Procurer, pain, heels | Bound Beauties 2 | bdsm stories

ASTONISHINGLY, THAT WAS ALL THE PROCURER DID to Rebecca Alien during the trip to her "new home." He played her nipple like it was a delicate musical instrument and he was a virtuoso.

Rebecca herself was astonished by the range and subtlety of his "playing" and the excruciating reach of the seemingly innocuous organ.

The pain, fueled by the shock, had started immediately. She had felt the lightning bolts throughout her chest. Again, that had surprised her. Lovers had caressed her breasts before; her reaction had never been like this.

Then again, they didn't know female nerve centers the way the Procurer did. It was only logical. A totally selfish sexual monster, the Procurer's desire was to thrill only himself. But that meant he had to know how to get a response from a woman. Mauling her wasn't enough for him. He had to know she was going crazy and was helpless to do anything about it.

Rebecca pushed herself back, almost curling up against him in order to avoid the sensations. Then he started to "play" the pain. Like a flutist taking in air before making music again, the Procurer twisted and pulled and prodded the nipple with his fingernail in such a way that the pain flashes shot out like Morse code, giving Rebecca seconds of release between the jolts of pain.

She started jerking on his lap, partly in reaction, partly trying to pull away.

She would gasp and try to cry out, intermittently, the gasps and cries mingling as the pain and release would catch her by surprise.

Then the Procurer "weaved" the pattern, creating a symphony of sensation in her chest, tickling the nipple in such a way that the feelings went beyond pain.

Rebecca no longer gasped. Instead, her head went back and she started to moan.

His right hand was getting tired. It moved up to grab her hair just over her brow. He pulled her head up, holding it back, as his right hand rose to take over the nipple station. He maintained the mixed signal to her brain, confusing her, closing her off to any world outside her own mind.

Her legs moved as she felt her crotch dampening. She had to get off his lap.

Her limbs went on either side of his legs, the high heels searching for the floor.

She placed both down strongly and surged up, her rear and torso rising. She stiffened in that unnatural pose, like an ironing board above him as he continued to hold her hair and tweak her right nipple.

His left arm dropped across her waist again, bending her. His right hand reattacked the nipple. She fell, the huddled against him, the sensations unremitting. She twisted in his grip, trying to bring her hands up from behind him. She managed to get some fingers on his left arm, but with another tug, he forced her to lie against him fully, pulling the fingers off.

Rebecca's head went down, Rebecca's head went up. She became aware of the sounds she was making. At first she had thought the distant noises were traffic sounds.

But then she realized that the limo was soundproof. Her eyes opened. Through a haze of feeling and tears she saw the traffic all around her. They were in the middle lane of the always busy street which surrounded the French Quarter.

There were cars on either side of her, cars behind her, cars in front of her.

She was in a sea of headlights, in an ocean of blankly staring faces. They looked past her, around her, through her. They looked right at her, but none of them saw.

She tried to cry out to one. A woman to the right, driving a Toyota. She was looking straight at Rebecca, but didn't see her. She was looking at her own reflections in the black glass of the limo window. Rebecca tried to speak, but all that came out was a moan.

Rebecca's moans became the music inside the limo. They reflected what was going on in her head. The range of the moans were amazing as well. There would be a long, low, helpless one, then a string of breathless grunts, then a groan of relief which segued into another, higher moan, as the Procurer kept up his assault.

Her head went back against his, her eyes closing. Her hair was over his face.

He smelled her lovely scent. He saw through the deep, rich, auburn gauze how the clear tears were running from the corner of her eyes and how drool was beginning to course down her chin.

He looked down. Her heels were scraping across the carpet in time-first one and then the other, as if she was trying to climb, backwards, in slow motion.

Yes, she managed to tell herself (like a distant, echoing call from a faraway mountain). Yes. Maybe it was a ... joke. Maybe it was just the owner's way of... asking for a date. His . . . courtship. She never would have believed he could do this if he had told her. So maybe . . . maybe he had to prove it.

Maybe....

She was getting hot. She felt her skin flush, her vaginal juices flowing. She felt herself in a steam bath on her own flesh. The tips of her hair were wet from sweat. Her inner thighs were clammy.

She no longer wanted to scream. She just wanted to be able to beg . . . beg him to ... stop. Beg him to do something else. . . . No, no. To stop.

She longed to be able to bring her hands up. To pull the thing from her mouth.

To make him stop. Or ... to feel his hands, to caress herself, to murmur to him.

. . . No, no. To make him stop.

But his fingers never stopped. Just two digits. Maybe three. And she was helpless, maybe paralyzed, against him, her body warm and yielding.

And then the pain returned. Only this time it was magnified.

The Procurer had gotten bored. He didn't want the girl warm and yielding. So he stopped playing her nipple. Instead, he attacked. He dug into it, knowing just where the pain nerve was.

Rebecca erupted off his lap, screaming into the gag. Her shoes anchored into the carpet and she nearly surged all the way off the seat, but his other arms was still around her waist, pulling her back. She writhed in his grip, her hair whipping his face, but he didn't let go.

Suddenly his hand was in her hair yanking. She shrieked again and again, bucking, but the pain in her chest and now at her scalp did not abate. He yanked on her hair and tweaked her tit until she was forced to jerk off his lap and fall to the floor.

Now her chair back was the seat front. Her legs had naturally come together and tucked under her rear. She sat like that one the floor as he continued to hold her by her hair and her nipple. The pressure felt unbearable.

"The clip," the Procurer said.

Paula smiled. She took the little metal clip with the wire running from it and held it up beside her. The Procurer released Rebecca's nipple just long enough to grab it from his driver.

It was like mist clearing in Rebecca's brain. There was still the sharp pain at her scalp, but at least the sensual fog was lifting. Her eyes snapped open, naturally searching for evidence of her tortured tit's condition. She saw her right breast at attention.

It had been a strong, circular orb before, with a perfectly round pink areola low on the breast, but now it was almost cylindrical, tilting up, the pink nipple tab reddened and sticking out almost three times its normal length. It seemed to quiver there, pointing.

And then . . . into her sight came the clip. It was a simple metal spring clip, a tiny one, the kind she had seen in her own office on occasion. Paper clips had all but made them obsolete, but at offices with tradition they were still used.

But this one was slightly different. On one of the handles of this was a rubber-coated wire, its end stripped so the copper could be wrapped through the little hole in the clip handle.

But then the sight was pulled out of her view as the Procurer gave a mighty yank on her hair. She was pulled back, the pain suddenly incredible, her body taut.

But then the pain, if not abated, became familiar enough for her mind to work through it. Her pointing, raw, exposed nipple . . . the clip....

It was too late. She moved too late. She didn't move fast or far enough. By the time she surged up, trying to snake across him, the clip had closed.

There was no sensual pleasure here. These metal fingers brought only pain. Pain that seemed to go, like a dentist's drill, into and through her tit.

The Procurer grabbed her. He grabbed her around the neck with his right arm, and around her torso with his other arm. He drew her close, holding her against him tightly, her feet left to try and find purchase on the floor.

In that position, Rebecca could see. Although his arm was hard against her throat and pinioned her arms, her eyes were free to be wide open, and staring straight ahead.

She saw Paula's smiling profile. She saw that the woman's left hand was still on the wheel, guiding them through the streets of the town which never closed. But the traffic was abating. They were nearing the residential areas. If she didn't do something soon, her chances of escaping would be cut dramatically.

Her eyes went to search for some sort of solution, but froze on what Paula held in her right hand. She held it up the same way she had held the clip, so it could be seen and taken if necessary.

But this one was not to be taken. This one was held simply to be seen. The wire from the obnoxious clip led to it. It connected to a little round thing that was no wider than a cigar. A cigar....

"Do it," said the Procurer from behind her. Then he took a big mouthful of her hair and bit down on it. Bit down so hard and so close to her skull that she could get no slack. ... So she could not pull her head forward and sent it back into his face....

Rebecca recognized the thing Paula held in her hand even before the driver pulled it forward and started poking it at the dashboard.

An installed car cigarette lighter....

Paula plugged it in to the dashboard receptacle.

Rebecca screamed and jumped before the current surged into her.

The Procurer examined her at his leisure.

Rebecca Alien lay on the floor of the car on her back, her legs together and slightly bent. The thing was still in her mouth. Her wrists were still bound, crossed, behind her. The clip was still on her red, throbbing nipple, the wire still going over the front seat, but the plug was just slightly out of the socket.

Her eyelids fluttered and she breathed raggedly through her nostrils, but that was all as Masters undid the rest of the buttons and pulled her shirt wide. He pulled down the other bra cup and felt the round breast there. If anything, it was slightly bitter than the right one. Rebecca didn't react as he massaged it.

The Procurer reached down to her dress hem and tugged it up her legs. It wasn't easy with her tight skirt, but he got it high enough to see she was wearing pantyhose. He released the skirt in disgust and reached in. His fingers got under the stockings top and felt at the panty there. Moist. Rebecca didn't react to that either. The Procurer crossed his arms over his knees, surveying her.

Then he took some rope that was lying beside him on the seat. The seat had always been a source of bondage material. He had stuff all over, on either side of him, all the time. No one female simply sat in the back of this limo.

He bent down to her, slipping the rope beneath her thighs. "I waited a long time before coming back," he told no one in particular. "I needed to think. I needed to ... recuperate. My loved one . . . the one nearest to my heart, had been cruelly taken from me.... As all my truly beloved are." He remembered his very first victim: that innocent girl taken from the prom. The one he hadn't known what to do with. The one his sadistic friend had taken care of. The one he lived in fear of for seven years before "becoming" the assured, amoral Procurer. To this day, no one knows what happened to that girl (and probably never will know, since all the Procurer's assistants had been killed; see Tyler #4: Corporate Captives-G.M.).

"She was taken from me," he continued. "And . . . she, the one who will never be named, was taken from me. I had to ... think." He tied Rebecca's upper thighs tightly, but left her knees and ankles alone. "I will never be caught," he told her comatose form. "I know that. But at what cost? Will everything I truly want be taken from me in karmic payment?"

He pulled her skirt down, covering the ropes. "So I had to think. I had to understand. So I took the time and decided." Paula, listening in the front seat, having heard this before, smiled. The Procurer tapped on the window between him and his driver. She pressed in the cigarette lighter.

Rebecca's body flopped on the floor, her eyes snapping open. The Procurer tapped the partition again. Paula pulled the lighter out. Rebecca trembled on the floor, crying from the renewed pain. The Procurer leaned over his face.

"I decided not to keep anything ever again," he said slowly. "Just to have, that's all. What I want, I take, but then I'll get rid of it before someone takes it from me. You understand?"

He put his hands on her breasts, the right one -flat on her left tit and the left one curled around the nipple of her right. He squeezed. "I will use you. I will dress you the way I want, and I will hold you the way I want, and I will do anything I want to you. You can try to scream. You can try to fight. You can try to escape if you want. It will make no difference. You don't have to do anything. It will make no difference."

"You will do what I want you to do because I know how to make you."

To prove it, he took her left nipple in his two fingers and twisted that just the right way. Rebecca jerked on the floor in surprise. Stereo. She started crying in earnest, her body really quaking, as she realized the full scope of his power over her.

"No matter what you want or who you are, you will be there for me," he said.

"When I am out, you will be there. When I am in, you will be there. No matter who is passing by, you will be there. No matter who or where they look, you will be there. You will not do as I say because I will not say it. I will simply do it. Whatever I want."

Rebecca started pleading with him, shaking her head, begging him to let her go.

All he saw was a sweaty little girl with a face wet from sweat, mucous, and drool. Her hair was shiny and curled by the perspiration. Her glowing lips worked over the obstruction in her mouth. Her muscles and bones stood out from her shining skin as she pulled on her wrist bonds. Her feet were swollen, tightly trapped in her shiny high-heel shoes.

"We're almost there," Paula reported, motioning to the suburban atmosphere they were driving through.

"All right," said the Procurer. "Plug her in."

Paula pulled off S. Carrollton Avenue as Rebecca flopped on the car's floor like a hooked fish. The driver pulled into the narrow, tree-lined driveway of a long,

rectangular building, nestled among a row of identical buildings. These were the railway car houses: antique, traditional New Orleans homes, which were originally railroad cars.

But when it was time to pull off the tracks and settle down, the railway workers

decided to take their rail homes rather than buy or build new ones. The wheels were taken off and foundations replaced them. Some people put up walls and partitions. Others left it one long room. In any case, the railways homes remained, and in his father's dealings, the Procurer was left with one.

The Procurer took the clip off Rebecca's nipple. She lay on the floor, exhausted, her threshold of pain nearly surmounted. She was a limp, wet rag.

She only started in reaction when Masters slipped her bra back on, sealing in the abused tit. Then he pulled the shirt together, only able to button the bottom two. The rest had been torn off.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and sat her up just as the back left door swung open. Paula was standing there. She reached in and took Rebecca's arms from her boss as he went for the right rear door. He exited the car as Paula dragged Rebecca out and stood her own her own weak feet.

"Come on now," the driver said. Rebecca tried to reply, but couldn't. She was too weak. That was the entire of the final shock therapy treatment.

The night was dark and cool and empty. Even though they were on a residential street, amidst many homes, there were no lights on inside the houses. There were street lights, but the one nearest this house was mysteriously dark. A result of vandalism, no doubt.

So there was no one to see Rebecca's plight and no way to see her in any case.

Her mouth was not covered. It was filled with a dark device which was invisible in the night. Her hands were crossed behind her, but the dark cord which bound her wrists blended in with her dark skirt. And the thigh rope which kept her from taking long steps was beneath the cloth.

Besides, both Paula and Masters sandwiched her, arms everywhere-around her shoulders, waist, arms, and hips-keeping her upright and moving toward the door.

"Come on now," Paula repeated.

There was a porch with three steps. Paula already had the front door key out.

The portal swung in. Rebecca was half led, half carried in the darkness as she sought to call out, blinking sweat from her eyes.

They dropped her inside the threshold. Her knees buckled and she went down, heavily. She just managed to twist on her side before hitting the teak wood floor with a thud.

Both Paula and Masters could see a cloud of dust falling as the yellow lights were switched on. It was a single room, as originally intended. There was a yellow light hanging from the ceiling, a table lamp to the right, a third on the way down, and a standing lamp on the left two thirds down the way. Behind a partition on the left side of the far wall was the bathroom. Behind a partition on the right side of the far wall was a kitchenette.

Between all those things was a perverted playground.

It jumped into Rebecca's eyes with the stark-ness of a harsh, flashbulb-lit, black-and-white photo. To her right, behind the door, an upright pole was screwed into the floor. Then there was a bed and bed springs, but no mattress.

The mattress was beside it. Also beside it was a plain wooden chair with arms, also bolted to the floor. Everything besides the mattress was bolted to the floor.

The Procurer swept his arm. Paula reached down, dragged Rebecca from the doorway, and closed the portal with her foot. She half carried, half dragged

Rebecca halfway across the room, then dumped her in the chair. Before the redhead could even settle, Paula lifted the captive's arms so that they hung over the chair back.

"Prepare her," said the Procurer, still by the door. "I'll get everything ready for tomorrow . . . I mean, later today."

The words seemed to echo in Rebecca's battered mind. Tomorrow? That was when the

Miss Bouillabaisse contestants arrived . . . ! But then she had other things to concern herself.

The Procurer left quickly, closing the door behind him. Rebecca was alone in the yellow-lit, cavernous room with the tall, brackish-haired, slightly buck-toothed Amazon.

The look in the driver's eyes made Rebecca want to retreat into her own brain.

Back there she heard echoes. Echoes of the voices of loved ones. She had to remember she had loved ones to save her sanity from this affront. But these voices were far from soothing. They screamed at her.

Her father saying, "Be careful."

A previous lover begging her not to be so independent.

A friend wondering why she drove herself so hard.

Another wondering why she was "asking for trouble" by dressing so sexy.

And her mother. Her mother warning her. It had been a strange conversation. It had been after some other girl had beaten Rebecca for a seat on the student council.

"If you have a choice, never put yourself at the mercy of another girl," she had said. "Better the worst man than the nicest girl. Because a girl knows what another girl can take. A girl knows what another girl can stand. And a girl knows how to push. A girl knows where and when to push another girl. A girl knows how to drive another girl to the edge ... and over...."

Rebecca called for her mother in a frightened voice. The cry was cut off as Paula whirled toward her. She strode over, her white high heels clacking. She stood above the cowering redhead in the chair, her hands on both hips, surveying the captive. Then she quickly unzipped her jacket. Lowering her arms, the denim garment slipped off, falling to the floor in another cloud of raised dust.

Beneath, Paula wore only a U-neck, sleeveless undershirt, her big, floppy tits with their huge, nearly invisible bright pink aureolas clearly, apparent beneath.

She reached down and grabbed Rebecca's chin, giving the girl a choice of staring into her cold gray eyes, looking at her leering face, or peering down her hanging cleavage. Rebecca tried to look away, but the woman shook the girl's chin.

"Just you and me now, sweetums." She snapped Rebecca's face away. "Just you and me."

Rebecca's face snapped back toward the front. Paula slapped her sharply, quick, hard.

Rebecca's head whipped about once more, as if it were on a spring. Paula caught it as it snapped back, again gripping the girl's chin tightly in her fingers.

Rebecca's hair was across her face as well.

"Feel that?" asked Paula. "Feel that good. I can't do much of that. Can't mark up your face .. . too much. The man wouldn't like that. He likes your faces unblemished." Paula dropped Rebecca's chin and grabbed her throat, pushing her back against the chair.

"But you'd be surprised what I would do without marking your face. You'd be surprised...." She yanked upwards, then slammed Rebecca down on the seat. Paula instantly kneeled and pushed the girl's skirt hem up over the thigh ropes.

Rebecca shifted in the chair in shock, trying to cover her thighs, but Paula was quicker. The woman stabbed her fingernails through Rebecca's shirt, into her abused right tit.

Rebecca screeched and hunched, stiffening in place. Paula went back to the thigh ropes as if doing simple seamstress work.

"Now, now, now," she said. "No trouble, no struggling, none of that. You can save that for him. He likes that. I don't." She took off the ropes, standing up quickly.

"You and me have got to come to a little understanding," she said calmly before grabbing Rebecca by the hair and pulling her to her high-heeled shoes. The woman had secured the captive on her own two feet before the pain cleared from Rebecca's eyes. Paula's hands rested solidly on Rebecca's shoulders, holding them the way a coach might face a valued player.

"Look at that, now," she said, motioning down, with her head. "See that?" she asked about her own shoes. Rebecca saw that they were actually extremely tight, extremely high, with extreme stiletto heels.

"Four inches," Paula informed him. "I love 'em. Do you love your shoes?"

Rebecca still tottered on her three-inch heels.

There was something about the way Paula had asked the question that made Rebecca want to answer. Yeah, she did love her shoes in spite of the pain and effort they caused her. Why else would she wear three-inch heels? But she was intimidated (now there's an understatement) and couldn't figure out why Paula was asking. Best not to antagonize her or compete with her.

Rebecca shook her head no. Paula hit her in the stomach.

Rebecca doubled over, that area still tender from the kicks the Procurer had given it. But then Paula's hands were back in Rebecca's hair, wrenching her straight.

She was around the captive in a twinkling, one arm over her shoulder, between her breasts, and the other arm around Rebecca's waist. Her squishy tits were mashed again Rebecca's arms and back, and her right leg was slightly bent, rammed between Rebecca's legs.

"Wrong answer," she whispered to the quivering, gasping girl. "You love your shoes. You love them because he loves them. From now on, you love whatever he loves, and he loves everything about you." Her hands moved across her.

"He loves your pretty, unblemished face and your smooth neck," she said, caressing them. "He loves your squeezably soft mounds." She squeezed. Rebecca groaned, head going back under Paula's neck.

"And your tight waist and your curving hips, and your shapely legs. ..." The hands moved down the body, molding it. "And your deep, smelly, dripping cunt."

Long fingers snaked beneath the skirt, beneath the pantyhose, and to the dark red curly crotch hair. Rebecca squealed and tried to pull away, Paula cuffed her on the side of the head, propelling her onto her side to the mattress.

"Perfect shot," she considered.

Rebecca dimly heard her captor's white high heels clacking on the wood floor away from her as she tried to catch her breath and regain some sort of focus.

Her hands were all but lost to her now, just dead hunks of meat on the ends of her tingling arms. Her voice? Well, forget it. The thing inside her mouth made her feel as if she had been born mute.

"Yes, I love my shoes," Paula announced, returning from the kitchen with a knife in her hands. "I can run in them, I can dance in them, and I can even kick in them." She proved it by putting her toe into Rebecca's solar plexus. The girl curled up into a fetal ball on the mattress, groaning. Paula kneeled beside her and started cutting off her clothes.

"Why, I could ice skate in these things," Paula chattered, throwing open Rebecca's shirt and cutting the bra straps. "I could run down a frozen mountain in them." She slit the black skirt all the way down the side. Rebecca was just getting her air back, the skirt coming off as she stretched.

Paula shook her head at the pantyhose. "Tsk, tsk," she said. "This won't do at all."

Outside the house, a low, insistent hum could be heard. But there was no one there to hear it. It was four o'clock in the morning and all the good boys and girls were in bed. All the bad boys and girls were far away from their beds.

Either way, no one heard on that street at that time.

Inside the house, a shapely little naked girl, whose hair was in red, dripping ringlets around her head, sat straining in the wooden chair. Her mouth was still full of the plastic device, but her hands were given a minor break. They were no longer tied behind her. They were tied, by their red, raw wrists, to the chair arms.

A tall, strong, naked lady was drying the seated girl's hair with an electric blower. Paula had dried all of Rebecca with the blower shortly after forcing her into the bath tub in the first place. Everything had been cut from her by then, even her necklace. She lay in the tub as Paula turned | on the shower.

The Amazonian laughed as Rebecca struggled. Laughed as she untied the girl and got into the tub with her. Laughed at Rebecca's feeble attempts to fight back as she was lathered and rinsed off.

"See?" Paula had trumpeted, holding the slippery girl to her. "See? No hands, ma!" She was wearing her white heels in the tub.

Rebecca had broken free and Paula had backhanded her across the face. The wet skin only made it sting worse. Rebecca nearly fell out of the tub, but Paula caught her. She rolled Rebecca out instead, onto the bath mat where she landed with a sopping thud. Paula hopped out, kicked off her shoes, and pulled off her shoes. Then she had gathered Rebecca in her arms (one arm across her wind pipe, the other bending the captive's arm up her back).

She waited until the girl's struggles had subsided, then dragged her out of the lavatory, back to the chair. The hands had been tied first, Rebecca's head lolling on the seat back. Then Paula had cruelly bound Rebecca's big toes the front chair legs so that she was on tiptoe, legs wide. Then the drier came out.

First her arms, then her legs, and then her chest. Paula let Rebecca's nipples whither under the heat. Then down the stomach to the crotch.

"Spread 'em," Paula warned as Rebecca's wrists twisted in her bonds and little crying noises escaped her mouth. "Spread 'em . . . !" Rebecca spread her knees as far as they would go. She turned her head away as Paula put the mouth of the heater against her hair. She felt her vagina sizzling. Her mind began to boil as

Paula noticed the pool of water beneath the girl's ass.

"Up," she instructed. Rebecca gagged in wonder. "1 said up!" Paula repeated, back-handing Rebecca's tit. The breast quivered as Rebecca cried, gathering all her strength to force herself off the seat, held up by only her arms and her toes.

Rebecca strained, moaning, until her body began to vibrate. She fell, sitting on the hot tip of the drier. It nearly spread her vaginal lips. Rebecca screamed and vaunted up again, holding it as long as she could. Finally the drier turned off.

Rebecca collapsed onto the chair to find Paula kneeling before her, peering and poking at her crotch. "Not too bad. Hardly a singe." Paula smiled up at her.

"He'll never notice. And you won't tell him, will you? It'll be our little secret. !"

Her smiles broadened like the Cheshire Cat as her head snaked between Rebecca's legs. Her face pushed down into the girl's dark auburn muff and her tongue flicked out.

As Rebecca started, Paula was up, the drier was back on, and the captive's hair was being tended to. Rebecca grunted as the mane was brushed after drying, making it a truly regal coiffure. Then Paula's fingers snaked into the locks just over Rebecca's forehead and pulled her skull back slowly . . . until the back of Rebecca's neck rested on the chair top.

Paula's other hand came around, over her head, as if about to plunge the knife into the captive. Rebecca held her breath until she saw makeup brush in Paula's hand. The girl remained frozen as the woman did her up. Rebecca could only imagine what Paula could do to her eyes with a makeup brush.

"All right," said the captor, standing straight, still holding Rebecca's head.

"All right. Now we get dressed. And you don't fight, you don't struggle, you don't balk-correct? Because there's nothing like a gag to cover chipped teeth and broken lips. Get me?"

One look and Rebecca knew that Paula would like nothing more.

Rebecca Alien whirled around when she heard the front door close. Her hands were back behind her, wrists taped carefully apart and then together, crossed. T. P.

Masters, the Procurer, stood there, holding some papers. He smiled proudly upon seeing Rebecca, then leaned casually against the far wall.

"Now, that's more like it," he said, opening his arms. "Come to poppa."

Rebecca Alien was dressed in a form-fitting, black lycra, two-piece outfit. The skirt was little more than a tight, tight tube from her waist to her lower thighs. There was a slit almost all the way up the front, stopping just below her crotch. Over her crotch was a tiny, tie-on, G-string, thong panty.

There was no visible panty line, because there was no visible panty. It only covered her ass crack in back and hardly any of that at that. The straps were tied over her hip for easy ... release.

On her torso was a cunning lycra and lace top. The lycra was tight on her stomach, swooping up to hold her round, molded tits in a deep V neck which stopped just above her navel. Across both arms were skin-tight sleeves of black lace.

On her hands were white lace gloves. On her feet were white lace socks and her black, shiny high-heel shoes.

Her eyes gleamed teary green. Her lips were red, wet, and shimmering. The thing was still in her mouth. Around her neck: a simple, elegant, white pearl choker.

It too was cunning. With just a touch from finger or thumb, all her air was cut off....

"You heard him," said Paula, pushing her forward from the small of her back.

"Get going."

Rebecca Alien looked from the woman to the man. A chill swept across her body.

She felt it beneath the skirt and down the shirt. It was a horribly perverted family tableau of the proud parents urging the baby on its first steps....

Paula Nussbaum's face was sardonically pleased at a job well done. T. P.

Masters' face held only pleasure and casual expectation.

Rebecca Alien looked around the room; this yellow-lit coffin, this dank crypt, this damp nightmarish pit which was cut off from the city, sealed off from the real world.

She tried a final time to pull her hands from the bonds ... to force the thing from her mouth. She ached in place, twisting, stretching, yearning. ...

"Go on," Paula urged threateningly. Masters just stood by the closed door, his arms wide, his eyes beckoning.

Rebecca Alien was about to moan, begging, until she remembered what her moth had said. She looked at Paula Nussbaum. She could see in those dead gray eyes what would happen if she begged.

Rebecca Alien took her first step toward the Procurer.

Prev Next