Bondage Competition

PARIS, FRANCE. A FEW MONTHS AGO:

It was like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno, but for the well-paying clients of La Esclavage Reine, it was heaven on Earth.

Two women were on all fours, their butts and thighs touching, their booted ankles shackled to the floor. Ropes encircled their bodies.

Three other women were bound in such a way they served as human tables. One of the three had her knees under her chest as she lay face down, neck held to the floor by a metal ring, her arms at her sides, a basket filled with an assortment of meats on her back.

Nearby, three more women served as human candle holders, their necks pulled back while they held lighted candles in their mouths. An additional threesome was cast in the role of living vases for thorny red roses. The roses were not stuck in their mouths. Similar scenes played throughout the large, grotesque room.

These “victims” all endured their bondage more or less willingly. Despite their mistress’s name, they were paid employees. Some actually enjoyed their “work,” while others put up with it simply for the money.

Similar rooms adjoined for clients with different tastes. One featured all handsome young men, while the other boasted a mixture of males and females.

The proprietor’s path in life had been determined at an early age. La Esclavage Reine had discovered her calling during a co-ed football match during ninth grade gym class. Attempting to kick the soccer ball, she had accidently whacked a freshman boy in the shins. The young Frenchman had yelped in pain.

Later during the period, though, he had come up behind her and whispered, “I liked it when you kicked me.”

“Pervert,” she had spat at him.

During the rest of that day, however, she had been unable to get the incident out of her mind. Lately, she had found herself becoming excited by scenes of torture and bondage in movies, books and on television. Maybe, just by chance, she had discovered a perfect playmate . . .

For the next few years she refined her talents, much to the delight of the masochistic boy. Then, one day, her submissive brought her an article out of Le Figaro. It was an investigative article into the seamy world of elaborate bondage parlors in Paris.

The teenage girl was fascinated by the story. It had never occurred to her she could make a living out of her “hobby.” Now, not only had she decided to make a vocation out of her sadistic avocation, she was determined to become rich doing so -- extremely rich. That very night she left home, parents and the boy, never to see any of them again.

With her beauty and imagination, she quickly rose through the ranks, soon earning her nom de plume. Before long she ran the most exclusive, expensive and bizarre bondage spot in all of France, perhaps in the world.

When she was on duty, La Esclavage Reine wore light-colored clothing that match her finely coiffured hair. Her blouse was short sleeved and very low cut, tucked into a tight black corset worn on the outside. Riding pants and black boots that reached toward her knees almost gave her the look of an equestrienne, but the black gloves that reached above her elbow and the improbably high heels of her boots gave notice that the riding crop she always carried was for use on two-legged creatures, not quadrupeds.

La Esclavage Reine walked over and sprawled down upon cushions between two clients who were currently enjoying this room. On the right was Henri Dilliard, head of one of the most brutal crime families in Europe. She didn’t know the name of the Arabic man, only that he held a position of authority within al-Qaida. What such a terrorist with supposedly deep religious convictions was doing in her establishment, didn’t concern her. He had paid, handsomely. Religion and politics were two things with which she made it a policy never to concern herself.

She smiled at her customers, her breasts threatening to pop out of her blouse. In her native French, she asked, “Are you gentlemen enjoying yourselves?”

“Oui, indeed!” enthused Dilliard, a short man of slender build with long black hair and a large nose. He took his eyes off the hostess long enough to look around the room once more with interest, all the while sipping his cocktail.

Dilliard set his drink on the “table” to his right. This women had two carafes of wine balanced on a tray upon her back. She dared not move, lest the libations tumble to the floor.

The other man refused spiritous beverages. ‘At least he observes that tenet of his faith,’ thought La Esclavage Reine.

On the bearded man’s left was the third living table, a blonde locked in the most tortuous position of all. Facing upwards, her ankles and wrists were shackled to the floor, with knees and elbows bent under her. A tight corset pinched her torso above the navel and below the breasts. Balanced upon her was a basket containing fresh fruit. The dark man took a handful of grapes. If he even noticed the pained expression on the woman’s face, he gave no indication.

“Oui, mademoiselle,” the robed man finally answered, taking in the scene of the other many bound beautiful French women. “You have refined restraint to a true art form. I dare say there is no one on this continent who can challenge your title.”

“Only on this continent?!” the woman said, feigning outrage. “I would think there was no one in the entire Western world!”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Dilliard, picking up his drink.

“What do you mean?”La Esclavage Reine asked. She was genuinely becoming annoyed.

“There is a woman in Gotham City, in the United States. I have heard she can devise the most intricate forms of bondage by using only the human body itself. Her name is Nora Clavicle.”

The feminist criminal had recently been all over the newspapers. She had escaped from Gotham State Penitentiary the previous month.

A female prison guard had set Clavicle free. A few days before, a male judge had given custody of the guard’s two daughters to her ex-husband. When the correctional officer was arraigned for releasing Clavicle, she had shouted to the press she hoped Nora would, “Kill all the male bastards!”

“Bah!” the Arab replied. “I know of this muddle-headed woman of whom you speak. She fancies herself the superior of men! Ridiculous.” La Esclavage Reine smiled. She was surprised and delighted this person was defending her honor. Then, though, he continued, “Still . . .”

“What?!” demanded La Esclavage Reine.

“There is another woman, also in Gotham City,” the terrorist elaborated, “whose talents are far superior to this Clavicle woman, and, who, indeed, may surpass even you, mademoiselle. She is an arch-criminal of the greatest reputation. Her name is Selina Kyle, but she is better know to the world as The Catwoman.”

“Monsieurs, you insult me!” La Esclavage Reine rose to her feet. “I know what I must do to answer your slurs! I shall travel to Gotham City and challenge these two pretenders to a bondage competition! Then we shall see who is the true Esclavage Reine!”

“Mademoiselle!” Dilliard objected, “Who will you get to judge this . . . competition?”

“Oh, I already have someone in mind,” she answered enigmatically.

GOTHAM CITY. THE PRESENT:

It was mid-afternoon at the west gate to the campus of Gotham State University. Students were just starting to make their way out to nearby residence halls, to the surrounding neighborhood or to the subway, when a van stopped perpendicular to the exit from the campus.

A campus security guard approached. A good-looking bachelor in his mid-twenties, he was surprised to find three lovely young women squeezed into the front seat. The driver was dressed conservatively, but fashionably. The other two women’s outfits were a bit more revealing. The man bent over to speak through the open passenger side window.

“I’m sorry, ladies, but you can’t park here.”

“Oh, mais nous have une autorisation,” said the driver in a heavy French accent. “Yvette, show it to ze bon monsieur.”

The passenger nearest the window shifted to display even more of her ample cleavage to the young man. Also in a French accent, she replied, “Pardon, mademoiselle, mais c’est in ze back.” Yvette smiled sweetly at the guard. “If vous will let me out . . .”

The flustered guard backed away. Wiping his curly blonde hair off of his suddenly sweaty forehead, he watched with rapt attention as Yvette wiggled out of the passenger side and opened the sliding door of the van. She was wearing extra short shorts. As she crawled inside the van, she kept her fanny pointing directly at him. The guard blushed brightly.

“Oh, monsieur,” Yvette called. “Je am having a bit of a trouble finding ze autorisation. Would vous assist moi, s’il vous plait?”

The guard more than willingly clambered inside. He never knew what hit him as the second passenger pressed something against his neck.

Meantime, the driver, La Esclavage Reine, was sizing up the co-eds who were walking blithely by. One young lady in particular caught her eye. “Pardon mois, mademoiselle. Nous are doing a photo essay on ze most belle etudiants on americain terrain de l’universite for Mademoiselle magazine. May nous take votre photo?”

Five foot, eleven inches tall and thin, the woman’s name was Wendy. Fair, red-headed and from England, she thought she understood the request, but was a bit taken aback by it. Like all prudent Gotham State University students, Wendy was leery of being approached on the street by a perfect stranger. On the other hand, this woman seemed harmless. In addition, Wendy was flattered by the prospect of being considered to appear in a major magazine as one of the United States’s most beautiful college students.

Her vanity overcame her good sense. “Sure! Do you want me to pose right here?”

“Etonnant!” La Esclavage Reine gushed, even though she was surprised by the woman’s English accent. “Oh, Mimet!” La Esclavage Reine rushed forward to position the girl. “Oui,” she declared.

The second passenger emerged from the van, dressed much the same as Yvette, carrying an imposing camera. Mimet lined up the shot, following the directions of La Esclavage Reine.

Mimet snapped off a series of pictures, the flash emitting a bright light to overwhelm the shadows of the late fall afternoon.

“Manifique!” enthused La Esclavage Reine. “If vous are chosen, nous will need to get in touch avec vous. If vous would step into ze back of the van s’il vous plait, my other assistant will take ze information nous need.”

“Okay,” said Wendy. She climbed through the side door of the van, her red locks cascading halfway down her back. Like the guard before her, she, too, was quietly rendered unconscious from behind by Mimet.

A few moments later, La Esclavage Reine became quite excited by two girls, one Asian-American, the other African-American, approaching her. Not only was she fascinated by their ethnicity, but it was obvious they both in excellent physical condition. La Esclavage Reine guessed they must both be Gotham State University athletes.

The pair was engaged in an animated conversation before La Esclavage Reine interrupted and made her “sales pitch.” As La Esclavage Reine kept looking back and forth between the two, each student thought the Frenchwoman was talking to the other.

The girls had been heading to a Lebanese restaurant for an exotic after-classes snack. “Go ahead, Delisha,” Jenny Akasofu encouraged. “It might be fun. I’ll wait.”

“Me?!” Delisha Davis exclaimed. “I’m sure she was talking to you!”

“Je want photos of both of vous!” La Esclavage Reine explained. “Je do need individual photos, though. Who wants to be first?”

Both young women were somewhat self-conscious about their looks. Each had, at times, suffered disparaging remarks from dense boys about their well-developed muscles. Caught off-guard by La Esclavage Reine’s proposition and egging each other on, each in turn fell into the fiendish Frenchwoman’s trap.

The scene was repeated several more times. The van then sped away, the people on the street never giving the vehicle a second look.

Seventy-two hours later at Police Headquarters, Commissioner Gordon was engaged in a somewhat heated telephone conversation with the Dean of Gotham State University.

“I agree, Dean, we have to provide a safe environment for your students, but may I remind you it was your decision to turn campus security over to a private firm?”

Police Chief O’Hara, standing next to the seated Commissioner, heard what sounded like a swarm of angry bees on the other end of the phone.

“Have you considered the guard might be involved?” More buzzing. “I don’t see how our unfortunate, but reasonable, arrest of Professor Crane has any relevance to this situation.”

Finally, the call ended. Gordon looked up at O’Hara in exasperation. “I don’t know what that woman wants us to do! She wants our department to stay off campus, but the second someone like The Penguin strikes, she expects us to solve the case immediately!”

Before Chief O’Hara could reply, the intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Bonnie?”

“Commissioner, there’s a woman on the line who says she has the missing college students and the guard. She’s a bit hard to understand, but she did mention some names.”

The names of the missing girls and the man had not been released to the press. Gordon took a deep breath as he realized this was probably not a crank call. “Put her through, Bonnie.”

“Allo? Allo?” Is this ze Batgirl?”

“No,” declared Commissioner Gordon, somewhat confused. “This is Police Commissioner Gordon. Who is this?”

“J’aime appel La Esclavage Reine.”

“I understand you know something about the college students and guard that went missing three days ago?”

“Oui, Commissioner. Je have them, mais je want to parlez avec ze Batgirl. Put her on ze line, s’il vous plait.”

Gordon’s patience was clearly reaching its end. “I can’t just conjure Batgirl out of thin air! Give me your message and I will pass it along to her.”

“Non. Je will call back at sept. If you care for mes hostages, have ze Batgirl there. Au revoir.”

As usual, the first thing Barbara Gordon did upon reaching her apartment after work was access her Batgirl e-mail account. The message from her father summarized the situation.

“Didn’t we just play out this scene?” Barbara complained to her pet parrot, Charlie. Last week she had been run around delivering a ransom to Clock King. Then, there had been that affair with Bane and the enigmatic Chris Thomson. Barbara took a deep breath.

She resigned herself to the fact that she was going to be the first choice to perform such duties for some time to come. Even though her record as a crime fighter was as unblemished as Batman’s and Robin’s, most criminals were still more confident challenging her than the Dynamic Duo. With Batwoman and Flamebird still not that well known, Batgirl had fallen into the part of Bag-girl.

Determined to bring this new villainess to justice, Barbara underwent her tantalizing transformation into the Dominoed Daredoll. Minutes later, she was on her way to Police Headquarters aboard her Batgirlcycle.

Soon the Caped Cutie made her grand appearance through the double doors of her father’s office. “Good evening, Commissioner, Chief O’Hara,” she announced in her disguised voice.

“Saints preserve us, you’ve sure’n made it just in time, Batgirl!” declared Chief O’Hara.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Batgirl,” Gordon said gravely. “That woman will be calling again any minute.”

“Do you know anything about this Esclavage Reine?” Batgirl asked.

“Only the translation of her name,” the Commissioner replied with no little disgust. “Slavery Queen.”

“That is one possible translation,” agreed Batgirl, “but there is another. Bondage Queen.”

The two men fell silent at this revelation. “How many students are missing?” Batgirl inquired.

“Five, that we know of,” Chief O’Hara explained.

“I didn’t put it in the e-mail, Batgirl,” Commissioner Gordon elaborated, “but two of the missing students are Jenny Akasofu and Delisha Davis!”

“Oh, no!” Batgirl exclaimed. ‘Haven’t those two been through enough?’ Batgirl thought. The co-eds had been prisoners of The Penguin and his gang for months. The Bumbershoot Bandit had placed Batgirl and Jenny in a painful death-trap, from which they had narrowly escaped.

Batgirl’s remembrances were disrupted when, simultaneously, the clock struck seven and the telephone rang.

“I’ll take it, Commissioner,” said Batgirl, walking over to the phone. “This is Batgirl speaking.”

“Ah, ze Batgirl!” said the voice on the other end. “Comment allez-vous?”

“Never mind that,” Batgirl said. “I take it you call yourself La Esclavage Reine? What do you want?”

“Why, je want vous, Batgirl! Je will pick vous up in front of Police Headquarters in, say, deux minutes?”

“What?!” Batgirl could scarcely believe the brazenness of this new criminal.

“Oui! Vous come avec moi et je promise ze hostages will soon be released unharmed . . . as long as ze police do not try to follow nous. Time’s running out, Batgirl. Je won’t wait for vous!”

“All right!” Batgirl put down the phone and ran for the door. “There’s no time to explain, Commissioner, Chief. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can!”

Batgirl made it down the front steps of Police Headquarters just as the same van which had appeared three days before near Gotham State University pulled up in front.

“Bon soir, Batgirl!” La Esclavage Reine called out of the driver’s side window. “Hop in ze front seat!”

Batgirl did as she was told, half-expecting to be attacked from the back of the van or gassed or otherwise rendered unconscious. To her surprise, however, La Esclavage Reine did nothing more than look at her before pulling the van safely away from the curb and out into traffic.

Batgirl was surprised, however, by the criminal’s outfit. La Esclavage Reine was wearing her “working clothes.” Batgirl also noticed the long, black riding crop on the seat next to the driver.

“So, vous are ze famous Batgirl?” La Esclavage Reine finally asked.

Batgirl was in no mood to answer such an obvious question. “Where are we going? What’s this all about?”

La Esclavage Reine glanced at her unwilling passenger and smiled. “Je will tell vous, mais first vous must drop your, what do vous call it, utility belt? out la fenetre, s’il vous plait.”

Batgirl knew enough French to understand the demand and realized this woman was more cunning than she first appeared. Batgirl threw the utility belt out the window. After doing so, Batgirl folded her arms and said, “Well?”

“Nous are going to a place je have created here in Gotham City. Once there, je have a faveur to ask of vous. If vous co-operate, je will let mes hostages go.”

“What is this . . . favor?” Batgirl asked skeptically. “If you think I’m going to commit some crime--”

“Oh, non!” the Frenchwoman exclaimed. “Nothing like zat! All je want vous to do is to serve as a judge in a friendly competition je will be having avec deux old amies of la votre.”

‘Friends?’ Batgirl thought. ‘Batman and Robin? Has this crazy woman somehow captured them, too?’ Batgirl started to say, “What--”

“Nous are almost there, Batgirl. Just wait until nous arrive, s’il vous plait.”

The van pulled up to a garage door in the side of an old, abandoned-looking warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham City. ‘How many times have my adventures taken me to a place like this?’ Batgirl thought, not for the first time. ‘If there was only some way to keep track of them all . . .’

The driver honked the horn. The door slid up and La Esclavage Reine pulled the van inside. "This way, Batgirl," La Esclavage Reine said, beckoning Batgirl with her riding crop.

La Esclavage Reine led Batgirl through an inner door. Inside, Batgirl found herself in the back of one of the most bizarre rooms she had ever seen. A kind of small theater, thick red carpet lined the floors, while the ceiling and side walls were mirrors! At the far end of the room was a raised stage, with three separate bright red curtains drawn across it, the curtains running to the ceiling to obscure any reflection from beyond. Facing the stage was a long table with three chairs positioned on the far side from the stage. In the middle of the table was a legal pad, pen, four drinking glasses and a pitcher of water.

Batgirl couldn’t decide if the setting reminded her more of a sleazy honeymoon suite or a twisted rendition of the set of Let’s Make a Deal. Batgirl began to complain, “See here--“

“Have a chaise, Batgirl, et nous will get started,” La Esclavage Reine promised as they walked forward, indicating with the whip for her to take the middle chair. Batgirl did so and La Esclavage Reine sat on her right.

The lights slowly dimmed. Then a light appeared on the curtain to the far left. Batgirl was shocked by who stepped through the curtain to stand in the spotlight.

“Nora Clavicle!?”

Clavicle was dressed in a double-breasted, long-sleeved business suit with padded shoulders. The blue suit fell to just below her knees. A grey sash encircled her waist. The front of the outfit was of a moderately low cut. Although her hair was a bit greyer than the last time Batgirl saw her, she was still an attractive forty-two year old woman. She regarded Batgirl with undisguised hunger in her eyes.

“Since our hostess’ command of the English language is tenuous at best, I’ve been given the task of explaining to you exactly what is going on,” the mad feminist announced. She then added, “and what exactly is expected of you.”

“The woman who,” Nora smiled thinly at the person sitting next to Batgirl, “for the moment, lays claim to the title Esclavage Reine, has challenged me and” Nora paused. She favored Batgirl with a cold smile. “another, to this bondage competition. We are each going to exhibit two bondage creations which exemplify the essence of our work, using ‘subjects’ our hostess has so graciously procured.

“We all agreed to accept you as an impartial -- and expert -- judge. We also have agreed to abide by your decision as to who among us has best demonstrated the art of bondage. If you do as we ask, when the competition is finished, we will release our subjects, unharmed, with only unusual memories to show for their experience. If you don’t co-operate, however, well . . . .” Nora let the threat hang in the air.

“It seems I have little choice,” Batgirl declared. Then she asked, “What plans do you have for me when this is all over?”

“Honestly, we haven’t talked about that,” Nora admitted, putting her right thumb and forefinger on her chin while looking away. Then she smiled at Batgirl. “I’m sure we can come up with something interesting, though.”

Batgirl’s mind raced. Her foremost concern was for the innocent victims of these mad sadists. Batgirl was confident she could easily overpower Nora and La Esclavage Reine. She had no way of knowing, however, how many henchpeople might be backstage, how many other prisoners there were or who the third competitor might be. Batgirl reasoned if she played along, she could get the hostages out of there before they suffered too much.

She reached a quick decision. “Alright, but I’ll tell you now, if a competitor permanently injures any of the ‘subjects,’ not only will there be the law to answer to, but you’ll be disqualified from the competition! There’s no artistry in permanently injuring someone.” Batgirl felt a little squeamish saying such a thing, but, for the moment, she had to play the role given to her. “Now, let’s get this show on the road!”

La Esclavage Reine and Nora Clavicle smiled at each other. The judge was showing more enthusiasm than for which they could have hoped!

Nora addressed Batgirl in a manner the crime fighter had never heard before. “As you are doubtlessly aware . . .” Nora coughed nervously. “. . . I specialize in Human Knots. I utilize a form of bondage that is both subtle and sublime. With no ropes or chains of any kind, I restrain--”

“Ms. Clavicle,” Batgirl interrupted, doing her best to sound bored.

“Yes?” Clavicle said, a bit annoyed that her reverie was broken, but not wanting to antagonize the judge.

“I am well familiar with your technique. Now will you please get on with it?” La Esclavage Reine leaned back in her chair, a self-satisfied smile on her face.

“Err, yes,” Clavicle managed to say. Then she turned toward the curtain, stretching her right hand up in the air. “Behold, my first creation!”

The curtain opened. Beyond, on the grey stage floor, in front of another red curtain, was one of the most disturbing tableau it had been Batgirl’s misfortune to witness. The outraged Crimefightress had risen halfway out of her chair when La Esclavage Reine restrained her with the riding crop and a shake of the head.

Jenny Akasofu was laying on her back, her head protruding between the back of the legs of a woman wearing a bright yellow bikini. Both women were in yoga full Lotus positions. Their arms were behind the other’s knees, which kept the arms and legs in place. Most horrific of all, their heads were jammed in front of the other’s groin and behind the ankles, putting them at immediate risk of strangulation or a broken neck!

“I call this The Ten Point Knot,” Nora explained proudly. “One of my goals in life is to discover a completely inescapable Human Knot. This comes close. Although it looks as though it might be rather easy to pull one’s arms out of the Lotus, the involvement of the neck makes this my most lethal Human Knot ever! If the victims struggle, they risk snapping their necks, resulting in instant permanent paralysis or death!”

Clavicle’s description involuntarily caused Jenny to recall the procedure that had put her in this punishing posture. Mimet and Yvette, under Nora’s direction, first forced the other girl to attain the Lotus position around her neck. They then pushed Jenny’s arms through the yellow bikini-wearing girl’s legs, locking the legs in place. Next, the girl was made to lay forward on top of Jenny, their breasts pushed into each other’s waists.

Mimet and Yvette then had to put Jenny’s legs into the Lotus position. Achieving a full Lotus wasn’t easy for Jenny because of her swimmer’s muscles, but since the French girls didn’t care how much pain they caused the Asian-American athlete, they eventually were able to tie her legs into a Lotus around the other girl’s neck.

Getting the girl’s arms behind Jenny’s knees was very hard as there was barely enough room for the length of her upper arms to fit through between her shoulder and Jenny’s knee. After much struggling, Mimet and Yvette had finally managed it, the girl’s arms suddenly shooting through. This made Jenny wonder if the girl’s arms would ever come out again. Not only that, Jenny’s legs were now also locked in the full Lotus position.

The Ten Point Knot had been finished. Nora laughed and invited the girls to try to escape.

The victims had no free hands with which to try to get the Knot undone. They found neither of them could get their arms out.

They had started to roll around, trying to get unlocked, when suddenly they rolled onto their sides. Their bodies then had come apart in the middle, tightening the Lotuses around their necks and arms. They had started to cough and choke. This was VERY SCARY. Jenny worried she would die right then and there.

Nora had understood the situation at once. She ordered Mimet and Yvette to roll Jenny back underneath. Clavicle then leaned in and advised, “Don’t . . . move!”

Whether Jenny could now see Batgirl out of the corner of her eye or whether she had overheard her captors mentioning that the Dominoed Daredoll would be present, Batgirl couldn’t say. What the unwilling judge did hear was Jenny wheeze, “Batgirl. Help.”

Batgirl scribbled some notes on the legal pad, being careful not to let La Esclavage Reine see what she had written. Then she looked up and said, “All right, I want those two released from that Knot - immediately! We’ll go no further until you’ve done so!”

Nora walked up next to the pair as the curtain closed. Several minutes later, Jenny and the other woman, followed by Clavicle, walked unsteadily through the curtain.

Seeing Batgirl was satisfied, Nora ushered them back behind the curtain. Then she once again turned to address Batgirl.

“Since restraining the hands is so difficult, I began to consider the field of enterology: the study of getting human bodies into and confining them within small spaces. My second performance effectively combines Human Knotting with Enterology.”

In response to the cue, this time both the first curtain and the second, farther back one, were pulled back. Beyond the second curtain was a mottled grey stage with a square, grey, brick-like platform in its center. On the platform was a silver metal ring supported on four legs. Inside of the circle, tied in another of Nora’s Knots, were Wendy and Delisha, wearing only white string bikinis!

The two women were in two full Lotuses with their arms stuck through each other’s Lotus as well as their own. Apparently, they had been lifted up together and lowered into the chrome display hoop, which prevented them from getting out of each other or the Knot!

The girls were free to look around, wave their hands and struggle all they wanted. Their upper legs, knees and groins, though, were smashed together. Their arms were tightly trapped behind their own knees and each other’s, keeping them from bending their elbows in an attempt to withdraw their arms. This also kept them locked in their Lotus positions. The metal ring would not allow them to pull away from each other or to gain any leverage to try to pull their arms out by moving their shoulders backwards.

Nora walked behind the trapped couple and spread her arms. “That hoop displays this fiendish bondage Knot to its best advantage,” Nora declared. “Don't you just love my mind?!”

Batgirl was able to restrain herself from making any comment. While this Knot was certainly unpleasant, Delisha and the other girl, who Batgirl hadn’t met, didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. Batgirl made some more notes before finally ordering, “Let them out!”

Nora and the two women disappeared behind the fabric. After much grunting and groaning came from behind the curtain, Delisha and Wendy re-appeared, walking under their own power. After indicating for them to go backstage, Nora walked down stairs at stage left. Nora took the chair on Batgirl’s left.

Batgirl shivered involuntarily. Sitting between two such women was not a comfortable position for her. “Next!” she cried.

A light appeared on the curtain to the far right. This time, Batgirl half-expected the tall, strawberry blonde who emerged to take her place in the spotlight.

‘Catwoman.’

The amazon was dressed, as usual, entirely in black except for her golden necklace and the gold belt riding high on her hips. Unmasked, her triangular black cats ears stuck out from the top of her head like devil’s horns. “Meow, Batgirl,” she purred.

Batgirl knew that body well. She had been trapped in it when Selina had used the Psyche Eggchange Machine on her. Although this original version of Catwoman didn’t have the personal interest in Batgirl that the African-American model did, Batgirl would never forgive the blonde Catwoman for stealing her body.

“Unlike my colleague,” Catwoman began, lifting her eyebrows, “I’m a woman of few words.” She clapped her hands and the curtain was drawn aside.

A huge ball of twine was unveiled. Sticking out of the ball were the bare feet, hands and head of the security guard! With his head at the top, he was spread-eagled inside.

“I think ropes are essential to true bondage,” Catwoman opined, “and since we all know cats love to play with balls of twine . . .”

The guard’s feet were stuck at an angle such that they hung in the air. Catwoman bent over to one foot and began to run the tip of her right index-finger cat claw up and down its sole.

The guard bit his lower lip as he tried to keep from laughing. Finally, however, the Feline Felon forced a giggle out of him. When she did, an astonishing thing happened. The twine ball seemed to grow! Soon the twine covered the bottom of the blonde man’s chin.

“I explained earlier to my friend here that he’s encased in my latest invention - another amusing twist on my Cat’s Whiskers. Any movement inside the ball causes it to unravel slightly, but not to the point the person trapped inside can escape, you understand. Before the ball could unwind that far, the person inside would be dead, suffocated as the strands clogged all the air passages.”

Catwoman paused for effect. “Then, of course, all movement would stop.” She bent over to tickle the guard’s foot again.

“That’s enough, Catwoman!” announced Batgirl. “I get the point. Now, release him!”

Catwoman’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the Purple Clad Avenger. It was clear she hated taking orders from one of her nemeses. Eventually, though, she relented. “As you wish.”

The curtain closed. Moments later, the guard was free and paraded briefly across the stage. The Princess of Plunder then turned to once again address Batgirl.

Perspiration beaded on Catwoman’s face as she spoke. Apparently, it was quite warm in her black cat-suit under the bright stage lights. “My second offering proves that in my work, I don’t discriminate between men and women.”

The inner curtain pulled back to reveal a figure standing at an odd angle in a blue-black body bag. Batgirl surmised the person must have been leaned against some king of support. Although what the person inside looked like was impossible to discern, the figure was obviously that of a woman.

Her arms seemed to be bound to her sides by ropes inside the encompassing bag. The woman was covered head to toe by the bag which clung to her skin.

Catwoman went over to stand next to her victim. “This fabric only lets in a certain amount of oxygen, an amount finely calibrated to keep the occupant just on the verge of losing consciousness. As long as the person inside doesn’t panic, breathing is possible, but over time, the effect makes the victim rather . . . compliant.

“Some may find the feeling of helplessness combined with never quite being able to catch one’s breath to be rather liberating . . . perhaps even euphoric. I also think being tied up all alone heightens the bondage experience.” Catwoman smiled like a cat eying a canary. “I have another such bag backstage, Batgirl. Maybe you’d like to try it?”

“Thank you, no,” Batgirl said, “Get her out of there. Now!”

As before, it wasn’t long before the survival of the unwilling participant to the competition was demonstrated. Catwoman swayed down stairs on the left side of the stage and stood before the table directly in front of La Esclavage Reine.

The beautiful blonde poured herself a glass of ice water and greedily gulped it down. As she sat the glass back on the table, she looked over and said, “That, Nora, my dear, is what real bondage is all about.”

“Hmph!” snorted Nora, doing her best to look unimpressed.

La Esclavage Reine got up and Catwoman theatrically took her chair. The Frenchwoman ascended the right set of stairs and then strode to center stage. “Maintenant, Batgirl, vous will experience la winning presentation!”

La Esclavage Reine pulled a rope. The curtain flew back to reveal Yvette holding a machine gun on the six hostages! At the same time, Mimet snuck up behind Clavicle and touched her on the side of the neck. Immediately Nora pitched forward unconscious, her forehead banging on the table.

“What is the meaning of this?!” demanded Catwoman as she sprung out of her chair.

“Vous shall soon voir,” La Esclavage Reine promised. “Batgirl, do not move or . . .” she indicated the six prisoners with her riding crop.

“Ha!” yowled Catwoman. “Threats against them mean nothing to me!” She began to run towards the back of the room toward the exit.

Suddenly she stopped. Catwoman put the back of her black covered right wrist to her forehead. “What’s happening? I feel . . . so . . . faint.” Catwoman dropped to her knees.

“The water!” Batgirl deduced. “It must have been drugged!” Catwoman collapsed face down onto the red carpet.

“Certainement!” La Esclavage Reine exulted. “Intelligent, n’est pas?”

Mimet moved behind Batgirl. “Vous must allow Mimet to blindfold vous.”

With the threat to the six hostages hanging over her head, Batgirl couldn’t resist. Once she was blindfolded, she was led out of the auditorium. Before long she could tell she was walking across a wooden floor in a much smaller room.

“Arretez” Mimet ordered. Batgirl stopped.

“Turn around.” Again, Batgirl did as she was told.

The Caped Cutie could feel herself being pushed back against what felt like a tall metal pole. Once the bar was wedged tightly up against her backside, Mimet began the process of expertly and tightly tying her to the pole.

When Mimet was finished, Batgirl’s heart sank. Even though she had flexed her muscles while Mimet had been binding her, the slack in the tie was negligible. It would be a long time, if ever, before Batgirl could extricate herself from these bonds. Not only that, but she still couldn’t see.

Batgirl listened carefully. She heard Mimet leave what she guessed was a small room. A short time later, the Shapely Sentinel detected the sounds of two bodies being dragged across the floor. When she heard the barely audible sound of ropes being tied, Batgirl was fairly certain what was happening. Nora Clavicle and Catwoman were being tied as she was near to her.

“When votre amies wake up, je will return,” La Esclavage Reine’s voice informed Batgirl. High heeled shoes clicked off into the distance, leaving Batgirl tied up between two of her deadliest foes.

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