Bondage Place

by Bruce McLachlan

  Sinking her fingers into the tufts of hair the mistress pulled Lydia out, her face wet with a cocktail of wanton fluids, her eyes flickering, her mouth agape and hissing with chaotic breaths as she followed in the wake of the woman into carnal nirvana. The mistress held Lydia’s head back and studied the orgasm she had permitted, the spikes of delicious sensation all the higher from the periods of deliberate deprivation.

  “That’s what I wanted to see,” she murmured, revealing that she had intended to see an ultimate eruption of feminine release as well as to craft a session of servicing that was choked with diligent desperation and a consuming enthusiasm to satisfy so completely.

  With a casual shove Lydia was dropped back to the floor, where her corseted form lay inert, giving rein to the odd flash of residual nervous spasm. The woman recovered her own senses for a moment and then grabbed the lead to help bring Lydia back to her feet. The corset stopped her from bending at the middle, making her awkward in the extreme as the metal bands refused to compromise and let her fold.

  Towed forward, she was taken out of the room and back into the maze of the building’s interior. The passages grew steadily more opulent until she was brought out onto the balcony of a large hall. The far wall was an array of glass doors with stained glass windows rising above them. The massive intricate designs displayed religious motifs and doctrines and sunlight that streamed through the multi- colored glass, bathing the hall in a variety of wild shades.

  The balcony stretched along both walls at the side, rows of doors in the walls accessing other portions of the palace. A set of spiral stairs lead down each corner to access the ground level. Through the door panes could be seen a broad patio, a massive outdoor swimming pool sprawling beyond, the ranks of loungers occupied by idle men and women. Maids clad in penurious attire, their uniforms scanty and designed to reveal rather than hide, served the guests. In strange contrast to these revealing vestments, their heads were locked in hoods of leather or latex that smothered their features and rendered them anonymous servants. They were virtually indistinguishable from each other.

  Moved along the balcony, Lydia was presented to one of the doors and escorted in. The room was no place of easy comfort for it was a dark abode of torture and excess. Shelves were adorned with many assorted devices, both for sexual antics and horrendous assault with numerous tools to cause pain and pleasure in abundance. Assorted modes of restraint lay open and ready to snare a helpless body and leave it defenseless while a full complement of weapons were hung up and waiting to punish.

  “You will wait here until you are to be made use of,” declared the woman. The words finally caused Lydia to risk asking questions after taking a deep breath.

  “May I speak, mistress?”

  “You may,” she said, dragging up a chain from the wall and locking it to her collar to trap her in the chamber.

  “What is going on?” asked Lydia humbly.

  “You are at the personal residence of the president and are here to serve the whims and wants of his guests. Certain powerful dignitaries visit this sanctuary to sate their diverse desires, and those who have been allotted the fate of managing this goal, like you, will be their partners. Does that answer your question?” reported the female with a wicked smile, delighting in Lydia’s mortified expression, a look that inspired her to torment Lydia’s psyche all the more.

  “Mister Talbert is a purveyor of arms and the president requires his aid. To acquire his faithful support in the face of outside pressure to stop dealing with the new regime, the pandering to his desire will convince him to continue shipping to our military. Many of the other guests are similarly here to sweeten their attitude to Guenerros, their vices being used to gain cooperation. They will use you in whatever way they wish. As a whore you will be forced into whatever lot they choose, and there are numerous roles awaiting you. Thus without reprieve you will be condemned to this existence for the rest of your days.”

  “Forever?” Lydia muttered softly, her hands running up and down the dense walls of the corset, her eyes panning across the weapons and devices of the chamber.

  “There is no escape, you’ll be here until you go insane or perish. After all, you are just a piece of property and have no worth, isn’t that so?” grinned the woman, seeking to terrify the new arrival with such threats and taking delight in her psychological ravaging.

  “Yes, mistress. I am just property,” she softly replied. The ordeals in prison and the training of her mistress had roused a dark new side in her and she was powerless to stand against it. She was hopelessly addicted to her submission now. There was no going back. Her only option for happiness and peace was to surrender to it, and where better to do that than in this affluent palace full of depraved wealthy elite?

  The woman saw her stroking the smooth silvery surfaces of her collar, her other hand attending the corset, relishing its impositions on her. Intending to defeat this acceptance she stepped in and grabbed Lydia’s short hair, pulling back, lifting her face up so she could stare into her eyes.

  “These people will torture you terribly slave, and there’s nothing you can do about it, do you understand that. .. slave?” she spat gravely.

  “Yes, mistress,” winced Lydia, the spikes of woe in her scalp bolstering her submission, banishing all notion of refusing this lot.

  “When they finally break your sanity, you’ll be bound and used as an inanimate object, a decoration, a mummified husk that will never feel anything except pain,” she continued, tightening her hold by degrees until Lydia’s features were grimacing with strain.

  “Yes, mistress, I understand,” she choked.

  The woman turned on her heels with an exasperated hiss and strode from the room, leaving Lydia to ponder her fate. The prospect of service to the twisted wealthy elite was one that chilled and warmed her soul. That she was to be used and abused for the entertainment of others was daunting and exciting all at once. But wasn’t this what she now craved? She was tom between finding a powerful satisfaction in her new lot and being crippled with chagrin, alarm, and resentment.

  There was no escape so perhaps surrendering herself to her wanton decadence was the only way to proceed. The act of fighting against her incarceration was futile and doomed to make her life more miserable. Now that she was freed of the grip in her hair, doubts were once more manifesting. Her psyche lacked the full enforcement her submission provided. If she were kept perpetually bound and punished would such mental rebellions evaporate with time? Would Lydia’s previous persona be slowly forced out in favor of this new configuration the more she was kept as a slave?

  There was a war occurring in her psyche, the various factions of her makeup seeking control over her. When she was attended, all she had was submission, but in her isolated moments her conscience and longing for escape gathered a small voice to eat at her resolution to give up and let herself fall into the obliquity that this realm offered.

  Chapter Nine

  The door swung open and revealed a pale thin man with a ponytail of brown hair, his features drawn and feral and adorned with a preened goatee. His eyes were dark and wild, the malignant glint in them growing as he witnessed his subject.

  Dressed only in garishly patterned tropical shorts he closed the door and sauntered over, watching as Lydia wilted before his stern glare like ice in the sun.

  “Superb,” he commented, making Lydia swell with pride as her appearance and demeanor were found satisfactory.

  Taking her collar, he set loose the chain and moved her to a vertical beam set near the wall, the thick pole running from floor to ceiling and armed with stout rings and a hinged strut of wood at knee height. The short piece of dangling wood was tipped with a ring and lined with nails that had been driven through to throw up ranks of vicious spikes. Amongst this prickly arm were two holes, their purpose unknown as her back was put to the timbers.

  “Stand still,” he ordered, taking up a knotted cat and looking at it quizzically before capr
iciously throwing its strands into her belly, making her flinch and stifle a cry.

  “Spread your legs,” he demanded. He added another blow, the stern flash of pain making her shuffle her feet apart and approach two wide set rings in the floor.

  “Wider!” He spat, and swung up into her sex, the strength of his swipe causing a croaking murmur from her throat.

  Straining her limbs out as far as possible, her muscles ached from their efforts and were further afflicted as another blow fell, marking her endeavor to fulfill his request. As her toes neared the rings he stopped and started to lace cord about her ankles, entwining it between ring and joint, trapping her in a most severe and lewd split.

  Her hands were snared within a set of awaiting leather manacles. The restraints carried her arms high over her head and trapped them there as the coil of rope elevating them rose up and through a ring, the length reaching back down to grip another ring at her side.

  Breathing heavily against her corset she watched as he took up a pair of oversized rods, the smooth phallic shafts long and fat, each with a small pole at their base and just large enough to slot into the beam between her legs. Without pause or care he inserted the two rods into her body, ramming them deep and making her stiffen and cry out as they were driven against the limits of her sex and rear.

  Holding the sheathed devices in place, he lifted the hinged strut and slipped the phalluses into their accommodating anchors amongst the upraised nails. Swiftly unfastening the rope, he slipped it through the ring at the end of the strut and tightened it, lifting it upward and pushing the sharp spines to her loins. As he knotted the coil she discovered that any tug to her upraised arms caused the rods and nails to push deeper, punishing and teasing her simultaneously.

  “I’m sure you’ll appreciate this predicament, slave. So now I’m going to beat your breasts and let you try it out,” he sniggered, taking up the cat and wiggling the leather strands while Lydia stared at the device with wide eyes.

  “Master, please, don’t!” She implored at the sight of the weapon and her naked and vulnerable breasts.

  Lines of heat were etched into her assets as he slashed into her, the sudden attack making her jolt. Her arms spasmed downward to try and shield herself, causing her belly to erupt as the nails dug in and the phalluses slammed to her limits. With a croak of response she jerked her arms back up, her hindquarters tensing and wriggling as they worked the shafts back out as far as she could, stopping the nails from pressing to her most sensitive zones.

  No sooner had she managed to gain some relief than the man continued with his attack, the woven thongs etching angry weals, making her seethe against the bondage, thereby afflicting herself with additional duress with every jolt. Her more sedate quivers caused the rods to shiver, stimulating and teasing, as the spines scratched, offering her violently oppositional sensations that made her thoughts chum.

  Turning his attention lower her malefactor rained blows into her legs, the leather tongues lapping around her skin, causing her to tug against her restraints. The pain drove her mad with calamity as she begged for him to stop, howling with every stroke.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes! God! No more! Please!” she cried, wincing as he struck again. Lines of perspiration welled across her brow and sparkled like diamonds in her cleavage.

  “You want me to do something else instead?” he said.

  “Yes! Anythi … “ she began, and the words fell into a choking gurgle with the application of another blow.

  “You are sure? This is what you want?” he asked again as Lydia was left rigid and tense, fighting her way through the effects of the latest stroke as it continued to pulsate.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! Just please stop! I can’t take any more!” she yelled. Another three blows followed her words to end her response so he might address her over her croaking song.

  “Have you no stamina? Are you as feeble as you appear? Or are you lying to me? Is that it? Are you lying to me?” he snarled, the facade of rage hiding his delight in her anguish.

  “No! Never! I’m weak, I’m nothing, I’m a pathetic whore, just please stop,” she begged, the man still beating her as she tried to have him cease.

  The delight he displayed in abusing her increased when he ceased the lambasting and set aside his weapon in favor of a box of acupuncture needles. Lifting one of the spines he slipped free its plastic cap and unveiled the silver spike, the point winking in the light as he turned it before her eyes. Lydia’s tear-streaked face piqued with dread as he presented it, her commitment to enduring the effects of the whip having left her oblivious of the new arrival until it was right before her gaze.

  “You requested something new, you wanted me to stop the whipping and apply anything else. You asked for this didn’t you?” he mocked with darkness in his heart.

  “No, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, whip me again,” she whimpered, the prospect of such travail worrying her greatly. At least she knew what a flogging could do. She was all too familiar with it and when it was over, she actually liked it. But the needles were something new and she was frightened.

  He savored her sobbing requests for mercy and then rested the tip of the needle in her cleavage.

  “Shh, you requested this. Do not try and deny that you want it, I know this is your true love. Your mewling under the lash was to encourage severity. The whip is not enough for you, you want more!” he accused.

  “No! It’s not true!” she blurted.

  “You’re in love with pain, in being controlled and used. That’s okay, I don’t mind pandering to you, slave,” he chuckled, unaware that it was actually so. His words caused grief because Lydia still did not want to believe the truth about herself.

  With a wandering swerve he carried the needle to the side of her breast and then pushed gently. It created a dimple briefly before slipping into her flesh, causing a prolonged yowl to pour from her lips and kill her protests to his words. The feel of cold metal sliding into her assets was more than she could stand, the white hot injection into her body making her shake violently as it took a few moments for her to accustom herself to the steady throbbing pound that marked the site of the needle.

  Quivering, she was left horrified as another was taken up and inserted. The arms dealer slotted the tools in across her flesh, embellishing her breasts with dozens of the agonizing implants. Each addition made her squeal and sob. Without reserve she begged in the few seconds he gave her before another spike warranted a new session of screams. He was pushing her deeper than she had ever gone before, and she could feel her mind curdling, her body drop away, and the pain forcing her essence out, making her feel as though she were detached and flying, separated from her flesh.

  The last needles were the worst, for he put them to her nipples and forced them through the teats, the drilling spears prompting her to wrench maniacally at her bonds. She strained her fingers down to try and drag them out, but her loins were tom by the efforts of her arms, her vain struggles causing the phalluses and nails to work themselves dreadfully at her sex and rear.

  Weeping in frustration she burbled and screamed in outrage as he stepped away, the man studying her predicament and extracting rapture from what his toil had created. How could such implements be used so painlessly in medicine and be so terrible when taken from the realm of beneficial treatment?

  The sight of her in such torment made his lust boil over and with trembling hands he started to unfasten the rope from the pole. Lydia thought he was going to show mercy as she squeezed her tracts and tried to force the dildos out. But then Talbert formed it as a noose about her neck. It changed the nature of her trial to make any haul of her arms restrict her breath, cutting it off as it constricted her throat, the band slipping over the limits of her collar.

  Pushing down on the freed end of the rod he made her abdomen force outward. A prolonged wail escaped her lips as the rods pivoted more and more and eventually they were pulled
out, the infernal strut clacking against the beam.

  No sooner had her belly been freed of one trespasser than another was guided in. The man dropped his shorts and guided his erect member into her sodden sex. Clawing at her back with perfectly manicured nails he commenced his violation with a slow glee, relishing her distress as he continued. The feel of this penetration was strangely satisfying for Lydia, the loss of at least some of her pain brought relief and a sense of delight as she was used as an object of carnal worship. The man used her for his own pleasure, heedless of her will or opinion.

  Without warning he climaxed. The sensation of the tyrant filling her sex caused her to shudder in happiness and achieve her own heights of joy: the feel of her bonds, the excruciating throb in her breasts, the memory of flagellation making her own orgasms powerful and long. Lydia bucked more violently from the intensity of her climax than she had under any of his torments.

  Holding to Lydia with a firm embrace, he kissed the base of her neck, placing his lips to her skin and pecking in small circles. Following her throat he slowly scavenged for the last dregs of his ecstasy. His length operated in random shuffles, her hyper-tender tracts erupting with flares of new ecstasy. Sated, he slowly slipped his member from her belly, crippling her with ghost sensations, a shadow sensation that loitered in her pudenda.

  “Divine,” he uttered to himself, not as a compliment, but as a certificate for his own memory.

  Lifting his shorts back into place, he patted her shoulder fondly and with a wide grin ambled from the room, drunk on his own enjoyment.

  Hanging in her restraints, she closed her eyes and listened to her own speeding breath, a cold chill creeping across her skin as the perspiration of her encounter evaporated. The cold was not her only bane, not by far, for the pins were still within her. The intrusion of these subtle tormentors remained as fixed and gnawing sites. She started to shake her cleavage, trying to fling them out, but the tight grasp of the fleshy tunnels were not eager to relinquish the trespassers and despite some vigorous oscillation of her torso, not one of the punishing shards came loose.