Bondage a la Carte
Page 21
Amy now stood with her five inch spiked heel at the base of the Cindy’s bowed neck. The whip caressed the bent girl’s back, but there was no further power in the arm that wielded it. The room was silent, but for the strident breathing of the contestants and the slow slap of the whip.
The crowd applauded. Amy returned to her corner where she was again chained and shackled by her Amazon second. Cindy was lifted from the floor, dragged to her corner and chained to the overhead. Her legs were shackled to the sides of the corner as she faced outward, her head down and breathing still strained. Her second unlocked the collar and pulled the hood off, removing the gag as well. Drool seeped from the girl’s half-open mouth as the Amazon seized a handful of hair and pulled Cindy’s head back harshly. Cindy moaned. The welts made by the crop and whip stood out brightly in the harsh light, showing through the many tears in the cat suit.
“Cindy has lost. Those of you who bet on her have also lost,” Julio’s powerful voice cut through the room like the growl of a hungry jungle cat. “She will be stripped, bound, impaled and left to think about her poor performance for the night. She will be on display in the library. If anyone wishes to buy her for the evening, the price is four hundred credits. Any takers?” He looked slowly around the room. No one moved.
“Fine then. The loser pays. The winner gets to play. And we, dear friends, will adjourn with her to the bar and other entertainment,” Julio added
“By the way, my friends,” Julio said loudly so that he could be heard above the continuous conversation in the smoky room, two very new and very smart-looking young slaves, one male and one female, from Indiana, USA, will be there shortly for your pleasure. They were investment bankers who made the wrong calls at the wrong time and their clients sent them here to us. I do hope no one here has any aversion to attractive, young and unrepentant stock brokers?”
Back in one of the display cases in The Villa’s plush library, Cindy was feeling better. She had been stripped, showered and doctored for her multiple whip marks. Now she stood in the tiny, square, glassed-in display area, ready for her next punishment.
Four hundred credits? she thought, as her Amazon second fitted the chromed steel rod into its socket in the floor and extended the long pole upward, bringing the two smooth rounded tops up between the girl’s wide-spread legs. Four hundred credits? What the fuck does that mean?
Her ankle cuffs attached to a three-foot spreader bar, Cindy stood in high heels with her arms cuffed behind her, wrist to elbow. Wide leather straps held each wrist. These were locked with padlocks to similar straps around each bicep. Her palms faced outward, forearms parallel to the floor. From her padded metal collar a short strap descended to each wrist cuff, holding her arms high up on her back.
Four hundred credits and no one wants me? She looked into the ice blue eyes of the blond Sarah, Number Three, as the first hard metal tip encountered her spread lower lips. The cold steel phallus pushed the lips apart and slowly entered the already damp cavern below. Cindy was panting, sweat already forming on her brow. Sarah bent and made some adjustments. The second probe, with its own flexible length, poked at her rear portal. The metal was cold, but Cindy was warm and accepting. The twin things would go deep inside her and stay there until morning or until someone decided to replace one or both with a tongue or some other organ.
“Ah well,” she intoned to no one in particular as the Amazon Sarah shoved the two solid units deeper. Once they were nestled a few inches inside each orifice, Sarah stopped shoving. She turned around and picked up something from the floor outside the glass display case. Turning back to Cindy, Sarah bent over and kissed her hard on the mouth, driving her tongue between Cindy’s teeth and probing deeply. Cindy never hesitated. She responded with her own tongue and the two remained there, locked in a lover’s kiss, the tall Amazon’s leather sheathed breasts pressed against the naked and heaving chest of the bound and impaled gladiator girl. Sarah broke first, pulling away and staring into Cindy’s wide-open eyes. Without any warning, her hands came up holding a fat rubber dong gag with straps attached. She viciously drove it deep into Cindy’s already open and gasping mouth and half way down her convulsing throat.
This triple impalement sent waves of electricity through Cindy’s already tired and abused body. The anal probe was especially frustrating because it was ridged with small, flexible wavelets. As each quarter inch of dong was driven into her clutching sphincter, the ridges popped the edges of flesh and brought renewed tingles to the surrounding nerves and tissue. Cindy tried to relax and accept the thing, all the while unable to ignore the fatter beast being slowly tunneled into her vagina. The new probe in her mouth was too much. She was suddenly gasping and shaking, whining through and around the gag, her hips moving up and down on the mounted probes, knees shuddering and head back, staring at, without seeing, the high beamed ceiling and the track lights of the display case. By flexing her knees, she was able to piston the two mounted probes in and out of her body, lubricating juices flooding out of her and running down the polished, molded dongs. Cindy pumped and pumped her legs and hips while the Amazon looked on, secretly admiring the incredible strength and action in this insatiable prisoner. She stood behind the girl, the final bondage items hanging from her hands, as she watched in fascination as Cindy finally froze in the throes of a staggering orgasm, her knees bent slightly, her head all the way back and her breasts jiggling as the waves passed through her.
Sarah snapped out of the staring trance and gently pulled a leather hood over Cindy’s unresisting head, locking the second collar over the first.
“Enjoy,” she whispered, her head close to Cindy’s. She undid the leg spreader bar and fastened a wide leather strap tightly around Cindy’s quaking knees, pulling the band snug and then cinching it with a thin strap between the girl’s legs. The strap held both legs and the impaling stand. Sarah then added another band higher up on Cindy’s legs, a third below her knees and a final one where the leg spreader traps had been. Cindy was now a rigid statue; a part of the upright steel post, her legs and the stand cemented as one. Sarah knew that despite the tight bonds, Cindy would better survive the night in this position with her legs bound in this manner. She cinched the last two leather bands and prepared to leave.
“Before I go,” Sarah said dryly. “I think those lovely tits of yours need some attention. Slowly and with great care, Sarah attached a pair of metal nipple stretchers with a narrow bar connecting them. The circular bases of the stretcher devices slipped over the nipples and pressed down on the skin surrounding the nipple and supported the three legged tripods that extended out and away from the breast. Suspended from the center apex of each small tripod, a tiny gold spring clip with sharpened spike ends hung by a spring. Sarah extended the spring, opened one of the clips and fitted it over the end of Cindy’s already taut nip. She allowed the clip, with its twin needle-like spikes to slowly close, driving the needles into the rigid flesh. A drop of blood appeared where the needles entered flesh. Cindy quivered and shook, unable to do more as the twin impalements reminded her of the need to stay upright and not move too much. The needle-nosed clip closed, driving the pinchers into the nip and bringing a mixture of exquisite pain and tantalizing pleasure to the impaled girl. As Sarah connected the second clip to the other nip, Cindy let out of long groan from behind the gag and inside the hood. The pain was more than she thought she could stand, but then, as the springs on both stretchers took up the tension, she experienced even more agony as her already tortured nipples were being pulled away from her breasts and held in that position by the tripod-mounted spring clips.
“See you tomorrow,” Sarah said in a husky, low voice, as she backed away from her frozen, statue-like charge.
A few moments later, certain that Cindy was already recovering from the punishment in spite of the present torments, the Amazon closed the heavy glass door to the display case, locking the polished brass entry handle.
Cindy was alone in the case, a sweat-soaked, bound, impal
ed, standing mannequin, chained and on display for the guests’ pleasure and her own contemplation. Her breasts were killing her and her mouth was too full. The massive dildoes stuffed her lower cavities and she was unable to see, hear or speak.
“Ah well, I could be back in the states freezing my ass off and worried about paying this month’s rent,” she thought, struggling to stay upright. The impaling shaft with its double probes was fully extended. The black rubber dildo gag was strapped into her mouth and the chains around her wrists, ankles and waist were pulled tight and locked. The leg bands united her lower body with the stand. Cindy stood and wondered about life, and sex, and being a gladiator slave. She wondered about Sarah too, but she didn’t worry. She was certain that she would soon find out more than she wanted to know.
IX – Bloody Romance
Hampshire, England
“Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” she asked.
“Packing for a short trip to the states,” he responded as he zipped the carry-on, wheeled bag closed and stood up.
“But I thought you were not going, especially after the company changed the travel policies. Weren’t you included in that?”
“Doesn’t apply to me. I’m the one who approved the new policy to keep the peasants from going off to Paris or Helsinki to fuck the night away on company time. Besides, this conference is important and I am the only one who’s really qualified to go.”
“Great. That’s just great. What am I supposed to do while you are living it up in Miami?” she said, pouting, her face red with anger and disappointment. “What will I do? Where will I go? London is so boring at this time of the year.”
“Look, Myra,” he said slowly, wondering if this was going to work out the way he planned. “We both know that London is always boring unless we’re in need of staples for the basement larder, so stop your grumbling. You will be fine. You don’t have to go anywhere. In fact, I have something that I want you to think about that might make it easier for you while I’m gone.”
“Like what?” she asked, still pouting and unconsciously reaching up to close the third button on her nearly open shirt that exposed excellent cleavage of her melon-like breasts. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
“Okay. Let’s have a drink and sit down on the patio,” he suggested, walking from the bedroom and into the kitchen. He made them both their favorite drinks; his, a single malt whisky without ice and hers a strong Bloody Mary from her special recipe. They went into the enclosed patio behind the house and sat in their favorite lounge chairs, getting comfortable before they spoke again.
“You can spend the entire time resting in the cellar,” he said, looking thoughtfully at her over the rim of the cut crystal whiskey glass and savoring the smoky bouquet of the Islay scotch as it rose from the glass. Whiskey was, he had to agree with the sages, one of his most essential lifeblood’s. Next to blood itself, it was one of a few other things that sustained him.
She nodded and sipped her drink. She only visited the underground hideaway once or twice a month and then it was usually with him, not alone. She found that going there alone was a bit spooky, a bit like visiting a mortuary, only with living corpses instead of dead ones.
“I was thinking that since this is going to be a short trip, not more than 10 days, I expect, that you might want to spend the time in the cellar, on your own…with all the proper equipment, of course,” Peter added.
“Is everything ready?” she asked, suddenly brightening up as she thought about the possibilities of spending ten long days and nights secure in the hidden room that once was a bomb shelter and was now elaborately modified for their mutual play and enjoyment as well as for storage of some especially delectable items.
“It’s ready,” Peter said. “But are you? Can you do this by yourself?”
“I suppose so,” she said, quickly considering the things she would need to do before descending the circular iron stairs to first one and then the second basement under the old house. “Tonight?”
“Tonight would be best,” Peter said. “It would give you a chance to settle in and for us to make sure you were comfortable…ah, I mean uncomfortable…well, you know what I mean.”
“Okay,” she said quickly. “I need to bathe and get ready then. Do you have any suggestions I need to consider?”
“I’ll go write down a scenario while you prepare,” he said, rising and heading for his office.
Myra took her drink and went to the bedroom, stripped off her business clothes, ran a warm bath and tended to the details that would make her feel her best for the next two weeks of solitude.
Peter wrote a short list on his tablet, checked it against a much more detailed list on his desktop computer and then printed out both lists. The short list looked like this:
Set alarms
Key emergency releases
Check back-up generators
Position keys
Alert Mack
Alert Trudy
Check monitors and relays
Verify rations, water supply, waste disposal units
On his desktop computer he quickly wrote emails to Mack and Trudy, both who lived in Manchester and who were members of the small, intimate group of scene fans. The text was as follows:
I will be in USA for two weeks, beginning Thursday, 23 November and back here on or about 5 December. Detailed itinerary attached.
Myra will be attending to things in the cellar and may need some help, but I suspect she’ll be fine on her own. Please activate your monitors to keep an eye on her while I’m gone. If you want to play, feel free. You know the limits. And, if you play there, clean up after yourselves, please. Dried blood is so hard to remove.
Thanks,
Peter
Myra, having completed her preparations, went to Peter in his office and said she was ready. She wore one of her favorite outfits. Outfit is too broad a term, for what she wore covered little and revealed much of her well-tuned body that looked much younger than she actually was. The corset was black leather and it cinched her already small waist even smaller, ended just below her 38-inch chest, outlined her C/D breasts and extended to just below her navel. It was laced closed to the tightest position with no slack left. The thigh-high black hose came up right to the triangular keyhole junction of her thighs and her ass cheeks, a bit higher than perhaps they were intended to be, but nonetheless intriguing and sexy. The heels were black patent leather with thin ankle straps that locked instead of buckled.
“What about Phoebe and Joan?” Myra asked Peter as he snapped a pair of extra heavy cuffs with leather lining inserts onto her wrists and fitted another similar pair to her upper arms, just above the elbows. Myra squealed as Peter shortened the chain between the elbow cuffs, bringing her arms together so that they formed a Y from shoulder to hands.
“What about them?” Peter asked. He was busy attaching Myra’s padded ankle shackles while she nervously shifted her weight and moved her feet to try to keep her balance on the steeple heels. “They’ll keep you company.”
“But have you set them up for the two weeks as well?”
“I planned for this,” Peter said, sounding irritated. “Now get you narrow butt downstairs and wait for me there.”
“I can’t…” Myra started to whine, wondering how she could navigate the three heavy secure doors and the two flights of circular stairs in her chains.
“Take the lift,” Peter said, now more annoyed.
“Okay. Sorry. I forgot. I get used to taking the stairs as you require. I’ll meet you down there.”
“Don’t get too comfortable. I have a few things for you to do before you get locked up,” Peter added.
Phoebe Ward and Joan Lucas were already in the cellar, hanging around. Literally. Involuntarily. Phoebe, who met Peter one day in the Village Market while trying to decide which brand and style of pâté foie gras to buy, was semi-permanently bolted to one wall, her feet about a meter above the floor, her arms stretched high above her head.
“I-I want to have it with a fine old red Bordeaux tonight,” she said brightly, hardly looking intently at Peter, sizing him up.
“Well, perhaps I can assist,” Peter had said, smiling and visualizing the woman in the situation that she was in fact, now in, pinned irrevocably to the stone wall in his deepest cellar, gagged and plugged, kept alive and in good condition by basic sustenance liquids and unable to even wrinkle her cute pug nose.
“I think I want this one,” Phoebe had said, holding up a €45, three-ounce package of soft, brown paste.
“May I suggest this one?” Peter said, picking out a different package and pointing to the one in her hand, saying, “what you have there is a vegetable mix made from pig. Not goose liver. This one however, is more interesting. If you lived in California, this would be illegal…which of course, makes it all the more attractive.”