The Eastern Market bondage story | cuffs, slave

Nicholas du Peytard settled back into his fine armchair; all the preparations were now complete and he had but to enjoy the evening. There were two worthwhile choices on the late-night menu but he had decided that "The Transporter" film would be better passed over. It appeared to be about a man who earned his living transporting captured girls about the globe; a high-risk occupation and therefore certainly one that commanded high pay but, he wondered, would it not run also a risk should his identity be discovered?

He, Nick, had acted as courier for a string of slavers for some time and had grown comfortably rich on the proceedings but, to his way of seeing things, their organisation was getting too big. Soon they would be running intelligence operations and, once they knew who he was, then he'd be in hock to them for all time - and, doubtless, at considerably less remuneration. NO! Time to quit.

The second choice was much more to his liking. 'Slave Market of the East' promised a fine opportunity to wallow in every one of his favourite fantasies. Lovely girls in all shades of nakedness. Girls in see-through wispiness, caged girls in cuffs and chains, rope or nets, gags or hoods... in short in any kind of restraint provided they wriggled and squirmed and failed abysmally in efforts to free themselves.

He had already checked his preparations; the box of cigars, glass and brandy bottle, zapper for the video-recorder, zapper for the DVD recorder. He'd been to the loo - and so everything was ready once they got through this damnably interminable advert break which, late at night, was longer than the programme runs?

At last came that twee enthusiastic pep talk and, at very-long-long last, the film began to roll. Only one more phase; the credit due to the apparent owner of the film - supposedly he was the one who stumped up the cash - the credit due to his assistant, to his personal assistant and to his public-relations mouth. Next came the Producer – is that the one who organizes the chaos? - and another retinue of assistants and orders in command. Then there was the assistant to the assistant who assisted the Director - oh, mustn't forget the Director - and finally the third assistant to the stand-in slave for the down-trodden lower-caste lavatory attendant's assistant.

Fade to black and fade-up on a fair re-construction of everybody's idea of an eastern market. Stalls in chaotic sprawl; men followed at a respectful distance by veiled women with not a child in sight; camels wandering everywhere and equipped Each with a collecting bucket to protect sandalled and bare feet alike; urchins Sliding skillfully in and out as they purloined fruit from the displays laid out precisely so that their efforts must meet with success.

He had selected the first cigar of the evening and was preparing it when the doorbell sounded. Hell's bells indeed. Such timing. He started the video-recorder, heaved to his feet and stamped out into the hall. What he saw through the peephole certainly stopped him in his tracks - what price the eastern market? It appeared to be a veiled woman who waited patiently out there.

Women who visited him never - not even hardly ever - came to his front door. For that matter they never CAME - they were always brought - and never to his front door. Neither were they in the habit of staying! But the only explanation of what he could see in the distorted perspective of that peep-hole was a woman under a veil.

He opened the door only to find exactly that - a smallish woman under a largish veil. "Yes?"

She just stood there without a response of any sort.

He stepped outside. The landing was empty. But for the woman, that is. On the landing below a door opened and there came the sound of voices. He swept the uninvited visitor into his arms, swung her inside and closed the door with a feeling of relief. "Now...?"

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Even as he said it he was realising that matters were far from being normal. For one thing she still remained silent - except perhaps for a certain... er... puffing noise. Secondly she made not the slightest physical response to his manhandling and, from the feel of her in his grasp, he knew she was tightly restrained.

He raised the front of the veil to disclose that she was wrapped so heavily in rope as to be almost invisible and that a note was pinned to her. The lower half of her face was hidden under several layers that could not be mistaken for other than duct-tape while her eyes were covered with a substantial blindfold. In short, without indulging in a deal of work, he couldn't hope to recognise her.

The note was cryptic to say the least; just an address and a sum of money C.O.D. Oh, no. Did this mean that his worst fears had been realised. What else? They had traced him and now were blackmailing him? He remembered the film and made a callous decision - first things first!

He picked up the trussed damsel, carried her to his bedroom and secreted her in the large wardrobe. Then he returned to his big chair only to find that, somehow, the anticipation and the excitement had departed. The unexplained materialization of that woman outside his door was unnerving - suppose someone had seen her before he...! She was safe enough now in that... but hang on... he hadn't done much inspecting of her bondage and supposing that she suffocated... whoever the present and/or future owner may be he - Nicholas de P - would be deep in the camel dung if that should happen.

Careless of the near naked and chained coffle mounting the auction block he sped to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Under that all-enveloping veil she could just as well be a stuffed duffel bag for all that he could see. He hauled her out into the light; yes, with the tent-like covering tossed aside, there was indeed signs of breathing. He went into the en-suite bathroom and returned with a glass of water. There is not a kind way of removing a tape gag and so he just pulled, swiftly, but with all possible care.

Underneath he found a swollen face with pursed lips; with finger and thumb he extracted a monstrous packing piece and found himself looking at a perfect mouth which, nevertheless, was performing some vigorous gyrations as its owner sought to restore a sense of normalcy. "No noise," he warned. "I've a drink of water for you."

"Thanks." The vice was low and husky.

Back to the esoteric film... eh? ...well, you know what I mean... ? He lit the cigar and was just reaching for that too-long neglected glass of brandy when the doorbell once more sounded its summons. His temper was beginning to mount but, once again, the peephole played him false - he could swear there were three veiled women awaiting his attention.

He snatched open the door and bounded out on to the landing; not a soul in sight anywhere except for the three veils in three shades of blue. He didn't have to be a genius to see that they were connected in a coffle by a rope strung from neck to neck. Frantic lest someone should chance by he seized the leading rope and hauled the girls inside. Clearly they were tightly hobbled because progress was painfully slow but eventually, and to his intense relief, they had all shuffled within and he was able to close the door.

He towed them down the passage and into his spare bedroom. There, with the girls seated in a neat row along the side of the bed, he proceeded to secure them to the bed using their existing ropes. Whoever was embarrassing him in this manner he wasn't too inclined to care at the moment - the important thing was to get back to THAT film!

But, the film apparently had finished. Some expensively-suited prat was prattling on about the prurient potential of political policies and politely... Oh, Jesus! Another Party Diabolical...! He polished off the glass of brandy and went to check on the girl in the wardrobe. As he passed the spare room, and for no real reason whatever, he opened the door and took a quick peep.

The girl nearest him, on his end of the bed, rose and used both hands to throw back that all-enveloping veil. She had wriggled her hands free of the manacles at her waist! Determined on nipping trouble in the bud - whatever that should mean – he strode forward with outstretched arms and walked straight into trouble. He had failed to notice that she had also shed the irons on her ankles to which fact she promptly drew his attention by planting her right foot accurately between his legs.

His world exploded in a fireball of pain that, starting from the region of his scrotum rapidly invaded his abdomen to emerge somewhere about the middle of his spine. With both hands clutching at his family's future he sank to his knees and finally sank, near fainting, to lie supine.

The pain should have slowly subsided, of that he was sure, but it continued unabated and seemed to be increasing. As he opened his eyes he saw that the television screen was now showing a set of dancing cows advocating the healing powers of somebody's dairy products. Cows, grass, milk, healing, a monstrous gut-ache...? What the hell had got into the world?

His eyes, drawn down to the source of his agony, beheld the butt of a half-burned cigar and his nose began to recite a tale of smouldering cloth and burning...? HELL! He leapt to his feet, retrieved the cigar-end and flung it into the fire and then tore off his jeans and stamped them into a suitable state of extinguished submission. His boxer under-pants came next and he raced out to the kitchen, opened the backdoor and flung the smelly mess out into the yard.

He was decidedly sore in that place where scrotum joins to penis and, bethinking that something in the order of Vaseline would be useful, started on his way to the bathroom. As he passed the door to the spare room he was a little surprised that it was tightly closed. After a moment's hesitation he opened it. The room was empty. The bed was not supporting any women at all, either with or without veils, either with or without restraints, whether they be rope or chain or cuffs!

His way to the bathroom lay through the bedroom; he hesitated a full half-minute before the wardrobe while he summoned the courage then - snatched open the door. Like the spare room, it was empty. It did not hold a woman, either with or without a veil, either with or without restraints, whether they be rope or chain or cuffs!

The cause of Vaseline forgotten he made a dazed trip back to the lounge where he found the television screen now running a trailer for the following night's film. Waving a straw boater, Maurice Chevalier was singing "Girls were made to love and kiss... "

'Yeah,' he thought sourly; 'and to have their backsides kicked.'

"... and who am I to disagree with this...?"

"Aw! BELT UP!!" He seized the mains cable and jerked viciously to disconnect the plug from the wall socket. There came a loud BANG! accompanied by a puff of black smoke and the acrid smell of burning insulation and vaporized copper wire. Out in the kitchen the RCD decided that the house contained one short-circuit too many and promptly disconnected the power-supply so plunging him into complete silence and utter darkness.

In an utterly vile mood, he groped his way to the kitchen and restored order to his electrical system then hurried back to the lounge to make sure that he had not thereby started a fire. He looked to the brandy bottle but: "Think you've had a good enough day", he said and resolutely put it away. "Coffee. Black... black... yeah, black coffee."

As he returned with coffeepot and mug his eye fell on the video recorder. "The film! Thank god for technology."

But it was dead. First he must repair that damaged mains lead. "Oh, well." He was getting philosophical. "Just shows that crime doesn't pay, I suppose. Should I sell my bondage gear and buy a girl... or better... keep the bondage gear and acquire a girl with suitable character? One perhaps who would appreciate an eastern slave market... a private one here in suburbia? But... I'd have to insist on chains and veils... and... well... anything else...?"