Bondage story - The Phantom of the Roxy - 20


Free bondage photo blog 2 January 2020

“I swear to God, Jessica, I don’t! I just don’t want to lose what we have here!” He gestured expansively, taking in the whole room. “This theater, the Roxy, is a dream come true, a chance to create something truly beautiful! Here, I can create wonder, breathtaking experiences, magic! I can create shows that make audiences laugh and cry, and go home uplifted and happy! If I lose this, I… I’ll never have another chance. The Roxy is all I’ll ever have.”

There was nothing more that Jessica could say. Ira was a little man living a great big dream, she could understand that. If he was willing to sacrifce a few pretty young actresses to a monster to keep the dream alive, well, she may not agree with it, but she could understand that, too. She could see that he was wracked by guilt about it, but he wasn’t about to change his mind. He had already decided the price he was willing to pay for his dream.

“Okay, Ira,” she said. “It’s your conscience. I guess you know the load it’ll bear.” She turned and walked away, but as she did, her eyes began to sting. Fortunately she made it around the corner before her shoulders began to shake. After a brief cry in the ladies’ room, she felt a bit better.

* * * * * *

A whole day of rehearsals had gone by without any sign of the Whisperer, and Jessica was on edge. It wasn’t easy to go hour after hour expecting to be grabbed from behind and dragged off at any moment. Many times she had considered confding in her friends, but she was afraid that they might just think she was crazy, and she couldn’t bear that. So she had settled for pretending nothing was wrong, and being an actress, she’d pulled it off. But by the end of the day she was so tense there was no hiding it. Her friends offered to take her out for dinner and a few drinks to help her unwind, and she gratefully accepted.

After a light dinner at a nearby Chinese buffet, they found a noisy, crowded neighborhood Irish bar, where they took over a naugahyde-padded booth in back and polished off a couple of pitchers of beer. It did a world of good for Jessica. By the second pitcher she had forgotten all about the Whisperer.

Sarah was drinking more freely than anyone, and the beer seemed to stimulate her libido. The more she drank, the more outrageously she firted with David, and he seemed to be responding. At frst Jessica and Tina were firting too, competing good-naturedly with Sarah as they always had, but as she became more serious Jessica and Tina backed off. By the end of the night Sarah was practically sitting in David’s lap, kissing him deeply at every opportunity. When they fnished off the fourth pitcher of beer, the four of them decided to call it a night.

When they got back to what they had affectionately begun to call “The Flophouse,” Sarah practically dragged David into her room and shut the door without even saying goodnight.

“Shit,” commented Tina with a wry grin. “If I’d known that’s all it took, I’d have had him a week ago!” Though her room was across the hall, Jessica was treated to an unwelcome symphony of moans, giggles, squeals and rhythmic thumping that went on late into the night.

* * * * * *

The next day the lovers were playing it cool, and David firted with the other girls as though nothing had happened. Jessica and Tina took it in stride. Obviously, last night’s tryst had been more lust than love, and David was still hoping to score with all three of them eventually. Jessica didn’t mind. She was still hoping to make it with David, too.

It was right after lunch when it happened. Jessica had gone with Sarah and Tina to the dressing room to use the big well-lit mirrors to refresh their make-up. They had briefy discussed David in only the most general terms, but Sarah had let her friends know by her manner and tone of voice that she was laying no claim to him. Then she had departed, and Tina had slipped out right behind her, leaving Jessica alone in the dressing room before she knew it. It was only a few moments later that she heard it.

“Jessica.”

The familiar whisper seemed to have come from right behind her! Jessica froze, mascara brush in hand. Sudden terror sent a chill down her spine, freezing the breath in her lungs.

“It is time once again, Jessica.”

Her wide, frightened eyes scanned the small room in the mirror, but she saw nothing. The room was empty, yet she could hear the Whisperer, she could sense his presence. She could almost feel his breath on the back of her neck!

The torments she had endured the last time the Whisperer had taken her suddenly whirled through her mind; the pain, the violation, the humiliation, and the thought of going through it all again horrifed her. Panic seized her, and she staggered away from the mirror, her mascara and brush falling from her trembling fngers onto the foor. She bolted for the door. If she could only make it out to the stage where the others were, she would be safe! She dashed out the open door and into the long hall that led back to the main part of the theater. She could see the stage curtains from here!

As she began the desperate sprint for safety, an iron grip closed around her wrist! Abruptly she was yanked back, not toward the dressing room, but through the door across the hall, a door that was usually locked. She began to shriek as she fell into the unyielding arms of the Whisperer. His gloved hand closed over her mouth even as he kicked the door shut and dragged her backward into the dimness of the room. It was a wardrobe room, and as she failed wildly with her arms, she clutched at the racks of costumes she was being dragged between. Several fell from their hangers, but there was nothing solid to grab. Then she was at the back of the room, away from the racks, and holding her tightly to him, the Whisperer threw her body back and forth, blurring her vision and disorienting her. She found herself being dragged backward through another doorway, and then that door, too, slammed behind her.

She was in a small chamber whose central feature was an old-fashioned treadle-powered sewing machine with a lit work lamp. Beside it was a wide fat table, draped with stained and discolored fabric. Waist-high heaps of old costumes leaned against the walls, which were hung with tatty, ragged costumes and gowns, torn top-hats, crinolines and bustles, and sad-looking sequined jackets. There was a musty smell to the room that was nearly overpowering, as though it had been locked up since the Roxy’s burlesque days, which it probably had.

Her assailant slammed her body against the wall, dislodging several dusty costumes, and pressed her tightly against it. Grabbing a handful of her hair, he dragged her head back. She gasped, and into her open mouth he stuffed a huge wad of dry fabric. As she struggled to spit it out, he pulled her arms sharply behind her back. She felt rope being wrapped around her elbows, and she struggled to regain control of her arms, but it was too late. Desperately she turned her body to the side and doubled over, but instead of escaping to the foor she found herself bent over her captor’s knee. He wrapped a strip of cloth around her mouth, forcing the wad tightly inside, and tied it behind her neck. Then he fnished tying her elbows together, and then bound her wrists while she struggled and kicked futilely.




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