Hotel manager | Bound Beauties 3 | bdsm stories

THE HIGH HEELS CLACKED ON THE MARBLE FLOOR of the Hotel Loisir.

The desk man looked up as the manager passed. "Good morning, Ms. Alien . . . !"

He stopped abruptly because it was not Ms. Alien who was passing him. It was not

Ms. Alien who stopped and turned to face him. In was another woman-in her way, just as striking as Ms. Alien, but older, taller, stronger.

She was wearing a tight, elegant, dark blue dress with a plunging V neck and a swirling skirt which stopped just below her knees. Her high heels were also blue, but shiny, with at least four-inch stiletto heels. Her expression was, if anything, more assured and intent than even Ms. Alien's.

"Good morning, George," said the woman. "I'm afraid Miss Alien has been transferred. I am the hotel's new manager. Miss Nussbaum."

The deskman stammered in shock. Ms. . . . Ms. Nussbaum ... ?"

"Miss," Paula stressed. "Miss Nussbaum. Please instruct the staff. We have a very busy day ahead, what with the beauty pageant contestants arriving. I will be in my office."

And with that, the brackish-haired woman turned perfectly on the intimidating heels and clacked on toward the manager's door.

George the deskman shook his head, trying to get over the surprise. What cut through, finally, was a basic realization. Suddenly he knew what was distinctly different about this new manager. Miss Nussbaum had not one ounce of softness about her. Not one.

"Uh, Ms. ... I mean, Miss Nussbaum . . . ?" George called after her. Paula turned, one hand on her office door knob. The deskman swallowed under her gaze and thought twice about continuing. But then, remembering Ms. Alien, he decided to plunge ahead.

"Uh ... we all ... um ... admired Ms. Alien here. We all would have liked ...what I mean is, where was she transferred . . . ? I mean, is there any place we can write and thank her for all she's done ... for the hotel, I mean?"

Miss Nussbaum's eyes were veiled, but her lips smiled. "The owner has transferred her to another position," she said flatly. "I don't know where it is as the moment, but you and the staff can rest assured it's a much better position."

The "better position" was on her side, on the floor of the railway house. Her green eyes were bright and big over the thing which covered her mouth and almost all her lips. She grunted and groaned as her mouth opened as wide as it could go, seeking some relief. But then it closed again, the teeth chewing into the hard rubber which pried the orifice open.

Her shoulders hunched, which was just about the only movement her bound arms could make. They were bound tightly around her elbows, holding them together against the small of her back, and they were tightly bound at the wrists, palm to palm. Her fingers still freshly painted by Paula, clawed the air, her pinkies just feeling the new panties which covered her ass. They were black, like the rest of her outfit, but made of a stronger material. The lycra skirt was gone, but the lycra and lace top still hugged her torso. It had been no problem for the Procurer to pull it wide during the night and snap it back in place come the sun.

But all that was on her bottom half now was the new panty, tightly affixed by two buckles, one digging into each hip. The slit skirt was lying in a heap, under the bed.

Unlike the white G-string, which the Procurer had taken off hours before, the new panty covered most of her bottom and a tiny bit more of her front . . .although the leg openings were cut just about as high as they could go.

On her feet were new, black, dainty, three-inch high heels, these strapping along her heel and ankles. They twisted in the air as well, since her ankles were affixed together as well as her knees. Then her wrists were tied directly to her ankles, making her body a bound O.

The white lace socks were still on, as were the white lace gloves.

Rebecca struggled in this position, trying to twist or pull her limbs away. A hum seemed to surround her. Not like the hum of the electric drier, oh no, this hum seemed to envelop her. She writhed within this hum, making what movement she could and what sounds she was able.

The bondage was not the worst of it. The worst was that there was a hideous gag between both her pairs of lips. The hum below: a battery-run dildo, held in place by the tight panty. Its base bulged in the fabric, looking like the top of a medicine bottle. It vibrated with an insistent, incessant throb.

The hum above: a new kind of gag, specially made for the Procurer. It was a penis-prod gag, but with a special addition. Although attached to a covering patch of sponge which went over the mouth (which had attached straps which affixed behind the head), another medicine bottle top-type switch was in the middle of the sponge patch.

This controlled the prod in the mouth. It did not vibrate, like the dildo. No, this one surged in and out a complete distance of half an inch. This hum moved the prod-gag back and forth across the back of her tongue.

She was kept in a constant state of agitation from the stereo hums. The one below tickled her unrelentingly, setting off as much pain as pleasure, and the one above threatened to choke her, continually setting off her gagging and digestive reflexes.

Saliva had completely soaked the sponge and continually drooled across her chin and neck.

She was wet down below as well, the Procurer having slathered lubricating jelly in her cunt before installing the dildo and panty. Her body would quiver from the shots of pain which arced through her form, then her vision would cloud and her back arch from the double explosions in her head and between her legs.

The Procurer stood by the door, watching her contortions, hearing her moans.

No, a blindfold would not be needed. She could hardly see now. Between her exhaustion from last night and the abuse this morning, she would soon lose consciousness, no doubt. When they finally returned here, they'd probably find her motionless in a pool of her own urine and drool.

T. P. Masters locked the door after him. He had a pressing engagement to make.

The Miss Bouillabaisse contestants arrived. They were greeted, as they entered, individually, with a red carpet, roses, and a small, gaudy, Hotel Loisir crown.

The manager gave each a hug and a handshake, then stood by each for pictures, saying, "Every one is a winner at our hotel."

The staff applauded. The other guests applauded, and the hotel photographer went crazy, snapping shot after shot of the contestants from every angle. It made all the girls feel that they were really involved with something. They hardly noticed how it was an insular, inner-hotel affair, with absolutely no outside reporters or photographers.

The girls assumed that the pictures would soon be sent to the newspapers and area magazines. So did the staff. They were all wrong.

Less than two hours later, with all the girls carefully placed in their specially picked rooms, occupying themselves with the complimentary caviar and champagne, Manager Nussbaum and the hotel photographer, T. P. Masters, went over the enlarged eight-by-ten photographs in his office/darkroom.

The Procurer had set a majority of the pictures aside immediately. Paula did not need to ask why. For the most part, the girls involved were local amateur contestants, out for a good time. They were the loss leaders of any pageant, the biodegradable bunch who were swept out at the first cut no more than fifteen minutes into the show. They got to smile and parade once before saying goodbye and leaving the hot stuff for the finalists.

Yes, Paula thought, looking at the photos of the seven girls whose looks ranged from fair to homely. Eyes too narrow, noses too long, mouths too big, chests too flat, curves too wide, legs too skinny, asses too large. They just made the others look good.

Paula's eyes lingered on a photo of Muriel Cummings. The situation was especially acute here. Eyes too close and too small, nose too long, mouth too big, body just managing to be womanly. She might have made a decent date if she wasn't so damn set on winning the pageant against all odds. That, no doubt, was the influence of her mother, Beryl, who was an exaggerated magnification of her daughter ... the ultimate show mom . . . and all the horror that entailed.

Paula wanted to forget them, so she was happy when Masters held up the photos of their own finalists, one by one.

"Honey Thompkins," he said. The picture was of a knock-out blond, the best of the bunch. "Twenty-one years old. Five-seven, a hundred and ten pounds-thirty-five, twenty-four-thirty-seven."

But what thirty-fives! Paula thought. Beautifully round, beautifully firm . . .nearly perfect chest melons. And Honey herself knew it. She had worn a tight aqua mini-dress into the hotel, with a scoop neck and scooped-out sides, showing off her tits as well as her tight, firm torso.

"Eyes," Masters continued, "light blue and i wide set. Hair, yellow blond."

Which fell straight to her shoulders in a slightly shaggy cut. "Nose, slightly pug. Lips, wide. Teeth, perfect." He I dropped her photo.

"Listen to this," said Paula, holding up a copy I of her application which stated she had come from Florida. "Under why I want to enter this contest.

'Every day holds a new challenge. I I know it's not whether you win or lose, but how I you play the game. But if you play the game best, you're bound to win, right?' The woman dropped the sheet. "Swell. I'd like to |play a game with the little trollop."

"A girl who likes men and likes men liking her," the Procurer announced. He shook his head. 'Too much, too much. If she dropped out of the pageant mysteriously, there would be too many questions, too much interest. She's already the odds-on favorite."

He picked up another photo. "Claudia Wentworth. Nineteen years old. Five-four, a hundred and five pounds, thirty-seven, twenty-four, thirty-three." The picture showed an adorable girl with a knock-out smile, wearing a simple plaid skirt, tight sweater, and a frilly shirt beneath it. Her chest was indeed large, and Paula imagined the girl needed a pretty strong bra to hold it in place. On her feet, at the end of strong legs, were high-heel sandals.

"Eyes, brown. Hair, deep brown." Which covered her forehead and went down to mid-back in a luxurious carpet. "Nose, straight, well set. Face, oval. Lips, red, soft. ..." The Procurer trailed off. Paula picked up Wentworth's application (which stated she was a Louisiana girl).

"I need to be more outgoing," she read. "I'm too shy.' Well, I'm sure we could loosen her up good," Paula leered.

The Procurer shook his head again. "Too close to her family. Writes her parents everyday. Has a boy back home. All are anxious to hear how she does. I have no doubt the Wentworth family would descend upon the hotel en masse if she were to disappear."

Paula was getting irritable. "So what? I thought you were the one who always said they'll never catch you."

Even she was taken aback by the expression on his face when he looked at her.

One eye was certainly dead, but the frightening thing was she couldn't tell which one was the glass eye.

"They will never catch me," he said with dead certainty. "But that doesn't mean I will always have my way. I can be frustrated, I can be ... interrupted. I do not wish to be interrupted in this case."

"Yeah," said Paula, looking away. "Yeah, I understand." She fidgeted among the remaining pictures. "Who's left?"

The Procurer placed his hand amongst the photos. Paula's limb made way as he immediately snapped up a shot of a curvaceous, buxom, bleached blond. He held it up to the red darkroom light and just stared at it.

Paula glanced at it from over his shoulder. It pictured a sexy young girl: five feet-five inches tall, a hundred and eight pounds, thirty-six-twenty-three-thirty five.

Her body was very nice under the tan-colored suede mini-dress with the high-heel cowboy boots, but it was her face that was the most interesting. Dark green eyes, wide set in an oval face with cleft chin. Eyebrows slightly shaggier than most. Lips full and thick. Teeth perfect. But the look was an unmistakable combination of innocence and experience.

Paula knew the type. Paula hated the type. The lush, spoiled little Texas girls who wanted everything, but didn't think they were asking for much. They wanted the mansions, the yachts, the cars, but none of the responsibility that went with it. In other words, they wanted the American dream, and they wanted it handed to them.

This was the type of girl who could fuck the entire Eight Panzergrenadier Division and still think of herself as a "nice girl." This was the type who was so full of herself, she had no consideration for anything else and couldn't understand why she should Paula checked out her application.

"Pamela Sturges," she read. "It is an honor to be involved with this wonderful pageant and to meet all the wonderful people involved with it." No doubt she thought that was consummately witty.

When Paula looked up, slightly nauseous from the brown-nosing, the Procurer was still staring at the photo. "She who'll never be named," he whispered.

Uh-oh, thought Paula. So that's it. She looks just enough like his lost love-"She Who Will Never be Named." Because she didn't become Mrs. Masters, now, to him, she will have no name, and never will.

The woman started to smirk. So be it, she thought, looking down at the photo of the self-possessed twenty-year-old girl one more time. Paula was going to see to it that what happened to the Procurer's last love didn't happen here.

Perfect, really. This girl probably alienated almost everyone who got to know her. No one would make a great fuss if she disappeared.

Paula turned and walked down the long, dark hallway, passing one darkened pane of glass on the wall after another. It looked as if she was in a long, darkened, gloomy gallery, except all the glass panes were the same size and were placed on the wall in the same position.

Finally she stopped by the third one and licked a hanging switch. A small red spotlight clicked on, illuminating the glass. The Procurer slowly followed until he stood beside his associate, looking into the glass like Alice first witnessing Wonderland.

"I put her in 3-A," the woman related. Both looked through the two-way glass into the large room where Pam Sturges sat around in her underwear, under a robe, still wearing her cowboy boots, watching television, eating the caviar, drinking the champagne, and smoking pot. From the remnant in the ashtray, she had already put away one joint.

The hotel was a labyrinth of tunnels inside tunnels. The halls were turning, twisting mazes, which allowed only one entrance to one room along each hall.

That way each room was out of sight of the next. It also allowed secret passages between each room. These hidden halls were nestled between rooms, and every room on the first floor had a two-way mirror which could be looked through, but not out.

These secret passages were like moats, surrounding each room on the first floor.

The entrance to the hidden made, of course, was in the manager's office. Ms.

Alien, naturally, had no idea. Only the owner and his assistant knew.

The assistant now glanced back over his shoulder. In room 2-A, Claudia Wentworth was sitting. She too wore only her underwear. She had on a glossy red see-through bra which molded her squishy, hanging breasts into neat balls. Her torso was long, golden, and slim. On her narrow hips she wore red satin tap pants with white lace trim.

Paula licked her lips. She forced herself to turn back to the object of the Procurer's attention. Compared to Wentworth, Sturges was a pig.

But she was pig the Procurer desired. Her hair was a two-colored mop, with dark roots by her neck which could easily be seen since Pamela had done it up in a tight pigtail. The robe was bulky white, stolen from another hotel, and the underwear top was light blue, loose, and satiny. The panties, however, were peach-colored and tight. Masters looked away just long enough to pinion Paula with his gaze.

'I want her," he said.

Pam started when there was a knock at the door. She hastily stabbed the joint out in the ashtray, her heart leaping, as she heard the lock tumblers move and the knob turn. She jumped to her feet as the door opened and the manager stepped in.

"Who . . . what ... oh, it's you!" Pam exclaimed, recognizing her, her hand at her throat. First she breathed with relief, then her addled mind realized what had just happened. "Hey, what's the big idea of just. . . !"

"I'm sorry," Paula said smoothly, entering and ; closing the door behind her.

The room was a classic corner, with a high ceiling, tall shuttered windows on the far and right walls (looking out onto two streets), a fireplace in the middle of the right wall, a big canopied bed in the middle of the room, a stuffed easy chair between the bed and the door (the TV opposite the chair), and a large walk-in wardrobe closet in the corner.

"But it's my job to check on all the contestants as soon as they've settled in," the manager continued. She carried a small briefcase in her left hand. "The organizers gave me strict rules, you know. It's the hotel responsibility now."

"Okay, okay," said Pam, nervously glancing at the pot in the ashtray. She knew that was against the rules. "So you've checked."

"But that's not all," said Paula. "What's this?" Pam started as Paula strode toward her. She only relaxed when Paula passed the ashtray and headed toward the open shutters facing the main street. "This will not do," she said, closing them, sealing the room from sight. "These open, and you in here like this. What if someone in the buildings across the street looked in?"

"Big deal," said Pam. "I'm wearing more now that I'll be wearing in the pageant.

The whole idea is to be gawked at, isn't it?"

Paula looked at her sternly from the window. "That is not the proper attitude," she said.

Pam suddenly realized that maybe this broad reported back to the organizers.

She had better act slightly better. "You don't like me, do you?" she said in a little voice.

"Why," said Paula, "I don't like or dislike you. I hard know you."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Pam, going quickly up to the taller woman. "I've . . .

I've been so upset these last few weeks. My ... my little dog, who I love more than anything, was hit by a car."

"I'm terribly sorry," said Paula drily, looking down into Pam's plaintive face.

"Well, perhaps that helps explain your ... casual... attitude."

"Oh yes," said Pam, "I've been terribly distraught."

"But that's no excuse!" Paula snapped. "There's only one reason to join a pageant and that's to represent yourself the very best you can."

"Of course," Pam stammered. "And I will, from now on. I promise!"

"You can't dress like that," Paula said, motioning distastefully at her wardrobe. "At any time!" "But... but... in private . .. ?" "I've seen you, haven't I? The window shades were wide open, weren't they? Even in private, you have to look your best. At all times!"

"I'm sorry," Pam said, back in her little "oh-forgive-me" voice.

"If you promised, then you have to fulfill your promise," Paula said with fervor. "From now on means from now on. Now!"

"Yes, I know that," Pam said slowly. What did she have to do to get this Nazi broad out of here? "Change this minute." "Now?"

"From now on means . . . !" "All right, all right," Pam said, throwing up her arms, turning toward the standing wardrobe, where her bag lay on the floor.

"What do you want? A bathing suit? An evening gown?"

"No need to dress for the pageant right this moment. That time will come. Dress in a decent nightgown at least."

"You want a decent nightgown?" Pam muttered under her breath, smiling over her open bag. "You'll get it." She pulled out a frilly pink bustier with attached garter belt. "How about this?"

If she was expecting shock, she was disappointed. Instead, Paula looked skeptically at the pink lace bustier dotted with pink strawberries. "You can fit into that?"

Pam looked at the fancy underwear in surprise, then back at Paula. "Why ... of course I can!"

"I beg your pardon, dear," Paula said apologetically, "but I don't think ... I mean, by all appearances . . . your . . . form . . . might be a bit too ...lush... for that skinny thing."

Sturges reddened with anger. "Of course I can fit into this!" She looked down at

herself: the bulky robe, the loose top. "I... I. ..." she sputtered. "You wait right there! Don't move!" She grabbed more items out of her bag and stalked into the bathroom.

Paula stood her ground for a moment, then let a smile grow across her face. She glanced into the mirror for a knowing second, then slowly approached the briefcase she had left on the bed.

Opening it, she removed two things. She slipped one into her dress pocket and palmed the other in her right hand. She closed the case just as Pamela came storming out of the lav.

She was wearing the pink lacy bustier under a filmy pink dressing gown. She needed the gown to cover her chest, which the frilly lace trim of the bustier started below, and her crotch, which the opposite end of the lace frill stopped above. Otherwise, it gripped her torso like skin, showcasing her narrow waist and curves.

The garter belts were stretched across her flanks for just over a foot, and then held up pink stockings with whitening tops. Other than the bustier, gown, and stockings, she went naked.

"See?" she said proudly, opening her arms.

"Cover yourself!" Paula demanded, the gown opening, revealing Pam's curvy mass of light brown snatch.

Pamela quickly pulled the button-less, tie-less gown together. "Well, I told you it fit," she grumbled. "It's even a little loose."

"Details, my dear," Paula chastised, coming closer. "Details. Don't you have matching shoes?"

"Of course!" Pam answered defensively, stepping to the wardrobe. One hand still holding the gown closed, she pulled out a pair of pink high heels. Using just one hand, she pulled them on. "Ta-da!" she said proudly, standing. "Is that better?"

"Much better," Paula agreed, getting even closer. "Now you look truly lovely, my dear. Absolutely lovely." With her left hand, she took the neck of the dressing gown between thumb and forefinger.

"Hey," said Pam, confused, just beginning to realize that she was doing a fashion show for someone who was probably a bull dyke. "What do you think ...!"

Paula hit her in the stomach before she could complete the sentence.

She hit her with the fist holding the thing from the briefcase. And as Pam doubled over breathlessly, Paula pushed the thing in her hand into the girl's widening mouth.

It was a pear gag, fashioned from pink, with a black, rubber-tube, easy-tighten strap which was already affixed in a circle. All Paula had to do was get it in Pamela's mouth, pull the strap behind her head, and tug on the strap end.

Getting it in was the most difficult part. It was big, but Paula had faith in Pam's big mouth. She sandwiched the girl's head between both hands and pushed, forcing her jaw ever wider and the thing ever farther. She heard it snap in.

The thing didn't snap; Pam's teeth snapped down on the tapered end. Getting it over her head was no problem, nor was pulling Pam's pigtail out of the way. Then came the big tug.

Paula pulled it so hard that she dragged Pam upright with it, her mouth filled and her eyes bulging. The girl's hands instantly went toward her face, automatically trying to extricate the obstruction behind her teeth. All the screeches became no more than pressurized bleats.

Paula grabbed Pam's clutching hands and wrenched them down and back. The small girl couldn't fight the superior strength of the woman. Paula held both of Pam's wrists in one hand and reached into her pocket with the other. Out came the infamous rubber-wire loops.

Two tugs and Pam's hands were affixed behind her. Paula grabbed the bleating girl around the waist and started dragging her toward the wardrobe. Pamela shook and twisted and bucked and struggled, her dressing gown now wide open and her tits jiggling.

"Dyed your snatch too, did ya?" Paula grunted, tugging with both arms around the girl's waist. She bumped Pam's rear with her own hips, in a mockery of sex.

"Made your sweet little cunty all blond too, huh? Well, isn't that nice?"

On "nice," Paula gave her a big tug, carrying her into the wardrobe proper.

With a push of her shoulder, the back of the wardrobe swung in and Paula whirled the girl around. Pamela hurdled through her hanging clothes and hit the far wall of the secret passage. She slammed into it, lost her footing, and slid to the floor, landing heavily on her ass.

Paula was right there, kneeling. Her hand snaked into the gown and gripped Pam's left tit tightly. "And look at these," she hissed, squeezing. "Look at the way the aureolas and nipples thrust forward, like they're on top of the tit, like they're not even part of the tit." Paula leaned close, her breath hot. "Got a booby job, didn't you?"

Pam's head started turning away, her eyes shutting, her brow furrowed.

"Let's see, shall we?" said Paula, and she hit the tit with her fist.

Pam shrieked, her back straightening, her head going back, and then she threw a tantrum, kicking and contorting and yelling. Paula merely danced back, laughing.

"Yeah, a booby job," she cracked sarcastically. "They're not breasts, they're punching bags." She quickly kneeled and slapped Pam in a sweeping motion with her open right hand. The girl went down to the floor on her right side. Paula was on her again, quickly and cruelly undoing her pony-tail, oblivious to the hairs she pulled out.

But before Pam could screech about that, her hair was loose and Paula had all ten fingers buried in it, dragging her up. "Yeah, a booby job, a slit dye, and now a mop job," she hissed in Pam's face. "Nothing about you is natural, is it, sweetums? But guess what? That doesn't matter. All that matters now is that you're here. Yeah, baby, you have had 'em made, but now we got 'em."

Paula released Pamela's head, pushing it back against the wall. As the girl recovered, the manager nimbly grabbed Surges' suitcase, pulled it in, closed the false back wall of the wardrobe, and locked it. What was great about these first floor rooms in that a person could kick all they wanted, and there was no one below to hear them but the devil and the deep blue sea.

Paula turned back to the stunned, battered girl, who looked up at her in growing shock and wonder.

"Congratulations, bitch," Paula said briskly. "You've just won the Miss Masters Pageant."

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