Bob had deemed the captives low-risk enough to be held together in just one of four steel lined, CCTV monitored cells. These were nicely soundproofed too, not so much to prevent busybodies from hearing their cries, but to eliminate the annoyance factor. After all, having wails of anguish echoing through your dungeon is *so* twelfth century.

So too, is chaining victims to the dungeon wall. Since the ugliness of the Tara episode, the couple agreed that their playmates' sexy bodies should be maintained in prime condition, at least until the fun started. Thus the cells were furnished with essential comforts; a toilet cubical, bunk beds topped with thin blue plastic mattresses and duvets, and a sink with a cold tap and drinking beakers.

Beyond the outer door of the cell block, Emma pushed Bob bodily against the wall, hitching up one leg and grinding her crotch against his bulging jeans. Her sparkling eyes gazed lustfully into his, and gorgeous, wanton lips parted in a happy sigh before braving his stubble. With straying hands, they kissed passionately.

"You're keen," Bob observed dryly when they finally broke away.

"I really can't wait, Bob," she pleaded, "let's get in there."

"Safety First. We should take precautions, in case our guests are disagreeable." He grinned devilishly. "After all, we wouldn't want anyone to get *hurt*, would we?"

Emma giggled, and the duo crossed to the workshop opposite. They strapped on hunting knives and pocketed pepper spray, then Bob grabbed his trusty Mossberg pump-action 12-gauge, loaded it up with buckshot and handed it to his wife. "Try not to use it."