Bondage a la Carte

by Jurgen von Stuka

  “Oh,” said Phoebe, finally looking at Peter with a sheepish grin. “I’ll take the goose. I do love the idea that those masochistic Americans think more about the goose than about their own appetites. The pork will wait for another time. Besides, I only want the pig if I have guests who say they won’t or can’t eat pig. I enjoy watching their faces when I happen to mention, after the fact, that this was pork pâté.”

  “That sounds a bit sadistic,” Peter said, picking out a medium-sized package of the goose liver delicacy and putting it into her cart.

  “Maybe you will come over and share it with me tonight,” she added, smiling with surprising candor.

  “Do you always get dates this way?” Peter asked, grinning.

  “Only when they help out a poor, recently divorced woman who is trying to figure out what to do on a Friday night when her only company is a bottle of good wine.”

  That had been the entrée for the brief and furious sexual affair that Phoebe and Peter had. On the third date, she came to the house where Peter took her to his bed, drove his steel-hard cock as deep as it would go into her sopping pussy and quickly locked a pair of iron manacles around her wrists above her head. Phoebe didn’t even flinch when he reached down and put similar chains on her thin ankles.

  “These are very valuable antiques,” Peter breathed into Phoebe’s ear as he continued to ram his dick into her.

  Phoebe moaned and arched her back, taking the whole of Peter’s cock and obviously wanting more.

  That was when Myra entered the darkened room and, without preamble, bit Phoebe on the neck, drawing about a pint of her sweet, young blood before backing off and waiting until Peter came inside her. Myra then helped Peter drag the stupefied young woman to the second cellar, leaving her chained and gagged until they had a later opportunity to explore, as they said, “other options” with her. In a matter of a few days, Phoebe’s life changed and she provided everything the couple needed to document her leaving the country for a church mission in Algeria.

  Of course, Phoebe only got as far as the Brown’s deepest cellar and there she stayed, as she was now, bolted and welded to the wall, impaled with twin electrical dildoes and fed and maintained by remote control.

  From time to time, Peter and Myra Brown, being helpful hosts, tapped Phoebe for their personal needs, saw to her requirements and generally maintained her as one would a plant in a garden. Phoebe and Joan were the only current “plants” the Browns owned, but they proved useful and essential to Peter and Myra’s unique lifestyle.

  At regularly spaced intervals, heavy, ornate steel clamps held Phoebe’s body and limbs against the stone wall. Her admirably fine figure was held immobile. She could not flex a finger or toe, wiggle or squirm. Her head was encased in a steel mask/helmet that sealed her eyes and ears, plugged her sweet red mouth and permitted a double sustenance hose to enter through the combination steel and rubber gag plug. She was able to breathe normally through her nose and the holes in the mask at nostril level. The steel clamps embraced her wrists, held close together with her arms stretched upward as though she was hanging from a single chain. Her arms were cuffed closely between her elbows and wrists and again between her elbows and shoulders. The clamps were padded with thick leather and pressed her to the cool, damp, stone wall. Each of her small hands was enclosed in a steel mitten that held each finger separately fastened to the mitt. The helmet/mask arrangement was bolted to the wall as was the steel collar that fully encircled her neck. From the front of the collar, twin chains descended to go under her extended arms, crossed behind her back and connected to the waist belt below her ribs. Below her armpits and around her upper chest, another band of steel pressed her back to the wall, pushing in on the natural swell of her full breasts, which were lifted upwards by the extension of her arms. Below her breasts, another band with small cutouts for the bases of her breasts circled and pressed her chest and ribs to the wall as well. The waistband of stainless steel that served as an anchor point for so many chains was adjustable and was periodically tightened as Phoebe lost body fat, but it held her narrow waist snug to the wall. Below her flat belly, a triangular steel enclosure, somewhat like a steel bikini bottom, captured her sex and led up the chasm of her ass. Inside this awesome steel crotch shield, twin dildoes were nestled and pressed deep inside her body. A narrow chain that ran from the base of her spine, through her buttocks and up to the waistband held the dildoes in place. Snug. Tight. Deep. Each plug had its own hose and wiring which discretely led from behind her into a conduit in the stone wall and disappeared just as the hoses from the helmet vanished almost unseen higher up.

  More steel clamps encircled her legs above and below the knee and again at her ankles. Although totally unnecessary, a slightly lighter set of steel shackles were clamped on her ankles, the chains stretched downward and connected, without slack, to widely spread staples in the wall. Phoebe was, she thought, more of a wall decoration than a living captive. But she knew well enough that she would not be ignored and that her owners would carefully cultivate and maintain her, changing her position from time to time and making certain that she got sufficient exercise on the punishment machines to keep her alive and well for a very long time.

  One of Peter’s favorite routines for Phoebe was a harsh suspension that allowed her to flex her back and not much else. Lowered from her wall mount to the stone floor, Phoebe lay inert while Peter placed her ankles into the rigidly mounted steel cuffs at the end of a three-foot long spreader bar. Then he pulled her nearly numb arms back and attached each wrist to similar cuffs mounted on the same bar, next to her already secured ankles. This was not a fun position and Peter had to work hard to get Phoebe stretched backwards into this onerous, spread hog tie. Phoebe resisted a bit, grunting and groaning at being bent backwards when she had spent so long welded to the cellar wall. But soon she lay there on her stomach, her lovely full breasts squashed into the flooring, looking like two monster marshmallows that were being compressed.

  Peter’s favorite line then was: “And now for the part you’ve been waiting for, my dear Phoebe. Allow me to hang you up for the night.”

  Phoebe groaned into the gag and the steel helmet as Peter attached the spreader bar to a single hanging chain, activated the electric winch and watched enchanted as the backward bent body rose slowly off the floor and began to slowly rotate once all body parts were no longer in contact with the granite floor. She groaned again. The last things to leave the floor were Phoebe’s reddened, pointy nipples and they scratched against the stone and then lifted away.

  “Oh, I get it,” Peter said with a laugh. “You just hate those little points to be hanging there all alone. How about a couple of nipple stretchers?”

  Again the groan, a mixture of fear and longing. No one could say which it was, but as Peter attached the spring loaded, golden clips to each of her rock hard nips, Phoebe emitted a long wail that sounded like a coyote’s howl from far away.

  “Yes, yes, I know, Phoebe,” Peter intoned as he adjusted the stretchers. “These little devils can be Hell. The springs slowly unwind like clockwork and as they do, the tension on your nipple rings increases. It’s good for about twenty-four hours, then I need to reset the springs. I know you’ll enjoy this.”

  Peter and Myra entered the cool underground chamber with Myra shuffling along in her high heels and the steel shackles chaffing her ankles just enough to make her complain as she always did when something she really wanted was coming. Phoebe hung in her usual spot on one wall, facing her silent companion, Joan, who hung in similar fashion on the far wall, similarly bound with steel bands and bolts. Much of Joan’s restraints were permanently welded in place as she had been the Brown’s guest for a longer time and thus, as the weeks and months passed, Peter had accommodated her with more exact fitting bonds.

  “Damn,” said Peter as he quickly realized that he had forgotten about the third occupant of the cellar. “I totally forgot about Miss Italy over there.” He walked over to the stone sarcop
hagus and easily raised the two hundred pound lid, revealing the chain-bound naked figure of a young woman lying inside. She made no sound, but wiggled about in the close, coffin-like confinement of the stone tomb, obviously begging for release. She was wrapped tightly in chromed steel chain and her mouth was filled with a large rubber gag that had a hose running to the side of the stone coffin. There was a leather belt strapped around her narrow waist and it held a thinner strap that went between her legs, mostly hidden by her hairless lower lips. Twin hoses led from her crotch to the sides of the coffin.

  “How long has she been there?’ Myra asked, stepping gingerly over to look inside the tomb and marveling at the writhing beauty confined within. Her body was indeed flawless except for the multiple double puncture wounds down the inside of one arm.

  “Ah, a few days, I think,” said Peter. “I put her here when you were finished with her and then forgot all about it. Guess I’d better get her up and resuscitated, huh?”

  “Right. But do me first. Then you can play if you want. I need a nap.”

  “Of course, darling,” Peter said. “Of course. Let’s get you fixed up.” He reached for what looked like a common walking cane with a smoothly curved handle, hanging on the wall. It differed from a normal cane in two ways: first, it had several narrow vents cut into the length. These were evenly spaced and were thin enough as to not be apparent to the casual observer. The second difference was that the curved handle was longer and at the end of it was a beautifully carved model of a rather large, fully erect penis. If the cane was used as a walking assist, the user would have his or her hand wrapped around the wooden dick with the bulbous head extending outside the grip of the hand and pointing downwards. “Now stand still. You know the routine. Is this one big enough, you think?”

  “Yes. I suppose it’ll do for ten days.”

  “Okay, bend your knees a bit and relax.” Peter held the cane with the handle end down and expertly inserted the carved cock handle into Myra’s waiting ass. It went in easily and the length of the cane was now flush against Myra’s spine, the curve of the handle imbedded between her ass cheeks and the tip of the cane just above her neck. Peter used a short strap which fitted through the highest slit in the cane and fastened it as a collar around Myra’s neck, pulling it snug and thus holding the cane flat against her straight back. A second strap went through the next vent and wrapped around her chest, above her breasts. A third strap went through the cane and around her waist. Peter pulled each strap snug; assuring that the now deeply impaling wooden cock would not slip out of its new home. Myra simply grunted as it went in and as each strap was applied.

  “You can tighten the collar a bit more, Peter, dear,” Myra said, breathing easily and standing erect and very still.

  “Well, alright. But let’s wait until the other accessory is in place, shall we?”

  “Okay. Go ahead. Have your fun.”

  “Oh, I am and I will,” Peter said, stepping to the tall dresser and cabinet at one side and opening a drawer. He removed another cane, similar to the one now strapped to Myra’s back, but this one had no curved handle. Instead, it had an even larger carved cock at one end and thin metal staples attached along its length.

  “Use a condom on that thing, would you, dear. It tends to chafe after awhile,” Myra said, quietly surveying the cockcane and visibly anxious to have it too up inside her.

  “Of course, my dear,” said Peter. “Do you want one of the stimulant ones or just a normal lube job?”

  “Oh, I do like the stimulating ones. That grease seems to last forever, you know.”

  “I know. Your body heat keeps it active. Works fine front or back, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. True, but if you use two of them, it’s sort of overwhelming, you know.”

  “Yes, dear. Ready?”

  Myra nodded and Peter, with loving care, inserted the cock handle of the cane into her already well-lubed frontal crease and slowly worked it upward while Myra shuddered and shook with her usual whine.

  “How’s that?” Peter asked, indulgently.

  “Lovely, lovely. Is that as far as it goes?”

  “About it, I think,” said Peter, pushing the cane a bit further in and then taking a set of thin straps from his pocket and threading them through the staples in the cane’s length and wrapping the straps around Myra’s legs, pulling the straps tight and forcing her legs close together as they embraced the straight length of the cane. When he was finished, Myra stood ramrod straight, the curved cane handle deep in her ass and the straight one well up her cunt. Double fucked with the wooden penetrators, she had her eyes closed and was humming to herself. “Let’s finish, love. I need to sleep now,” she said, almost in a whisper.

  “Of course dear,” Peter said. He unlocked the wrist cuffs, letting her arms fall free, picked her up carefully and carried her to another stone crypt on the far side of the chamber. The lid was open and Peter carefully laid Myra’s relaxed body inside. Her free wrists were locked in the metal cuffs on each side of the coffin, one set at wrists and another just above the elbow. A metal band with soft leather padding went around her head above her eyes and another around her neck over the collar. Additional metal bands were locked around her waist, upper legs, below her knees and at her already chained ankles. Finally, Peter fitted the breast retainer, a much wider, flexible metal band that fit over her now rigid nipples which conveniently stuck out through the holes in the band. Pressing it downward, Peter locked the band in place, squeezing her tits beneath the band and driving the excited nipples upwards through the narrow, circular openings. Normally, Myra wore a set of gold or stainless steel nipple rings, but these were missing, having been removed while she prepared for her two-week rest. Using the holes in each nipple, Peter inserted a set of gold bar bells. With these in place, the nipples were held captive in the steel band. Each breath Myra took put strain on her imprisoned nips and caused shudders to radiate through her body. Again, Myra hummed.

  “What are you going to do with Miss Italy?” Myra asked drowsily.

  “Not to worry, my dear. She’ll keep,” Peter said. “She’s the right type, you know, so she’ll be useful later on, I am sure.”

  “Oh, yes,” Myra murmured, almost in a trance now. “Type O. I nearly forgot. And very sweet too. Don’t forget the mask.”

  “I won’t, dear. Sleep well,” Peter said as he lowered the molded steel face plate onto Myra’s face. The mask was beautifully made. It had two long, rigid posts, one on either side, that passed along the sides of Myra’s head, going past her ears. On the inside of the mask was a large, grotesquely enlarged metal cock with indentations near the base where it connected to the mask. This cock gag could be removed and replaced with a variety of other gadgets, but for this experience, Peter thought the fat metal cock with tooth and fang grooves was suitable. Myra opened her mouth wide as soon as the metal dick touched her red lips and the thing slid inside, slightly scraping her long, sharp fangs and filling her oral cavity with the dick’s rounded tip going back just far enough to allow her front teeth and extended canines to slide easily into the grooves at the base.

  The mask was snugly in position now with Myra’s face pressed close against the inside, each contour of her cheeks, mouth, nose and eyes precisely molded to the mask. Only then did Peter press the mask down more forcefully until he felt and heard the side posts of the mask lock into their bases on the inside floor of the coffin. Peter took a last look and closed the lid.

  From somewhere in the room, an electronic hum grew louder and Peter knew that by closing the lid, the automatic equipment was activated now and taking care of Myra for as long as she rested in the crypt. From the side posts of the mask, small IV needles inserted themselves into Myra’s neck and two flexible hoses entered her nose. Yet another hose port opened in the very tip of the cockgag. Each of these accessories would provide needed sustenance to the encrypted captive. Peter had set the computers for more than two weeks, but he was sure he’d be back before then. Mean
while, Myra would be well taken care of. She wasn’t leaving without some help and she was happily dreaming of men and women with beautiful bodies that begged to be bitten and drained of their blood.

  X – Therapy

  San Francisco, California

  This must be part of madness, Lacy thought.

  The total lack of predictability, the inability to anticipate what was coming and the endless tension, were driving her mad.

  Madness is relative.

  Lacy never wanted anything in her life to be completely predictable, but now, there it was, this insane need for knowledge about what was going to happen.

  It was an odd form of madness, she thought. True madness, to desperately want to know when the next cycle of beatings would begin.

  For someone who had always taken the erratic, laissez-faire approach to life, Lacy now obsessively sought order and predictability, just as she did when she was preparing the corporation’s questionable finance reports. Strange as it seemed to her, she wished now for a schedule. A predictable cycle of abuse. Something that she could adapt to, learn, memorize, use to predict when the next series of searing blows would come.

  It was the not knowing what or when that was driving her mad. Just when she thought she’d figured out the timing, it seemed to change. Just when she was dozing off for a bit of much needed sleep, the machine struck, often with more ferocity than before.

  She tugged against her tightly strapped wrists and ankles and she wondered: How do I measure the ferocity? How can I anticipate the strength of something I can only feel when it happens?

  I can’t see it because of this tight, heavy, skull-crushing hood.

  I can’t smell it because of the hood, which fits like my own skin and has its own leathery aroma.

  I can’t hear it because of the waxy plugs in my ears.