Somewhere in Brazil…

A tall and slender blonde emerged from the foliage of the dense jungle that droned with the chorus of undiscovered insects. She was dressed absurdly for her terrain, sporting a brown skirt suit, while her long legs were sheathed in a pair of sheer brown pantyhose. While heels would have matched her entirely inappropriate outfit, they were not found on her feet or in her hand. An easy guess would be that she lost them or kicked them away before they caused the death of her in the steamy ill terrain of the jungle bed.

Wearily she dragged her stocking feet out from the shadowy humid prison of the leaves into the sun drenched clumpy sand of the sizzling beach. Unable to really lift her poor feet anymore, she bulldozed through the sand toward the rolling waves of the shore. The sun was too harsh for her unprepared fair blue eyes, and locks of her luscious blonde hair were sticking to her delicate face. Spitting strands that stuck to the edges of her mouth, she frustratingly swiped the loose hair behind her bright red ears.

After clearing her line of sight from sticky hair, and squinting her eyes against the aggressive sun, her demeanor quickly changed from exhausted to confused. Her head turned this way and that looking up and down the low rolling waves of the shore. They swished in and out repetitiously. It was hypnotic, but not enough to keep her demeanor changing from confused to panic. It was not the soothing of the waves that she sought. It was in fact, something that was not there. A boat.

She drudged up and down the shore as if it might appear. It did not, but she did kick something that was neither seashell nor seaweed. Bending down, she turned over a short stack of glossy paper. In her well-manicured hand she found a collection of photos that revealed her in the jungle only a short time ago. She was resting by a small river, dressed down to her bra and panties. Her suit and pantyhose hung lazily from a low hanging tree branch while she splashed some refreshing water on herself.

Staring at the pictures, she felt her cheeks go pink if they weren’t already red from the sun. Now she knew why the boat was not here. She had broken the company policy that her boss strictly enforced for all female staff. As a public representative of a major publication you must maintain your appearance at all times, including never removing your heels or your nylons. He considered it a feminine weakness and punished accordingly. It was obvious by the photos that she had been caught, and as punishment, left behind.

Sitting on her knees, tears began to stream unchecked down her delicate cheeks as she contemplated spending the rest of her days on the jungle island. The rain like drops pelted her stocking clad thighs already damp with sweat reminding her in mockery of her foolish moments of rest she thought she could steal.

In her wallowing she did not even notice the collection of shadows that formed from behind her. Nor did she realize how short “the rest of her days” would actually be. By the time she had stopped crying and half turned in surprise, a sharp pinch and yank exploded in her scalp as a good portion of her flowing blonde hair was clenched in a fist that proceeded to drag her bouncing along the sandy beach! The shock of the attack brought her back to her good senses so that she fought feverishly to unlock the fingers that crushed her locks together and dragged her like a rope. But it was no use; she lacked the strength and the leverage in her fingers to measure even on the same scale as her attacker. By then she was seeing spots before her eyes, and her nylon-clad legs were kicking pointlessly from instinct alone. Fate be what it may, she was dragged of to meet it…


Somewhere in New York City…

“Thank you for clearing your schedules ladies, I assure you this meeting is important to the Rose,” barked Mr. O’Neil over the hum of the slide projector. The tall overweight man squinted from behind his glasses while taking a moment to smooth out his mustache and remaining hair on his balding head. The “ladies” sitting across the conference room table from him were none other than junior reporters Dawn Meadows and Daphne Blake. While the two had similar upbringings, Dawn’s being born into inherited fortune, and Daphne a comparatively smaller fortune, it wasn’t until college that the two girls had met and become close friends and only recently achieved positions as junior reporters for the Rose Tribune. Both girls sat with the legs crossed and arms folded with pens and pads of paper on the desk in front of them. Dawn was dressed in a smart black skirt suit, a pair barely black hosiery, and heels, while Daphne opted for a short purple dress, accessorized by a classy green scarf and light purple stockings with matching heels. While both young ladies had big green eyes, Dawn had long luscious blonde hair, and Daphne had long wavy locks of fiery red. People spread rumors that they were competitive about their equally slender figures, long, long legs, and well-manicured nails. The way they wore pantyhose, you’d think they were endorsed models, but it was just Mr. O’Neil’s policy for the Rose. As if an unconscious reminder, both girls casually scratched at the silky nylon on top of their knees.

With a cough, Mr. O’Neil continued. “As I was saying. You know from reading the staff memos that among our other projects, we were pursuing an artifact known currently as “The Scepter of Ages.” More specifically, our very own Victoria Reynolds was pursuing that assignment. Her research had taken her to an uncharted island that has achieved the nickname “Fireball Island” aptly named because of its known volcanic activity. We believe she had located the Scepter in the possession of a local tribe living within the jungles off the coast. We also believe that she was close the retrieving the Scepter.”

“Where do we come in?” interrupted Dawn as she stared at the blank white slide screen.

“Well, that’s just it, Meadows,” growled Mr. O’Neil at the girl’s impetuous impatience. “Reynolds decided to break the rules, and we had to let her go.”

“What happened to her?” inquired a curious young Daphne.

“See for yourself,” replied Mr. O’Neil dryly as he started the slideshow. “We collected these aerial photos via helicopter sweeping the island after Miss Reynolds’… lack of good judgment.

In the gradual animation of a slideshow Dawn and Daphne observed Vicky being dragged by her hair into the jungle by a small group of natives. Back in their village, Vicky’s hands were bound above her head, and ankles together above a boiling pot of water. Gradually she was lowered into the sizzling bath. It appeared she struggled briefly despite her bonds, but was soon overtaken by the unlivable temperature of the broth, where she slid beneath the bubbles, hair hanging over the side like a towel.

“This last picture was taken hours later when the helicopter made a second pass.” The final frame depicted a skull on a the end of a spear jabbed into the sand at the edge of the jungle, a pair of pantyhose tied around the skull billowing in the wind as warning.

“Now to answer your question, Miss Meadows, the two of you are going to pick up where Miss Reynolds left off and retrieve that Scepter for the Rose,” concluded Mr. O’Neil. “Oh, and try not to end up as dinner like Miss Reynolds did,” he added wryly, watching in amusement as the girls squirmed in the seats and fumbled nervously through their purses ensuring they had an emergency pair of nylons on hand!

“Keeping up appearances keeps you out of hot water!” he laughed as he shut the conference door behind them. Neither girl liked the idea of being on the menu, but they both agreed this was the career they had so longed for since college, and the stories of the Rose Tribune were the biggest, the fame the greatest, the adventures… apparently the most perilous!


Back in Brazil…

While there was no actual landing area for a plane in the locale they sought, the girls’ plane was forced to make use of it’s pontoon landing gear and from there take a small boat the remaining distance to shore. The first thing they noticed was the horrid reality of the sun. It made the one back home feel like a fairy tale. The fabrics of their business attire were certainly not helping. By the time the boat reached the sandy beach, both girls were panting like worn out puppies. They didn’t need three hours wandering through the jungle to tell this was not going to work.

“I can’t believe he made us dress this way in a Brazilian jungle,” blabbed Dawn matter of fact. It was obviously written all over Daphne’s face as well.

“I know, how can he expect us to survive out here like this!?” replied Daphne, getting the frustration off her chest.

This was the first big field operation for both girls.

“So what do you think of his whole ‘fire and brimstone’ speech about company policy?” chided Dawn, unbuttoning her black suit jacket.

“You think he made it up?” giggled Daphne, watching Dawn. “Wait, of course he did. I’ll bet Vicky is home sipping wine right now!”

“Shall we tempt fate?” smiled Dawn as she opened her jacket, revealing the black bra underneath.

“Yes!” Daphne enthusiastically following suit by undoing the knot in her scarf.

Moments later, both girls were down to just bra panties, and hosiery, the pool of the business dress at their stocking feet.

“Now, off with these dreadful nylons and I think we can…” but Dawn’s words were drowned out by the sound of the plane’s engines revving up out in the water. Both girls looked at each other with wide green eyes, then down at their pile of clothes. Bending down they feverishly tried to slip their dresses up over their nylon-clad legs but two things stopped them. A tiny feathered dart protruding from Dawn’s slender exposed neck, and Daphne’s shapely calf muscle.


A While Later…

The effects of the poison began to wear off on both girls almost simultaneously likely due to their competitively similar body type. This interesting fact was hardly worth celebrating after their blurry vision focused in on what they awoke to. Pushing up with wobbly arms into sitting positions the girls realized they were sitting together in a small bamboo cage suspended in the air. The many natives that milled around the village they found themselves in only furthered the alien feeling of their circumstances. Many of them stopped to stare at the fair skinned slender girls, filling Dawn and Daphne with a dread feeling in their gut.

A native that stood apart from the rest by his many ceremonial headdresses began to chant and swing around an artifact that highly resembled… a scepter! With this motion, curling fingers of steam floated lazily up from beneath the bamboo cage, some of them twisting between the bars. The smell of crackling wood mixed with peppers and barley made the girls’ noses itch.

“That must be the Scepter of Ages!” cried Dawn

“Yep… too bad this story is hotter than we thought!” gulped Daphne.

At the utterance of her words, the bamboo cage jolted and began to descend toward the source of the curling steam fingers. Almost immediately, the bottom of the cage began to get uncomfortably warm against their flimsy nylon stockings and silk panties. The young reporters hugged each other and began to tremble. Through trembling red lips, Dawn found herself saying something that she’d find herself saying an awful lot throughout her career at the Rose Tribune.

“Nice going Dawn, NOW you’ve done it!”

Daphne only whimpered and managed a little, “Jeepers!”

As the cage descended, the warm broth of the stew pot rose up over their long stocking clad legs at first feeling like a hot bath, then quickly turning painful. Dawn and Daphne tightened their trembling embrace as the boiling waters lapped up the remaining curves of their bodies, soaking their long flowing hair, over their mascara streaked faces, and finally the tops of their pretty young heads.


Later that night…

Two more spears were punched into the sand, three skulls with pantyhose tied around the head, billowing in the tropical wind. Mr. O’Neil had a picture taken and framed it above his desk.


-The End… of Chapter 1

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