Bondage Place

by Bruce McLachlan

  “Do you want another, slave?” asked the girl, wiping her chin.

  Lydia gave muffled acknowledgment through the swimsuit and the girl grinned before taking another deep draught. This time she washed it around her mouth and then repeated the deed, making Lydia drink from her waterfall and suckle the moisture from her mouth through the serving of her crotch. The taste of the girl filled Lydia’s palate, the subtle delicacy of her saliva mixed with the potent tang of her roused sex.

  “One for the road?” she asked, and after Lydia agreed she added another spitting dribble onto the subdued features of her prisoner.

  Once this last one was devoured, she turned the bottle and started to pour the remainder directly onto her crotch, submerging Lydia yet again as splashes rained on her face.

  Sucking frantically she battled to clear the waters, knowing that as soon as the material was cleared she could gain air, there being no long period of waiting while the rest trickled down from above.

  But the girl poured slowly, drawing out the event, making Lydia gulp down everything. The waters grew in her throat, hanging there, creating a struggle between gravity and digestion.

  “Almost there, slave,” said the girl, continuing to empty the contents.

  Lydia thrashed madly to get free, livid until the bottle was drained and with a final sucking gulp she managed to gain damp breaths of air.

  The girl patted her forehead and set the bottle aside before putting her hands on her hips and regarding Lydia as she recuperated. The domineering stance restored Lydia’s submission, soothing her resentment of such treatment and bringing a longing for more.

  “You know what, slave? All this running water makes me want to go to the toilet. Shall we save me the effort of traveling and just continue our game with something a little less bland?” she announced, and laughed aloud at Lydia’s mortified expression.

  “Only kidding, slave, maybe some other time. Right now, I want to feel that skillful tongue of yours between my legs,” she asserted, lifting up and stepping away. She drew the shoulder straps of the swimsuit off and pulled the tight sheath down her elegant form.

  Stepping out of the damp material she reversed her position and straddled Lydia’s features, pulling her back into her pudenda. Lydia answered the position with instant compliance, letting her tongue rise up and delve deep into the girl, letting the flavor of her womb spill across every taste bud.

  “Oh, yes!” cried the woman, shaking as she was impaled by Lydia’s overextended organ.

  Drawing back, Lydia started to suckle and lap upon the erect clitoris of the torturess, her eyes fixated on the rear of the girl as it shook from the rapture of Lydia’s intimate kisses.

  Pouring the flat of her tongue against the organ, her head craned back, her neck smarting, Lydia gave a groan of utter relief as she felt slender fingers start to run through her own vulva, tracing a path through the lips and locating her clit. The occasional pinch made her squeak, but only helped to serve her submissive rapture. Her tongue became wilder whenever the girl added a portion of pain to her pleasure.

  The girl continued to beat swirls of motion on Lydia’s sex, filling her spread legs with tension and making her belly flutter as release beckoned. Suddenly the girl started to gasp and pant, jerking with the bursts of orgasm, devouring Lydia’s attentions.

  When she could take no more, she jumped back, releasing Lydia’s dripping womb and wiping her fingers across Lydia’s hair.

  “That’ll do, slave,” she grinned, and grabbed her swimsuit, stuffed the gag in and walked casually away. Lydia moaned and wriggled against her bondage, left at a keen level of wanton lust, deprived of release, her sexual hunger a tornado of fire within her. Despite this frustration she could not help but admire the girl for her sadism, the anguish of deprivation spiced with the dark seductive glee of her masochistic cravings.

  As the day wore on, a steady stream of residents chose to attend her, some secretly, others because they were guests here and were already free to do whatever took their fancy. She was molested countless times and subjected to sporadic beatings from a variety of weapons. In addition to these two basic attacks, she was tormented with clamps and needles, suffocating masks, and enforced oral sex. She was impaled upon numerous forearms as her spread body seductively whispered for such horrendous penetration.

  Her body throbbed with the residual traces from her pains. The after effects of her many attendees left her weak and dazed, her mind in tatters, her sanity torn and ragged, causing her to giggle and mumble to herself for long periods in a bid to distract herself from the isolation and excruciating ache reverberating through her body.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two maids emerged from the passage and began to unfasten Lydia’s bonds, helping her out and then stripping off the lingerie with haste. They pulled her aside and Lydia crumbled onto the floor as a loose heap. Her limbs felt frail and unable to support her or even obey her commands. The imprints of the bonds were stem upon her skin, like the purple weals that had been etched into her and which still bore their own refulgent inner pulse.

  Taken by the arms, the maids lifted Lydia up and drew her away, their duty clearly being to ferry her to a new locale of punishment.

  Wide doors were pushed open, revealing a massive hall. The high-vaulted ceiling was adorned with faded ecclesiastical frescoes from when this abode was still a monastery. Carved pillars ran along the walls and the balconies draped the flags of Guenerros toward the floor. Huge crystal chandeliers illuminated the hall with hundreds of lights, the glittering gems reflecting fractured glints of light across the walls and ceiling. A long banquet table occupied the middle of the massive dining hall.

  Hanging to one side, away from the chandeliers, were lines of golden cages, each held to the ceiling by a stout chain. Within these small prisons could be seen brightly colored forms. Clad in mockery of birds, they were human prisoners.

  One of these cages had been lowered to the floor and the door stood open and ready to accept a new subject, and when Lydia saw a mound of latex garments beside it, she knew why she was there.

  The two maids helped squeeze her into a snug-fitting catsuit of black latex, the contours of the garment clung to every portion of her frame, giving Lydia the sense of deja vu. There were no apertures for feet or hands. The single suit covered everything save her head and the considerations to attend her bodily functions - these accommodated by fat corrugated pipes that were tipped with pear shaped nozzles. Lubricant was smeared across the bulbous heads and they were slowly forced into her. It took a few minutes to work her sex and rear enough to allow them entry because the bulbs were large and not easily swallowed. Holding her down, the maids attended to the task with dull enthusiasm, operating the fellow slave as they themselves had been used countless times.

  Lydia gurgled and mewled as they slid into place, the devices seeming to expand a little to ensure she could not squeeze waste around their vast dimensions.

  The small openings of the catsuit gripped the pipes tightly and as they were fastened into position any hope of expelling them was lost. The storage bags at the end of the internal hoses were applied to her flanks and a leather harness brought out. The plexus of straps was tightened and snapped close to her, forcing Lydia into a kneeling position, keeping her in a squatting pose. Her arms were doubled over and her hands snared to her shoulders in imitation of stubby wings.

  A brutal gag was applied to her head, the tentacles of leather grabbing her skull and holding a plate to her mouth. The large ball mounted upon it forced open her jaws and crushed her tongue. The hollow pipe through the core accessed a number of reeds, and when she exhaled through this restricted vent, a stream of soft musical notes emerged in random sequences; a chaotic chirping guided by her breath.

  With this bondage applied, she was positioned for the bird suit itself. The heavy garment was padded and sculpted to resemble some manner of large pink rubber bird, its feathers crafted from thick molde
d latex shapes, all meticulously glued to a dense skin.

  Lydia’s twisted arms were turned into true wings and a flare of bright feathers formed a tail plume. Her head was sculpted and lost within an aquiline visage, the beak that extended forth completing the outward image of her new bestial nature.

  Unable to rise she was lifted up and placed within the gilded pen of gold. The birdcage was small, barely granting her space enough to extend her contorted arms. The small door was padlocked behind her and the chain supporting the private aviary was hauled in by a winch at the wall, dragging her upward toward the ceiling in short jumps. The dining hall fell away below her until her new home was fastened off, leaving her swinging gently amongst the other lofty prisons, indistinguishable from the other specimens of feminine latex devolution.

  The coop was embellished with the standard trappings of such a creature, a single shuffling turn showing her everything she had to use and distract from her captivity. Small troughs were clipped to the side within reach of her beak and they were filled with seed or water. A plastic mirror proved a terrible mockery, for it displayed her visage and reminded her of how low she had been brought.

  The twisted position into which she was condemned soon had her striving to find a means to escape it, the contortion driving her mad with the need to straighten her limbs. As the hours moved slowly by she started to cry out for assistance, her wails emerging as melodious chirping. It sounded like the song of the despairing bird losing all her anger and loathing of her confinement, and instead airing a sweet song that could not have been further from her true opinion.

  The act of feeding was no easier than her imprisonment because the beak had a small opening that would only accept a tiny pinch. Once she gained it she had to throw it back by raising her head sharply and dropping the food down the core of the fluted gag, swallowing them like pills rather than food.

  The other birds seemed more accustomed to their lot. Their long struggle within the restraining costumes proved to them just how futile continued battle was so they had since chosen to remain unresponsive within their cocoons

  The main doors opened and drew the attention of the dehumanized creatures, the arrival being a valued medium to distract them from their plight.

  A fleet of maids marched through the aperture, bearing plates and collections of cutlery, the fine silver and bone china being arranged with napkins and crystal glassware. Punctiliously arranged bursts of bright flowers were added as embellishments while the birds chirped softly to their former fellows below.

  The team of women failed to even glance up at the lofty prisoners as they obsessed with the perfect completion of their task. The threat of failure or displeasing their overseers and perhaps being condemned to join the ranks of the birds or some other equally distasteful fate loomed in the backs of their minds. After setting up everything for the large feast, the maids withdrew and the hall fell into an expectant quiet, awaiting the attendance of the dinner guests.

  The diners began to wander sporadically in, clad in regal finery. Many wore tuxedos or extravagant gowns, the wealthy elite displaying their opulence via their clothes and jewelry. Others favored more fetishistic apparel-garments of leather and latex, made to custom order and just as expensive if not more so than the examples of more traditional formal wear. Amongst the civilians were military uniforms, many of them Guenerros upper hierarchy, laden with braids and medals.

  A corpulent man in a jet-black uniform with silver adornments clearly represented the secret police, removed his hat to reveal a heavy brow and shaved head. This was the man behind Lydia’s enslavement. His forces had denied her freedom and subjected her to the vigorous and complete training program of the prison. His very presence here suggested that the speed with which she had been condemned was no accident. The framing and quick judgment by the secret police produced new recruits to eventual dispatch to the palace, plucking innocent tourists and travelers from the flow of traffic through the country.

  Also, she could see the man who had drawn her into the gardens and placed her on the rack. She saw the small Japanese woman who was undoubtedly the fanatical lover of rubber imprisonment, her true and attractive features spied for the first time.

  The men and women took their seats, sitting down, talking with enthusiasm, swapping stories and ideas. The maids readily served them, either bringing or refilling drinks, or they were exploited as a footstool, ashtray or simple decoration. The shrill smack of a weapon upon flesh was a constant background sound as arbitrary discipline was meted out.

  For a long time Lydia watched the assembled from afar, the heavy throne at the head of the table remaining unoccupied until the doors once more parted to reveal a small entourage.

  A stem, robust form led the way, the man adorned with a white uniform, the extensive braids and medals upon it signifying extreme rank. At his side walked the young girl who had abused Lydia upon her arrival, her slender frame covered by a low-cut black dress, the simplicity of its design emphasizing her beauty. Two soldiers walked at his side, rifles cradled, testifying to the man’s paranoia. Could this be the president, the mysterious leader whose very existence was in question? And who was the girl, his daughter? Maybe she was a mistress? The depravity of this sensuous sanctuary would not remove the possibility.

  The assembled people arose as one and turned to regard their host, declining to seat themselves until he had settled into his throne. His young escort took the chair to his right - facing the head of the secret police.

  No sooner had the scraping symphony of chairs moving back into position faded than the doors opened and new maids began to enter, bearing the platters and bowls of food that were the starter. The banquet was a magnificent spectacle and the sweet scents wafted up to attack the birds, the succulent smells making their mouths water profusely and their eyes to focus intently upon the feast with a longing that eclipsed their need for release.

  As the dinner continued, the entertainment was brought in. Maids entered carrying devices of restraint, the crosses comprised of various configurations to spread and invert, twist and contort. Quaking prisoners were brought out, their heads sealed within the tight clinch of leather harnesses, the plexus of straps forcing strenuous gags into their mouths, silencing them totally, leaving their eyes wide to witness their fate.

  Women clad in outfits of polished leather strolled forth, each of the shapely females dressed identically with their makeup and hairstyles matched to give them a totally cloned visage. They wore close-fitting thigh-high boots, the customary stilettos lifting them up over their subjects. Wicked spurs were fastened about their feet and their bodies were sealed within halter neck play suits, the high cut of the thighs reaching over their hips. Laced gauntlet gloves sheathed their arms, and their ebony painted fingernails were long and filed to points. Savage french plaits gathered up their hair and fastened it with a black bow and their morose shades of makeup gave them a perpetual glower.

  The troupe of Mistresses began to restrain their victims. After sealing them within the bonds, the women began to torment their charges for the pleasure of the crowds, their displays being fixed to ruthless beatings, sexual torment with various toys, and minor torture with pegs, clamps, and pins. The struggles and soft subdued cries of the condemned provided a darkly melodious accompaniment to the meal. The chatter of the guests unperturbed or concerned with the agonies of the slaves and the staccato beat of the instruments of suffering as they pounded helpless female flesh.

  Lydia studied the abuses being inflicted and projected herself into the place of the slaves, aching for some attention. Her long imprisonment had her more than eager to be the center of attention, even those of maltreatment. To be under the ministrations of one of the gorgeous females was her most pressing desire, and it was one that eclipsed the ravenous need for the food below or to break free of the suffocating folds of her costume. Her appetite had been diverted to other sources of sustenance rather than those of simple dietary nourishment. T
he fare she most favored was always of the darkest variety.

  The ripple of flesh beneath the leather attire of the dominas and their flashing arms had Lydia mesmerized. The image of tanned bodies being painted with bright weals was one that had her weeping for release so she could enjoy such vices as well.

  Frantic, she started to flap within her cage, fighting her bonds with rabid intent, trying to break free - her tolerance for this cramping squat at an end.

  The sounds of agitation drew attention from below and the president leaned over to one of his guards.

  “Una de las aves me parece descompueste. Tranuilicela,” he muttered, the occurrence lost on Lydia as she continued her valiant struggle, the latex stretching but always snatching back what it gave.

  A soldier shouldered his assault rifle, slipped a tranquilizer dart into the breach of his pistol, drew expert aim and fired. The soft whistle of the dart streaked through the air and Lydia felt a stab of sensation in her left shoulder. Flicking to the mirror she noticed the yellow plumed projectile wedged in her outfit just as waves of sluggish coercion started to drift through her mind, hazing her thoughts, making her sight waver and grow indistinct. With a thud she dropped against the bars and slouched onto her side, unable to acquire effort enough to move, only stare blankly, her body paralyzed by some insidious toxin.

  “Good shot, that man,” congratulated the arms dealing Mister Talbert.

  “That’s much better,” confirmed the leader of the palace and country, returning to the interrupted meal and conversation.

  The feast continued for hours, the revelers enjoying their sumptuous affair and moving onto desserts and after-dinner drinks before they started to retire. Some selected a slave or mistress to accompany them; the uniformed dominant women about to have their whips turned on themselves by those who wanted to subjugate an assertive. Or the rigid authoritative figures were chosen by those who wanted to have these females reveal their skills upon their own flesh, to taste the pleasure of being controlled and abused by another. There was no judgment or prejudice here, only the consideration for sensual fulfillment in whatever form any guest wished.