Bondage Town

by Reese Gabriel

  The club was called The Clamshell. There were two parts to it. The first was more or less what Meredith called ‘vanilla’, which meant plain and boring sex practitioners, no tops, no bottoms. This was the part you could access from the street. It was only a few blocks from the clothing store where Meredith had eventually slapped down her credit card on the counter to pay a bill so large Reyna was sure she and her mother could have lived six months off the amount.

  The Clamshell sign was neon and the people were all young, hot and in the mood to party. A few people turned their heads at the two lovely women in leather, but not many. Maybe they were used to it, Reyna thought. The other Clamshell—the hip one—was accessed through a door in the back, at the bottom of a flight of creepy stairs. There was a guard upstairs in t-shirt and sports jacket, looking bored as he opened the door for them. There was another guard downstairs, this one bare-chested and wearing leather tights, boots and a facemask.

  Unlike his upstairs vanilla counterpart, this one looked like he could tear an intruder limb from limb. As soon as he saw it was Meredith, however, he dropped his cross-armed stance and bowed low. “Good evening, Mistresses.” His voice was deep. “If you’ll wait one moment,” he said, delivering a terse coded knock to the black windowless door, “I’ll let you in.”

  The door was metal and it opened with a creak, like it was a dungeon. Which is precisely what the place looked like with its gray cinder block walls and slate floors. Inside, the room was smoky with a reddish hue emanating from crimson spotlights set along the wall. As the door closed behind them, Reyna had to blink to adjust to the dimness. She nearly screamed when she felt something at her feet, but Meredith clamped her arm and gave her a severe look. It was a man, licking her boots. He was nude, except for a leather chest harness. His head was to the floor and he was on his knees. On the other side, a similarly attired man was doing the same thing to Meredith’s boots. She could see now they were chained to the wall, the ends of the links running through their matching black collars. Apparently, greeting guests this way was their job.

  “Count to twenty,” Meredith whispered, “then kick them away and call them worthless scum.”

  Reyna couldn’t actually bring herself to kick her foot slave, but she did manage to push him away by the shoulder with the heel of her boot. If Meredith noted the deficiency, she didn’t say. A little further in, they were offered drinks by another nude man, whose erect cock was bound by a tight metal ring at its base.

  Meredith scooped up the leash, yanked it cruelly as she placed her order. “Gin and tonic, worm.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Then to Reyna he cringed, “And for you, Mistress? What is your pleasure?”

  “How dare you presume to please any woman!” Meredith boomed, grabbing him by the cock. “You aren’t worthy of us! Got it? Now get on your knees and beg forgiveness!”

  The man fell swiftly, burying his face in Reyna’s leather covered crotch. “Forgive me!” he wailed hugging her buttocks with his arms.

  Reyna glanced from side to side, slightly embarrassed by the scene. But this was nothing. Along the wall next to her, a man in a leather hood laid out on an X-shaped cross was being heavily whipped by a longhaired brunette in stilettos and a metal bra. Two other men, meanwhile, were side by side, leashed on hands and knees as their handlers, elegant women in sequined dresses, conversed lightly.

  All around, women had the upper hand, laughing, dining, while males cringed and cowered. Reyna had never even imagined such a thing possible—such a total reversal of male supremacy. “You’re forgiven,” she told the bald man, who was still slobbering over her like a puppy.

  He yelped as she pushed him back with her knee. Apparently her foot had connected with his balls.

  “Oh my gosh!” she began, but a pinch from Meredith to her ribcage stifled the imminent apology.

  “Chill out, girl,” Meredith whispered fiercely. “These men have all paid to be here. Believe it or not they fork over vast amounts of cash to be humiliated, so don’t ruin it for them.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Meredith inclined her head to a man being paddled on his bare ass as he lay over a cocktail table. “See that guy? He’s the CEO of a fortune five hundred company. All day he has the say so over thousands of people’s lives; at night, all he wants is for someone else to have all the power.”

  Reyna followed her in silence to a table with two ‘seats’, consisting of men on hands and knees, offering up their backs for the comfort of the guests. She tried not to laugh, but it just seemed funny, all these paunches, bald heads, and wriggling ancient male buttocks.

  “May I serve the Mistresses?”

  Reyna looked up from her soft pink seat. Way up. A Greek god was standing there. Now here was something sexy she thought, feeling her toes curl in her boots.

  Meredith shook her head. “I don’t know. We’ve got a virgin here.”

  “I’m not a…”

  A kick from Meredith to her shin, gentle but efficacious stifled the rest of her protest. All at once now, the blonde giant knelt on one knee, taking Reyna’s hand to kiss it. He was absolutely gorgeous in leather kilt, strapped sandals and bare bronzed chest. “It would be my honor, Mistress, to initiate you.”

  Reyna looked blankly at both of them. Initiate her into what?

  “She’s young,” Meredith shrugged. “But I think she could be a natural.”

  His deep amber eyes flashed as his hand cupped hers. “This slave longs to serve the young Mistress,” he declared.

  Reyna’s mouth dropped open. It was all she could do to keep from melting at his feet. She didn’t love him like she loved Jason, but he was so cute, and he was here. Only she had no idea what to do. Oh, God, now he was lowering his head, waiting.

  Meredith tapped the table with her fingernails. “If you want him, you’re supposed to attach him to a leash.”

  “Leash?”

  “Yes, take one from the neck of your chair,” she suggested.

  Reyna fumbled beneath her, feeling over the man’s nose to his collared neck. She tried to keep her fingers from trembling as she unclipped the end of the leash then moved it over to the little metal loop on the new slave’s collar. She was half-afraid the man might jump up and try to bite her, but he remained docile, not moving a muscle.

  Who was he? He hardly looked like the other potbellied businessmen in search of a thrill. She gulped now, realizing she had no idea how to get him back up to his feet. Meredith helped, tapping his side with her whip. The man rose to his feet. Reyna was nearly lifted off her feet as the leash rose into the air. He was nearly a foot taller than her. She could barely reach his chest, let alone his neck.

  Meredith fell in beside her as the man led them to a private room. There was a four-post bed on one side and on the other, an alcove with dangling chains hanging from the ceiling like spider webs. Soft lights built into the walls bathed the room in a pink glow. There were no windows and the walls were brick, softly painted.

  “I am Atlas,” the man said appropriately enough, as he unsnapped the leather skirt revealing a set of equipment perfect enough to make Reyna’s mouth water. He was rounded and circumcised and hardening before her eyes.

  “Bare feet,” Meredith instructed, inducing Atlas to remove the heavy sandals. What a marvelous specimen of manhood, Reyna thought, eyeing him longingly.

  With his arms crossed over his head, Meredith was able to secure him to the chains, using a stepladder. When Reyna flat out refused to use the whip on him, being unable to bear the thought of marking such a perfect body, Meredith handed her a paddle from off a rack on the wall instead. This was more her speed. After a few tentative blows, she got the hang of it.

  As Reyna struck from behind, Meredith stood in front, stroking Atlas’ cock as he stood impervious. He was like a wall of muscle, calves to back, cords inside cords inside cords. He never flinched, nor even seemed to acknowledge the stinging impact. From the looks of the blacks and blues across his flanks, he was us
ed to such treatment.

  Reyna suspected the real torture, though was in front, where Meredith was cruelly arousing him, yet denying him climax. For added effect, she clipped his gorgeous nipples (the room seemed equipped with everything) with little butterfly clamps. When his buttocks were bright red, Meredith had her stop so they could unchain him.

  Atlas crawled now onto the bed, whereupon he proved himself to be an incredible lover, doing things with his tongue over every inch of Reyna’s body, removing her clothing with nibbles of teeth and serving her every whim and pleasure. The presence of so much male power, doting over her, worshipping her was an incredible turn-on. Reyna felt so special, so awesomely female, having her tiny curvy body attended to with such devotion by this huge man.

  She thrashed and moaned as he tongued her clit. She’d no idea a man could do this; truly he was as skilled as Merry. She didn’t know if she was supposed to give in with this much abandon, but she couldn’t help herself. The truth was she wanted cock, wanted a lover to fold her in his arms and teach her the mysteries of her untapped womanhood.

  Shouldn’t she worship him instead, then? Wasn’t it backwards?

  With flicks of the whip, and a few loud cracks for good measure, Meredith kept him up to her standards, insuring his diligence and thoroughness. Reyna lost track of all the orgasms. She could barely even remember her name. All she knew was that afterwards she felt sorry for Atlas being so neglected. She’d gladly chew up his erection right now, returning the favor, if only Meredith would let him.

  But the man had other duties, things to do for Meredith. Reyna had to squeeze her legs, willing herself not to get up and go to him. She wanted to crawl to him, slide underneath him as he serviced Meredith on his knees, so she could fellate him like a slut—the kind of slut who serviced slaves. But she couldn’t do that. She was supposed to be a Mistress. Closing her eyes, she put her fingers deep in herself, trying to masturbate herself back to reason.

  This time she definitely thought of Jason and what she would like to do with him. This Atlas fellow had given her a few ideas. Maybe it was time she turned the tables on her little mama’s boy.

  ***

  Shep’s home was at the end of a private road, behind a large grove of orange trees. It was a mansion, in the old Southern sense, with stately white columns and a huge rocking chair laden porch. For a hundred acres surrounding it there was nothing but orange and grapefruit groves. Pristine was the word for it, the way this whole town had looked before strip malls and condos. As part of the Trace’s holdings, it was the last of the original settler land, and its real estate value probably topped the tens of millions of dollars by now.

  At one time, this place had belonged to Shep’s grandfather. When she and Shep were young, it had sat idle, but then Shep’s father had restored it in his dying days, with the hope the family would all move in together again.

  “Good grief, Shep,” she exclaimed, trying to reconcile the apologies he’d been making all the way over with the stunning estate she saw laid out before her eyes. “I thought you said this place was an embarrassment?”

  “It is,” he said, pulling up in front of the circular asphalt drive. “It’s excessive and obnoxious. But I owe it to my grandfather’s memory to maintain it.”

  She studied his face. He always had been full of contradictions. Bold and modest, taciturn and wild. Loyal to a fault, given to martyrdom, yet capable of making a break with tradition no one else in this town would ever dream of. Moving with the efficiency of a big cat, he got out, opened the Rover door for her and helped her out. The front doors of the mansion were imposing, a twin set, painted elegantly in white with large brass knockers.

  “Remember,” he prodded, putting a hand to her back, guiding not pushing, “you promised not to be shocked by anything you saw here.”

  “Yes, Shep, I remember.” How could she forget after the huge lecture he’d given on the way over about the terrible secrets he kept in this house, which would condemn him in the eyes of respectable people? And then there was the other issue. The mysterious person residing with him.

  Cynthia drew a deep breath as she entered the foyer. The house was beautifully appointed, laden with hard woods, early American furniture and rich tapestries. It was like stepping back in history a hundred and fifty years or more.

  Boot heels clicking down the hall, Shep escorted her in utter silence to a door, closed, indistinguishable from a dozen others in this particular hallway. “What you need to see is in here.”

  Shep opened the door, waved his arm for her to enter. Apparently he did not intend to follow. The room was quite large and it reminded her of a ballroom, circular with chandeliers and high narrow windows, running the length of floor to ceiling. She could almost see the dancers, from long ago, spinning and twirling, falling in love to the sound of an orchestra.

  At the moment, though, it was more like a museum. A torture museum. Her pulse quickened as she the examined the array of equipment: the racks, the wooden chairs with straps, the stocks and the manacles, the shackles set into upright posts. There was even an iron device with metal bands set near a brazier. Her imagination soared wildly as she guessed its purpose, along with that of the large wooded chest filled with branding irons.

  There were whips on the walls, too, and other devices, such as leather harnesses, similar to what you’d see in a tack barn, only she had a funny feeling none of it was intended for horses. Her pulse quickened. Her knees went weak. Turning slowly in a circle, she let it sink in. Shep had everything he needed in this chamber to subdue a woman and reduce her to utter slavery. Any woman. Even her. The strange thing, though, was that the place looked more like a storage room, as though these things had been set in here some time ago, brought from another place and left to lie in ruins.

  “I don’t show you this to terrify you,” he explained, coming up beside her. “Although I’m sure it does. I just needed for you to know the sort of monster I am.”

  She reached out to touch him, but something held her back. It wasn’t fear, or revulsion, but something else. “Why do you keep these things?” she asked gently.

  He smiled wryly, masking depths of pain she could never hope to delve. Suddenly she saw his age now, the effect of the years, so much more than chronological. “You mean do I still torture young women? No, that’s not possible now.” He pursed his lips, turned his eyes away. “It’s a reminder, that’s all, of the way I have sold my soul.”

  Something flashed through her mind. The person he lived with, was it a slave, his love slave? And if it was, then why was Cynthia so filled with despair at the very idea? And if he did have such a lover—and for the life of her she hoped he didn’t—then why wasn’t he using this stuff on her? She took his arm.

  “Shep, if you have a relationship centering around slavery, I would never judge you. You’re my friend; I respect you, always. What occurs between consenting adults is their business and no one else’s.”

  Not only don’t I judge you, I wish you’d enslave me, Shep Trace.

  He looked at her, his eyes betraying a twinge of surprise behind the stoical mask he’d affected. “No, Cynthia.” He tugged his forearm from her grip. “I haven’t any lovers. If you must know, I am impotent. I have been ever since Li Pey’s death.”

  Her heart seared with his pain. She needed to hold him; she had to do something about all this hurt. She’d no idea. She would have come to him, gone anywhere to be with him and help him, if only he’d called on her. “Oh, Shep, I’m so sorry, I…”

  “Come with me,” he interrupted. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Wu Wei was in the library. Sitting cross-legged and bare chested, wearing only silk pajama-like pants, affecting a kind of yoga position, eyes lost in faraway concentration. How she knew who it was before he introduced her, she wasn’t sure. She just did. Because of her unspoken connection to Shep, maybe. Just like she could guess his every move, think his every thought almost as soon as he did himself. Shep stood wit
h her in the doorway, making no move to interrupt his teacher. Feeling a deep sense of peace, she waited, knowing the answer would come. Actually, she was thrilled. Leave it to Shep to feel it a scandal to be living in the company of a wizened old mystical guru. And here she’d thought some pretty little blonde was wearing his chains—the chains that belonged rightfully on her.

  She shook her head at the notion of being chained. Where did that idea keep coming from?

  “You must leave us,” Wu Wei opened his eyes, stared evenly at Shep as he spoke. Just as evenly, in utter equanimity, Shep bowed, turned on his heels and walked out.

  “I’ll wait for you on the porch,” he said to Cynthia over his shoulder. “I’ll take you home.”

  And just like that, Cynthia was alone with the wily old sage who’d been so influential on the man she loved.

  The man she loved. There again, where were these thoughts coming from?

  “Are you prepared?” he asked her sharply and without preamble, as though it were the culmination of some earlier discussion.

  “For what?”

  Wu Wei frowned. Closed his eyes. “No,” he shook his head, “you are not ready.”

  Cynthia went to him, on her knees. “Sir, please, I don’t understand!”

  Wu Wei rose and put a hand on her shoulder. His motions were like that of a ghost or a finely tuned acrobat. “The Master does not choose the slave,” he said cryptically, “the slave chooses the Master, for it is the slave that is free and the Master who is bound. When you understand this, you will be ready. Go now.” He pointed to the door, broaching no arguments, no commentary.

  Cynthia felt herself following Shep’s footsteps, out of the room, down the corridor and outside the front door. It wasn’t till she saw him outside, sitting on one of the white wicker rockers, looking mournfully across the lush green landscape that she grasped Wei’s meaning. It was up to her to share her desires with Shep. The permission, the power, was hers to give, not his. The key to his healing, to helping him find his manhood lay in her giving him her femininity to exploit, to dominate, to love.