Bondage story - The Phantom of the Roxy - 55

In the deep shadows at the back of the theater, the Whisperer made his way toward his secret door, Jessica slung naked over his shoulder. He was almost there when a fgure loomed out of the darkness in front of him. He froze, and the fgure stepped forward, resolving into a small, wiry, potbellied man with a large gleaming revolver in his hand. It was Ira.

“You’ve gone too far, Vidal,” he said, aiming the gun at the Whisperer’s face. His voice cracked and quavered, and his hand shook, but the resolve in his expression made it plain that he meant business. “I’ve covered for your excesses far too long! You are never satisfed, you keep taking more and more! You’ve kidnapped Sarah Altman, and now you’ve ruined my show with your flthy perverted obsessions! This is where it stops! Put the girl down. Now!” The Whisperer remained still for a long moment. Jessica held her breath, peering around her captor’s dark cloak at Ira’s strained, pale face. The madman moved as though he were about to shrug her from his shoulder, but instead he suddenly stepped toward Ira. His gloved hand shot out, and he seized the barrel of the revolver, twisting it to the side until Ira lost his grip on it. Taking another step forward, he punched Ira in the face, the gun adding to the weight of his fst, and Ira went down like he’d been pole-axed.

“Whining, scuttling insect,” hissed the Whisperer. “You’ll not dictate limits to me!”

With that he stepped over the crumpled form of the downed director and stalked into the darkness. Jessica didn’t see what he did, but she heard a click, and then the hidden doorway yawned, and the Whisperer carried her through it and into the darkened torture chamber she remembered so well, then through another door and into the twisty warren of tunnels beyond. He took her down a narrow fight of stairs, then along a dank, cold, concrete-walled passage bristling with cables and conduits, then through another secret door and along another narrow, twisty tunnel. There was an ancient wooden door that he had to unlock with a key, then lock again behind him, and then her took her down a long, winding stair. She’d never have guessed the sub-basements of the theater even went down this far. Perhaps, she conjectured, they had passed into New York’s ancient underground service tunnels. She had read once that they dated back to the turn of the century, and that many of the original ones had been abandoned.

Finally the stair emptied into a great, vaulted and pillared room of concrete, the lower walls covered with little one-inch tiles in black-and-white patterns. The foor was strewn with overlapping layers of rugs, and half-a-dozen wrought-iron candelabra full of huge white candles provided light. Immense pieces of gossamer fabric, ragged and discolored with age, hung from the cobweb-strewn ceiling like giant spider-webs. Brownish drapes decorated the cracked walls, though there were obviously no windows, and ornately framed pictures hung in the gaps between. Heavy chains hung here and there about the room, and several racks, crosses, and less-recognizable dungeon furniture crouched ominously at one end of the chamber. There was an immense bed in the center of the room, draped with netting and fabric, with a grouping of tables and chairs beside it. Cabinets stood against two of the pillars, the other two hung with iron rings to attach prisoners to.

Dominating the entire room, a massive face scowled from one wall, fully twenty feet tall. It looked as though it had been chiseled from dark gray stone, though its damaged edges revealed that it was made from paper mache stretched over chicken wire. It must have once been a prop for a show, carried down her in pieces and reassembled. It was an ominously imposing object, and gave an evil, otherworldly caste to the entire room.

But as the Whisperer carried Jessica down the last few steps and into his bizarrely opulent sanctum, she became aware of soft, rhythmic, female moans that coincided with a ponderous creaking sound, as though someone rocked slowly in a rocking chair. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from, though her eyes searched the room again and again as she peeked around her captor’s billowing cloak. The Whisperer carried her to the cluster of eighteenth-century furnishings that stood beside the bed and deposited her in a chair.

“Welcome, Jessica,” he whispered with a grandiose gesture, “to my home.”

Jessica gazed around her, the looming carved face dominating her awareness as it seeming to frown disapprovingly down upon her. She had both hoped and dreaded to fnd Sarah down here, and the little gasping moans that she could hear seemed to confrm her friend’s presence, but she couldn’t see her. She could now see, however, what was making the creaking sound. Behind the drape-hung bed stood a contraption that seemed to consist mostly of the workings of a great grandfather clock. The immense pendulum swung ponderously to and fro, powered by a cylindrical brass weight hanging from a chain. The mechanism creaked with each swing, and every other creak was punctuated by a breathless moan. Jessica stared at the contraption. The pendulum seemed to be driving a slender wooden shaft back and forth in a slow thrusting motion, the shaft disappear ing into the upper reaches of the bed’s draperies. The cries seemed to be coming from the bed, though she could see through the netting that it appeared to be empty. “You like my bed, Jessica?” The Whisperer seemed to be teasing her. “You may examine it more closely if you like. Yes, do.”

Hesitantly, Jessica rose. She was naked, and her wrists were still bound together in front of her with the black scarf. The Whisperer stood with his arms folded, watching her as she moved to the bed. Slowly she drew back the gauzy curtain and peered inside. It was slightly musty, but the elegant bedding was embroidered with gold thread, the pillows were plentiful, and gold-colored tassels hung in the corners. It was, as she had thought, empty. But then she heard a little gasping cry much more clearly than before, and it seemed to be coming from directly over her head. Leaning on the bed with her bound hands, she turned her head and twisted her body to look upward, into the dimness of the canopy above her, and froze at what she saw.

Sarah was naked, hanging horizontally over the bed. Her body was spread-eagled, strapped securely to the underside of an iron X-frame, face-down. Even her head was strapped to the frame. A cloth gag covered her packed mouth, and her wide, pleading eyes stared right at Jessica. The wooden shaft Jessica had seen thrusting back and forth outside the bed ran straight up between Sarah’s widespread thighs, and drove an impossibly thick black dildo in and out of the helpless blonde’s body with slow, inexorable strokes.

Jessica gasped in shock at the sight, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. The cruelty of it was appalling, yet it was deeply, disturbingly erotic, as well. She realized that her friend must have been here, hanging in the air with that immense dildo plunging slowly in and out of her, at least since the play had begun, nearly three hours before. The smooth implement gleamed slickly each time it withdrew from Sarah’s impossibly-stretched pussy, whether with lubrication or with the juices of the helpless girl’s arousal, Jessica couldn’t tell. Pink whip-marks covered her slim, tanned body, testimony to the other abuses the Whisperer had bestowed upon her since her kidnapping.