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Chapter 5: Trials & Punishments
Sybil, the Knightsbridge Angel, ran a hand through her short black hair and looked over the scene of the crime.
It had been a shame that she'd left her blonde wig in Constance's flat last night. Lady Petunia had been such a wonderful lover that, even bound hand and foot, she'd given Sybil one hell of a ride. Part of it might have been the aerosoled elixir than had hung in the room's air, but Sybil also figured that Petunia, for all of her nobility, was quite the spirited trollop. Licking and tickling her withering Ladyship while Chief Officer Drummand hung in that MI claw of hers, being lowered nearly but not quite onto a whirling plug, had really gotten Sybil's juices flowing, juices she'd been all to happy to have Petunia lap up with her cunning little tongue. But all nice things end, and she'd flown away in the pre-dawn light, one tired little winged succubus. And in all the distraction, she'd forgotten her wig.
No matter. Constance had identified her anyway. It didn't matter if women knew the true face of their assailant or not. It all ended the same.
Like this one. A cute little shop owner from an establishment down the street from the lab, now bound to a chair, her legs pinned wide apart. She hung in her bonds, completely expended by the effects of the spray, Sybil's dancing wings, the pinching fingers. She'd twisted and convulsed so much during the assult that Sybil had worried that she'd break the chair to splinters. But no; after a half-dozen rousing climaxes the little doll had falling into a lifeless stupor.
Like the others, she had been part of Sybil's plan for revenge. Done out of the illustrious Pit expedition by the sultry Indian Rani, she'd decided to gain back all these sexual encounters she'd sacrificed in her dedication to Lady Petunia. Having been in communication with a Prussian Laboratory and knowing a set of experimental wings were going to be shipped, she'd begun looking into the local area for women she'd like to do repeatedly and without permission. She drew up a list and then, linking into the police station's difference engines through their shared calculating engine interface, she'd gained addresses. With these addresses, she'd culled the list of targets down to those who lived in top floor flats with wide windows for easy angelic access. And of course, Lady Goldwaith, illustrious, beautiful, spirited (as well as the center of her wrath) had been on the top of her list. How nice that she'd been able to rattle Petunia's box on two separate occasions.
Yes, a key part of her plan had been Lady Petunia's deflowerment (not like that particular field hadn't been mown before). The other part had been Rani, with her beautiful brown skin, exotic looks, and confident airs. How nice it had been to kidnap that dusky little know-it-all. The thought of what that little lass was going through back at her hideout gave Sybil a warm feeling all through her (of course, mostly through her pussy). So the girl thought she knew all about MIs, did she? Well, now she would really know. With years of work in Goldwaith Laboratories, Sybil had been the chief developer on the sexual MI instruction sets.
The sky to the east was turning royal purple; time to go. She crossed to where her little shop owner hung in weary abandonment, held upright by Sybil's cunning ropes. Sybil raised the girl's chin with her fingertips, placing a loving kiss on the thick cloth gag that muted her. Then she strode to the window, clipped her bag containing ropes and spray bottle to her flesh-tone harness. This done, she touched the discrete activation stud and hopped onto the windowsill. On her back, wide wings deployed, slowly flapping, driven by their small clockwork engine. With confidence borne from much practice, she allowed herself to lean forward, pushing off the sill with her toes. The wings bit into the still morning air. She pulled her shoulders back, just so, signaling the wings to beat harder. And with that, her sweaty, sex-stained form rose above the rooftops, lancing home to her lair.
There was nothing like this in the world, Sybil thought to herself as the cool wind of her passage dried the shared sweat of stolen sex from her body and cleared her head of elixir fumes. Rooftops swept beneath her slender form. In the narrow canyons of streets, deliverywomen and cabbies went about their nocturnal tasks, unaware of the passage of this angel of rapine. On occasional rooftops, women lay spread-eagled in ropes, sometimes staked between chimney pipes, once on a roof-top bed, clearly sacrifices to the winged creature that stalked the great city. Sybil could only smile to herself. Some of these sacrifices were likely willing ones, bound nice and vulnerable by friends. Others were sacrifices, desperate appeasements by apartment collectives to safeguard themselves at the expense of their offerings. She even saw occasional mannis bound to rooftop poles, roped so nice and tight, their balls strapped to keep their erections ready and waiting. Sybil was tempted by these offerings but could not stray. Dawn was coming quickly and more importantly, these wind-up wings of hers only had five minutes of flight time. Two minutes out, two minutes back, and a bit of theatrical flapping during the commission left her very little leeway. Besides, she was sated.
So fixed was she in her surveying of the sleeping city and the mortals who inhabited it that she quite failed to look up over her shoulder. It was a clear night, the full moon beaming like a locomotive's headlight. And hanging in this brilliance like a lone cloud was an airship, blacked out, watchful. One thing was for certain; white moonlit wings would be easy to spot against the dark urban landscape.
From the gondola, a signal lamp beat out a steady stream of data, nothing more than updated coordinates off the London A-to-Zed map.
Finally Sybil reached her lair, a small clock tower near the West Kensington tube stop. Located on a quiet little street, the lower floor converted to a bakery and with a basement flat for rent, it had been the perfect residence for Sybil, research assistant to her Ladyship. She'd rented it out under an assumed name two years back to begin her own, more private work. And it had worked splendidly as a lair for the Knightsbridge Angel. It had been easy to keep the baker occupied. But she'd nearly been undone when the woman's daughter had come snooping.
She returned her attention to her landing, lowering her legs which caused the wings to slow and fan out, bleeding her speed away. With practiced ease, she alighted on a narrow opening on the backside of the clock tower. The wings folded against her back and she stepped into the tower room.
The dank chamber was filled with the smell of musty wood and gear oil. Clock machinery echoed, a steady cadence of clicking cogs which drove the great hands on the outside face. Sybil found great comfort in the surrounding mechanism as it reminder her of the MIs which gave her so much joy.
Wearily, she unbuckled the flesh-tone straps, dropping the folded wings clear. How light she felt when the flying apparatus was off. Yawning, she padded over to a small mounting bracket on the wall, buckling the engine into place with the unit's own straps. This done, she pulled down a steam-tube with an attached autowinder. The winder-plug went into the key-slot of the wing's engine, and with a whistle of steam, the tip began to rotate, winding the wings back up. It would take hours before the repeater clocksprings were fully coiled, but that was all right. She'd be ready to take to the skies again by midnight.
There came the heavy clack of the minute passing through the machinery, echoed by a weary moan. Sybil turned to behold the strawberry-haired girl who hung inverted from the great clock gear, bound spread-eagle against the cold steel, ropes holding wrists and ankles, arms, legs and torso to the thick spokes. Even the thick cloth gag that silenced her also served to bind her head fast. Currently she was hanging head-down as she did this time every hour. She'd been stripped of her last scrap of clothing.
Sybil spared the young woman a cold smile. "I'll bet you wish you'd never come poking about here to see what happened to your mother. You should have stuck to your job as a milkmaid at Hemp-House."
Clearly the girl shared Sybil's sentiment, for Sybil had arranged for maximum discomfort. Long slender feathers, perhaps a hundred of them, had been attached to the surrounding braces and struts, held in place with twine and candle wax. These feathers pointed at the naked body like fingers of accusation, placed to excite the flesh that passed with every minute's stroke beneath their tips. Feathers touched the soles of her feet, her nipples, her belly, her cheeks. There would be no escape from the overwielming sensation that flooded the poor girl once every minute.
As Sybil watched in greedy fascination, the gearing shuddered through 1/60s of a rotation. A feather brushed across a weary nipple. Another slid from a thigh to settle against an endlessly-damp vagina. One brushed maddingly along an irritated forehead. Others raised similar torments. The poor girl moaned again, nearly out of her mind with the endless and total stimulation. It had been going on for two solid days.
Chuckling to herself, the vengeful ex-assistant settled a robe over her shoulders and padded down the stairs. She was looking forward to her bed; how nice it was to sleep, knowing that every minute brought that peaches-and-cream goody-two-shoes another pulse of overstimultion.
At the bottom of the stairs, she entered the front room of the bakery. Behind the orderly counter sat bread hard as bricks and mold-ravaged pastries. No matter; a sign Sybil had found and deployed in the window declared the bakery closed for vacation. With the notice and drawn curtains, nobody would come. It was just her, the baker, her daughter, and dear, sweet Rani.
She passed into the back room which was normally filled with sunshine and the smell of dough rising but was now a dark and sinister chamber of suffering. The baker, a middle-aged women, a slightly heavier version of her strawberry-complexioned daughter, lay face down in the center of her butcher block table. Like her daughter, she was naked, and like her daughter, she was host to Sybil's cruel amusements. But whereas her daughters torment had been quick and cobbled together, the baker's was quite refined.
The back room of the bakery had been a miracle of labor-saving MI devices. Overhead tracks allowed mechanical hands to perform many of the more tedious tasks. As if to provide a semblance of the human touch, the MI hands all wore merry white gloves. Sybil had first seen these machines when she'd taken the lease on the downstairs room and her eyes had flashed at the possibilities. Discreetly, she'd studied the punch cards driving them and carefully wrote up her own instruction set. When the time had come to take control, it had been a simple matter of replacing the instruction deck.
And so now the baker lay face down on her flour-covered table, her arms pinned wrist-to-elbow behind her back by tireless white-gloved hands. Another set of hands tucked her ankles into her buttocks, turning the weary women into a ball of flesh. All around her, other hands hung waiting for activation. The nipple-pincher fingers (usually employed to place cherries on cupcakes). The paddle machines (once used to beat bread, now tasked to redden the baker's cheeks). The ticklers (high-speed revolving disks that had recently been used to stir batter, and now sported feathers). And the dreaded battering-ram (a large dildo mounted on an eggbeater arm). Days passed for the weary baker; at random times she would be lifted into the air to be toyed, teased, or tormented as the punch cards dictated. The poor women could hardly muster a logical thought, given the many days she'd so far endured.
Noticing Sybil, she grunted into the gloved hand clamped over her mouth. Looking straight at her captor, she thrust her buttocks up as best she could, as clear an invitation for Sybil to do whatever she wished. The Knightsbridge Angel could only smile. Like a little duckling that patterns whatever living thing it first sees as its mother, the baker was now Sybil's ultimate sex slave, willing to do whatever her mistress might demand.
The possibilities both amused and aroused her. The thought of sitting back and spreading her legs, allowing her mechanical servants to ease the eager woman into position to tongue her puss, held a certain attractiveness. She actually had the small sub-program already written. But frankly, she had not recovered her her last go with Petunia the night before. Even roped and helpless, the vivacious woman had drawn out Sybil's passions like a magnet. During their perverted interplay, the roles of dominant and submissive had become confused. At times Sybil found herself close to shrieking as a slight shift or small nibble of Petunia's had captivated her. The wingstraps had seemed so tight, and her Ladyship's body so heated, that Sybil had been quite surprised at the end of it all that she was not the one who had been tied down.
The memories heated her passions. For her own amusement, she flipped open the card reader and advanced the pointer to the next torment section. As the machines spooled up, she pulled up a chair and watched. The baker, sensing what was happening, shook her head in desperate negation; she wanted Sybil's physical warmth and sexual comfort, not this endless lustful hell. A moment later, arms bore her up, still locked in her hogtie, and pivoted her in space so that she was kneeling before Sybil in a shaft of sunlight like a performer in some degrading cabaret.
The pinchers swung down, pausing long enough for the baker to see them through the confused fall of strawberry hair. They gently moved towards her heavy breasts, alighing on the excited nipples, tenderly kneading and working them. Tears runneled through the flour dusting the woman's cheeks, tears of shamed excitement. The gloved handgag retarded her comments to little save a complacent moan.
Then the eyes flashed open, eyelashes casting tears into space. Locked as she had been, she'd not seen the advance of the buttplug from behind. But Sybil had seen it, and had watched with lazy interest as it had swung into position. At the last second, two gloved hands slipped in to spread the baker's cheeks and make way for the intrusion. The woman grunted and moaned at the trespass but locked down as she was, her only option was to suffer.
Sybil watched the mechanical sodomy, a cool smile crossing her face. How enjoyable this life was. It bothered her how close it had come to ending during her third assault. Even with all her planning, even with the baker within her commandeered MIs and Knightsbridge Angel's most recent victim still swooning in her bonds, she'd almost been undone by the baker's snooping daughter. Sybil had returned in the dawnlight to find that her web had captured a second fly. For the daughter, having gained access to the shop and discovering her mother's plight, had rushed in to help. The MI's, having found a second match for their programming, had grabbed her up too. Only when it became time to perform their torments did the machines deadlock; two targets and only one dildo.
She'd kept the daughter bound while she'd come up with something suitable for her, namely her gearwheel of horror in the clock tower. Oh, it had taken a bit of time to get all the feathers in place, but it had been worth it. Sybil loved to watch the girl's slow revolution (with all the grimaces and panting) while strapping on her wings. It really put her in the mood for the night's sport.
Sybil was brought back to the present when the baker shuddered through a messy orgasm and passed out, overcome by the sensations. As programmed, the hands lowered her to the table and spread her out in a comfortable spread-eagle, gently massaging her, allowing her to regain her strength. Sybil shook her head; so much for the show. Still, given Rani's predicament, this was only a warm-up act.
She opened a door and dropped down another flight of stairs which carried her below street level. The first room was a small storeroom, filled with barrels and boxes for the bakery above. She plucked up an oil lantern from its hook, lit it, and crossed to a door on the far side of the room. This she opened, stepping into paradise.
The room of her bedroom/workshop was wide and high, built back in the age of mannis. Now every beam sported a development-model MI claw, most of them completed. By day, Sybil would work in Goldwaith Laboratory and absorb their advancements. By night, she would prototype them in the secrecy of her own room.
In the center of all these attachments, exciters, and pleasure shafts stood a large upright frame. Buckled to this was Rani, her dark Indian skin nearly merging with the gloom. She could not move an inch; Sybil's straps pinned down every tawny limb with a soft and secure embrace. Three wide belts embraced her taunt belly. Thumbs and big toes had small straps assigned to them. Even her midnight hair was carefully collected into a thick hawser and pulled back through securing straps.
Her gag was more a harness, a cruel collection of belts that encompassed her cute round head and left no room for slippage. Into the front-plate ran a hose, through which dripped nutrient-laden water liberally laced with the Goldwaith elixir. A collection of tubes climbed up the framework like perverted snakes, coiling their way into the cleft between her trim buttocks. Not only could these be used to extract waste, but cunning pumps and valves allowed them to double as pressurized enema hoses.
And there was the thick leather blindfold that topped the gag-harness. Sybil had hated to seat it; she loved the mixture of fear and anger that flashed through the Indian girl's deep dark eyes. But she knew that sightlessness magnified the effects of conditioning. It would take much longer to make Rani her private little sexual plaything without the blindfold, so on it had went. Sybil had tenderly kissed her cute button nose before slipping the thick leather band into place.
And lastly, over the blindfold was cupped ear-phones. These were wired to a rack of recording cylinders which filled the captive's ears with all manner of erotic sounds. Sultry women read sinful pornography. Recordings of women in the throes of lust. Even recently recorded sounds of Sybil explaining, in breathless excitement, the sight of Rani's body as it underwent its torments. In the background of these, the trussed up girl could hear her own moans echoing to her out of her own recent and orgasm-sodden past.
Sybil looked up at the helpless prisoner who was now totally under the influence of Goldwaith's formula, her nipples hard, her skin flushed and goosebumped, her pussy glimmering wetly. While she watched, a mechanical arm reached over and dabbed up firmly, absorbing away the orgasium the captive had produced, always a major fire hazard. As the dabbing wad touched the sensitive flesh, the strapped girl moaned into her gag, rising up in her straps, trying to pull away from the brush of rough cloth.
Sybil found her eyes misting; how could this be? Her plans had been quite orderly; kidnap Rani, conquer the usurper with her superior MI knowledge-oh, the delicious irony. Then, if she were able to make Rani her slave, she would release the girl and send her on her own to the cottage she'd already purchased in the country. Meanwhile, she'd fly the distance overnight, easily able to bypass any roadblocks and checkpoints.
Rani was to have been her helpless sex-slave, the perfect revenge. But as every hour passed, Sybil was finding herself falling deeper in love with the tiny brown scientist. She was finding herself longing to service her own slave, to comfort her enemy! How could this be? But there it was.
Sighing in resignation, she placed a foot on the rack's cross-brace and pulled herself up alongside the strapped and spread girl, looping her arms around the Indian's warm, slender body. Rani grew stiff, confused by the warmth and the caresses, dimly aware that this was not the work of the inhuman machines. Sybil nuzzled the smooth, strapped cheek, marveling in its silkiness, while her finger rippled around an eager brown nipple. Rani shuddered, bringing a smile to Sybil's cruel face. With a whine, the pussy-dabber moved back in to perform its task.
There rose a general clatter of cogs and hum of belts; the difference engines had decided that it was time to torment their subject again. Reluctantly Sybil stepped clear, backing to her cot and settling wearily on it while the various arms swung menacingly around the wide-open girl. She watched as the girl's nipples were gnawed by careful clips, while feathers stroked and icy rods traced. She felt jealousy rise as a pulsing dildo was jammed home, making the slender submissive shudder in her belting, the leather creaking under her desperate struggles.
And perhaps, for the first time, she wondered if the tireless and dedicated MIs were such a good thing. Of course they could reduce Rani into a passion slave in short order. But wouldn't it have been grander had Sybil done it herself? For to tormented the little Indian beyond all sanity, she herself would have to invest countless hours and passionate energy into Rani's reduction. It was something the MIs lacked.
Craftsmanship.
Or Craftwomanship. Sybil wasn't sure it such a term was correct. But a growing realization was forming within her that she should remove Rani from the frame, bundle her up nice and tight into an old carpet, and somehow spirit her to her remote cottage. There, they could realize their roles properly as mistress and slave without all this clockwork nonsense.
But she would never get that chance.
"So here you are," Constance said from where she leaned in the doorway. "Nice place you have here." Her green eyes flickered to where Rani trembled in her frame. "Love what you've done with it."
Sybil drew herself to her feet, her robe falling open to reveal her trim body and discrete breasts, her short hair crazed. "Officer Drummand," she said. "I figured it would be you that would find us. The rest of the London Metropolitan Police Force couldn't find their own breasts with both hands. But you were on top of this case. So, how did you find us?"
"Dark night," Drummand told her, easily drawing a rope from her side-satchel, looping it by feel into a police snag-noose. "Full moon. Your wings stand out like a big white "X" against the buildings. Furthermore, I had that Prussian lab cable us all the details concerning the range and capabilities of that unit. Five minutes, out and back, becomes two minutes and change flight time. At sixty miles per hour, that's only a range of 2.5 miles. Not really a big haystack to find a needle in. Add to the fact that Captain Zana Hoffsteder had a grudge against you for that corruption charge and was more than happy to provide aerial reconnaissance over the Knightsbridge area and it was only a matter of time."
Sybil looked at the rope coil in Constance's hands, ropes meant for her. "I see. Well done, Inspector. So where is the rest of your squad?"
"I came on steam-cycle. There was a truck stalled in the middle of the road and that delayed them. But I won't need them to handle you." She took an almost-sauntering step into the room, eyes flashing, rope twirling lighting in her hand. "You won't have my MI to take me out this time."
"No," replied Sybil, holding her ground. "I'll have mine."
Clearly Constance had crossed a boundary, triggering the idling engines. Red sensors blinked on, studying her. Claws swung around, ratcheting open. Rope dispensers began spooling madly. The door behind her closed, clicking shut.
"As I said, I knew that if anyone found me, it would be you. So I made sure my MI would be ready to rope you right up should you come down here. Once you're bound and the machines have settled into your every orifice, I'll unstrap my beauty and be off. You'll never catch me this time."
The fearsome shadows of the grippers fell over Constance. Dexterous mechanical hands zipped ropes from their spoolers, forming cat's cradles of webbing, ready to slip around the police officer's helpless body, to bear her to the ground, and to perform its malicious programming tasks upon her.
"I wouldn't be so sure," Constance shot back, a hand dropping into her satchel as the arms swung in. A second before the clamps clicked home and the ropes lashed around her, she brought her hand back up to her head. The machines halted, their grips hanging open like jaws in surprise. Then, as obediently as puppies, they spooled back into their dark recesses.
"Don't I look better as a blonde," Constance asked, adorned with Sybil's old wig.
Sybil gaped in surprise, realizing that by wearing her wig, Constance had altered herself enough so the MI would not track her. And suddenly their roles were reversed, for Constance was as dominant over her as her machines would have been over Constance.
Sybil struggled, of course. She tried to bite and scratch and all that desperate-girlie stuff, but it was really only because it was expected of her. The police officer handled her as if she were an unruly child, flipping her onto her stomach and lacing her hands nice and tight, palm to palm.
Sybil bore it reluctantly. She rolled a bit, but this was more to feel the bite of Constance's cords than to find any hidden slack. As her elbows were drawn together, forcing her modest breasts against the cold floor, she looked upwards to where Rani hung in the frame, her chin up, her face strapped, gagged, blindfolded, and ear-muffed. Her brown breasts were thrust forward, her toes arched, her thighs taunt. She looked like a true angel looking up to heaven. So intense was the image that Sybil felt a little orgasm roll through her. Constance, noticing the trembling of her prisoner, smiled to herself before roping her adversary's ankles. The case was closed.
=< O >=
The trial was over. Sybil hung by her heels, naked and strapped in the police holding area, her gentle rocking bringing her into brushing contact with the women suspended around her. They were like a bunch of pink bananas, waiting to be plucked.
She had no idea what would happen to her next. Her fate had been written on her toe-tag, and no amount of straining and eye-ball rolling would permit her to read it.
She tried not to think of how her head pounded under the inversion, nor how tight the straps were holding her arms boxed behind her. Her entire world was nothing but discomfort. To distract herself, she let her mind wander back to the recent trial.
The Judge-Mistresses had looked so stern, a trio of black crows glowering down from their bench, idling looking over Sybil's naked, inverted body. Behind her, the packed gallery was a sea of curious femininity filled with collective sighs and whispered longings. Most of those watching had wished that Sybil had paid them a visit. The remainder was in it for the public humiliation angle.
Constance had testified first. With dull eye, Sybil had watched the officer recite the events of both their encounters. Sybil looked into the sharp features of her adversary, catching her eyes when they flickered her way. "You did this to me," she silently told the red-headed police woman. "When you corded my wrists behind me, you knew I would be publicly hung on display. You knew I would be punished. It is as if you are doing these things to me yourself." Within her full leather gag, Sybil smiled wearily. "You know, and you did it anyway."
By the time Constance descended the stand, she looked quite uncomfortable. Flushed, even. The thought that her adversary now realized the erotic link that joined them caused Sybil's nipples to swell. The spectators in the front row noticed this reaction and commented between themselves with sharp little whispers.
Lady Petunia Goldwaith was next. She sat in the witness chair like a little girl, her knees touching, her boots pigeon-toed beneath her long dress. In a sweet little voice, she described, at length, the many things the Knightsbridge Angel had done to her. Sybil found the recounting quite sexually stirring; to hear her own sultry actions described aloud before hundreds of agitated women, all of them staring at her as she hung naked in her judicial straps, caused her pussy to steam like an old exhaust stack. She wondered if it would be possible to cum right there, shuddering and quivering and rocking, her face red, her eyes sparkling, while the gallery went mad and the Judge-Mistresses pounded their gavels. It was a legacy she would have liked, but the discomfort of inversion and the inability to directly manipulate herself prevented this satisfying conclusion; she could only hang and percolate, unable to ignite. Pity.
Then came the baker and her daughter. To the prosecutor's annoyance, the two told the assembly that they had been willing victims of Sybil, that they'd never seen her as the Knightsbridge angel, and they could not believe such baseless rumors. This confused Sybil, and she thought maybe she'd sexually broken them. But then she noticed the dark rings beneath their eyes and realized that the two still had possession of the altered bakery-machine programs. They'd been taking turns at it, round the clock, since the rescue. Clearly they were repaying sexual utopia with favorable testimony. Sybil found the gesture sweet.
Then her heart skipped a beat. Rani settled into the chair.
She was garbed in her usual shimmering sari, long and gold, bisected with a sash as blue as a virgin's sorrow. Her little sandaled feet peeped from the hemline and in her lap, hands which Sybil had so roughly belted fast were demurely crossed. Suddenly, Sybil grew conscious of her own nudity, of the straps binding her wrists, arms and ankles. Her cheeks flushed under the embarrassment of the gag. She felt her nipples harden, which only added to her shame. She was now to Rani as Rani had been to her, naked, helpless, and open. And Rani studied her, her dark eyes masking whatever fantasies the strong young woman might devise.
Sybil felt her excitement grow and peak but once again, she couldn't quite bring herself to cum. It was more frustrating than the Goldwaith elixir.
"I was blindfolded the entire time," Rani said simply. "I cannot say that it was Ms. Sybil who tormented me."
The prosecutor, a prematurely gray-headed woman whose eyes flashed behind tiny spectacles, waved the police paperwork. "But you claimed it was Sybil who abducted you!"
"She did," came the demure reply, "But I thought it was another school prank. It is impossible for me to know who placed me on the rack, nor who activated all those devices against my most private parts."
The audience groaned, clearly eager for the level of details Petunia had provided, wanting to know exactly how the little Indian had been stripped, then strapped, then subjugated. But Rani wouldn't say. She'd been blind to it all.
But Sybil knew. Within her memories, Rani shuddered on her rack as the devices moved about her, probing her flesh, forcing her body into react against the counterbalancing elixir. Sybil could see pinchers working the hard brown nipples, feathers pattering against the trim belly, and the thrust of the sticky dildo as it was forced, again and again, into that tidy little twat. And through it all, that beautiful little face, clasped between gag, blindfold, harness-straps and ear-phones, had beamed in angry defiance (or determined acceptance) of everything the constructs could offer. The trim little body had shuddered in its frame, never hanging, never defeated, ready for the next unthinkable molestation.
And yet, for all she'd done, Rani had spared her. The baker and her daughter she could understand; they were simple people who now had a toy with which to occupy themselves with. But Rani was as hard and complex as a diamond. She could have dropped the axe on Sybil. Why hadn't she?
Sybil studied her desperately, wishing she had a voice with which to cry out her desperate questions. She grunted, eyes flashing, yet quite unable to gain Rani's attention. Finally the Indian lass stood and left the court room, as demurely as a fawn. Sybil's heart followed her out.
She watched the door, desperate to catch a glimpse of the dusky enigma, but it was not to be. The Judge-Mistresses decided, and then the bailiff was on a stool at Sybil's side, cording the toe-tag home. Warm hands touched her buttocks and a moment later, she was rolled from the room followed by the buzz of titillated womanhood.
And so here she was, hanging in a group with touchers, teasers, and scapegoats, wondering what would happen. Time passed with the little ringletted blonde officer working her paperwork at her desk. Other women were rolled off and from the interrogation rooms came sounds of distress, laughter, or worse, eerie silence. She felt herself settle into her straps, achiving an equilibriam of discomefort. She didn't move and hardly breathed.
If only Rani was here, to nibble on her nipples while she hung so helplessly. How gladly she would have surrendered herself to the Indian's revenges. She would have pledged a lifetime of servatude to her one-time captive. How ironic to see that now, after everything that had happened.
A policewoman handed the blonde a paper; she studied it then looked directly at Sybil. Then she crossed over, her legs swishing in her tight leather skirt. Sybil found herself studying the girl's shapely knees as her toe tag was examined. Warm hands settled on her buttocks and she was rolled out of line, heading for her punishment.
Would it be paddling? Perhaps long-term tickling? Or maybe assignment to one of those work farms in the country, the ones where they used women like beasts. Likely something long term, difficult, yet sexually interesting.
Her eyes widdened and she grutned into her gag as the tracks she was on bore her to the corner of the room. Then she saw it-the circular hole in the floor! The Pit! She'd been consigned to the Pit!
The ringletted blonde knelt down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Sorry, sweetheart, but that's what the silly old judges ruled. In you go."
Sybil wrenched herself back and forth, achieving nothing but a sickening swing. Certainly she'd wanted to explore the Pit, but has head of an expedition, not as a prisoner! She yelled into her gag, demanding a re-trial, clemency, justice. But the blonde just smiled down and touched a switch. A winch whined and Sybil found herself dropping slowly into the darkness. She descended a good twenty feet before the line stopped. She rocked slowly in the blackness, her nipples hard from excitement, her breath coming quickly.
Something touched her, something cold and hard which trailed across her buttocks. She squealed, frustrated by the gag.
Then, mechanical hands as soft and limber as monkey paws closed on her arms and legs. There came a rattle from above as the hook disconnected, her last link to the world above. She was then passed, hand by hand, down a long dark tunnel. Her wide eyes perceived a sickly blue glow reflecting around the corner. A murmur of a hundred voices echoed in dreamlike fashion.
She was carried around the corner and through the opening. She had time for a last muffled cry, perhaps of fear, shock, delight, or discovery. And then the Angel of Knightsbridge was no more.
The end
Special thanks (and a gold star) to Feline, who puts the teary-eyes into my victims and the swell into their breasts, as well as to help me spell it all correctly. And also thanks to Night-Miner, for sparking the idea how thin little Sybil could overcome her victims. And I was going to use some sort of silly mechanical rope-gun. Where was the sultriness in that?
28.06.09