“Thanks, Simon. See you in a few weeks. Have a great holiday and stay out of your wife’s famous eggnog.” Bridget smiled, pulling on her camel’s hair coat. She picked up her purse and briefcase and headed for the elevators. Riding to the lobby twenty-five floors below, she thought how good it was to be leaving this hectic place for...well, for as long as she wanted to be gone. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all, she thought as the door slid open and she walked out into the New York winter sunlight.
***
The sheaths were made from soft calfskin, precisely cut, and stitched together to form four unique elements in a restraint package that easily defied any attempt to escape once the entire ensemble was zipped and locked into place on the unfortunate body that it contained.
That body belonged to Bridget Ward. She was fully encapsulated in the multiple sheaths that held her immobilized. As consciousness returned, for some strange reason Bridgett had a mental flash, recalling a story she read years before when she was exploring erotic literature. The woman in the novel was abducted by relatives who wanted to cash in on her life insurance and had sealed her into a combination body bag and sheaths that held her immobilized.
“Don’t waste your energy trying to escape,” the kidnappers told her grimly. “These leather mummy bags will slowly shrink and further compress your lovely body. The more you sweat the faster that process will occur. Even if you were to get out of the sheaths, (which you won’t),” he said. “Your hands and feet are well secured with metal cuffs that are truly inescapable.”
Recalling this story, Bridgett realized that she was similarly bound. Only her nose was exposed and her captors had inserted a tube into the hood and through the gag so that she could breathe more easily. Her clothes and underwear were gone. Under the sheathes there remained nothing but carefully tanned, well cared for female flesh. Her back was pressed to the wall and a short, heavy chain ran from the leather and metal collar on her neck to a ring on the stone wall. She blinked her eyes, trying to focus on the nearby wall she faced. The room was poorly lit and all she saw was a heavy metal door in the far wall. She tried to move her head and found there was very little slack in the sheaths. She was only able to look straight ahead and that was unproductive, so she concentrated on the leather enclosure that held her so snugly in its embrace.
Inside the lower sheath, her legs were secured with nylon quick ties at ankle, below and above the knees, then again at two places on her thighs. Each binding loop was cinched with another that went between her legs. The nylon ties were tight, but not too constricting unless she tried to bend her legs. This stringent restraint alone molded her legs into a single, long, triangular form with her biggest toes similarly joined, but invisible to her. Oddly enough, her first thought was that her expensive, charcoal black Wolford stay-up hose were ruined.
In her usual, analytical fashion, Bridgett studied her situation. The first element in the unique restraint package was a triangular sheath that was zipped closed and captured her already bound legs and held them imprisoned all the way up to her crotch. A series of leather loops, much like ordinary belt loops, at the top of the sheath, engaged a wide belt locked around her waist, keeping the leg sheath in place.
A similar arrangement held her arms, from bound fingertips to well above her mated elbows. Again, she was aware of interior straps or belts securing her wrists, arms above and below the elbow and a harness arrangement that pulled the arm sheath up to her shoulders and held it there. She sat on a flat leather strap that passed from the end of the arm sheath, under her naked butt and connected to the pointed, toe end of the leg sheath, pulling her legs back and her arms against her back, forcing her into the crouched position with her knees up under her chin and her back to the wall.
The third element in the sheath restraints was a sort of leather corset that went from her waist to the collar around her neck. It enclosed her already sheathed arms, pulling them against her back. This sheath, like the others, closed with a large, locked zipper. Then the lacings on each side were tightened, leaving her almost breathless and pushing her breasts up and outward through the small oval openings at the top of the corset. The wide leather straps over each shoulder crossed behind her and were also locked to keep things in their proper place.
The final piece of the outfit, if you could call it that, was a combination mask and headpiece, a half hood, held snugly around her neck by the heavy collar. It was soft and smooth and fit perfectly as it came up over her face, sealing her mouth that was filled with some sort of spongy material. Whatever it was, it rendered her nearly silent. She could hum and moan and the sounds came up from her collared throat and emerged as a muffled jumble from her nose, but that was all. Nothing remotely intelligent could be heard. The mask-like front part of this thing had a hole for her nose and then a single strap rose up from the bridge of her nose, passed between her eyes and mated with another strap that came up from each side in front of her ears and joined at the top of her head. The front strap continued back where it joined the rear portion of the mask at the base of her skull.
Her hair was in a tight braid and pulled back, ending in a knot that held some sort of metal fitting, perhaps an iron ring. The hair and ring were tensioned back and attached to another metal ring on the back of the corset. Although the hair restraint wasn’t all that tight, it was clear that if more tension was applied, she’d be forced to stare only at the concrete ceiling of the cell. There was, although she could not see it, an optional accommodation that allowed for a blindfold to be attached.
No doubt about it, Bridget thought, she was professionally and most securely bound. There would be, she knew, no escape from this unique confinement.
I can’t believe this is happening to me, Bridget thought as she struggled, suddenly in a claustrophobic panic, trying to find some other position. Why are they doing this to me? How did they find me and what do they know? Who are they? How will I ever get out of this?
The leather sheaths were soft, but tight. They allowed her to breath, to flex a muscle here and there, but the bindings beneath the leather were even less forgiving. She felt strange, sitting there in a tiny cement room, unable to move anything but her eyes. It felt a bit like she was immersed in some sort of unyielding pudding that clung to her skin, the gag filling her mouth, her eyes slowly filling with tears.
Bridget silently pondered her situation: There are only two explanations for this: either my fellow workers in the office arranged for all of this or I’ve been compromised. No one else knew. No one else had access to my plans. They have often kidded me about being too involved with the government, doing favors for certain agencies while here on business. “You’re playing in the big leagues, Bridget,” they’d said. “Someday, someone is going to kidnap you, Bridget,” her friends had jokingly said many times when she denied any serious liaison with the intelligence community. After all, the only thing she did was observe and report changes in certain industries that her job was connected with. It was hardly spying. And, she thought suddenly, even they don’t know about my most secret longings.
Realizing that if, by some chance, she toppled over, the chain and collar might choke her, she stopped moving.
This has GOT to be a joke. I suspect Phyllis and Simon conspiring to make my arrival memorable. The limo, the champagne, the gorgeous two-girl team in the car. All far too upscale and elaborate for some really clandestine test of her field craft. All of this has Phyllis’ brand on it. Wait until I get to her. She’ll be sorry. Bridget thought about the last time she and Phyllis had engaged in conduct not only prohibited by the corporation, but also seen in some circles as unacceptable between two women. Phyllis, the bigger of the two women, had slowly convinced Bridget that an evening out, a “Girl’s Night Out,” as she called it, would be great fun and they arranged their schedules so that they would both arrive at a small boutique hotel in the American Adirondacks for the weekend. Apparently, but unknown to Bridget at the time, Phyllis had been there before. When
they arrived they were shown to an elegant cottage that offered everything from a hot tub to a galley stocked with a week’s supply of everything they would need, and then some.
As she sat in the cold concrete cell somewhere in Bavaria, Bridget also recalled how Phyllis had managed to slip something into her wine at dinner that night and the next thing she knew, Bridget woke up abruptly on the king-sized bed, only to find herself gagged and chained to the four massive corner posts. Chained, not tied. That was the key element.
“Hi,” Phyllis had said brightly. “You slug, you slept through the whole night and didn’t even snore.”
Bridget struggled to move, but found that she was chained and cuffed at neck, wrists, ankles and waist. Metal cuffs held her legs just above the knee and chains applied additional tension towards the sides of the bed. Metal spreader bars provided unnecessary, but even more stringent restraint, assuring no sideways movement of either leg. The thick metal belt around her waist felt like some sort of collar or belt used on a very big animal. It had rings welded on each hip and chains ran over the mattress and under the bed, keeping her positioned in the center. The collar was thick and heavy with chains leading for each side to rings mounted on the bed’s sturdy headboard. There was also something foreign in her soaking, itching pussy. Something she knew had not been there before she fell asleep. The thing was big and it was vibrating anxiously, as though urging her on towards sex with Phyllis or someone, anyone. She twisted her hips, trying to eject the powerful vibrator, but it just seemed to dig in deeper, bringing more intense desire to get more intimately involved. She tried to cry out, to tell Phyllis that this was not her plan, but the gag strapped in her mouth worked well. Too well. It was overly effective and she found that she could only hum or moan softly while Phyllis slipped onto the bed, removed the thin nightgown she was wearing and coyly ran her bright red finger nails up the inside of each of Bridget’s straining thighs. Phyllis’ expert tongue quickly followed the path traced by her long, sharp fingernails.
She did Bridget’s inner thighs, licking and sucking as if they were a tasty turkey drumstick, then eased up and tickled the outer and inner lips of Bridget’s sex, working her fingers and then her tongue around the buzzing, grinding dildoe. Both of Phyllis’ hands were now pinching and squeezing Bridget’s coal-hard nipples, eliciting desperate twists and thrusts of the woman’s chain bound hips. Phyllis knew what she wanted and was making sure that her captive delivered as well.
“I warned you, Dearie,” Phyllis said softly as she nuzzled the area around Bridget’s sopping cunt, dredging the warm, emerging liquid with her probing tongue. “You are just too cute to not be kept by someone. And today, this whole weekend, that someone is me.”
Bridget struggled, the chains making clinking sounds into the down quilt under her. Unable to control what was happening to her below the waist and feeling the increasingly distracting physical flashes from each of the metal ringlets that held her so strictly, Bridget knew she was about to give in and be swept away by the entire scene. The first of many orgasms churned itself up from her pulsing pussy and sent electric shocks through her body, making her toes and fingers tremble and shake as if she was playing some invisible, erotic piano with her hands and feet.
The rest of the weekend was a pleasant, but shocking blur of girl/girl sex with Bridget eventually getting to duplicate her original bondage situation with Phyllis and the two of them ending up on the last night chained and cuffed together in the huge bed, kissing and sucking each other’s nipples and sex endlessly.
Now, more than a year later, in Munich or someplace near there, Bridget Ward again struggled with not only her physical restraints, but with the growing erotic stimuli coursing up from her belly and sex, feelings she often suppressed, but which had come to bear that weekend in the cottage in the mountains north of New York City. She stopped fidgeting and tried to figure out what was happening. The last thing she remembered was being in the Lexus with Penelope and Giselle, the driver, and seeing the snow crystals landing on the windshield. Then she went to sleep, thinking, as she dozed off, that it was the long jet flight from New York and that the freezing weather was causing her sudden weariness. She had no clue as to where she was now or why the elaborate restraints. It made no sense, unless...somehow, someone else knew what she thought only she and Phyllis knew about herself.
Not far away, but several stories above the underground cell where Bridget was being kept, a short discussion took place. Had Bridget been able to hear what was said, her questions would have been answered.
“Payment has been made to this Simon fellow?” asked Graf Salmon.
“Yes Sir. He was most gracious and promised to keep an eye out for another subject like this one.”
Salmon pressed his questions: “Her personal life is being shut down?”
“Indeed. We got unexpected help from several sources who were delighted that this little blond pest would no longer be sending photos and faxes back to her handlers in D.C.”
“Any loose ends?”
“None. She has disappeared, leaving a couple of notes on her laptop and a text to a friend saying not to worry that that she’d met someone and was taking an extended holiday to travel in the Far East.”
“Excellent. Have the preliminary tests been successful?”
“More than usual. She is a closet case with deeply imbedded erotic needs. As soon as we stripped and secured her, all the indicators peaked on the monitors. She’ll soon do anything in exchange for a few days in the cellars.”
“Good. Add her to the Top Ten List. Send me the usual reports. I think we have a job for her, but there’s no hurry.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sale
“I’d like to see the fucking machines”
The couple watching the activity on the floor of the grand arena seemed to have other interests. Their attention often strayed from watching a horse being shown to observing other attendees at the exclusive event. They each had a set of Steiner field glasses that they used to constantly sweep the arena seats, apparently looking for someone or something.
A beer vender approached them and bent to whisper in the man’s ear, gave him a plastic cup of the local brew, accepted the five Euro note and headed off into the crowd. The man took a quick sip of the warm beer, said something to his companion and they both got up and left the area, heading down into the lower regions of the huge arena complex. They stopped at a door marked, “DANGER, no admittance,” in three languages, opened it and walked in.
The area was more or less like the inside of a concrete barn. There were horse stalls on either side, perhaps a dozen in all. Some had stock in them and others were empty. The couple walked to the end of the aisle, rang a bell and were admitted to another interior chamber, much like the first, but this time the stalls were full of a totally different kind of stock; not horses. A man in exquisitely well-tailored riding attire greeted them formally, even lightly clicking the heels of his custom made, highly polished, black Dehner riding boots. He introduced himself as Franz Werner, then stepped back and extended both arms outward, as if to say “have a look for yourselves.”
The stalls each contained one, two or three human females, each in full equine gear, from bits, snaffles, bridles and harness to full body harnesses with fancy breast containments and braided tails and manes. Some wore minimal saddles that perhaps might fit a child rider. Some had false ears, but most did not. All had booted feet with steel horseshoes mated to the forward part of the shoe and a high, raised heel. Most had hobbled rear legs and were secured by their bridles to rings at the front or side of the stall. The human ponies either stood on their hind legs with arms bound behind them or were on all fours, with special kneepads that also had the same steel shoes on them. These latter creatures had additional hobbles above their knees and short chains from there to the front legs.
“I know you have plans for the one you saw in the video, the one who brought you here, buy if you see anything else you like, just
let me know and I will have it brought out in the aisle for your closer inspection,” Werner said. “I understand that you already have a good stable. Is there something in particular you are searching for here?”
“Yes,” said the woman. “My, it’s warm in here. Please take my coat. I want to have a closer look at these,” she added, removing her full-length winter fur coat and revealing a closely fitted cashmere sweater with a V-neck that reached halfway to her waist and displayed a fine set of what appeared to be unsupported breasts. Werner, while distracted for a moment by the woman’s excellent figure and jutting tits, quickly took the coat and handed it to a nearby groom who stood almost at attention by his side.
“And may I take your coat as well, Sir?” he asked. “It is warm in here and we try to keep the ponies comfortable. After all, they don’t wear fur coats, do they?” Werner said, looking appreciatively again at the woman’s incredible chest and then slowly shifting his gaze downward to the rest of her fashionable and obviously expensive outfit.
“Yes, thank you, Franz,” the man said, enjoying the little show his companion was putting on for Franz and the rest of the stable crew. “We want a new, partly broken, young adult, or nearly adult, pony for our daughter. She has outgrown her current mount and needs something sturdy and capable of taking her safely over the dressage course. The Pony Liz, you showed us on line, seemed suitable.”
“Hummm,” mused Werner. “I think perhaps number six is also a possibility. She is well bred, safe and starting to work with the smaller jumps. Bring out Number Six,” he said to the groom who took the coats. “Cross ties over there, at once.”
“And Liz?’ Karl said.
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