Procurer and girl, straps, gag | Bound Beauties 5 | bdsm stories

"We CAN'T LEAVE HER HERE," SAID THE PROCURER of Claudia Wentworth.

That was not what he had said about Rebecca Alien. Rebecca Alien could stay where she was. In fact, she had to stay where she was. A slim leather collar with metal studs made sure of that. A leash was attached to the collar. The leash was attached, in turn, to the pole in the floor.

Rebecca strained to undo the leash from the pole. Rebecca strained to free herself of her new bondage. Rebecca strained to do a lot of things .. . all just beyond her reach. Rebecca Alien strained, period.

She had to. The Procurer had left her no choice.

As he had anticipated, he had returned to the railway house to find the girl unconscious in twin pools of piss and perspiration. The batteries of her twin impaling devices had run down, but she was beyond caring. The Procurer had undone her arms and legs, pulled out the dildo, and carried her to the bathroom.

Even after a cold shower, she could hardly move, hardly fight him. When he was sure she wasn't faking, he had pulled the intrusive gag from her mouth and re-sealed her lips with tape. From there it was over to the bed for a bad night's sleep.

She was bound, spread-eagled, to the bed frame, the mattress back on the box springs. He lay around her, feeling free to accost her, even in his sleep. Come the morning, she was still woozy, but both conscious and coherent. As if it was important to him that she be able to make words....

He had surveyed her, standing beside the bed. Her naked form was commonplace to him now: small, shapely, smooth, and sleek. Perfect little form: perfect little eyes, perfect little head, perfect little shape, perfect little tits with their perfect little nipples, perfect little long legs, and perfect little dark red snatch.

She was his inspiration and he was the artist. He created her ordeal of the day.

As the Procurer discovered Claudia Wentworth's interference, Rebecca Alien was tethered to the pole by her neck. On her body, a second-skin black latex-rubber catsuit. It was pliant, form-fitting, and shone with a dull brightness. It went from her chest all the way beyond her feet.

The bottoms weren't foot openings or socks. Instead, they were high-heel boots, with five-inch heels, pinioning her feet in a constant "on point" position. The sleeves didn't end in hand holes or gloves either. Instead, they continued into straps. The thing was a fashionable strait jacket.

But a sexy strait jacket, specially designed for the Procurer in Europe (in fact, when the manufacturer had finished, he had held it up, proud of his work, but said, "I'd hate to be the one wearing this!"). The straps buckled in the middle of her back, with just enough slack to make her think she might be able to get something accomplished. But no, the material was too slick and the fit too tight to allow her fingers any grip or her arms any purchase.

Instead, she was forced to madly rub her arms against herself, trying desperately to relieve her tension. The tension caused by two things. First, the catsuit did not cover her chest. It circumvented her chest in a long, deep V-neck which literally cut across the middle of her chest, bearing down. The neckline had been designed to press, not push up.

Her tits were crushed just over the nipples by the suit, the tops bulging out.

But that was not the worst. The worst was a strip of coarse horse hair attached to the inner lining of the neckline. With every move she made, the itchy stuff assailed her tender, sensitive breast skin. And with each rub of her arms, it only pressed down more.

Second, the bottom half of the catsuit was outfitted with two things between the legs. One, a butt plug. But the other was not a dildo, instead, it was a patch of plastic knobs which dug into her vaginal lips, one almost always nudging her clitoris. Again, with every move, the little nub knocks would rub her crotch, stimulating and agitating, but not exciting her.

Her ankles were crossed and tied both ways, in a cross pattern. Another strap went from the buckle on her back to the ankle straps, keeping her in a loose hogtie. It was enough. She flopped around the floor, trying to relieve her agitation, mostly unconscious of the noise she was making.

Any real noise was cut off by the plaster strips over her lips. The Procurer was taking no chances with her mouth, early that morning, he had taped it shut, knowing she would not try to make any loud noises with him laying on top of her.

But then, once he discovered that she had fallen asleep, he had taken the opportunity to truly seal her closed lips with strip after strip of plaster tape, which had to be wetted before it was affixed.

She had awoken during the process, but he had made sure her mouth stayed shut while it hardened. He knew every trick (moving the jaw back and such), but she didn't. To her amazement, her mouth was soon completely sealed, her lips unable to part.

She lay on the floor now, some dried adhesive streams cracking under her chin and on her neck. The asterisk-shaped patch of actual plaster strips over her mouth remained insolvent, however. To her growing amazement, she couldn't scream without opening her mouth. The biggest noise she could make was a loud hum.

But the hums hardly stopped as she tried to break free of the prison which was now not just the straps, not just the tape, not just the house, but her own body as well.

"We can't leave her here," the Procurer repeated in the secret passage of the hotel.

"Why not?" Paula complained, motioning at the pair of united girls. The woman had taken the time to dress in a conservative, but very tight, business suit.

"They look perfectly happy together."

The Procurer glared at his assistant. Yes, she was capable, but he didn't like her constant disagreements. All his other female assistants-and there had been two others-were willing to subjugate their sadism enough to work for him. This one seemed to think she was working with him, and that her opinions had any validity at all.

"We cannot keep any of the girls together," he said darkly. "It is not safe."

"But what could they possibly . . . !" Paula started, swinging an arm at the girl girls: Pamela still on her back, still out; Claudia on top, laying heavily upon the blond.

"We cannot keep them together!" the Procurer stressed. "They must be kept apart.

Whenever I had more than one in any place at any one time, it always resulted in disaster!" Yes, it did. I always showed up. Paula swallowed any further argument. Okay, whatever this guy wanted. He had the experience. He had the money. He had been the one to open this door in her brave new world.

"All right," she grumbled. "But just how are we going to get her out of here?

The hotel is manned twenty-four hours a day. The French Quarter never closes.

There are people on the narrow streets all the time. Yeah, sure, I know you've got plenty of little cubby holes around to hide 'em, but how are we going to get her out of here? Each of us take a hand and just walk her out?"

The Procurer's stare turned into a superior smile. He reached up and patted her on the head. "Yes, Miss Nussbaum," he said. "That is exactly what we're going to do."

He knew something she didn't know. He knew what was out on the streets and she didn't. At least, not that morning. She hadn't been out of the hotel since the contestants had arrived. And since the hotel was on a side street, between two major thoroughfares, she wasn't able to accurately gauge the public action.

The Procurer got her started undoing the two girls from each other.

New Orleans was a party city . . . one of the ultimate party cities. It was the location of many major business conventions per year, as well as the site of the country's biggest annual party, the

Mardi Gras (or, as it is more accurately known, "Fat Tuesday"). But that week-long event came in the spring, a time of totally mindless revelry, where the object was to pack as many people into one place as possible and see just how lubri-ciously crazy they could get.

There were wild parties, even wilder costumes, and the wildest behavior imaginable. Something like that takes awhile to wear off, so by autumn, the citizens were hot for an instant replay. The Miss Bouillabaisse pageant was just

part of a new celebration which had become known as Mardi Gras, "Fat Thursday," a glorification of everything that was New Orleans.

Already, outside the hotel, the sidewalks were packed with revelers, almost all carrying the six-teen-ounce plastic cups filled with beer or booze. New Orleans was about the only city where it was legal to openly carry liquor. In fact, it was encouraged.

The Procurer dragged Claudia to her feet as Paula unroped her. The tall women then fell upon Pamela before she could awaken and discover she had been undone from the brunette. Claudia, of course, still had her hands bound behind her back, and the prod gag still in her mouth (the erect dildo rising away from her face wet with juice).

Claudia's eyelids fluttered as her body settled in Masters' hands. Womanly, he decided, feeling her large, hanging tits against his shirt, his thigh up against her thick thatch of dark brown cunt hair. Pamela's legs, meanwhile, started slowly scraping along the floor as Paula pushed her over onto her stomach to get at her arms.

The blond started to awaken as Paula used the excess ropes to tie her wrists.

Then she flipped Pam onto her back again, affixing her wrists to her back by tying the rope remnants around her waist. Then she hopped down to retie Pamela's thighs and ankles. Claudia began to groan in Masters' arms.

"Better make sure that one doesn't kick any more closets," he warned his assistant.

Paula nodded. "With pleasure."

She soon joined the Procurer at his side. They both surveyed her handiwork with the blond. Pamela Sturges was hanging from the ceiling of the secret passage, upside down, by her ankles. She was still naked, the double-dildo prod gag still lashed tightly in her mouth. Paula had accomplished the hang by tying a length of rope from Pam's ankles to a hook in the ceiling, so the girl slowly turned in space, moaning.

Claudia, meanwhile, had also fully awakened. She stared at her competitor in shock, cowering in the grip of the two hotel people. The Procurer looked down at her with a mixture of smugness and pity. Such a fine, wholesome example of middle American girlhood. That sweet, rich face. That lush body. Too bad she fell into their clutches. Oh well, couldn't be helped.

"Come along, my dear," he told her, taking her back toward room 2-A. "Time to prepare you for your new life."

Claudia looked back just in time to see Pamela hanging upside down, turning, straining, moaning, pulling at her arm bonds, as the secret panel to her closet was shut.

Paula sat with the naked, shivering young girl on the bed, an arm around her shoulders. She had taken off her suit jacket and lay it on a chair. She wore no bra, and Claudia could see Paula's tits hanging heavy under the thin cloth of her bone-colored shirt. The woman licked her other hand and carefully rubbed off the honey and milk and soda that was smeared across their new captive's skin.

Claudia began to cry, the dildo heavy in her mouth.

The Procurer went through Wentworth's things in her bags and in the closet.

"Your other life is over," he said. "Forget it. Whatever you may have known before, no matter what you have experienced, or who you thought you were . . .forget it. That is all gone now, as if it never was. You are born again, this moment, into your true life, into what you actually are. Ah!"

He pulled out a fine white dress. It had a full, white, cotton skirt and a lace-up top held up by spaghetti straps. "Perfect." Masters came over to the bed and lay it beside the girl. "This is what you are now," he said. "A beautiful form for clothes. A shape to enhance the availability of your organic orifices."

He put his hand on her shoulder and slowly, powerfully, pushed her onto her back on the bed. "You were made for only one thing," he said solemnly. "You were designed for this purpose. You are at the peak of your power. Ripe." He kneeled beside her. Paula kneeled by her other side. Claudia looked up in fear at both.

"Do you. ..." he started, then changed to "If you doubt, you shall soon see."

And with that, he leaned down, his mouth opening.

Her head went back, and she cried in earnest as he began to sup upon her, his mouth licking and sucking, cleaning her of the milk and honey mixture. She began to kick, but he held one thigh to make sure no damage was done, and Paula held the other. He put his other hand in her hair and gripped, so that she had to remain lying. He put his mouth over her right nipple and aureola, and sucked, starting to slobber.

Claudia cried, quaking, on the bed, and the Procurer motioned Paula to join him.

The two caressed the sobbing girl with their tongues until he was by her face, and his assistant was nibbling at her thighs.

"You see?" he said, laying beside her, one hand still in her hair, the other caressing her cheek (distended by the gag). "You feel that, don't you?" He swung his arm down to tap Paula on the head. She looked up and saw what he wanted her to do. She smiled and shifted so that her face was over Claudia's crotch.

The Procurer took the girl's breast in his hand, kneading. "Yes," he said. "You feel that, don't you?" Paula's mouth went into Claudia's muff and her tongue flicked out. Claudia turned. "That's what you were made for," he assured her.

"To feel. To feel. ..." The Procurer gripped the dildo when her head started to shake. "Yes. Yes . . . feel...."

He kept massaging her chest, watching her closely. He watched as her terror turned to fear, her face turning to panic, her panic turning to discomfort, her discomfort turning to confusion, her confusion turning to helplessness, her skin growing red.

He watched as the tears began falling out of the corner of her eyes, he watched as her neck and shoulder muscles got stiffer and stiffer, her head pushing deeper and deeper into the mattress, her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps, her nostrils flaring.

"That's it!" he said, suddenly surging up, slapping Paula on the shoulder with the back of his hand. She looked up in surprise, then made way as he almost jumped on her.

"Go," he instructed tightly. "Her face." He grabbed Claudia's hips and dragged her ass to the edge of the bed. Quickly pulling down his pants, he removed his giant erection and placed the crown at the girl's vaginal lips.

Claudia began to sit up in shock, but Paula was there to push her down. She straddled the girl's face, her knees on either side of Claudia's head, her hand using the dildo from the brunette's mouth like a stick shift as she yanked up the skirt of her own dress. She wore no underpants.

Paula put the prod inside her as the Procurer put himself inside Claudia.

The girl could contort only once before Masters wrapped his arms around her thighs and pulled her feet off the floor, thrusting. Wentworth was pinned to the soft bed-nailed to it-her face in Paula Nussbaum's muff.

Her fingers twisted under her, her feet kicked in Masters' grasp, but soon all she could do was lie, breathless, grunting, as they assaulted her.

She couldn't move her head, she couldn't move her torso, and she couldn't move her thighs as the woman heaved herself up and down and the man surged back and forth.

The lock clicked on the door of room 2-A, and there was a little knock. "Maid," they heard as the door opened.

Paula stiffened, closing her legs, deafening Claudia. But all the Procurer did was keep thrusting, even harder, and bark, "Not now!"

The fat black maid froze in the doorway, hand on the knob, staring at the mass of white forms on the bed.

Claudia started to scream. Paula grabbed her own breasts, threw her head back in mock urgency, and groaned as loudly as she could in pseudo-ecstasy, drowning out the sound. She jerked her hips sharply, pushing the double dildo deeper into herself and into Claudia's mouth, cutting off the cry.

"Sorry," the maid mumbled and hastily closed the door.

The Procurer laughed and kept thrusting.

Claudia choked.

"T. P. ..." Paula started, looking over her Bound Beauties shoulder as she put all her weight down on the bucking girl's head.

"What did she see?" Masters grunted, not even slowing. "Just me giving her a moon. Two legs, maybe. Maybe your head. Maybe she even saw something prone on the bed. But look." He let go of Claudia's right leg and pointed at her torso.

"No hands. And no gag. I can't even see it with your big ass in the way." He laughed again, grabbing Claudia's kicking right leg and continuing to rut away.

Paula chuckled, turning face front, riding the girl's gag like a cowboy on a bucking machine. She reached down to wipe the sweat from Claudia's brow with one hand and reached back to grab a tit with the other.

"Who's gonna know?" she whispered viciously to the heaving girl. "Who's gonna know? Even if she does tell someone, who's gonna know you were doing it 'cause you liked it? But even if someone gets suspicious, it'll be too late. You'll be long gone. Long gone. ..." Paula thrust herself down on the dildo again. "But first you've gotta come . .. !"

The maid stood on the other side of the door, catching her breath, wondering just what the hell that was. All she had seen was a mass of flesh and a man humping away like a maddened rodent. Oh well, this wasn't the first time she had innocently entered a room during the throes of passion. Just another day in her long history of hotel work.

She took her cleaning cart and moved down to the next room. Then, stopping, she looked back curiously. Finally she took something from her cart and strode purposefully back to room 2-A.

She raised her right fist and then plopped the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door knob. She returned to her work in the next room, smiling.

Inside 2-A, the Procurer came inside Claudia Wentworth. Then Paula dragged her, by her hair, to the other edge of the bed so the woman could get her feet on the floor. Still holding her by her hair, she dropped and pulled Claudia's head up and down until she came in the brunette's face.

Prev Next