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about Heather, other
than she’s a friend of Alice. And Alice can be cruel.
    Would her friends also be cruel?
    “Stay still,” Heather commands. She is
wearing the clothes I saw her in this morning – the tank top and
running pants. For some reason, I can’t take my eyes off the tattoo
of the woman’s face on her right arm.
    It resembles Alice’s face.
    I’m seriously confused about their
relationship. And where does Greg fit it, or is their ménage too
complicated for my muddled little brain to decipher?
    Heather goes to a chest of drawers and pulls
out the topmost drawer. She withdraws several items that fill me
with dread. She lays all of them on the bed so that I can view each
in its entirety.
    “Ready, Gina?” she asks in a voice that is
all birdsong and flowers.
    “Yes,” I whisper.
    She laughs delightedly. “You should see your
face. Don’t be so scared, Gina. I’m not the Wicked Witch of the
West.”
    I’m not certain about that.
    She ensures that I am standing straight and
still before she fastens the first item around my neck. It’s a
thick black leather collar. It’s fairly uncomfortable because it’s
a tight choker that spans my entire neck length. It does not allow
much room for maneuverability. When I swallow, the concave
cartilage of my voice box pushes against it.
    The collar has a metal ring in its middle.
Heather threads a metal chain through this ring. She connects the
ends of the chain to two clamps, which she pins painfully onto my
nipples.
    “Ow,” I say.
    “Don’t be a goose. Surely you can take a
little pain?”
    The chain is short, and so my nipples are
effectively pinched and held up by my neck collar. If I wish to
ease the tautness of the pull on my nipples, I have to effectively
lower my head and neck.
    “Stand up straight,” Heather says.
    She pushes in the small of my back so that I
have to maintain a perfect posture. The upward tug on my nipples is
merciless. Numbness begins to spread all over my areolas. Tears
worm into my eyes.
    “What a soft, soft girl,” Heather
croons.
    I am standing with my feet slightly apart.
She walks around to my front again and dips her hand down to my
pussy. She caresses it – fingers the folds of flesh and the little
wrinkled hood of my clit. Her touch is firm and sure. I gasp at the
intrusion of her long fingernails into my clefts and valleys. The
tips of her nails grate against my inner labia, eliciting
delightful sensations.
    “Ah, so you like it,” she says. “Have you
ever been with a woman before?”
    I remember Connie well. “Of sorts,” I
say.
    “Sit here.” She indicates the love seat.
    I seat myself. My back is against the foot
railing of the bed. Heather hops onto the mattress. She binds my
arms and wrists with leather bonds from behind the railing. Her
knots are tight and secure.
    “Don’t slouch. Keep your back straight at
all times.”
    When she has finished tying my upper limbs,
she vaults her body onto the floor again.
    “Raise your legs.”
    Feebly, I attempt it. My legs come up in a
‘V’, and my buttocks have to strain to keep them that way. Coupled
with my straight back and my tortured nipples, this is no easy
feat.
    She laughs. “Is that the best you can
do?”
    Roughly, she seizes my right ankle. With a
leather bond, she tethers it to the right bedpost. She does the
same to my left ankle. I’m in a familiar position that befits my
status as a sex slave – legs open wide and my quivering pussy
thrown to the mercy of my master.
    Or mistress.
    Heather introduces the final object that,
frankly, I have to admit, confused me when I first saw it. It is a
black metal hoop the size of a standard grate – the kind you get on
a stove.
    “Do you know what this is for?” she says
slyly.
    I shake my head.
    “You’ll soon find out.”
    My stomach does a lurch as she reaches for
several wooden clothespins.
    Mincingly and patiently, she gathers the
flesh of my right outer labia and begins to apply the