Private Investigator Kitty Winter

Kitty Winter threaded the last of the rope through an eye bolt, cinched the slack, and tied off. She then brought the ends of the remaining braided nylon together and secured them with a simple overhand knot—for neatness. She raised her arms, arched her back, and took a deep, full-body stretch that cracked her spine—"Ah!"—then walked to the mini-bar across the room, ducking under the ropes. She poured herself a finger of Jameson, a splash of water, took a sip, turned, and smiled. "This looks rather promising," she murmured, facing her handiwork. The object of said handiwork hung suspended in a net of dozens of taut ropes that fanned out from various tie-off points around the room. To be frank, the arrangement was more akin to a cat's cradle than a net, and an asymmetrical one at that. Lightweight pulleys were located at key points in the matrix. Some were single-wheel, serving as frictionless pass-throughs, others were double-wheel, strung in series as force multipliers. In addition, a series of cylindrical cast-iron curtain weights hung at several strategic locations in the net. These served as counterweights, and a very complex interplay of forces existed between the ropes, the pulleys, and the curtain weights. They acted in concert or opposition depending on the precise position of the object's splayed limbs. The object was Bertie Finch, Kitty's assistant of three years, and she was naked. Kitty preferred her subjects unclothed, both for aesthetic reasons and to establish a clear power dynamic. It was difficult for a bottom to pretend they still retained any significant control after being ordered to disrobe. In Bertie's case, of course, the initial will-to-will contest had long since passed, and questions of role and boundaries between Kitty and Bertie were moot. That left only the aesthetics. Both Kitty and Bertie exercised regularly. For Kitty, this meant daily workouts on the treadmill and/or stationary bike, plus swimming, Pilates, yoga, and mixed martial arts. Bertie's routine was similar, but lighter on the martial arts and heavier on the treadmill and stationary bike. (Kitty had welded anchor points into the gym equipment elsewhere in the apartment/office, perfect for locking Bertie's ankle and wrist restraints to the frame or handlebars so she couldn't slack off.) The result was what anyone who appreciated the female form could only describe as "spectacular." In clinical terms... Kitty Winter: 5'5", 32C-24-34, 128 lbs, brown hair (shoulder-length), brown eyes, "Mediterranean" complexion (Fitzpatrick Type IV), elegant, feline, dangerous, sexy! Kitty's wardrobe favored dark tones and made far more use of leather than the average urbanite. All of it was in excellent taste, and though she was often seen in boots, leggings, and a leather jacket, her image only suggested "biker chick" when she intended it to. As a private investigator, her cases did sometimes take her into the shadier parts of town. At the moment, however, her attire was limited to a wisp of a bra and an even wispier thong, both of feather-light black lace. Bertie Finch: 5'4", 34B-23-31, 121 lbs, blonde hair (short), blue eyes, "Nordic" complexion (Fitzpatrick Type II), prone to freckles, charming, wholesome, cute as a bug's ear, sexy! Bertie—her full name was Philberta—was born and raised in London. She favored sneakers, jeans, and brightly colored halter tops that matched her equally sunny disposition. At the moment, however, she was not particularly sunny. Furthermore, as stated, she was naked. Bertie hung in a semi-recumbent pose. Her legs were spread, her left knee bent, her right leg fully extended with her toes pointed. Her left arm was raised almost straight up, her right arm angled out from her body, elbow slightly bent. A complex web of rope secured her torso and limbs, tied at her wrists, ankles, and just above and below her knees and elbows. In addition to the ropes, a complementary network of fine cord connected her big toes, thumbs, [X] (secured with a tri-leaf clamp), and the central steel ring of her two-inch spherical gag. This cord net was as asymmetrical as the rope net, and the two were joined at multiple points. Kitty took another sip of whiskey, then set the glass on the bar. "So, Bertie... how are you finding things?" Bertie focused on her smiling boss (and lover), but did not answer. The ball gag in her mouth rendered the question rhetorical, and she was focused on the effort of remaining perfectly still. Just then, a pleasant bell chimed. "Damn," Kitty grumbled. She took a black silk robe from a hook, slipped it on, and tied the sash. It was, in fact, a happi coat. The hem stopped mid-thigh. "Hold that thought," she grumbled, walking past the "game room" toward the office door. "I'll see who it is and what they want." As the office/game room door closed, Bertie sighed through her gag, expressing her opinion of the situation. "Gurgle." The gag translated into English (heavy with sarcasm): "Just great." On her way to the front door, Kitty stopped at her desk. She opened a drawer, retrieved her favorite Glock, checked the magazine, and slid the weapon into the waistband of her thong at the small of her back, concealed by the robe.

Kitty’s working hypothesis was that Dr. B was a professional Bondage Mistress—not a Mistress who specialized in bondage, but a Mistress who was, as you might call her, a binding killer. She was hired to bind, gag, and humiliate targets chosen by her clients. This was all conjecture, of course, Kitty didn’t have much to go on, but it made sense. She would compare notes with Bertie later—when comparing notes was more feasible—but Kitty’s impression was that Helena didn’t know her kidnappers. The gagged “Mmph mmmph mmmph mmmph!” could translate to “How dare you, a complete stranger!” or “How dare you, someone I know well!” but Kitty had learned to trust her gut. Kitty was sure Helena didn’t know Dr. B or Suzie. Also, whoever Dr. B’s hypothetical clients were, they were rich. Dr. B and Suzie produced some top-of-the-line, gleaming black leather bondage gear from their bags, all hand-stitched, beautifully made, and fitted with stainless steel buckles, lots and lots of stainless steel buckles. It took longer to lay out the handcuffs, straps, and harnesses than it took Suzie to bind the two of them on the sofa. Kitty glanced at Bertie. Her partner seemed equally impressed. The Doctor began to “dress” Helena in leather restraints, with Suzie as her assistant. The smiling Goth girl handed the Doctor leather gear and, as needed, lifted Helena’s limbs or turned her limp body, like a surgical nurse in a bondage operation. Clearly, the blonde villainess and her Goth attendant were a well-drilled team. Helena’s fingers and hands disappeared into tight-fitting restraint gloves, then cuffs like bracers encased her wrists and forearms, secured with four buckles each. A harness of thick straps, with many hanging D-rings, went over Helena’s shoulders, snugged against her torso, circled her breasts, passed through her crotch, and buckled at her upper thighs. Wide cuffs, three buckles each, encased her ankles and contained narrow straps that buckled across the tops of her feet and continued down to secure her big toes. Finally, wide cuffs, two buckles each, encased her upper arms and her upper thighs, just above the knees. Next came a posture collar. It wasn’t the most restrictive design Kitty had ever seen (or worn), but she could tell that it would indisputably limit Helena’s range of motion in her neck and head when Helena was again able to attempt such things. Once the collar was tightly buckled, Dr. B leaned in, ripped the tape from Helena’s mouth, and pulled a pair of white panties from her mouth, thus solving the mystery of the panty-less lawyer. Kitty surmised that either Helena had been forced to remove them herself and stuff them in her mouth, or someone had done it for her. Either way, Kitty thought, it had happened before I got here. Maybe Bertie would know. Tape and panties were tossed aside, and a head harness was put on. It encased the lawyer’s skull with straps that ran across her forehead, the sides of her nose, under her chin, and over the crown of her head. It contained a large rubber gag to fill her mouth and a mask-like pad with nose cutouts that cradled her chin and covered the lower half of her face. Dr. B inserted the gag into Helena’s mouth and buckled the various straps. Suzie tidied Helena’s hair as needed for even distribution. Next came padlocks, lots and lots of padlocks, one for every buckle. They were solid brass Master Locks, mostly small three-quarter-inch 120Ds. Kitty knew how to pick the entire line. It would take a set of lock picks or a few lengths of stiff wire, of course—and not be bound in a mile of hemp rope—but she knew how to defeat the mechanism. Click after click sounded until Helena’s restraints were locked from head to toe. More evidence that Dr. B’s personal motto was “What’s worth doing is worth overdoing,” Kitty thought, seething silently. Oddly, none of Helena’s restraints were interconnected. If she suddenly regained control of her muscles, she could do almost anything, including walk away gently on the “shoes” bound to her feet, despite the padlocks hanging from them. She was gagged, her neck was almost immobile, but otherwise she was “free.” “Go prepare Miss Garrett’s transport,” Dr. B commanded. Suzie left the apartment. The Doctor picked up her skirt and put on her heels, then turned and smiled at Kitty and Suzie. “I’m afraid you two will have to wait a bit. But I promise you… Suzie and I will be back.” Her smile widened. “Then you’ll have our undivided attention.” Kitty and Bertie exchanged another look. This was not a good omen, Kitty thought. About a minute later, Suzie returned, pushing a large hard-shell suitcase with fold-out handles. She wheeled it next to Helena, popped the latches, and flipped open the lid. Then, with Dr. B’s help, she lifted Helena into the case, arranged her limp body in a fetal position, folded her arms and legs, and tucked her head in. Two straps were cinched tightly around her body, the lid was closed and locked, and they were almost ready to go. “Help me with my zipper,” Dr. B said, turning her back to her subordinates. Suzie winked at the watching detectives, then zipped up Dr. B’s skirt. Kitty and Bertie continued to watch as the kidnappers wheeled their client down the hall. Suzie blew them a kiss, and the apartment door slammed shut, leaving them alone. The naked, bound, and gagged duo writhed in their inescapable restraints, twisting their captive bodies, trying to kick with their bound legs. They knew their efforts were futile, but they were still trying earnestly to escape. It was due diligence, the fulfillment of their professional duty. They might have failed Helena so far, but they had to try to correct things, however slim the chances of success.

In the city, it was not uncommon for luxury apartments or townhouses to have "safe rooms," fortresses for tenants to retreat to in the event of a home invasion. They had heavy doors, locked from the inside, designed to resist all attempts at forced entry until the police arrived. Consequently, a self-powered, secure communication system for alarming and summoning the police was also part of the package. The doors to the safe rooms were easily identified by the detectives. It was disguised as a cedar panel, opening via a raised lever. Kitty grasped the lever and pulled, and the heavy, counterbalanced door swung inward on a set of substantial hinges. The room behind the door was small, perhaps ten by fifteen feet, and it contained a person. They had found Helena Garrett! The decor of safe rooms was usually spartan, and this one was no exception; however, the furniture that was present within the room was unique. Helena’s leather attire was intact: body restraints, gloves that encased her fingers and hands, wrist/forearm cuffs, upper arm cuffs, thigh cuffs, combined ankle, foot, and big toe cuffs, a posture collar, and a head restraint with a gag. All were present, each buckle still secured with a padlock. She was in a standing, spread-eagled pose—correction—a floating, spread-eagled pose. A web of steel chains bound and supported her helpless body. At one end, each chain was locked with a padlock to a bolt embedded in the concrete ceiling, wall, or floor, and at the other end, it was locked to a D-ring on some part of her leather attire. All chains were taut, allowing her little room to maneuver, barely enough to make the padlocks clink. Even her head was tightly restrained. A padded leather saddle on a vertical steel post mounted to the floor provided additional support. In fact, the saddle provided more than just support. Kitty and Bertie recognized the device as a “Sybian.” Crudely put, it was a vibrator, and in this case, a mechanical dildo machine. A pink rubber pad with short bristles was pressed tightly against her slightly flattened labia. The detectives could hear the hum of the pad’s vibration, and a small engine clamped to the saddle’s post cycled a rubber dildo up and down through an opening in the saddle, in and out of her vagina. Helena’s nipples were encased in small, clear glass cylinders connected to vinyl tubing that pulsed rhythmically with the agitation of a piston, pumping air into and out of the cylinders, stretching her nipples with each cycle. Finally, discs with connecting wires were affixed to Helena’s bare skin, their positions carefully chosen: a pair on each side of her nipples, a pair on her upper thighs, a pair on each of her biceps, a pair on each of her calves, and a pair on the soles of each of her feet, on either side of the ankle-toe restraints. Numerous wires extended to a rack of electronic components lining the wall, and among the blinking LEDs and cable connections were several miniature cameras mounted on adjustable brackets. Facing Helena, a large flat-panel video monitor was mounted on the wall. Its screen was divided into several windows, some displaying different close-ups or overall views of her helpless body parts, others showing other rooms in the apartment. Helena strained against her chains and moaned through her gag. Tears streamed from her blue eyes, and her skin was slick with sweat. Clearly, she had undergone quite an ordeal and was overjoyed to see her rescuers. Kitty and Bertie rushed into the room. Kitty made sure the door was propped open, then concentrated on unplugging cables, including the power cord to the sex-dildo engine. Meanwhile, Bertie had already deployed her lock-picking tools and was attacking the padlocks securing Helena. “No slack,” Bertie commented as she picked one padlock after another. “But no extra links in the chains.” “A meticulously planned result,” Kitty grumbled. She was staring at a row of components. “This thing has a removable hard drive,” she observed. “Pull it before it self-erases,” Bertie advised. “I suspect someone was watching. They might try to cover their tracks.” “Already done,” Kitty announced, dropping the cassette-sized flash module into her pocket. She then produced her tool bag and began assisting her partner in the still-arduous task of freeing their client. Helena continued to weep, but they were clearly tears of joy.

Bertie had put away all of Kitty’s “guilty evidence” in this room. The eye pads and eye bolts installed in the walls and ceiling were still there, of course, but Bertie had put away all the removable clips, clamps, pulleys, and rings Kitty had used to work her rigging magic, not to mention all the rope, cord, leather straps, and cuffs, gags, harnesses, and so on. These were in the closed cabinets along the wall. The blinds on the window wall were drawn, the punching bag hung forlornly from a chain in one corner, the ladder platform was rolled up in the opposite corner, and the wooden practice chair leaned innocently against the wall between two cabinets. Nicky tiptoed to the center of the open space and stood on the oversized exercise mat Bertie had spread to cover most of the hardwood floor. “So… you’re going to demonstrate for me how Dr. B tied Kitty.” Bertie nodded, then walked to a cabinet, opened it, and selected three coils of treated hemp rope. *** Half an hour later, rope slid and tightened across Nicky’s firm, healthily tanned athletic body… “To review,” Bertie explained, “this is called Hojo-jutsu.” She traced with a finger the cord that held Nicky’s upper arms to her sides, the rope passing over her breasts, crisscrossing to bind her shoulders, and securing her crossed wrists behind her spine, just below the shoulder blades. “This is the sadist’s version,” Nicky murmured, “wrists raised above horizontal.” She knelt on her legs, which were folded and spread, Bertie beside her. “This is what Dr. B used on Kitty,” Bertie said, a little defensively, “and you told me to.” “Indeed,” Nicky agreed, smiling up at her captor. “We want to get this right.” “Right,” Bertie agreed. Her fingers traced the rope that bound Nicky’s thighs to her calves. “This is called the frog tie.” “All the different forms of…” Nicky focused her smile on her captor. “What do you call it? Rope bondage?” Bertie nodded. “Of course, there are Japanese terms for all of these, but I’m more interested in the technique than the language. Kitty is, too.” “I thought respecting the traditional aspects was part of the subculture?” Nicky wriggled, testing her bonds. “Some people worry about kimonos and bamboo,” Bertie conceded, “but in my experience, most people don’t care. Rope bondage techniques are being absorbed into Western B&D. Some would say they have been.” “In your interviews, you said Kitty could barely move,” Nicky noted. She rotated her shoulders, flexed her fingers, wiggled her toes. “This may take me a while, but I think I can move around the room without too much trouble.” Bertie’s smile widened. Binding her guests, and especially her guests’ reactions to being bound, helped the little Englishwoman relax. “Yes, but that’s no good to you,” she murmured. “You’re already helpless.” She stood and walked back to the cabinets. “And I’m not finished.” “I see.” Nicky watched Bertie return with a fourth coil of rope. “Please lie down,” Bertie said. “Will you?” Nicky smiled. “I don’t have a choice,” she drawled. “Like you said, I’m helpless.” She rolled gently to her side, then onto her chest, stomach, and thighs. “Hojo-jutsu, frog tie…” Bertie began threading rope into Bertie’s existing bonds. “Now we add the chariot tie.” The conversation stalled as Bertie connected elements of the Hojo-jutsu and frog tie into a complex web of crossed ropes. She pulled slack rope, causing Nicky’s back to arch as she was drawn into the chariot tie. Bertie tied a quick-release knot, then repeated the process. She did this several times. The result was not as strict as what Dr. B had done to Kitty, but it held Nicky in a taut bow on her stomach. Nicky frowned, testing her condition, or more accurately, trying to test her condition. Her fingers twitched slightly, her shoulders rolled a little, but her other efforts were more tremors than twists. “Okay,” Nicky sighed. “I get it. I get why Kitty waited for you to rescue her.” “Remember that idea,” Bertie murmured, then rolled Nicky onto her side. “I’m not finished.” There were three or four feet of rope left. Bertie pulled the ends of the rope out from either side of Nicky’s waist, tied a square knot at her navel, then began tying knots in the remaining rope. She started with a figure-eight knot using two ropes, then a clove hitch on each rope, then a clove hitch on both ropes, then a clove hitch on each rope, and so on.

Once breakfast was finished, the ball gags were reinserted into Penny and Mandy's protesting mouths, and Rada herded her captives downstairs with her riding crop, down into the cellar... through the cellar... and down another flight of stairs into the dungeons. Upon entering the gloomy "Rogeret's Miserable Maze," Penny and Mandy watched as Rada unlocked, unlatched, and opened the first door on the left. *Click! Thump! Creak!* The space behind it was unexpectedly small, barely a closet. Rada placed a hand on Mandy's back and shoved her over the threshold. The naked, kimono-bound, gagged redhead had just time to turn, facing the door, to protest with wide eyes—*Mmph!*—before the door began to close. *Creak!* "Wait here," Rada said softly (unnecessarily). *Thump! Click!* After she latched and locked the door (imprisoning poor Mandy in the tiny cell), Rada grabbed Penny by one arm and led her away. "Mmmph mmmph!" Penny protested. "Yes, Rada is indeed a true Tispe," Rada said with a laugh. They passed door after door (each with elaborate iron bars), then stopped—at random, as far as Penny could tell—and Rada began her work. *Click! Thump! Creak!* Then, she ushered Penny over the threshold into a cell considerably more spacious than Mandy's closet, perhaps twenty, maybe thirty square feet, with a ten-foot ceiling. Penny jumped as the door closed behind her. *Creak—!* She had been distracted by the machine that occupied half the cell's floor space. It had gears, some as large as bicycle wheels or trash can lids, and chains hanging from gear to gear, suspending cannonball-sized iron lumps cast in the shape of demons, gargoyles, or grotesques. And it was all interconnected. It was a huge machine. In front of this colossal apparatus was a long, narrow, waist-high table made of heavy timber. At one end of the table was affixed a wooden stock, its ankle openings padded with sheepskin. At the other end was a large wooden drum around which were wound a pair of steel chains, the ends of which terminated in the manacles Penny recognized at a glance. Both were made of brown leather, also padded with sheepskin around the wrists. So... obviously... the table, the stocks, and the drum comprised a rack! And the rack's drum was connected to the huge machine behind it. Penny decided there were no great secrets here. She also decided she didn't want to be part of them! The naked, bound, and gagged little blonde shook her head and took a slow step back... and another... and bumped into the closed door. Then, she (somewhat frantically) shifted her wide eyes from the rack/machine to Rada, ready to offer her strongest possible objections to being drawn into it. Her problems were: (1.) Mr. Gag, and (2.) the wicked smile on Rada's perfect lips. The enormous shield-maiden was apparently unimpressed, but Penny offered her objections anyway. *Mmmph mmmph mmmph!* Wait. An objective observer would have to admit she made several valid (if unintelligible) points, but Rada ignored them entirely. Penny kicked, writhed, and struggled as Rada, with her usual frustrating efficiency, picked her up and tossed her onto the rack's bed. Rada raised the upper bar of the stocks, grabbed her kicking, struggling feet, and secured her ankles in deep, soft, ergonomic openings. She lowered the upper bar and fastened a heavy iron clasp and a heavy padlock. *Click! Clack!* Penny continued to writhe and struggle as Rada bent her waist forward into a full curl. Rada unfastened her kimono ties, then secured her wrists in the suspended manacles. Slapping or waving was entirely ineffective, especially once her wrists were both snugly and softly buckled. Then, Rada locked the manacles with a mini brass padlock. *Click! Click!* Panting through her nostrils and her gag, her chest heaving, her limbs thrashing, Penny explored the limits of her new predicament, lying flat on her back on the hardwood bed in a loose, spread-eagle position. Truthfully, there was considerable slack in the chains at her wrists, but Penny was quite sure that would change shortly. Her arms crossed beneath her chest, Rada watched Penny's struggles for a few seconds with a smile. This was called schadenfreude. Penny was quite familiar with the practice. Her morning quota of schadenfreude apparently satisfied for the moment, Rada walked to the other side of the machine and began to turn the crank handle. A chain tightened with a crisp snap, then began to shorten, lifting a rather heavy iron lump into the air. Penny watched with understandable interest. The lump was shaped like a horrible demon, gargoyle, or grotesque, like the others, but was decidedly the largest. Penny now had room to notice that the entire machine was another dramatic set-piece masterpiece of Victorian/Hammer Film studio horror. She couldn't yet vouch for the engineering quality—not yet, anyway—but this mechanized rack certainly did credit to Rogeret Manor. Rada continued to turn the crank, and the weight continued to rise. It was clearly a strenuous task, even for her legendary shield-maiden strength. Her tanned biceps bulged with the effort. It took some time, but eventually, the weight reached its apex, a ratchet-and-pawl mechanism clicked loudly, the weight stopped moving, and Rada stopped turning the crank. Rada, with her charmingly unsettling smile, walked over to what was apparently a control panel mounted on the wall. From her position on the rack, Penny's view was very limited, but the panel had a multitude of levers and shift arms, large and small, and apparently, Rada felt it necessary to fiddle with each one. Rada frowned, carefully examining the settings. Then, her smile returned, and she chuckled with glee for a few seconds... watching Penny squirm and struggle in the suspended manacles... then pulled a T-shaped lever. With a grating screech, followed by a *thump*, the gears began to turn, and one of the smaller suspended weights dropped a section of chain with a crisp *snap*. Most of the gears were now turning... slowly... some of the larger ones more slowly. The machine clacked, thumped, and ground, generally operating. Penny was mesmerized by the largest gear. She could barely see it move, but it was moving... and it was clicking slowly. The whole machine was like a clock... a very... large... old... clock. A few more seconds passed, and the rack's drum creaked and groaned, rotating an inch away from Penny, then locked with a *clack*. It was enough to shorten the chain on Penny's suspended manacles by a small increment. The machine continued to click, lock, and grind with the same stately rhythm.