieda dragged and rolled Chandler's bound body into the pit. It was actually a brick-walled cube, something like four feet on a side, with a small iron drain set in its floor. The prisoner mewed and whined, the rope bands and diamond hitches encircling her body flexing and biting as she tucked her legs and hunched her shoulders to fit into the confined space. Frieda closed the grid, snapped the padlock in its hasp, and smiled down at Chandler's bound and gagged form through the thick, closely-spaced bars. "Thirsty? Hungry?" Chandler wiggled in her bonds and whined through her gag. Frieda stared down at her for several long seconds. Her prisoner's pale flesh was glistening with sweat and already filthy with dirt, dust, and cobwebs. Frieda turned and walked to the door. "Water and Primate Chow in the morning... unless I forget." She pulled the outer door closed, threw the bolt, snapped the padlock closed, and walked away.

Chandler was in for a very unpleasant night, but Frieda knew the Dragon Lady had finished an Ironman through the Mohave Desert just months earlier. A night in the spider pit would be nothing compared to that.

Robyn stared up at the ceiling. Joelle had marched her into one of the bedrooms, possibly the same bedroom she had shared with Frieda the previous night. She had stood patiently while Joelle unbuckled and removed her hobbles and straitjacket. She expected to be allowed to climb under the covers of the bed and take her promised nap, perhaps with a chain on her collar to make sure she didn't wander away or fall out of bed.

Instead, Joelle had unrolled a canvas bundle and tossed it on the bed. "This is called a body sheath. We have three versions: canvas, burlap, and wool. The burlap and wool versions are... scratchy, uncomfortable, itchy torture against your bare skin, especially on a hot night. Because you were such a hardworking and earnest young pony this afternoon, you get to wear the canvas. Position one!"

Robyn dropped to her knees, interlaced her fingers, and placed them atop her head.

Joelle stepped behind and began unbuckling Robyn's gag straps. "Such a clever girl," she cooed, "remembering not to touch her gag." The gag was removed and tossed aside, then Joelle placed one hand atop Robyn's head and fingers, and used the other to lift her chin. Her dark hair settled around Robyn's face and they kissed. The kiss lasted a long time.

Joelle stood and motioned for Robyn to rise. "You okay?" the smiling Assistant Dominatrix asked, and Robyn nodded. "Good," she said, spun Robyn around to face the bathroom door, and gave her a gentle slap on her naked derrière. "Go use the facilities, and drink some water. Quickly!"

Naked but for her steel collar, Robyn scampered into the bathroom. By the time she returned, Joelle had the sheath stretched flat, unzipped, and ready. She smiled at Robyn. "On the bed, Irish." Her eyes wide (and her heart tripping), Robyn complied. "Tuck your feet into the separate channels... Good girl. Now, arms into the side sleeves." Robyn slid her fingers into slits in the interior and wiggled until her arms were enclosed up to the armpit. Joelle helped this process by pulling up the sheath's heavy zipper and tugging on the shoulder straps. "Good girl!" she repeated, and began the lengthy process of tightening and buckling the sheath's dozens of transverse and lateral leather straps. As each loop of leather tightened and was secured, the sheath became less a canvas bag and more a canvas python, slowly strangling its swallowed prey.

"T-this is tight!" Robyn whispered.

Joelle nodded. Meanwhile, she passed the ring in the front of Robyn's slave collar through a slot in the sheath's leather collar, and continued securing the sheath. An open-faced hood captured the prisoner's head, and straps encircled her forehead and throat. A ball was placed in her mouth and a broad strap buckled across her lips. The final strap was tucked through channels sewn into the hood, passed under Robyn's chin, and was buckled at the crown of her head. "There..." Joelle said, padlocking a chain from the bed's headboard to Robyn's collar ring. "You have a nice nap," she purred, and was gone.

The lights clicked off, and Robyn heard the bedroom door close and lock. She wiggled in her sheath, flexing her muscles and twisting against the tight straps and stiff canvas . Finally, admitting defeat (satisfying herself that she was completely helpless), she relaxed against the still neatly tucked bedspread, stared up at the ceiling, and closed her eyes.

Robyn dozed off... and dreamed she was strapped to a steel table and Frieda was approaching her defenseless crotch, forceps in hand... then woke to the sound of rattling keys and opening door. She turned her head (with difficulty) and watched Frieda's catsuited form glide across the dark bedroom and into the bathroom. The shower started... minutes passed... and the shower stopped. More minutes passed... then the bathroom door opened and Frieda strolled towards the bed. Her raven hair was damp and pulled back in a tight ponytail. She was completely nude, a coy smile on her lips, her blue eyes sparkling.

Frieda pulled the bedspread from under Robyn's encased body and lay next to her on the bed. Lounging on her side, her chin resting on one hand and supported by one propped elbow, she locked eyes with her prisoner, and used her free hand to explore the taut canvas strapped around Robyn's squirming form.

Frieda's smile faded. "The most demanding task of being a Dominatrix," she sighed, "is to know what your client really needs, and how to give it to her." She leaned close and kissed Robyn's button nose. "Don't be frightened by what's happening to Ms. Warburg. I estimate sometime around noon tomorrow Chandler will be ready to apologize for what she's done to you. You're ready to accept now, right?" Robyn nodded, her eyes still staring at her mistress. "Such a kind soul," Frieda whispered, snuggling closer to Robyn. "Now... as I was saying... It can be demanding being a Dominatrix. At the moment, I'd like nothing better than to take a nice nap... but there's no rest for the wicked."

Frieda climbed to her knees, turned, straddled Robyn's sheathed body, and settled her weight on the encased redhead's waist. Robyn stared at Frieda's strong white back and raven ponytail... then yelped when she felt a zipper open over her crotch, and something cold and hard slide between her thighs and nestle against her sex. The zipper closed, and Frieda resumed her former pose, lying close to Robyn. "Brace yourself," she cooed, and twisted a plastic disk that now protruded from the sheath. The object tucked against her sex began to vibrate! Robyn mewed through her gag and shivered in her tight encasement.

"Hush, Irish," Frieda whispered in a teasing scold. "Your new friend will keep you entertained while I catnap for an hour or two." Her hands slid over Robyn's sheath and she kissed her gagged lips. "It's not enough to fully entertain you, of course. That'll be my job, once I wake up and peel you out of your wrapper. Afterwards, Joelle will cook us a nice steak, with all the fixin's." She smiled coyly and tapped the side of one index finger against Robyn's gag strap. "Not a sound," she ordered, "not so much as a whimper... and stop all that squirming. If you wake me up before I'm ready... no nookie!"

Robyn lay and stared up at the ceiling, struggling not to shiver, not to whine, and not to sweat. Could be worse, she reasoned. I could be getting what Chandler's getting... whatever that is...

Already asleep, Frieda rolled onto her stomach and threw one arm across Robyn's sheathed body. The captive sighed through her gag... and suppressed the urge to shiver from the wicked, horrible, delightful sensations quivering through her sex. Robyn closed her eyes... and drifted off to sleep... and this time she dreamed she was a medieval princess. She had been captured by a pirate queen, but rescued by a beautiful socreress... and now she was the sorceress' prisoner, bound in golden chains in the uppermost chamber of her rose-covered tower, deep in the enchanted forest... and escape was impossible (and unthinkable.)






Robyn tapped several keys, then leaned back in her very comfortable, throne-like chair and waited for the screen to refresh. The Warburg intranet in New York responded, and the transfer between accounts she had ordered was complete. Thus far "Chattel Mountain Investment Project Number Seventeen" was performing very well, better than most such projects in the Warburg's vast global empire. Robyn had heard that already various people-in-the-know were gossiping (jealously) about this new "Irish Poulenet" person and wondering when she'd move up to one of the higher management positions in New York, London, Geneva, or one of the other Warburg power centers. The portfolios she was managing for Frieda, Joelle, and herself were also off to good starts, as were the business accounts for Frieda's "services" and Joelle's art. "Irish" tapped a final key. As the system shut down she stood and stretched.

None of the clothes she'd brought from New York—from her former life, when she thought she was coming to Chattel Mountain for a temporary assignment (Robyn shook her head)—were useful for her new life. She'd ordered appropriate outfits from various internet/catalog companies, and now had jeans; cotton and wool shirts; sports bras, panties, and long johns; sweaters, a ski jacket, and an expedition parka; sneakers, hiking boots, and snowpacks; everything she needed to live year round in the Lodge and on the mountain. At the moment she was dressed in sweatpants and a cotton sweater, both in a sage color that complemented her peachy complexion and copper-red hair. Brown leather and nylon "trail runners" were laced on her feet. Her red curls were captured behind her head by an olive green bandana.

The summer day had dawned clear and cold, but now was starting to warm. Robyn peeled off her sweater, kicked off her sneakers, pulled down and removed her sweatpants, and lastly, her bikini panties. She strolled to the balcony of her bedroom office and opened the French doors. A hummingbird zinged away to the shelter of a nearby stand of firs, scolding Robyn for interrupting its feeding. Robyn smiled. The hummers emptied the large feeder she had hung outside her balcony window almost daily. The tiny feathered dynamo would be back.

Robyn pattered along the narrow balcony to the hot tub deck built out from the master suite, Frieda's bedroom. She retrieved a mat from the cedar storage chest near the lounge chairs, and rolled it out on the deck. Already in good shape when she first arrived, Joelle and Frieda's exercise program was giving Robyn long, toned muscles. In fact, she was in the best condition of her life, and as soon as the weather allowed, Robyn had begun a carefully regulated sunbathing regimen. She'd learned early-on the power of high altitude UV rays, and limited her sun worship to a few minutes yoga followed by a few minutes of lounging. Robyn closed her eyes and began her stretching routine, enjoying the warm sun on her ever more freckled skin.

Robyn settled into "The Cat"... held the pose for several long seconds... flowed into "The Lion"... then opened her eyes to find Joelle leaning against the deck railing and smiling. The dusky-skinned beauty was dressed in hiking shorts, cotton tank-top, wool socks, and hiking boots. Her black hair was pulled back and plaited in a loose braid. Robyn smiled back. "What are you leering at?" the naked redhead demanded.

Joelle crooked a finger. "C'mere, Freckle Farm."

Robyn sighed, climbed gracefully to her feet, pattered over to Joelle, and and gave her a kiss.

"Hold still," Joelle ordered, spun Robyn around, and pulled her hands behind her back

Robyn felt thin cord loop and cinch around her crossed wrists. "I take it the copter's comin'?" she muttered.

"You know the rules," Joelle purred, "you have to be completely helpless as long as the helicopter is on the ground. We can't have you escaping, now can we?" She led Robyn back to her room and sat her on the bed. She rummaged in a drawer, then pulled a long underwear bottom up Robyn's legs and over her hips, untied her wrists, and helped her don a long sleeve top. Robyn's new, skintight ensemble was a riot of mottled earth tones, one of the elaborate commercial camouflage patterns favored by hunters. Joelle retied Robyn's wrists and laced on the captive's trail runners. "It's such a nice day, I thought we might take a little hike," Joelle explained as she pulled Robyn to her feet.

This is new, Robyn thought as she was hustled from her bedroom, down the stairs, and into a ground floor mud room off the kitchen. Joelle swung a rucksack onto her back, then held the door to the outside open for her captive.

Robyn paused at the threshold. "It's not that warm out there," she complained.

"It's not that cold, either," Joelle responded. "You'll be okay."



They took a descending trail Robyn had never used before. After about a half mile they came to a small clearing surrounded by tall pines and screened by several large boulders and clusters of ferns. In the center was a seven-foot vertical post of weathered gray wood. It was approximately eight inches in diameter, and was solidly set in the smooth, hard ground. Through the branches of pines further down the slope Robyn could see the lake, and the helipad was only about fifty yards below. She looked straight up and beheld a window of clear sky less than a yard across.

Without prompting, Robyn walked to the post, put her shoulders against the smooth wood, and stood facing the lake.

Joelle shrugged out of her rucksack, stepped behind Robyn, untied her wrists, pulled her hands behind the post, and retied them. "Figured out the use of the post, did you?"

Robyn sighed and twisted her wrists. "I've always had a gift for the obvious," she muttered. The cord was tight (but not too tight), intricately hitched and interlaced, and the knots unreachable. Robyn sighed. Inescapable... as always. Joelle opened her rucksack and started pulling out neatly coiled hanks of thick nylon rope. Their woven sheaths were mottled black, rust, olive, brown, and gray; all the colors of the mountain. Robyn gulped nervously. "You aren't gonna use all that, are you?"

Joelle selected a coil and began binding Robyn to the post, starting by cinching her waist and pressing her spine against the wood. "Does the term trompe l'oeil ring any bells?"

"Vaguely," Robyn mumbled.

"I've always wanted to bind someone to a post or tree," Joelle explained, "so tight they couldn't move, of course, then paint their body to exactly match the background; countershading to flatten their shadows; exactly duplicating the textures, colors, and original shadows of the background... It would be hiding them in plain sight. This won't be nearly as elaborate; just a simple job of camouflage."

"Oh," Robyn sighed. Artists! Rope tightened around her torso, arms and legs, hitched her shoulders back against the post, framed her breasts, bound her above and below the knees, and around her ankles. By the time Joelle was finished, the squirming redhead could barely move.

"There," Joelle said, tying a final knot. She then opened a side pouch of the rucksack and produced a hairbrush.

"Just a simple comb out, okay?" Robyn asked.

Joelle smiled, parted Robyn's curls down the middle, and began giving her a pair of braids. A short length of rope was knotted around the base of each braid, plaited with the long, red locks, then used to tie off the ends. Several inches of rope remained at the end of each long braid.

"I'm betting all this is not just to give me the Pippi Longstockings look." Robyn groused.

Joelle smiled, reached back into the rucksack, and produced a cotton bandana printed in woodland camouflage. "My favorite book in the series is Pippi Longstockings and the Lesbian Slaver-Pirates," she purred, balling the bandana into a tight wad. "How 'bout you?"

"Oh, very fun—n'mmpfh!"

"Yummy!" Joelle said, smiling sweetly as she stuffed the bandana into Robyn's mouth. She looped the rope securing Robyn's right braid behind the post from the right, the left braid rope from the left, tied a simple hitch, pulled them back to the front from either side, hitched them again, this time between Robyn's teeth and over the bandana stuffing, then tied a tight double square knot behind the post. Robyn was now biting down on the ends of her own crossed braids, with her head pinned against the smooth wood. She glared at Joelle and directed several well-muffled remarks in her direction.

Joelle laughed, reached back into the rucksack, and produced a roll of duct tape. It was printed in woodland camouflage. She ripped several inches free from the roll and walked towards Robyn. "Entirely too noisy," she muttered, then slapped the tape across Robyn's lips and around the post, then several more times around post and head, until Robyn's face was mummified from just under her flaring nostrils to just under her chin.

Joelle dropped the tape into the rucksack, shouldered its straps, and stood before Robyn, smiling. "I could probably dip you in international orange latex and bind you with yellow rope and you'd still be invisible, tucked back here in the shadows and behind these branches." She stepped forward and ran her hands over her captive's well-roped and thinly clothed torso, arms, and shoulders; then gently teased the prisoner's nipples through her top until they popped erect. "Poor Robyn... all alone waaay out here in the wilderness... no one coming to her rescue... all alone and helpless." She strolled to the edge of the, clearing. "I'll be back for you... after the copter leaves... after all hope of escape is gone."

Robyn heard Joelle's boots crunch on the pine needles... and then she was alone.



Robyn squirmed in her bonds and groped with her fingers. She could brush several strands of the thick rope binding her to the post with her fluttering fingers, but could grasp nothing, and there wasn't a hint of any knots she could untie. She couldn't move her head more than a tiny fraction of an inch. She forced a plaintive sound past her gag, and doubted the muffled sound carried more than a yard or two beyond her tiny clearing.

It was still a little chilly in the shade. Spring and early summer on the mountain seemed to be like this: hot in the direct sun; cool in the shade, if not cold. Robyn could feel her nipples straining against the thin, smooth fabric of her top, and she shivered slightly. She was also aware of a growing tingling and wetness between her legs. Am I cold or horny? Robyn wondered. Then shuddered as a thrill of pleasure coursed up her spine. Both, I guess.

Just then she became aware she had visitors. "Chika-dzeee-dzeee." A flock of tiny gray, white, and black song birds began flitting through the pine boughs.

I know you! Robyn thought, smiling behind her gag at the bold, inquisitive little birds. Frieda said you're 'Mountain Chickadees.'

The little black-capped birds explored the nearby branches. Robyn couldn't be sure, but she thought they knew she was there... and were curious. Look all you want, she thought. I'm certainly not a threat.

Suddenly, the chickadees were gone... and seconds later, Robyn heard the first low frequency, rhythmic sounds of the helicopter. She jerked and struggled, fighting her bonds and knowing it was hopeless. She mewed through her gag. Over here! Help me! They'd played this game before. She'd played this game before.

One time, when the Lodge was still snowbound, she'd been stripped, bound hand and foot, gagged with a pair of bandanas, and left to writhe and struggle on the floor of the solarium. She'd heard the copter approach and land... then it took off and flew directly over her glass prison, casting it's shadow directly across her helpless body as it made its departure.

Another time she'd been stripped and strapped into one of the nastier "Tranquilizing Chairs" in the lower levels. Unable to do more than wiggle under the plethora of tight leather straps, gagged by a leather plug and a head-pinning face mask, she'd watched the copter land and depart on a small television, arranged for her "viewing pleasure."

Yet another time, she'd been straitjacketed, her legs strapped in a canvas sheath, a harness of broad leather straps used to enforce a fetal tuck, gagged with cloth and tape, and locked in a wooden trunk. The trunk was carried down to the landing zone, and Robyn had heard the helicopter land. Someone, possibly Tony the pilot, engaged Frieda in small talk; and then the helicopter departed.

Every time was different, every time she was reminded that she was a helpless prisoner, and every time Robyn had enjoyed the little melodrama beyond words. Back in the present, Robyn rolled her shoulders and twisted her torso against the topes. The least she could have done was give me a crotch rope to work with, the helpless redhead sighed. She twisted her thighs together... but knew it wouldn't be enough. She'd have to wait for the next act; for whatever Joelle and/or Frieda had planned for after the helicopter was gone.

But now the helicopter was here! It circled the lake and came in for a landing, and it was right there! Help me! Please! She could see the pilot's face. Tony's aviator shades had gold rims, his headphones and microphone were gray, and he was wearing a brown leather flight jacket. I'm over here! Help me!

Frieda and Joelle came into view, opened the helicopter's cargo hatch, and began unloading boxes of groceries, several large parcels with shipping labels, and a flat of flowering plants in small plastic pots. Frieda was in boots, jeans, and a cotton blouse. Joelle was still in the boots, shorts, and tank-top she had been wearing when she bound Robyn to the post. Frieda exchanged a few words with Tony, he handed her a bundle of mail, then the rotors revved until the branches between Robyn and the lake began to thrash. No! Don't leave me! Frieda stepped back and waved, the copter lifted into the air... and was gone.

The sound of the helicopter faded into silence... and once again Robyn was alone, alone on the mountain and the helpless prisoner of her cruel, pitiless (wonderful) captors (and lovers.)



Many long helpless minutes passed after the helicopter's departure. Robyn heard a quadrunner chug up the Lake Trail towards the Lodge, the usual means by which cargo was hauled from the helipad to the storerooms (when a ponygirl and cart was unavailable.) Rubbing her thighs together and fighting the ropes was proving highly un-productive, and she was definitely getting a chill. Frustrated and aroused, she found herself hoping the chickadees would come back, just to provide a needed distraction—then Robyn started in her bonds. Without warning, Frieda had stepped into view.

The raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty was still in boots, jeans, and blouse; but now Joelle's rucksack was on her back. She smiled at Robyn and sauntered forward. "Still my precious prisoner I see, eh Red?" She ran her hands over Robyn's body, leaned close, and kissed her gagged mouth. Robyn shivered in her bonds. "I was so afraid you'd wiggle out of Joey's ropes and sneak aboard Tony's helicopter," Frieda whispered, then shrugged out of the rucksack's straps, dropped it to the ground, and began the lengthy task of untying Robyn's bonds.

Robyn snuggled her back and buttocks against the post, trying to ignore the tiny thrills of pleasure caused by Frieda's hands as they touched her here, brushed against her there, and peeled off the layers of rope binding her in place. Eventually her bonds were reduced to her wrist cords and gag.

Frieda produced a folding knife, carefully sliced through the tape encircling Robyn's head, and peeled off the overlapping bands. "Oh my!" she sighed, smiling at the rope and braids cleaving Robyn's lips. "My precious Joelle... Her inventiveness never ceases to amaze. We're going to have to keep this." Robyn's braids were freed from the post; crossed again behind her head; pulled back between her teeth, crossed and snugged against the bandana still filling her mouth; then tied at the nape of her neck. Frieda then untied Robyn's wrists, pulled her away from the post, and tied her wrists again.

"Position two," Frieda ordered, and Robyn dropped to her knees and leaned forward until her forehead touched the ground. Frieda carefully coiled all of the rope she'd untied from Robyn's body and stowed each hank in the rucksack... all but one. She then shouldered the pack, tied a slip-knot in the remaining length of rope, dropped a loop over Robyn's head, and snugged it around her throat.

"Up!" Frieda barked, and Robyn scrambled to her feet. Frieda locked eyes with her captive. "There's a surprise from the Dragon Lady waiting in your room," she purred, then half-embraced Robyn and slid her right hand against the shuddering prisoner's sex. "Goodness... So very wet." She continued a slow, gentle caress of Robyn's loins through the thin fabric of her underwear. "I don't know whether to bring you off right here, like the slippery little vixen-in-heat you are... toss you in the lake to cool you down... or take you back to your room so you can play with your pretty present." Robyn shivered and whined through her gag as Frieda continued her massage. "You're never going to escape," Frieda whispered. "You know that, don't you?" Robyn shuddered and pressed her sex against Frieda's hand. "We're going to keep you here on the mountain forever," Frieda explained, "and as we get better and better at gauging your various thresholds..." Frieda's massage stopped and she took a step back. "...you're going to find it very frustrating."

Robyn shivered and fought the urge to glare at her tormentor. She'd been so close!

Frieda smiled (her most cruel, evil smile), gave her shivering prisoner's leash a jerk, and led her towards the trail back to the Lodge. "Poor Robyn," she cooed, and started up the trail.



Frieda set a brisk pace back to the Lodge. By the time they arrived at Robyn's bedroom, the captive redhead was panting; but this passed in seconds. Gone were the days of altitude sickness when she pushed herself (or was pushed) too hard. Robyn's heart and lungs were at home on the mountain, as, increasingly, was the rest of her.

Three parcels were on her bed, the tape formerly sealing them for shipment neatly slit. The first was open, revealing a white uniform, still factory folded and sealed in plastic. Robyn stepped closer, and she could see several more such packets in the box.

"Three nurse's uniforms," Frieda said, rummaging through the box, "all of them miniskirt short with narrow waists and short sleeves. V-neck with point collars, of course, and they button all the way up the front... Several pair of white pantyhose... A pair of white heels, and a pair of 'sensible' oxfords, white, of course... And two of those cute little nurse's hats." She smiled at Robyn. "This isn't your present, just costumes for one of the recurring roles for which you'll be training. We'll call you 'Nurse Goodbody' until we think of something better." Frieda put her arm over Robyn's shoulders and began teasing the captive's nipples through her skintight top. "I have a lab coat I wear for some of my more... medically inclined clients, and you can serve as my assistant... delivering sponge baths, emptying bed pans, taking temperatures... that sort of thing." She gazed into Robyn's eyes. "You can even be the innocent nurse captured by the escaped inmates of the asylum. Won't that be fun?"

Frieda spun Robyn towards the bathroom door and led her away. "You can look at the rest of your haul after a nice hot shower." She untied Robyn's wrists, gave her a gentle shove into the tiled space beyond, and pulled the door closed.

Robyn stared at her gagged face in the mirror, kicked off her sneakers, peeled off her top, then her bottom. She noted the damp patch at the garment's tight-fitting crotch without a trace of embarrassment. Months earlier she would have been mortified by such evidence of her wanton arousal... but not now... not any more. She stared at her gag again. Gagged with my own hair, she mused. There was something... primitive about it... something that started her juices flowing all over again. She crossed her wrists behind her back, imagining herself bound and helpless... and forced a quiet, piteous whine past her braids and stuffing.

"I don't hear the shower!" Frieda shouted from beyond the closed door. "If you're late for lunch, you go hungry!" Then Robyn heard the bedroom door slam.

Robyn stared at her gag one last time, then fumbled with the knot behind her neck, unraveled the braids, pulled the wet, compacted bandana from her mouth, then attacked the knots holding the braids intact. Finally ready, she turned on the shower and stepped under the hot stream.



Robyn emerged from the bathroom several minutes later. The shower had been short (and blissful); but blow drying her hair had taken time. She sauntered to the bed, eager to examine her "surprise from the Dragon Lady," wondering not if, but how she would enjoy it. Was the surprise for her "Resident Slave" or her "Junior Dominatrix in Training" self?

Next to the box of nurse uniforms were two large cartons. A third, much smaller box was on her bedside table. It bore a post-it note in Joelle's hand that read "OPEN ME LAST." Robyn turned back to the smallest of the boxes on the bed, opened it... and gasped.

It was a pair of boots; knee-high riding boots with slightly elevated heels and narrow straps at the tops that closed on the side with bronze buckles. The remarkable things was their color: a deep, mottled green; and they were richly tooled, covered with stylized Celtic animals and complex knot patterns. "Beautiful," she sighed. They were smooth and gleaming and... "Beautiful."

Robyn opened the remaining box... and gasped again. It was a catsuit, the same dark green leather as the boots, and with the same intricate Celtic tooling. Robyn lifted it from its carton... and the scent of new, expensive leather passed over her in a wave. She held the garment close to her freckled body, and a shudder of pure pleasure coursed through her sex and up her spine. The suit was beyond beautiful—it was primal—a talisman of great power. Robyn opened the long zipper down the suit's front. All of the suit's metal hardware were the same dark bronze as the boot buckles.

Robyn sat on the bed, put her feet through the suit's legs, zipped the ankle gussets closed, then pulled the suit up her legs... wiggled her hips into the seat... then shrugged into the sleeves. She zipped the wrist gussets, then slowly pulled the main zipper up from her navel... between her breasts... and to her throat. As she buckled the collar that hid the zipper's pull, another shudder of pleasure tickled her sex and spine. The leather was tight and rough against her skin, and it fit her perfectly. Its cut and especially the pattern of the tooling accentuated her long muscles and svelte physique. The only thing left in the box was a pair of green kid gloves. She pulled them on, snapped their wrist closures, and ran her leather-clad hands over her leather-clad torso; then sat on the bed and pulled on the boots. They were as comfortable and perfectly sized as the gloves and suit.

This must have cost a fortune, Robyn mused as she walked back into the bathroom. She picked up her brush and began straightening her hair. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Life can be funny... as in hysterical... as in certifiably insane... Months before Robyn had been on the fast track of an international corporation, looking forward to either early burn-out or a corner office... and now she was a willing (albeit real) prisoner... Well, semi- willing... Robyn couldn't remember being this excited and alive—happy and frightened and safe, all at once—utterly powerless, and a member of an unbeatable team.

Robyn strolled back into the bedroom. Only one package was left. She walked to the night stand and opened the box. Inside was a card atop something wrapped in tissue paper. Robyn read the card. Once again, it was in Joelle's hand.






Robyn tossed the card on the bed and folded back the tissue. Nestled in the box she found two steel collars. Both had steel rings set in ball and socket mounts on their fronts and backs. Each closed with a pair of keys. Robyn recognized the model instantly, as she had worn similar collars on many occasions in the last six months. The collars also had engraved tags dangling from their front ring mounts. One read "Jet," and the other "Sapphire."

Robyn's eyes were welling, her chin trembling. Treasure beyond value! "Jet"—Joelle—with her exotic features, coffee skin, and strong, athletic body. "Sapphire"— Frieda —with raven hair, Snow White complexion, equally strong and athletic. Both as beautiful as angels. And one would be her slave; to do with as she saw fit; to give her pleasure in any form; Robyn's to punish and reward...

Robyn clenched her gloved right fist, and a delicious, erotic feeling of empowerment coursed through her catsuited body. She reached into the box—and made her choice.