Bound in Cleo Capone's lair

Cleo Capone leans over her with the slow, precise movements of an artist finishing her canvas. She tightens the last crimson silk sash around Kendrick’s right wrist, looping it gently but securely around the chaise’s curved wooden arm before tying it off with a graceful little bow.

Kendrick groans softly behind the thick silk gag cleaved between her lips.

Her arms are outstretched, tied wrist to corner. Her boots are crossed at the ankles and secured with another long sash to the opposite end of the chaise. Her cape is draped beneath her like an afterthought, a puddle of purple spilling off the cushion.

She’s not bruised. Not battered.

But she’s bound. Thoroughly. Stylishly. Intimately.

And Cleo?

She’s enjoying every second of it.

“There we are,” she murmurs, brushing a lock of hair from Velvet Vixen’s forehead. “All snug and glamorous. You really do tie the whole room together, darling.”

Kendrick’s eyes flutter open slowly. Her vision is hazy, but the reality hits her faster than consciousness fully returns.

She’s on her back.

She’s gagged.

She’s tied, spread out like a sultry museum piece in the exact same aesthetic Cleo Capone has built her empire around: rich, teasing, indulgent control.

“Mmmph!?”

Cleo chuckles softly and steps back to admire her work, arms folded. She’s shed her jacket and loosened her tie, shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off perfectly toned forearms and a gun holster that rests against her ribs like an accessory.

“You know,” she says, picking up her drink, “I was going to leave you behind. Let the cops sweep you up like sparkly litter. But after everything you pulled tonight… well, I just couldn’t let you go.”

She circles the lounge slowly, her heels clicking softly against the floor.

“So I brought you home instead. Hope you don’t mind.”

Kendrick glares, straining uselessly against the silk sashes. They’re tight, smooth, and annoyingly decorative. Every movement makes her costume creak slightly, every pull rewarded only with the barest bit of stretch.

“You’re mine now, Vixen,” Cleo says, sipping her drink. “At least… until I decide what to do with you.”