Then her eyes rolled and she softly moaned as the massive servitude-orgasm hit."Okay, then. I'm going to go take out my frustration on Kasumi-slut. See you soon, and good luck."Miranda managed to nod through the orgasm-fog. As her Goddess left and the pleasure began to fade, she was aware — hazily, at first, and then with greater and greater clarity — of a plan.Amelia Stone's eyes blinked open, and she was suddenly awake, in a huge room with soft light.She felt weird, and sweaty, and disoriented, and just not-great; and it was hard to think at all. After a few seconds a stab of headache-pain hit, and she remembered last night's show. She must have gotten drunk as fuck from all that nanowine. It was no wonder she felt weird. She grumbled to herself, and rolled over to grab a bit more beauty sleep. Or, rather, she tried, and found her arms restrained by thick, coarse rope."Hey, what the fuck! Someone get me out of these!" She'd gotten drunk, yeah, but not go-to-bed-in-bondage level. I had another flash of anger, imaging just what – or who – his 'indisposition' had involved, but I shrugged it off and gave him a call back. Except that his number was busy, so I went and got onto the tube home, called him again when I resurfaced – still busy. Quite a long call, then, perhaps. So I left him a message.It was quite a curt message, to be honest – just that we should meet at our offices at 8:30 next morning, have an hour with the team prior to heading over to the hotel conference room that we'd eventually agreed as a venue. Then I bought myself a bottle of decent wine and, home, began to chase up our American friends ... and review yet again tactics for the coming encounter...[Dave]Monday morning I felt a lot better, the enforced day of rest having done my physical scars no end of good, while the complete lack of alcohol meant I had a relatively clear head. What I didn't have, I discovered on rising, was a wearable suit – the two that I owned were irretrievably crumpled.
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