Hotel and parking | Bound Beauties | bdsm stories

HOW MANY WOMEN SELL THEMSELVES A YEAR?

There's a curve on the same old line. Not how many disappear, or get sold, but how many sell themselves per year?

It was a question I had reason to ask myself as I crossed over the Texas state line and into Louisiana. Liang, the trainer Frakie had suggested to help me recuperate from my many recent wounds, was still asleep in the back seat of my box-like sedan. The consortium, RBS Inc., the three men responsible for kidnapping three cheerleaders, were still secured in the trunk (and anybody who knows Tyler's auto [see Tyler #1: Slaves to Rock'n'roll], knows that when he says "secured," he means secured-G.M.).

Dancers, actresses, now models and cheerleaders. How many women sell themselves a year? First blessed with genetic beauty, then enhanced with exercise, diet, costuming, makeup . . . and training. It had to be; a decision had to have been made, somewhere along the line, by someone, to go for the short hairs.

Part of it is natural, no doubt. Just as male hormones demand attraction, no doubt female hormones demand attractiveness. And it is not just that the female seems to possess more willpower than the male, since the female seems able to ignore nature's call better than the male, it is also the fact that the female's hormones have a lot more on their minds . . . like premenstrual, menstrual, and post-menstrual stress.

I'm certain if the male was forced to bloat and bleed and give birth every once in awhile, they would be far less inclined to chase women constantly.

So ... how many women sell themselves a year? You've seen them . . . the ads hawking everything from perfume to diet soda. What are they actually selling?

Eyes and lips and hair and teeth and tits and waist and legs and ass. They dance and writhe and pucker and leer, all for you. Look, but don't touch in paradise.

Was it any wonder WSN business was booming?

No, not because of the photos and film itself, but because too many made believe that it wasn't natural to lust after beautiful women, and then, the powers that are refuse to do anything about those who can't handle the images.

How many women sell themselves a year? They're in the magazines, in the movies, in the videos, and on television. How many? I can't count. There are more every day, every week, every month, every year.

But maybe my part in it was over. Miz Liz had kidnapped dancers and models. I had beaten her. All her family was killed. She was blown up.

The three bozoids in the trunk of my car had kidnapped cheerleaders. They were on their way to Brucedom.

The Procurer had kidnapped movie and television starlets. The Procurer....

T. P. Masters, the Procurer . . . my Professor Moriarty, my own Doctor Doom, my personal Ernst Stavros Blofeld. Son of a dead multimillionaire real estate magnate, he had taken whomever he wanted with the help of various perverted assistants. But he had fixated on one Michelle Barnes, a beautiful teenage blond. He had wanted to wed her in a mockery of the marriage ceremony, to make her his bondage bride... . to love, rule, and keep captive till death do they part.

I had taken her from him. I had given her to another. I had guessed that once she was married and consummated with another, he would consider her "tainted."

I had been right.

I had also saved the actresses from him. I had also taken his eye from him. I would have been able to kill him except that he had just shot me in the shoulder. My aim and knife-throwing power had been abated somewhat. Ahem.

The Procurer... He was still out there somewhere.... Waiting for me....

Rebecca Alien's black, shiny, high-heel pumps clacked across the marble floor.

She walked in beauty, like the night, the pulsating tacking of her three-inch heels in rhythm with the swish of her stockinged thighs and ripple of her tight black skirt.

She was every inch the efficient businesswoman, all five feet, four inches of her (five-seven in the shoes). She looked as if she belonged in the handsome lobby of the deluxe hotel. It was dark, all burnished, rooms almost as tall as they were narrow. It was an old-world hotel, nestled on a side street in the French Quarter, dramatic as it was traditional. A flickering fire in the lobby fireplace heightened the mood.

Rebecca brought the report to the man sitting in the comfortable, high-backed, winged easy chair . . . one of two on either side of a lovely marble table before the fireplace. She leaned down, from the waist, her legs straight, to give it to him.

She even smelled beautiful. It was not only her lightly perfumed skin which held aroma, but her thick, luxurious mane of dark, dark, scented red hair as well.

It tousled in loose curls, down her shoulders.

Rebecca's face was . . . generous. Dark, dark green eyes, a fine, slightly . . . ever so slightly . . . turned-up nose, and . . . well, generous red lips over a chin that was slightly, ever so slightly cleft.

Her body? Not ridiculous, but tightly female. Erect, strong, with just enough muscle-to-fat-ratio to make her chest strain beneath her starched white shirt.

The white shirt unbuttoned to make a V neck to mid-chest, showing off a single gold strand around her slim neck.

But when she leaned over, the man taking the report from her could look down her shirt. Oh, the frilly white 34-B bra, cupping the round breasts perfectly.

The man inhaled deeply, drink ing in her magnificence: the seemingly perfect combination of the modern and old-fashioned woman.

"Here you are, sir," she said. "I'll be in my office if you need me."

"Thank you, Ms. Allison," the man said. He subtly shifted in his chair, in order to watch her retreat in the tilted mirror above the fireplace. He smiled.

She must be very proud of herself, he thought. Why else would her clothes be so tight? Why else would she walk with such strength, yet such grace? Why else would she have no visible panty line as he saw her rear move handsomely beneath the black cloth.

Yes, he decided. She was proud. Proud of herself, proud of the way she had managed the Hotel Loisir (pronounced "Lou-wah-zeer"-G.M.) in his absence, and proud to show him the yearly financial figures, even after the way he had showed up, by surprise, out of the blue.

The man gave only a cursory glance at the report. Instead, he kept looking at the reflection until Rebecca Alien returned to her office off the lobby and closed the door. Then he looked knowingly up at his assistant. His assistant looked back at him, one elbow on the mantelpiece, grinning.

She was Paula Nussbaum, a local girl, thirty- five years old, five feet ten inches tall, a hundred and thirty pounds, hair the color of steel wool, eyes steel gray. She had slightly bucked teeth. Her measurements were thirty-six, twenty-six, thirty-six.

She had been a WSN enforcer for years. Different controls had used her as a lure as well as a den mother for almost a decade. In her mid-twenties, she had lured recruits to their fates, knowing a woman would be more apt to trust another woman. At thirty, she had switched roles. For the last five years, she had shepherded recruits in various safe-houses, making sure they stayed silent and still. She had been very good at both jobs.

Then he had found her. His approach was simple. The work was more exciting and the pay was even more generous. And she had liked the idea that his various . . . "business associates" . . . didn't have to remain ... "sales-worthy."

Paula's father had wanted a boy. She had been brought up aggressively male, even after she developed huge knockers at the age of thirteen. Her father had been her love/hate relationship with her chest. Her self-pity and self-loathing had soon been transferred to other women . . . other good-looking women.

So, by the time the WSN discovered her, she had little patience for classic feminine traits. And by the end of her first decade working in the business, she had become extremely tired of female psychology: the begging and pleading, as well as the snobbish egos.

For, you see, she had tended women who didn't want to be slaves as well as those who did. Paula found both insufferable. At the same time, however, whenever she saw someone beautiful and assured ... like Rebecca Alien, for instance . . . she couldn't help wanting to see them brought down a peg or two.

The man motioned for his assistant to approach. She sidled over to him in her white high-heel pumps, walking very carefully in her denim skirt and jacket, both well appointed with zippers. She leaned down, her smile growing.

He handed the report to her, leaning forward. She looked directly into his glass eye.

"I want her," the Procurer said to her.

Liang awoke as I stopped the car. We were parked in a Mississippi Delta coastal town, off the Gulf of Mexico. We were inside a warehouse, having made initial contact by car phone. One of the Voice's many associates-tall, thin, with a receding hairline cut very short-approached the car. As a joke, all the Voice's associates were named Bruce.

"Tyler," he said, "come to town for the pageant?"

"Dropping off some recruits," I said, getting out of the car.

"You?" said Bruce. "Oh yes, the Voice mentioned that you handled some inferior workmanship through him last year. But he didn't think it was going to become a habit. More of the same?"

"Times three," I replied, opening the trunk as Liang got out of the car to stretch.

"My, my, my, my, my, my," said Bruce, peering in. "Would you look at that?

Well, they certainly don't make me want to jump up and down clapping my hands." His attention was then distracted by Liang's stretching.

Although moving very slowly and very purposefully, Liang didn't seem to stretch so much as elongate. It was as if his chest inflated, and then his arms grew in width and length. The movement under his pants gave evidence it was going on down there too.

"Who on earth is this?" Bruce breathed, staring in wonder.

"Bruce Lee," I said. "The rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated."

"Hasn't aged well," Bruce asked, looking at Liang's round, flat face. "A shame.

Same deal as before? One-way tickets on the AIDS express?"

The situation had turned even nastier since my previous dealings with the Voice.

Now rich homosexuals were willing to pay for sexual slaves simply so they wouldn't infect their friends with the dreaded disease. The survival rate in places like South Africa was close to zero.

You had to take an affliction seriously when one of the symptoms was cancer. No fun was had by all.

"Last time was free," I reminded him.

"It's never free with the Voice," Bruce reported, walking toward his receiving desk. "The Voice saved you a finder's fee ... a cut from the sale. You want in on a gift certificate or on account?" Bruce froze in a perfect game-show hostess pose. I smiled in spite of myself.

"Take the money," Liang whispered to me, coming around the back of the car.

"What?" I answered, taken aback by his sudden involvement.

"Take the money and an advance on these three," he repeated, so quiet only I could hear. "What pageant?" the Chinese asked Bruce affably.

"Why, the Miss Bouillabaisse Pageant," Bruce answered, delighted Liang was speaking to him. "Why, simply anyone who's anyone is coming to that." He looked at me. "The best-looking girls in the area will be competing," he sniffed.

"It's grown to be the hottest contest in the region. Isn't that why you're in this neck of the woods?"

The hair stood on the back of my neck. Not in fear, really . . . more like a sixth sense for dread. Dancers, actresses, models, and cheerleaders. I had missed one "salesgirl." Maybe the ultimate salesgirl.

At least there was an ulterior motive for the others to display themselves.

Money and fame, mostly. But these small-time, small-area beauty pageants had less cash and less fame than any of the others. Besides the paltry scholarship prizes, pageants were displays for the sake of displaying . . . the ultimate monument of feminine packaging.

I looked at Liang, whose face was, of course, inscrutable. But he was looking back at me. I smiled again, in spite of myself. "Looks that way," I told Bruce.

"I'll take the gift certificate, please."

Rebecca breathed in the night air deeply. Her chest swelled under her tight white shirt. She enjoyed it. She exhaled, her red lips opening, showing perfect white teeth. She had checked herself in her office mirror before leaving. Her makeup was perfect-no worries there.

No, not a bad night, if she did say so herself. As usual, she got out at about two in the morning, but that was par for the course in hotel management. At least everything had been perfect for the surprise visit on the building's owner.

Rebecca prided herself on running a tight ship, as she prided herself on running a tight body. So when the owner appeared, no special precautions had to be taken. It was an old hotel, and there was no accounting for the shifting of the peninsula New Orleans rested upon, but other than natural geological manipulations on the walls and floors, Rebecca and staff kept the hotel ship shape.

She had no doubts about the financial report either. She had worked tirelessly developing the Loisir's publicity, attracting business conferences and social affairs they would not have gotten normally. Not with the really huge hotels looming on every side of the quarter. But they were impersonal chains. The Loisir had charm and tradition.

Take, for instance, this Miss Bouillabaisse Pageant. It was mostly from Rebecca's influence that the pageant organizers agreed to put ten of the fifty contestants in five hotels, rather than all of them in one. Her logic was unassailable. With five hotels, that meant five times the publicity, as each hostelry tried to take advantage of the situation.

And, no doubt, it was Rebecca's own beauty which influenced the organizers to put the most beautiful contestants in the Loisir. Okay, maybe not the smartest or well spoken, but having seen their photos, Rebecca had to agree they were lookers. Quite striking lookers in at least three cases.

But enough of that. She had to get home for a little sleep. That was about all her west-town condo was good for nowadays. Having worked so hard on the hotel, she didn't have time for a real social life. And, though she should have taken advantage of the manager's suite at the hotel, she had bought the condo before getting the job, and besides, she had to get away from that place once in awhile.

Rebecca walked down the steps to the parking area beneath the hotel. They were extremely lucky. Most of the two was directly over the water, making it impossible for anyone to have underground parking. But the Loisir was over a pocket of deeper earth. They managed to have just one, low-ceilinged, concrete space beneath the first floor, lit by strips of fluorescent tubing.

Rebecca's BMW was parked in its usual spot: all the way across the garage, in the corner (where all the staff had reserved parking). Funny, she thought, approaching her car. Besides the one or two cars of the remaining night staff, the owner's big, dark, long limo was still in its specially reserved place . . . right next to her car.

But he and his assistant had left some time ago. Rebecca shrugged as she pulled her little purse's strap off her shoulder to get her keys. Who knows what friends he had in town? Maybe he was having a late dinner or all-night card game. Or maybe he and that Amazonian assistant of his were nestled somewhere humping their brains out.

Rebecca silently chuckled. By the looks of the girl, she was high nigh insatiable. But he had better watch out during oral sex. Those buck teeth could leave scrape marks.

Rebecca unlocked the car and slipped in. She closed the door and dropped her purse on the passenger side. She put the key in the ignition, pumped the accelerator once, and turned the key.

The engine wheezed, then clicked.

Rebecca was surprised. That was not usual. The thing usually started up immediately, with a comforting low rumble. She turned the key again. Wheeze, click.

How was this 26-year-old hotel manager to know the ignition switch had been disconnected?

The door of the BMW swung open. Rebecca hadn't locked it. Long, muscular hands shot in, their short round fingernails painted red. One slapped over Rebecca's mouth, upside down, gripping. A little cry of surprise was stifled under it.

The other slid across her waist, grabbing at her skirt's thin belt.

The hands pulled out and up. Rebecca was astonished as she was slid across the front seat and out the door as if hydraulically ejected.

The hand came off her slack mouth as she was stood between her BMW and the limo.

But the hand at her waist tightened as her assailant whirled behind her. Then the hand returned over and across her mouth, right side up this time, and tighter. Another cry attempted to emerge, but again it was cut off by surprise.

She was hugged. Hugged may too loose a word. It was a cross between a sudden bear hug and the Heimlich Maneuver. The air for any other scream was pushed from her diaphragm, lodging in her throat. Then, to her growling shock, she was bodily lifted off the concrete floor, her high heels kicking.

Rebecca was vaguely aware of the limo as she struggled in the iron grip of her attacker. She could see over its ceiling as she was lifted. She could see the driver's door was open. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the rear door on this side opening.

Rebecca was swung down and back, the toes of her shoes hitting the concrete pavement. Her fingers scrambled to scratch or claw at the arm around her torso and the hand clamping over her mouth. Off balance the way she was, she only managed to grip the hugging forearms. She tried to pull back her lips to bite at the palm, but then she was hurled forward. Hurled forward with such ease and strength it stunned her.

She was thrown, head first, into the back of the limo. She dove inside, against her will, arms going up to cushion her fall. She landed, hard, on the carpeting.

There was no lump bisecting the floor here. It was a flat, wide space back here, with plenty of leg room both across and back.

She landed heavily between the back of the front seat and the front of the back seat. The wind was knocked out of her.

She tried to groan. She tried to get up. She tried to suck air into her lungs.

She was vaguely aware of the back door closing behind her. She was vaguely aware of the front door opening and „ closing. No one else besides them had been in the garage. No one had seen the attack.

Rebecca's mind was still reeling, unable to link the assault with the limo. The connection wasn't there for her yet.

Rebecca managed to pull her knees and elbows under her. She just managed to start breathing again, drawing air up through her gaping mouth. Her dark, dark red hair hung down like a curtain on either side of her head. She managed to groan.

She started to rise on her stockinged knees. As she rose, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. She turned in that direction, seeing a shape on the back seat. Someone had been sitting there, legs crossed, watching her.

T. P. Masters, the owner of the hotel, kicked her in the stomach as she rose.

Rebecca Alien went down on her elbows again, wind knocked out of her once more.

The limo engine started and revved. The Procurer sat in the back seat, enjoying Alien's unencumbered struggles. He watched, smiling, her attempts to get up, cry

out, or do just about anything concerning this sudden, shocking turn of events.

She felt as if her strength was quartered. It was as if hands were gripping her throat, cutting off her air. Her limb movements were weak, unbalanced, unsure.

Her loudest noises were little gasps.

She almost got up on her knees again, only to fall back to her elbows. She tried a third time. She made it. The Procurer kicked her in the stomach again.

The limo eased out of its parking space, its tinted windows keeping all sight of the interior within.

Rebecca was thrown off balance by the movement of the car. She fell back, onto her right side ... at the Procurer's feet. Her hair crossed her face, blinding her again.

The Procurer laughed quietly. "You don't know how long I've waited," he said.

The limo drove across the underground parking garage floor and took a left onto the ramp leading to the street.

"Look out," Paula warned from behind the wheel. The zipper on the side of her denim skirt had been pulled up almost all the way so she could get balance while grabbing Ms. Alien. The tops of her stockings peeked out from beneath the hem, making quite an attractive sight.

Masters reached down and took Rebecca beneath the shoulders. He lifted her, seemingly effortlessly, and laid her across his lap on her stomach. He felt her strength returning by the way she tried to pull her arms from his grip, little expulsions of effort coming from her nostrils and between her clenched teeth (between those ruby red lips).

The Procurer expertly crossed the girl's wrists behind her back, holding them there with one hand. With the other, he pulled up rubber-coated wire loops which were on the seat beside him. He slipped one over her left wrist. With a pull, it was tightened.

It was easy, then, to slip the other attached loop of rubber-coated wire around the right wrist which he held down. Another pull, and it too was tightened.

Rebecca's hands were linked together behind her, the rubber digging into her shirt cuffs and skin.

The Procurer grabbed Rebecca by the hair as the car slowed. It was approaching the attendant's box, where they would have to pay. Paula saw him, bored, with a plastic glass of beer, leaning over toward them.

The Procurer wrenched Rebecca's head up, her mouth opening naturally, a small, pained gasp coming from it. With his free hand, he stuffed the deflated plastic square, which had been lying on the seat next to him, behind her teeth.

Rebecca's state of mind returned with that intrusion. It was like sobering a drunk with a sudden splash of cold water. Something was in her mouth, near her throat, initiating her gagging reflex. Her body immediately sought to eject it.

She got one foot under her, then the other knee on the carpet. She sat up, half on, half off the seat. She felt her hands gripping his thigh for balance. She was about to lean forward and cough the offending obstruction out.

The Procurer reached around her head, through her hair, and with a flick of his fingers, set off the device.

It instantly inflated in Rebecca's mouth.

The woman couldn't have been more stunned. The thing grew in her mouth at an incredible speed, pushing down her jaw, pushing up her plate. It seemed to stick against the back of her teeth. Then, instead of growing out of her mouth, it filled the interior to the muscle-tearing point.

Rebecca's eyes opened wide, blinking. She stayed in that position, staggered, almost kneeling, almost sitting, squeezing the Procurer's thigh, as Paula lowered her window, greeting the attendant.

Rebecca saw him through the one-way glass partition between the front seat and rear compartment. She cried out. She tried to throw herself at him. The sound of her call was like a choked hum. Masters grabbed the inside of her elbows and held her back. She strained and bucked in his grip, calling for help over and over again, almost getting her feet under her.

"Tough night?" Paula asked. "No problem," said the attendant. "Eight dollars."

Paula reached into her purse for the money, giving the attendant a nice view of her stocking tops and thighs. He licked his lips.

"Uh, you want to get your parking ticket validated?" he asked. "I'm sure the manager would be happy to do it for you."

"That's all right," said Paula, giving him the money and a buck-toothed grin.

"She's left already ... won't be back soon."

The limo pulled out into traffic and down the street.

Rebecca's head strained around, looking pleadingly, desperately at the hotel, which was receding in her view through the back window. Her arms were pulled all the way back by her elbows, the owner's knees in the small of her back. The Procurer suddenly jerked her up, pulling her completely on his lap.

She sat on him like a chair, legs spreading, stretching the already tight skirt, high heels desperate to find the floor. Suddenly his hands were around her. He held her to him about the torso and waist with his left arm. With his right hand, he gripped the side of her shirt front. With a jerk, he tore it • back, popping two buttons and pulling the right side of her bra down as well.

That was it. No suspense. Her right breast popped free, the nipple straining up.

Masters' left arm tightened about her suddenly still torso, like a boa constrictor securing its prey. She froze against him, as if becoming a zombie.

She held her breath. They were away from the hotel, in an anonymous limousine, her arms pinioned and voice drowned. Maybe there was a good reason for this.

Maybe....

His right hand went down, trapping her nipple between his thumb and middle finger .. . lightly . . . threateningly.

"You don't know how long I've waited," he told the petrified girl. "But it's nice to be back."

And, with that, he carefully rolled the nipple as Rebecca groaned in terror.

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