Lesbian BDSM Mega Bundle

by Ella Ford

  “And what is your name?” she asked in a throaty voice.

  I found myself feeling strangely cowed in the presence of such a commanding figure, captivated by the wide pools of her eyes, unable to look away or coax my voice into action.

  “I… I…” I stammered.

  “This is Lisa, my name’s Sam,” said my friend, saving me from my stupor.

  The woman turned like a sentinel and shifted her gaze to Sam, a look of mild annoyance rising in her face, the kind of look that someone pestered by a mosquito might have had. Sam flinched in surprise as the woman’s viper stare landed on her. My blonde friend seemed to shrink under this new scrutiny, losing her usual poise and confidence. The woman remained stony silent, peering at Sam with impatient expectation.

  “We’re, uh, here to see the exhibition,” Sam said meekly, eyes flicking to me for reassurance. “I, uh, hope we have the right place.”

  The woman remained stone still, gazing at Sam with that penetrating gaze. Then her expression melted away and she smiled warmly, reaching forward and touching her hand to touch Sam’s arm. Sam shuddered and flinched, but held in place, mesmerized by the woman’s presence.

  “Art lovers!” said the woman cheerily, “My favorite kind of people!” There was a wry sarcasm in her words, mocking us in ways that I couldn’t understand, but soon would. She turned to me, and the warm smile became sultry and knowing, her eyes flicked up and down my body. “Come, let’s not stand here in the cold corridor. I have so much to show you!”

  Then she turned on her heel and stepped back towards the curtain with purposeful strides. Sam glanced at me and I met her stare, reflecting the look of confusion and nervousness on my friend’s face. Then as one, we hurried after the strange woman, perhaps realizing already that she wasn’t the kind of person who asked twice.

  The woman swept aside the curtain and motioned for us to pass through the wide doorway. The pair of us scampered through like timid children, guided by a strict parent. I glanced at the older woman as I brushed past, finding her eyes crawling over my bare legs, causing me to feel strangely exposed and vulnerable. I shuddered at the strange boldness of her scrutiny, feeling something unfamiliar and curious washing over me. Did I welcome the attention? Was that it?

  My thoughts were interrupted as we stepped into the wide space of the exhibition floor, a vast, high vault that must have been the main warehouse area in the old building. To my surprise, the silence of the entrance corridor was swept aside by a low level drone that had been inaudible before. The sounds were difficult to identify, but unmistakably human in origin. A quiet cacophony of moans and muffled cries, a hint of sexual release in the barely heard din.

  I gazed around, trying to identify the source of the sounds, but they seemed to come from all directions and the room was configured to obscure my view everywhere I looked. I peered into the dim space, sectioned off with high partitions, forming long corridors and secluded nooks. The lighting was provided by bright spotlights, their focused beams making islands of warm light and conjuring dark shadows outside of the obscured areas. Every so often, I’d see a person or a couple, sauntering between the sectioned off areas, sipping champagne from long flutes and chatting together amiably. It was a strange juxtaposition - the dilapidated, run-down warehouse and the strangely middle class sight of exhibition goers, artistic tourists going about their business.

  I gasped and flinched as I felt a touch on my elbow. It was the tall, blonde woman, looking down at me with those unfathomably deep azure eyes. “Come,” she said, gesturing forward with her hand. She flashed a disinterested glance at Sam then turned back to me, offering me her arm. Without thinking, I threaded my hand into the nook of her elbow. To ignore her offer would have seemed strangely wrong, for reasons I didn’t yet realize.

  As we walked into the room towards the labyrinth of beige partitions, I made brief eye-contact with Sam. She peered at me with narrowed eyes and wry smile, then mouthed a single phrase: ‘I think she likes you,’ finishing with a sordid wink. I shook my head and turned away from her, suddenly aware of the warm presence guiding me into this strange space.

  The three of us stepped across the large room and funnelled into the first of the partitioned corridors, three pairs of high heels clicking on the hard concrete floor. I felt a hot tension, a strange uncertainty as we plunged into dimly lit passageway. The sound of moaning got louder and I wondered what on earth could be causing it. Then we stopped and the tall, blonde woman corralled the pair of us together like elementary school pupils on a field trip.

  “I like to create,” she said, her accent seeming thicker than before, exotic and intriguing. “And my canvas is the female body,” she added. Then she reached up with her hand and gently touched her fingers to Sam’s cheek and mine.

  I heard Sam gasp in surprise and I realized that I had done the same. But neither of us flinched away from her hot caress, both seemingly captured in the hypnotic glare of her wide eyes. Distantly, I wondered what on earth we were getting into, what on earth this strangely enigmatic woman was doing in this awful building. But most of all, I wondered what the low moans were, the muffled cries that seemed to echo around the high partitions that surrounded us.

  “Let us see the first piece,” she said with a warm and sudden smile. I felt a strange reassurance, an unsupported assumption that everything was going to be okay; that this was, after all, just a slightly eccentric art exhibition.

  The woman ushered us forward, touching her hand to the base of our spines, shepherding us again like lost sheep. We rounded a corner in the temporary passageway and emerged into a spotlit space, approximately fifteen feet square. As one, Sam and I gasped, a deep inhale of utter surprise and bewildered shock. I blinked and tried to take in the details of the strange scene that confronted us, while my brain sluggishly decided what to do about it.

  In the center of the room was a piece of industrial apparatus, a heavy metal block anchored it to the ground and a thick beam curved out from one side, forming a partial arc that rose to a point above the anchored counterweight. In another time, the metal apparatus was presumably used to suspend a car engine or other weighty object. But tonight, now, in this dimly lit nook, a naked girl swayed lazily back and forth from a length of rope and chain.

  I took a step back, an involuntary response caused by sheer shock. I felt myself begin to breath quickly, a mild panic flashing through my body. The girl was bound in a hogtie, her knees bent back and her ankles tied together, her wrists were fastened behind her back, arms crossed together. A single length of rope connected her arms and legs together, pulling her body into a gentle curve. A complex harness rose from her to an apex several feet above her bottom, gathered together on a large metal hook at the end of a chain that suspended her from the metal beam. Her body swung around, propelled by her gentle struggles against the tight ropes and, with glacial slowness, her head came into sight. She was young and blonde, with smooth, tanned skin and a cute nose. Her eyes were covered with a satin blindfold, a strangely delicate piece that stood in stark contrast to the industrial harshness of her bondage. In her mouth, a bright red ball gag, dripping with saliva, wrapped by her full, pink lips.

  The girl moaned and writhed, causing her body to swing back the other way, rotating away from us and presenting us with her naked pussy. Sam and I both gasped in unison as we peered between her parted legs. I blinked, trying to make out what it was that I was seeing, my racing mind failing to make sense of the new and unfamiliar configurations that I was being presented with.

  Pushed into the girl’s pussy was a plastic object, a bright purple bulge, the visible tip of a larger length that was hidden between the girls glistening lips, I squinted, feeling strangely disquieted by the intimate sight but keen to confirm a nagging suspicion. I sighed as I saw the purple object blur in a flash of motion, vibrating quickly for three seconds then falling still. The sudden motion was accompanied by a tortured moan from the girl another futile struggle, causing her body to swin
g around again.

  “How-how long has she been… like this?” stammered Sam beside me. I sensed her trying to keep her voice calm and measured, but her tone sounded distant and frantic.

  The Artist stepped forward and stroked her slender fingers over the girl’s naked bottom causing the girl to lift her head and moan anew. A thin strand of saliva welled up behind the ball gag and dripped from her mouth, a glistening strand of crystal liquid that I couldn’t take my eyes off.

  “Long enough,” said The Artist with a sly smirk, then tapped her hand on the girl’s ass with a playful swipe, causing a sharp cracking sound to echo around the high room.

  It was too much for me. The bound, helpless girl. The intimate details of her naked body. The casual way that The Artist treated her body. It felt wrong, disgusting, degrading. It seemed at odds with every instinct I had, every facet of my modern upbringing. I felt a mild sense of panic rising in my body, remembering the strange way that The Artist had gazed at me, the peculiar glint in her eye. Did she want to do this to me? The thought rushed through my head and exploded in a supernova of implied consequences.

  The girl moaned again as the vibrator whirred into life inside her and my mind snapped. “I’m s-sorry,” I stammered, “I-I have to go.”

  Then I turned on my heel and fled, stumbling on the rough hewn floor but regaining my balance, heading for the velvet curtain and the rainy night beyond.

  Chapter 2: The Private Viewing

  Outside the warehouse, I stopped, pausing to draw cool breaths of night air into my lungs. I closed my eyes, trying to blink away the warm sting of hot tears that mingled with the light drizzle in the rainy alleyway. I leaned against a rusty iron railing, bowing my head and trying to control my pounding heart and my racing thoughts.

  That girl, her body used like that... I wondered who she was, where she’d come from. As rationality returned, I glanced back at the large warehouse, contemplating for the first time the scale of room - how many more girls were in there? How many more girls were bent into unnatural poses at the whim of that mysterious woman, the woman who I would come to think of only as The Artist. I shook my head and sighed, cursing Sam for bringing me here, wondering where my friend even was.

  “It’s not for everyone, I admit,” said a familiar voice behind me.

  I whirled around and faced the street. It was The Artist, inching towards me on the wet asphalt, she must have exited the building through a side entrance.

  “Where’s Sam?” I spat, feelings of anger rising in my mind, a hot indignation that had only one focus.

  “Your friend?” replied the woman. “Oh, I told her I would come and get you. She seems quite happy to mingle with the other visitors, though not altogether taken with my work.”

  “Come and get me? What do you mean? I’m not going back in there, you’re sick!” I said, attempting to capture every judgemental feeling that swam around my head. The Artist opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “Who was that girl?” I demanded, aware that I was sounding shrill and frantic. “Why did you do that to her?”

  The Artist paused in her approach. Her face seemed to melt into wistful sadness, the sharp lines of her features softening to sympathetic warmth. It was the most human I’d yet seen her. Then, in an instant, the icy facade returned, and she blinked her large, blue eyes as though rebooting her internal program.

  “That girl?” she asked, her accent thicker than ever. “Her name is Sophie. She’s a student of mine.”

  “A s-student?” I asked, not sure what she meant.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a teacher?”

  “I don’t teach at any institute of learning, if that’s what you mean,” she said with a sarcastic smile. I got the sense that she was toying with me, being deliberately enigmatic to pique my interest. It was working.

  “Then what do you teach?”

  She paused and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, glancing off to the side as though formulating a response.

  “I teach women about themselves.”

  I blinked.

  “What do you mean?”

  She took a step towards me and I took a smaller step back. She was almost beside me now, close enough that I could feel the radiating warmth of her presence, imagined or real I did not know.

  “Well, take Sophie. You probably think that she is some unwitting victim in my sordid art, right?” I looked away, blushing for reasons that I couldn’t explain. “But you couldn’t be further from the truth. Sophie has come to learn, under my tutelage, that this is what she wants, what she needs. She likes to be tied, to be bound. She likes that it frees her of responsibility, that she can relinquish control of herself totally and allow her body to be used as I see fit.”

  I shook my head. This didn’t seem right at all, it seemed to fly in the face of everything I thought I knew. But there was something compelling, something strangely intriguing about her words. The notion was distant and vague, a phantom emotion in the raging turmoil of my mind.

  She smiled. “I can tell that you don’t believe me. Sophie didn’t believe me either. All her life she’d done as people wanted her to. Worked hard at school, got a good job with prospects, a steady boyfriend, an apartment, a car. But to Sophie, it never felt right. She felt as though she was a log afloat in a raging river, carried along on the strong current, unable to determine her own direction. Then she found me, and I showed her my work.”

  The Artist’s expression changed, a knowing smirk spread across her mouth, lifting the corners of her lips almost imperceptibly.

  “Do you know what she did when I showed her one of my pieces?”

  I shook my head, but I knew really.

  “She turned and ran. Unable to look upon the naked girl in tight bondage, she fled as far and as fast as she could.”

  I sighed, already knowing where this was going.

  “Girls who want what I offer always run,” she said, reaching forward to rest her hand gently on my shoulder. “Because what they see scares them. It scares them because it excites them, and what is exciting can often also be terrifying. Don’t you agree?”

  I sighed and lowered my gaze to the floor, trying to tame the multitude of thoughts that were racing through my mind. I thought about Sophie, her body immobile and helpless, wrapped in the complex harness of hemp rope. I thought about the details of her bondage, the way her slender fingers flexed and grasped, the way her painted toes curled into tight bunches, the thin strand of liquid that dripped from her gagged mouth. I thought about her pussy, rammed full with the intermittent tease of the purple vibrator, how it glinted and glistened with the hot juices of her arousal. I wondered how it felt to be in that position, a displayed object trussed up for the amusement and excitement of others. How it felt to have people gaze at your most intimate regions, unable to prevent it, utterly out of control.

  To my surprise, a hot flush rose in my body, a strange warmth that started in my pelvis and flicked liquid tendrils of sensation into my belly and up my spine. It was a familiar feeling, but novel all the same, conjured into being by thoughts never entertained before.

  The Artist seemed to sense the change in me, raising a single eyebrow with a quizzical familiarity. I wondered if she’d looked at Sophie in the same way?

  “Are you ready to come back inside now? Lisa was it?”

  “Yes,” I breathed quietly, responding to both of her questions.

  She offered me her arm as she had before and I took it without question. “Good. I thought you might. Now, I have something to show you, a very special piece that I keep for only my most discerning visitors.”

  I looked up at her, curiosity piqued against my better judgement. She turned and smiled, a look of sultry intent spreading across her face.

  “It’s an interactive exhibit,” she grinned.

  ---

  We re-entered the warehouse through the side door, a previously unseen wooden entrance behind a ramshackle wooden porch. The rain had quickened from light dr
izzle to driving spats of cold bullets, so The Artist dragged me along with a hurried pace that made me stumble on my heels. But she held me upright with her body, seemingly not as unbalanced on her own heels as I was on mine. I had the feeling that I was being guided, led, controlled even - it was most disquieting after our brief conversation before.

  Back inside the large, derelict building, I found myself once again plunged into the dimly lit cavern, surrounded by the electric buzz of countless moans and muted cries of pain. I tried to ignore it, tried to focus on what The Artist had said about girls coming to her of their own accord, that somehow this was what they wanted. I still didn’t know if I believed her or not.

  The older woman led me around the periphery of the space, skirting around the partitioned sections to a small side door in the wall opposite the one we’d entered from. I tried to peer into the warren of corridors and cubicles, hoping to catch sight of Sam, but seeing only distracted couples, wandering between the warm islands of light, their faces a mixture of surprise, revulsion and guilty enjoyment. Sam was nowhere to be seen.

  Of the other exhibits - Sophie and her peers - I also saw nothing. The warren was built in such a way as to obscure the contents of the display spaces from everywhere other than right beside them, forcing you to seek them out and view the sordid intricacies of these tortured dolls up close. Only the endless cacophony of low moans gave evidence that there was anyone here other than the handful of exhibition visitors, myself and The Artist. And the more I listened to that softly feminine chorus, the more I strained to discern individual voices, the more it thrilled me. Does that surprise you? Not twenty minutes before, I had fled from this place, disgusted by such treatment of the female body. And now I found myself shockingly aroused by the sound of voluntary suffering and discomfort? It surprised me, that much is true. I was surprised by the pulsing warmth in the pit of my stomach, the strange radiance from my pussy - a feeling that was novel and familiar at the same time. I was surprised by the way I craned my neck around high partition walls, morbidly curious about the sources of the cries and moans, wondering how else the female body could be posed, bound… used.