Bound Beauties 7 | rubber bdsm stories

What was I supposed to do? One girl going one way, another girl going another; what was I supposed to do, call the cops? Yeah, right. I have a name for this now. Tyler's Quandary.

So which one should I try to save, the one to my left or the one to my right? I did what any self-respecting anti-hero would do when faced with a choice between trying to rescue one girl or another: each equidistant from the point of rescue.

I went in neither direction. I turned around and ran for the nearest phone.

She was wearing this ridiculous dress. That was what had finally set Mrs.

Cummings off. The dress had been the last straw, it wasn't enough that Honey had a name like her voice and personality. It wasn't enough that she was a shameless flirt and hussy. It wasn't enough that she had been blessed with a body of heavenly proportions. It wasn't enough that she showed all the intelligence and responsibility of a rutabaga. It was the damn party dress.

It was pink, of course. It was tight, of course. It was a miniskirt, of course.

But that wasn't enough either. Honey couldn't just leave it at that, could she?

No, this dress had to have some holes stitched out of it. There had to be a custom hole between her breasts, holding and molding the tits in almost full view. And then there had to be triangular holes in the side, displaying Honey's waist and most of her hips for all the world to see.

It had just been too much for Beryl Cummings to take. It was bad enough that this bitch was effortlessly taking all the attention away from her darling daughter Muriel, but what made it all the worse was that Honey obviously expected all the attention and sought it shamelessly . . . sometimes simply by existing . . . and wearing this damn dress!

Loud music permeated the room, coming from a squawk box on the bureau. It was a simple suite in another hotel the contestants were staying at. It was, coincidentally, the Cummings room. A box-like room with a bed, a bureau, a table, and two chairs, Beryl scrambled among those chairs now, sitting on a struggling Honey Thompkins and knocking away her flailing arms. Honey screeched over and over again, as if she were fighting away an attack of an enraged condor, but the roar from outside and the blaring music managed to steal the urgency from her shrieks. And it didn't help matters that all hundred and fifty pounds of Beryl Cummings was planted on Honey's twenty-four-inch midriff. Then the woman moved down, bending over from her ample waist, sliding her legs along Honey's, to plant her hands down, back on Honey's moving face. Honey instantly moved her jaw up, her teeth out, and bit the fleshy palm on her lips. I "Ow!" Beryl yelled in pain, sitting up again.

She looked down at Honey, who obliviously kept scratching and fighting. "Why, you little bitch!" Mrs. Cummings executed a little jump on Honey's stomach, just plopping herself down harder on the girl's midsection.

Honey reacted as if she had been punched in the stomach (and in away, she had).

She went "oooof!" and her legs and torso went up before flopping down. Then Beryl swung her arms this way and that across Honey's face.

They were sort of slaps, and they made more noise and expended more effort than they caused pain, but Honey felt her head being rocked back and forth by the blows. Having never been attacked before, they went a long way in intimidating her.

Then Mrs. Cummings slid down again, lying across the girl. But rather than place her hand over her mouth, she reached out and grabbed a puffy white sock from the

side of the bed and started stuffing it between Honey's teeth.

Honey's subsequent screech was muffled, but her hands went out to stop the intrusion. First she grabbed at Beryl's stuffing hands. Her mid-length pink painted nails almost got some good scratches in, but Beryl held the sock down with her left hand and cuffed Honey across the face with her right.

Honey kicked and cried, then her hands went up to sink in Beryl's hair, pushing back and pulling out. Beryl's head went up, all right, but she refused to be taken off. She just kept stuffing the sock between Honey's soft, light orange lips until she felt the bitch's mouth was full. Then she held the sock with one hand and put her other on Honey's throat.

"Enough of that," she warned. "Stop it. Stop it !"

Honey's fingers began to loosen in Beryl's hair. Beryl took the opportunity to sit up slightly, bringing her knees up. She planted them on Honey's shoulders, and the blond cringed in pain. Then the woman pulled them down, pinioning Honey's elbows beneath her thick calves. She sat on the blond again, staring into her confused crystal blue eyes.

"You little bitch," she missed. "Failed at everything else, did you, so you thought you'd come here and get all the attention, huh? Shameless hussy! Trying to make a fool of my girl, will you? You and your wanton ways . . . shaking yourself in front of all those men ... all the judges. You probably . . . you were going . . . what did you promise them?" She shook Honey's head. "I won't let you, you hear? I won't let you!"

Honey heard all of it as she tried not to choke on the sock. The woman was nuts.

Who knew what she would do to her?

Honey started to struggle in earnest, ignoring everything but getting out from under this monstrosity. She kicked her long, slim legs, her pink high heels going into the carpet. She clawed and scratched, trying to get her hands up the woman's thighs. She arched her back and contorted her body, trying to get out from under.

Beryl Cummings found a wildcat on her hands. If there was one thing Honey knew how to do, it was fake fight. I say fake, because she instinctively knew that this was a "fake" fight. Mrs. Cummings was crazy, but that didn't mean she was "serious." She was trying to teach Honey "a lesson," and the blond's life had been full of people trying to do that. Almost everyone who had been rejected or intimidated by her tried to do that. And those people numbered in the thousands.

Honey clawed and kicked and scrambled, and Beryl didn't know just what to do.

She tried to jump on Honey's stomach again, but Honey used each move to slither out further from under the woman. She tried to hold the sock in, but Honey shook her head even harder. She tried grabbing Honey's neck, but Honey all but ignored that, confident that the woman would refuse to do any serious damage.

Honey was succeeding. Mrs. Cummings felt her getting out from under. She began to feel mortified, which demoralized her even more. She started to think about what would happen. The blond bitch would yell at her, maybe hit her. Then she would run off to the judges. She would complain. She would get her darling Muriel disqualified!

The thought inspired her to greater strength, but it was too late. While she had been thinking, just trying to keep Honey still, the girl had worked her arms out from under Beryl's knees. The limbs snapped free and the fingers instantly went for Beryl's face. Snapping out of her reverie, Mrs. Cummings threw herself back to avoid the pink claws.

That did it. It knocked Beryl completely off balance, allowing Honey to get her body back. She shifted mightily, planting Beryl on the floor by the table. She scrambled, kicking out at the dodging woman, then got one high heel under her (the other high heel had come off).

Honey pulled herself back into a sitting position, then vaulted to her feet,

pulling at the sock in her mouth. She got upright, off balance with only one shoe on, and sputtered, the wet sock in her hand. "You . . . you vicious beast!" she yelled at the ashamed woman on the floor, pointing. "How could you ... how dare you .. . ! I didn't do anything, I didn't do anything. It wasn't my fault, but you ... you ... !"

To Beryl's amazement, she seemed on the verge of tears. She couldn't really say anything except that it wasn't her fault. Somehow, in all this, she had to find herself blameless. Suddenly Mrs. Cummings felt a twinge of pity. Why, this pretty, seemingly flawless girl had been blamed for her beauty throughout her whole life. She had to set up an extensive immunity guilt system just to keep herself in great shape.

This beauty was a two-edged sword: on the one hand shamelessly selling herself, but on the other, paying for that sale herself. She had a love/hate relationship with all the attention. But then came those words Mrs. Cummings was dreading.

"I'm . . . I'm going to the authorities. I'm going to tell them! They'll stop you from ever . . . ever . . . !" Honey wagged on more finger at the woman under the table, then lurched toward the door. Squealing in frustration, she kicked off her other shoe, and then marched purposefully, elbows bent, fingers into fists, her arms swinging.

But just as she touched the door knob, it turned in her hand and swung open.

Honey squeaked and had to step back to avoid being swept aside. Then she stood face to face with Muriel Cummings.

Behind the dark-haired girl were four other contestants. Some of the other girls were calling this clique "the Kennel." The least attractive girls had banded together to protect themselves from the derision of the others. Now the Kennel stood in the doorway, glaring at their worst enemy.

Muriel looked Honey up and down, seeing her mussed hair, her intense expression, and her rumpled dress. Honey looked down at herself, realizing that the holes in the outfit had shifted somewhat, almost revealing her right nipple. She quickly straightened and pulled the dress into place.

"What are you doing here?" Muriel demanded.

"Your mother," Honey said pointing. "Your mother attacked me. Your mother pulled me off the balcony and tried to choke me, she tried to gag me, she tried to keep me here so you would win the pageant. What do you think of that!?" Honey put her hands on her hips and looked at Muriel with superior triumph.

Muriel looked at her mother, who couldn't meet her eyes, then looked back, coolly, at the blond.

"I think it's a great idea," she said, and jumped.

The car stopped beside the mausoleum. With the city directly on the Mississippi, the founding fathers found they couldn't have traditional cemeteries. Any six-foot hole in the ground would naturally hit water, flooding the coffins. So New Orleans became awash with mausoleums. And given the city's colorful history of French settlers and voodoo slaves, the graveyard sculptors were prone to outlandish drama and melodramatic statements.

This was but one of the many cemeteries on the outskirts of the city, looking to any outsider like a sculpture garden: a museum of New Orleans culture. The car was well within the graveyard's confines, surrounded by raised roadways, which made up just one of the many clovers in the Louisiana highway system.

The city rumbled all around them, but in this quiet, empty place, it was gray and lonely.

A woman in a Japanese mask got out of the driver's side. She looked into the car to see a man in a Chinese mask leaned up against the passenger door, his left hand down the dress of a girl in a rubber mask. She lay against him, her right arm bent all the way up her back. Her left hand gripped his accosting arm uselessly. The woman could see drool running down the girl's neck, at the base of the rubber mask.

She reached in and grabbed the girl's left wrist. She pulled the girl across the seat, they came out of the car, each Orientally maskedper-son holding the wrist of the stumbling, struggling girl in the white dress. The man threw the girl into the woman's arms. The woman immediately grabbed both girl's wrists, twisted, and pilled back. She felt her like a divining rod in front of a mausoleum marked "MASTERS."

The man took a key from his pocket and approached the large structure. It was stone throughout, box-like. It looked like a giant door to the Twilight Zone.

The only other thing was that at the top of the big rock box, on either end of the door, were two beautifully rendered sculptures ... of angels.

Young, well-developed female angels \ith long, flowing hair, and simple, tight, flowing, sleeveless dresses with slits in the skirt so their legs could be seen.

Angels who were kept from flight by a series of ropes. They were against columns and around these columns were networks of sculpted ropes which held the angels down, which kept them from flying. Although the ropes were seemingly thrown about the columns and angels haphazardly, the girl in the rubber mask could see through her eye slits that the rope effectively bound up the beauties' straining ankles, their thighs, their waist, held their hands down, and most horribly, went around their mouths and between their teeth as well.

It appeared to be an artistic statement that the tangible realities of the earth

kept the ethereal soul from soaring into heaven, but Claudia Wentworth knew better ... now.

With a loud scrape and tumble, the mausoleum door was unlocked, and the Procurer pushed the door in. Claudia began to shake her head and beg, but before she could get up any energy, Masters took her by the shoulder and led the three inside.

It was as horrid as you might imagine, even though the floor, walls, and ceiling were marble. On either side of the enclosure were big stone coffins. On the back wall was etched a poem.

"We brush the other, invisible moon. Its caves come out and carry us inside."

In the middle, between the sarcophagies, was a pile of dead flowers, leaves, and broken toys. Yes, broken toys. Small, old, naked dolls, the kind of cherubic-faced playthings which were popular earlier in the century. Their little red lips and glass eyes mocked Claudia. Some lay on their plaster backs, eyelids shut. Others sat up, staring at her.

Paula brought her inside, like urging on a reluctant pony. The Procurer checked outside to make sure no one saw them, then swung the door three-quarters closed.

He swept off his mask and ran over to the two females, he grabbed Claudia's wrists just above where Paula held them, and twisted even more.

Claudia winced and moaned as Paula took rubber-coated wire from her jacket pocket. She went to work on the girl's wrists.

When they were finished, Claudia sat on her knees on the floor. Her calves were flat against her thighs. They were tied that way, her knees and ankles also tied together, her dress bunched at the tops of her legs. Her arms were straight down her back, her wrists tied to her ankles by another length of rubber-coated wire.

It went through her ass crack. Her dress had been ripped open up the back to make way for it.

Her upper arms were also tied-not together, but close to it, to keep those limbs straight. The Procurer reached down and pulled her mask off. Claudia's thick brown hair billowed out. She looked up piteously, the ball deep in her mouth, her lips pulled back, her chin almost against her jaw.

The saliva on her chin shone in the waning light of day. She asked them not to leave her here. The words were meaningless, of course, but the desire was clear.

Paula laughed, pulling off her own mask. "Just stay where you are," she said.

"Nothing's going to hurt you here ... nothing alive, at any rate."

Claudia strained, moaning. They had left the top of her dress the way it had been: loose. Her entire breasts could be clearly seen standing above her, and the skin was still red from the abuse it had taken in the crowd and in the car.

"Better keep quiet," Paula mockingly warned. "You don't want to attract any . . . creatures of the night."

"Be still," the Procurer said harshly to his assistant. "This is my parents' crypt. Show some respect." Then he kneeled and ripped Claudia's dress's bodice.

The brunette screamed and then cried as the Procurer started taping her tits together.

That's right. With a roll of tape from his pocket, he stretched strip after strip across her chest, pushing her breasts toward each other and affixing them that way-making her a sticky, tortuous bra. He covered her chest in tape, just letting her nipples clear.

Finally he stepped back, considering her teary face and quaking form, and said,

"That's better." He turned to his assistant. "Come on. We've got things to do.

We have to prepare Miss Alien for this evening's service."

Miss Wentworth stopped crying long enough to yell after them as the mausoleum door began to close. Something about "please don't leave me in here." She was frightened nearly out of her mind that they were burying her alive. And, of course, that was what they were doing.

She looked around madly. The flowers and leaves were cracked under her legs.

The dead dolls stared at her blindly. Her wide eyes caught something as the light was being sealed off across her. Unable to resist, she looked. On the side of one of the coffins there was etched another poem.

"If you are still alive when you read this, close your eyes. I am under their lids, growing black."

Claudia screamed. The sound was drowned by the thundering close of the stone door.

Prev Next