Bound Beauties 6 | gag bdsm stories

AFTER THAT, IT WAS EASY TO DRESS HER. IT WAS easy to re-gag her with a big ball gag which strapped tightly behind her head, under her hair. It was easy to retie her hands behind her.

Paula threw up Claudia's skirt to hobble her with ropes about her thighs, but the Procurer stopped her.

"There will be no need for that," he assured her.

They took her through the passageway, one at each arm, until they reached the manager's office. Coming through the secret panel in the closet first, Paula could see exactly why a hobble wouldn't be necessary . . . and why they would be able to walk her right out.

Outside her office window, all she could see was wall-to-wall people. They were carrying booze; they were singing, shouting, and dancing; and most importantly, they were wearing masks.

Paula closed the shade to her window and signaled Masters the coast was clear.

In came the man, pulling the girl with the thick, long, brown hair, who was wearing the white dress which tightly covered her torso and cupped her deep, breasts, after him.

Paula looked the captive over hungrily. She loved the way the dress laced over Claudia's chest. Claudia made a little sound in the back of her throat and pulled away. Masters jerked her back, her chest jiggling. Claudia looked around quickly, hoping to find assistance or a way out. The big red ball strapped in her mouth pushed her chin against her neck. "You see?" said the Procurer. "I see," said his assistant. She went over to the file drawers behind her desk, opened the last one, and started pulling out Halloween masks. There were all kinds: the clear plastic ones which could be strapped to one's face, ceramic

Japanese models with exotic Noh Theater faces painted on them, colorful Chinese papier-mache masks displaying characters from the Peking Opera, and finally, what they were looking for: thin rubber masks which pulled over the head like hoods.

Paula held one up on her arm, showing it to Claudia proudly. It was of a cartoon character, his face contorted in a look of shock and surprise. "Come on, dear,"

Paula said. "Time to put on your face."

George the desk man looked up as the trio came out of the manager's office.

What was that? he wondered, trying to see around everybody else in the lobby. Oh, just another trio of revelers having their usual fun. Hmmm. That one on the end might be the new manager. Oh well, who was to say she couldn't join in the festivities as well? He had to admit the place was still running like clockwork even after Ms. Alien's departure.

It was a girl in a cartoon mask, sandwiched by a man and a woman in Oriental masks. The man held her by the girl's hands and around the girl's shoulders.

Well, lucky them. By the looks of the body in that white dress, the girl was quite a looker. George shrugged and went back to work. As soon as another guest arrived to register, he forgot all about the trio.

The street outside was madness. Masters and Paula were able to hold onto their cowering charge without so much as a curious look. Plenty of looks, sure, but no curious ones. Leering, lustful ones instead, at the sweet dress and the sweet, curvaceous thing inside.

"Where we going?" Paula asked, having to lean across Claudia and raise her voice to be heard.

"To my car," said the Procurer. "In the lot at the end of the street."

Paula looked at the chaos around them, grinning. "No problem," she decided.

They tightened their grips on Claudia and started off.

They held her hands. Their muscular fingers were wrapped among her dainty ones and they gripped, twisted, and pushed them in near-judo holds. Claudia was not only intimidated by fear, but by pain as well. Her captors' other arms went around her shoulders or around her waist, depending on what was needed.

She stared through the mask's eye holes with increasing despair. She had tried to hold back, to balk, to fight them, but now she saw all sorts of people lurching down the street. Her lurching would not create undue suspicion. She thought of crying out, but the roar of the crowd was gigantic, not to mention the added noise of music coming from everywhere.

They turned the corner onto the main thoroughfare. Claudia lost all hope. It was just like the street outside the hotel, only three times as crowded and three times as loud. The street was literally wall-to-wall people, all drinking, all hooting, all hollering, and all surging like ships on a churning sea.

The only respite from the great unwashed was on the second-floor balconies of these historical French Quarter buildings, where wealthier citizens could look down upon the masses. They also followed tradition by throwing trinkets, plastic necklaces mostly, to the crowd.

Claudia stiffened in her captors' grip. There, on the second floor balcony to the far right, were the other Miss Bouillabaisse contestants. They were in their party best, looking like a rainbow of femininity, throwing Miss Bouillabaisse buttons to the throng.

The crowd was going crazy. They, also in time-honored fashion, were screaming for the ladies to "show them something else." You see, at Mardi Gras time, it was also semi-traditional for all sorts of lubricated lovelies to open their shirts and lift their skirts for the ongoing good of the public at large.

"Perfect," said the Procurer, grinning. "Just perfect. Let's go." On a count of three, holding onto Claudia, they pushed their way into the crowd.

It was wall to wall, shoulder to shoulder, every man, woman, and captive for himself. Claudia mewed, moaned, and grunted as she was thrust inch by inch, foot by foot, through the human Jell-O, completely helpless within the mob.

She shrank back from those who turned in anger when she was pushed against them, only to see them undress her with their eyes (her breasts heaving).

They had gotten through a third of the crowd when she felt the first pinch.

Someone had pinched her ass. She jerked and groaned. Masters and Paula jerked her warningly in return.

Then came another hand. Not pinching this time. Fondling. Fondling her ass.

It was quick this first time. But when she didn't (couldn't!) react, the hand returned, lingering this time, flat against her ass cheek.

That did it. Words, unheard, rippled through the crowd. "The girl is hot, pass it on."

That's all they needed. After being whipped into a frenzy by the contestants, they were all ready to cop a feel. .. any feel.

More hands appeared and disappeared without Masters and Nussbaum being aware of them.

They came and went like the passing wind, just some of many limbs, all moving before the trio's eyes.

Wentworth started to scream into her gag, her head shaking, as the hands became more bold. Her captors ignored her struggles, pulling her along harder. The hands plucked at her skirt. They went up her leg. Finally, fingers touched the flesh of her ass.

She didn't have any underwear on. Her captors hadn't dressed her in any.

The ripple effect returned. Louder, stronger words were passed on. The hands now came at her from all sides.

Seeming accidents they were, completely innocent. Oops, a hand went up her skirt. Oops, a hand grabbed her ass. oops, a hand snuck up in between her legs.

Oops, a hand slipped into her ass crack. Big oops. A hand just barely touched her cunt.

Now Claudia surged forward, trying to pull her captors on, screaming into her gag to look, look! Please stop this! Let me out of here! The irony was too much for her: her rescuers had turned into more oppressors.

Masters finally realized what was going on. He realized these weren't just innocent jostlings. He saw the hands pulling up the skirt and diving under. But then, to Claudia's horror, instead of pushing them away or moving faster, he pulled the girl back, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and started untying the top of her dress.

"Hold her!" he yelled at Paula, who grabbed Claudia's other wrist. Then his own hand was back to keep her from punching, as the dress's laces hung down, her tits jiggling free.

The Procurer grabbed a breast first, setting the example. "She likes it," he said to no one in particular, rubbing. "She likes it."

Monkey see, monkey do. The crowd around them cheered.

That's what got my attention.

I touched Liang on his arm with the back of my hand. "Look," I said, pointing from the balcony on which we stood, across the street from the contestants.

He surveyed the throng manhandling the girl in the mask as her chaperons pulled her down the street. Almost everyone, as she went by, grabbed at her ass or chest. "Good filthy fun," he said mirthlessly.

"Shit no," I said, mostly to myself. It wasn't so much that I was disagreeing with him, it was just that I was recognizing the girl's hair . . . and the shape of the man beside her....

"That's one of the contestants who didn't show today," I said intently, already swinging a leg over the railing. "And that's the Procurer."

Liang grabbed my arm. "Watch were they're going," he advised.

"They're going to his car," I said, starting to lower myself down. "I have to try to stop them."

Liang saw the logic. There was little chance, but it had to be taken rather than just witnessing the tip of an iceberg of tragedy. He vaulted over the side himself.

We pushed through the crowd as best we could. We couldn't use too much force or we could start a domino effect, creating a gridlock we could not pass. But we were making progress. The Procurer had slowed down, enjoying Claudia's horrid predicament, allowing us to gain on them.

I thought we were just going to make it. My hand was already reaching for the scabbard at the back of my neck, when....

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

It was a huge black guy, shepherding his little girlfriend through the crowd, threatening anyone who touched her. There was no getting around him easily, and no getting through him without starting something.

"Sorry."

"Just back off, asshole-keep away from me, man. I'll tear your fucking head off before you get in my motherfucking way, you cock-sucking son of a bitch." He was drunk.

What was I going to do? Knife him? Push his nose into his brain? Maybe this guy deserved to die, like everybody else I've killed, but maybe not. My code of morality was so fragile I couldn't take the chance.

"Sorry." I tried to slip away, but this guy had been trying to start a fight ever since he entered the crowd. And he liked the way I looked. White turkey meat.

"Where do you think you're going, motherfucker? You ain't going anywhere, chickenshit asshole son of a cock-sucking bitch."

He grabbed me by the shoulder. Terrific. I could see in his eyes that he was ready. The booze had lubed him; he was going to be the best, fastest fighter he had ever been. I would only be able to hit him once, in the balls, in the throat, in the face, before he returned fire. And I already knew one strike wouldn't be enough. This was going to be messy.

Liang appeared. He appeared over the asshole's head.

He had climbed up the man-walked up him. Quick as a wink. First step on the back of the guy's knee, using his calf. Second step, on his hip. Third step on the shoulder. Liang stood on the guy, a foot on each shoulder.

He looked like a monument for a split second, then stepped forward. He brought his foot back into the asshole's face with blinding speed.

Boom.

The asshole went down backwards like a felled tree, taking down everyone behind him, including his girlfriend. The crowd surged like a wave, pushing the Procurer and his friends ever forward.

Liang seemed to stand in the air for a second, then dropped to the street in the space the asshole's feet had vacated.

I placed a hand on his shoulder for both thanks and balance. His face registered "you're welcome" as it was turning back toward the escaping Procurer. Then he was moving again.

I glanced back, just to check the condition of the crowd.

Shit. I froze.

"Come on," I heard Liang urge.

I just stared at the Miss Bouillabaisse balcony, way down the street, dozens of feet from where we now stood. I stared at the empty end section, beyond where all the other girls were waving, looking toward us.

"What's the matter?" said Liang, back at my side.

Unless I was very much mistaken . . . unless I was hallucinating from the pressure . . . unless the years of running had finally gotten to me ... I had just seen Honey Thompkins being jerked back into the building, hands tightly clamped over her face.

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