Bound for the Tour

by Commander James Bondage

  She lay there propped up on one elbow for a few seconds, staring up at Traynor with her mouth hanging open in shock. He knelt on the floor directly before her and lifted her chin until her eyes met his.

  “Now, one more time,” he said quietly, “repeat what you muttered back there.”

  Emily forced herself to think. Her brains were still scrambled from the slapping and it was difficult to concentrate with what sounded like steel pipes banging in her ears.

  “I… I said I wonder… how well… you could read while… while somebody was whipping your ass,” she said slowly and carefully through lips that were already beginning to swell.

  “That is an excellent question,” Traynor said, mildly. “The next time I ask you to train me to become a professional golfer, we will try it.” He rose to his feet. “Until that day, however, I suggest we resume the exercise. Unless, of course, I’ve overestimated you and you’re ready to quit already?”

  Emily set her jaw in determination. ‘Quit?’ she echoed mentally. ‘You’ll never get me to quit, you perverted bastard. You’ll have to kill me first.’ She scrambled to her feet and resumed the position. Her head now felt as if it was being pounded with rubber mallets.

  “I’m ready whenever you are, Mr. Traynor,” she said. She resumed reading. “…‘there’s no use playin’ if the fascination…’ uh.” She gasped involuntarily when the rod cut across her upper thighs, “… ‘doesna’ take ye. He was silent for…’ uh!” This time the rod bit viciously into the base of her left buttock. For what seemed like hours but was in reality only a quarter of an hour, Traynor lashed at the girl’s unprotected flesh with the slender stick. The whipping left a pattern of raised pink lines on the creamy flesh of the insides and outsides of Emily’s thighs and on her fine bottom globes. Still, even when he landed a terrible blow across her sex, Emily never stopped reading for more than the instant it took to gasp in pain.

  She saw the rod drop to the floor out of the corner of her eye. Was the “test” finally over? she wondered.

  As if in answer to her unspoken thought, Traynor reached down between Emily’s outspread thighs and resumed stroking her. By the way his fingers moved so easily, Emily could tell that she very quickly became aroused again. It was obvious that Traynor was good at handling things besides golf clubs.

  Emily soon found that concentrating during these intimate caresses was more difficult than doing so while being whipped. As the wave of pleasure rose and crested in her body, she found it almost impossible to think about anything except the way Traynor was touching her. Her hips began to weave back and forth as her excitement grew, although Emily was not aware of it. When the volcanic climax erupted she could read no more. “…our feelin’s, fantasies… oh! oh!... must join… must j…Oh Christ! I’m… I’m coming! Fuck! Fuck!” Emily shrieked, bouncing uncontrollably on Traynor’s hand. She became a mindless animal for more than a minute, forgetting everything but the overpowering sensation of the biggest orgasm she had ever experienced. When it was over and she returned to her senses, Emily realized that she had blown her chance. She been unable to block out the distraction and had failed the test. She had debased herself for nothing, and she would never be a professional golfer.

  She straightened up and looked at Traynor. “Well, I flunked, and that’s that, I guess,” she said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with your next candidate.”

  Traynor pursed his lips in impatience. “I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about, Thayer,” he said. “You continued reading longer than any girl I ever tested before. So, unless you just stopped by to waste my afternoon, what do you say we get on with the program?”

  Emily stared at him in wonder. She had passed! “Yes sir, Mr. Traynor, of course. Just tell what you want me to do,” she said eagerly.

  Chapter Two: The Prodigy

  Traynor opened his desk drawer and took out a small plastic box with a red button on top. He pushed the button, and the wall behind his desk began to slide open accompanied by the sound of an electric motor. He gestured for Emily to enter the passage beyond, and she did, although not without a few second thoughts about what she was getting into. Before she could reconsider her decision, Traynor was standing next to her and the door (or was it a wall?) was closing with a soft, heavy slam that made the floor shake. There was a definite feeling of finality about the sound.

  Traynor inspected her face, a tiny smile playing on his lips. “I hope you weren’t thinking about changing your mind, Thayer. The next time you go through that door will be when I decide you’re ready to win on the Tour, and that won’t be for at least six months. Until then, you are all mine. Now come along.” He walked briskly down the corridor in which they now stood. Emily hastened to catch up.

  “Oh no, I wasn’t thinking anything like that,” Emily said, a little too quickly as they walked. “I just remembered that I don’t have any clothes, and my clubs and baggage are still outside.”

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “Your stuff is safe. It’s being searched before it’s brought inside, to make sure you don’t have any contraband, like a cell phone or a laptop. What do you need clothes for right now, anyway? You can’t still be shy about being naked in front of me at this point, can you?” he asked.

  Emily prodded herself mentally. He was right, she realized. In the short time she had known Traynor, he had been able to take control of her with ease. She had stripped for him, silently endured outrageous handling, then stood in place reading while he beat her and masturbated her to orgasm. Being nude in Traynor’s presence seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

  “No, I guess I’m over that, sir,” Emily admitted.

  “That’s what I thought,” Traynor said. “Here we are.” He stopped in front of a door and took a key from his pocket. “What you need more than clothes is some training devices. I’ll fix you up with a set right here…” he opened the door, “…oh, and you can meet my other student. She just arrived this morning.” With Emily close behind, Traynor stepped into the dark room and flicked on a wall switch, flooding the room with light from a fluorescent ceiling fixture.

  On the floor was a nude woman. She was of Native American descent, young, beautiful and long-limbed. Emily guessed that the woman was probably very tall, but it was difficult to be sure because she was sprawled on the floor, bound in a peculiar, awkward-looking way. Her right arm was pulled behind her back, attached to her left ankle, with her left leg doubled behind. Her left arm was in front of her body, secured by the wrist to her right leg, which was also in front, the knee bent sharply. Her cheeks bulged from the big red ball that could be seen inside her open mouth. The ball was clearly too big to allow her to close her lips, and a strand of silvery drool hung down to the floor from her mouth. The Native American girl glanced up when they entered the room and her eyes met Emily’s for an instant. The girl’s eyes were those of a trapped animal, exhausted and without hope. Emily’s heart went out to her.

  “Don’t you recognize her?” Traynor asked. “Even if you never played against her, you must have seen her on television.”

  Emily had seen her before, she realized, though never looking remotely like this. “She looks like…but it can’t be…”

  “That’s right,” Traynor finished for her. “Meet the most famous bust in the history of women’s golf: Shelly Littlehawk.”

  Emily clapped her hand to her mouth. Of all the surprises she had experienced today, this was the most stunning.

  Shelly Littlehawk was the ultimate golf prodigy. She was the daughter of a Native American father and a Korean mother. She began playing at age 8, and had started to regularly beat her father, a 6 handicap, by the time she was 12. At 13, she was six feet tall, as thin and flexible as a rubber band, with a perfect swing, and could regularly drive a ball 300 yards off the tee. She won every junior tournament she entered and was the top-ranked schoolgirl golfer in the country. She became the U.S. Women’s Amateur Champion at the tender age of 15, and then won the ti
tle again two years later. At 16, she was invited to play in a men’s Tour event near her home in Phoenix Arizona where she made the cut, finishing in a tie for 26th place with a future U.S. Open champion. That got her on the cover of Sports Illustrated for the first time, but not the last. It was widely predicted that she would stand the Women’s Professional Golf Tour on its head when she turned pro, which she did at 18, turning down dozens of scholarship offers from colleges. She was still slender, but now had developed some graceful curves, and with her high cheekbones, delicate features and her imposing 6 feet 2 inches height, looked much more like an exotic runway model than a professional athlete. She was flooded with endorsement offers before she had taken her first shot in professional competition, and her face was all over television and the glossy magazines.

  She earned a Tour card right away, and then… then nothing happened. At least, nothing good. She had one top-ten finish in an early-season event, and then became progressively worse. By the end of her first year, Shelly had missed the cut in twenty-two events in a row, and had lost her card. Everybody in the golf world had advice for her, but nothing seemed to help. She kept trying, changing coaches as frequently as she changed her underwear, playing at “Q” School (tournaments where hopefuls can try to qualify for a Tour card) and eventually becoming a national laughingstock. In the end, her name became a byword for wasted potential. After two years of futile efforts to get her game back, she disappeared from public view.

  And here she is, Emily thought. She wondered how long the poor girl had been left helplessly bound in this obviously painful position, alone in this dark room.

  “How long… how long as she been… this way, sir?” Emily asked hesitantly.

  Traynor, who had been rummaging through a big metal locker, stopped for a moment to look at his watch. “I left her here at nine-thirty, and it’s almost one-thirty now, so four hours.”

  He knelt in front of Shelly, peering closely at the suffering in her soft brown eyes. “Her main trouble is lack of toughness. She collapses as soon as the smallest thing goes wrong. She can’t handle adversity at all.” He chucked the defenseless Shelly under the chin familiarly. “Isn’t that right, Baby? Well, by the time you leave this place, you’ll have the toughness of alligator hide.” He fondled one of Shelly’s tight cone-shaped breasts. She whimpered weakly. “The mental toughness, that is. The rest of your hide will be about the way it is right now.”

  He illustrated this remark by running his hands over the immobilized girl. He felt down between her legs, and pressed in front and rear with his fingers. Shelly yelped, and made a pitiful attempt to escape from this unwelcome attention. The bondage and her position did not permit her to do more than topple over onto her side, where she lay motionless, tears running down her cheeks as Traynor roughly probed her.

  At last content, he stood. “Do you like the attention, sweetheart?” he asked mockingly. “I’ll just bet you do.”

  He left the silently weeping Native American girl and returned to the locker he had been searching through. He motioned to Emily. “Now get over here, Thayer. I have a few things for you to try on.”

  With a side glance at Shelly, Emily approached Traynor. He had laid out on a small table a series of slim metal rings. The rings were of various diameters, but all had LED lights embedded in them, and little metal knobs that Emily suspected were some kind of antennas.

  “Put out your hand,” Traynor ordered. He took Emily’s slender arm in his grasp, opened one of the rings, and clicked it closed around her wrist. “No, too big,” he muttered. After two more trials, he found a circlet that fit closely enough around Emily’s wrist and, although it did not pinch, could not be slipped off. He continued the process with bands for her other wrist, both ankles and her neck. When he was finished, he brought out something that resembled a fat, silvery fountain pen, but instead of a nib at the end there was a small light.

  “Now stand still. This is a laser, and it can burn you,” he warned. He touched the laser carefully to each of the five rings Emily now wore. When he was finished, he replaced the device in the locker, returned all the unused rings to storage and locked it up tight.

  “Those rings cannot be opened again without that laser,” he told Emily. “You and Littlehawk will wear them until the day you leave this place.”

  “What are they for, Mr. Traynor?” Emily asked, looking at her new jewelry curiously.

  “They have several functions,” he said. “I’ll show you one right now. Put your arms behind your back, wristbands touching.”

  When Emily complied, Traynor pointed a silvery, oblong controller at her, and she heard a soft click. “Now bring your arms out in front,” he ordered.

  Emily tried, but she was unable to separate her wrists. The two metal bands clung together as if they had been welded together.

  “Electromagnets; powerful ones,” he explained. “All five of them have ’em. It’s a restraining device, among other things. That’s what’s holding poor Shelly all twisted down there,” he said. “Would you like me to let you loose, honey? Hmm?”

  She looked up expectantly and nodded her head.

  “What do you think, Thayer?” he demanded of Emily. “Do you think she’s had enough for the first day?”

  “Oh, I wish you would let her go, Mr. Traynor,” Emily answered. “I think she must be in agony.”

  Traynor bent down, seized a handful of Shelly’s long, black, silky hair and pulled her upright again. “Open your mouth,” he demanded as he squatted in front of her. “Wider,” he said. He reached into her mouth and, with some difficulty, extracted the oversized red rubber ball that had somehow been forced inside.

  Shelly worked her jaw up and down and side to side, trying to force the exhausted muscles to work properly again. “Hank oo her,” she said, attempting to thank Traynor for removing the ball.

  “So, you want me to release you, hmm?” Traynor asked.

  “Es ser, lees,” Shelly answered hopefully.

  “Ok, if you do something for me, or rather for Thayer here,” he said.

  Both girls looked at him questioningly.

  “Thayer here is a pretty horny little sex machine, isn’t that right?” he asked, turning back to look at Emily.

  “Well I…” Emily hesitated, not sure how to respond to this question.

  “She stripped down for me like a cheap hooker and came on my hand like a porn star, didn’t you, Thayer?” he asked, turning to look at her again.

  Emily colored as she remembered the wild orgasm he had induced just a short time before. “Yes, yes sir, that’s true.”

  “Well, I think that what she has secretly wanted since she saw you in this room is to have her pussy licked by a world-famous celebrity,” Traynor said, “and since you’re the only one of those we have handy…”

  The beautiful Indian girl started to automatically shake her head in revulsion at the idea, when Traynor continued, “…or I could just leave you here until tomorrow morning and see if you change your mind by then.”

  The beginning shakes of the head suddenly became enthusiastic nods of agreement. Shelly Littlehawk had been raised in a tradition that was very strict, indeed puritanical, about pre-marital sex, and was even more disapproving of any kind of sexual deviations, especially homosexuality. Although she was now almost 21 years old, she was utterly inexperienced in sex, having gone no further with a man than kissing. She found the idea of putting her mouth on a man’s genitals bizarre and off-putting, but to use her tongue on another woman’s… It was almost unthinkable.

  But four long hours in painful bondage had drained the former child prodigy’s last reserves of strength and will. She was ready to do almost anything, no matter how strange or perverted, rather than endure another eight or ten hours in this contorted pose.

  “Ess… yes, Mr. Traynor,” she said slowly, “I will do as you say, if you will please release me.”

  He nodded and stood again. “Thayer, get on there, face down.” He pointed to a
six-foot long Formica-topped table. When Emily was in position, he ordered her to bend her legs back until her ankle rings touched the ones on her wrists. Traynor activated the magnetic locks, leaving Emily bent like a bow, with all four limbs bound together just above the small of her back. As a golfer, Emily needed to be quite flexible, and was. But this position would have been a strain for a trained gymnast. Emily groaned in pain.

  “Ah, Mr. Traynor, please let my legs go,” she begged. “I won’t… murff !” Her plea was abbreviated when Traynor rammed a wad of cotton into her mouth and then sealed her lips tightly with a piece of sticky silver duct tape.

  Traynor returned to Shelly, and with a push of the button on the controller, deactivated the magnets that held her in place. Shelly sighed with relief, and immediately began moving her long, graceful limbs in little circles, attempting to loosen the cramped muscles.

  Traynor watched her for a minute and a half, his impatience growing every second. “All right, that’s enough,” he told her. “Let’s get to it, unless you want me to change my mind.”