Panties and kennel | Bound Beauties 8 | rubber bdsm stories

HONEY THOMPKINS WAS THROWN BACK TO THE bed. The Kennel was all over her.

As soon as Muriel Cummings had grabbed the blond girl, the other four contestants had joined in with a mighty hoot and holler. Beryl Cummings watched in amazement.

Honey was on her back with Muriel all over her front, doing what her mother had been doing, only doing it faster, doing it better, doing it stronger, and doing it before Honey got her breath back. Her hands were in Honey's hair, wrenching back, and her legs were on Honey's arms, her knees going for the upper arms and elbows.

Only this time, the Cummings woman was not alone. The Kennel had eight arms and eight legs with which to assist her. The hotel room door was closed and the quartet of contestants followed their leader into the fray.

"Beat up my mother, will you, bitch!" Muriel spat as she struggled.

Honey screeched as the other hands slapped upon her, grabbing her swinging arms and her kicking legs. There was a girl on each limb, amazingly all thinking the same thing at the same time. And no one got in anyone else's way. If two girls went for the same limb, one of them would peel off for the next closest ankle or wrist.

They grabbed and they held. "Pull!" Muriel barked. They pulled, and Honey was a starfish on the bed.

Muriel slammed down on Honey's face, her hands clamping over Honey's mouth. Her face was no more than two inches from the blond's. "Now do you like that, bitch queen?" she grinned.

Honey tried to yell-tried to bite, kick, or scratch-but it felt as if she were in a flesh and bone web. Her arms were out to the side, and her legs were wide, her skirt being forced up to her little pink satin panties.

"Mother," Muriel called. When she didn't answer, Muriel called again, sharply:

"Mother!"

"Yes, dear?"

"What did you use to shut this little bitch up?" She leered down into Honey's wide blue eyes.

"A ... a sock, dear."

"Give it to me, will you?" "No," said the girl holding Honey's right leg. "No, not a sock. Let's give her a little taste of what she's been giving us!" "What do you mean?" asked another. "Let's give her a taste of herself!" said the right leg girl.

Over the loud agreement of the others, the cheering that made Honey start to cry, Muriel spoke clearly: "Mother." "Y-yes, dear?"

"Find Miss Thompkins's room key. Then go into her room and bring back all her contest clothes. Hold her!" Muriel had to warn as Honey started writhing in earnest in reaction. "Yes, dear," said Muriel's mother.

They held her until she got back, her arms filled with gowns and bathing suits.

The people in the halls were having too much fun or were too soused to notice her.

"Mother," said Muriel. "Give us something to tie her with."

Beryl looked at the helpless girl on the bed, then at the beautiful material in her hands. She began to smile, getting into the spirit of the thing. "Yes, dear.

With pleasure, dear."

Honey squealed when Beryl Cummings tore her evening gown. She continued to cry and struggle as the strips were used to tightly bind her wrists wide to the bed posts over her head. Muriel kept them pulling on the knots until Honey squealed from the pressure.

"There!" she said. "All right. Somebody take this bitch's lips." A girl from Honey's right arm kneeled beside the blond's head, ready to take over. "And watch it," Muriel warned. "The bitch bites."

"Use this, dear," Beryl suggested, handing over the damp sock. The girl placed it tight over Honey's mouth and pushed down, the blond's head sinking into the pillow.

"Okay," said Muriel, going around to kneel between Honey's legs. "Hold tight, ladies." The extra arm girl went to help with Honey's right leg. "Mother," said Muriel, "help with the other leg, would you?"

"Yes, dear." With two ladies on each leg, Muriel carefully lowered herself and touched

Honey's panties experimentally.

Honey screamed and bucked and writhed. Muriel looked around.

"Everybody okay?" The others nodded, holding onto the beauty's ankles like contestants in a tug of war. Muriel looked up at the girl on Honey's shaking head. "Sit on her chest, dear," Muriel suggested. "That'll be better." The girl did as suggested. "Now," said Muriel. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

The roar from outside and the music from inside continued undaunted. Muriel turned back to the work at hand and pushed her two fingers against the pink panties. More squeals, more writhing, but the Kennel held on.

"Good," said their leader. "We're going in." And with one arm around Honey's hips, Muriel pushed the panties into the blond's own crack and started rutting in earnest.

Honey contorted on the bed as if they were drilling her teeth. But all held on as Muriel stimulated her, soaking the panties.

"Okay, now we've got it," she said. Honey collapsed as the fingers stopped, but then screamed, her head trying to rise, as Muriel tore the panties from her hips. Her hands twisted i the gown bonds, but the things held tight.

Her trimmed thatch of golden cunt hair was exposed, her pink vagina clearly seen beneath it.

"Look out," Muriel seethed, leaping forward. She landed beside Honey's head and pushed the gagger away. Honey screamed up at the girl, but the girl plunged the soiled panties in the blond's mouth anyway. The cry was choked off in a gurgling rattle.

Muriel used both hands, thumbs pressing, to force the cloth in. "Mother, Mother, quick," she panted. "Another strip of gown. A long one." Mother Beryl ripped it off and handed it towards her. Honey's body began to shake with more strength.

"Sit on her leg," Muriel instructed the one on Honey's left limb. "Push down on the knee and sit on it."

She grabbed the gown strip while still holding the panty in, then jammed the cloth over the panty, between Honey's teeth. "Hold her head up, Mother. Come on, help me get her head up."

Together, mother and daughter gagged the blond, pulling her hair out of the way for a tighter knot. The panty was forced deep in her mouth, the gown strip holding down her tongue. Her lips were pulled back from the pressure.

"Aww," said Muriel, caressing her face. "Little pussy-wussy don't look so pretty now, do she?" Honey yelled up at her, her words mangled.

"Now don't talk like that," the daughter said, walking back, her knees on either side of Honey's torso. "Mommy-wommy don't like it when you talk like that."

She reached down, put her fingers, upside down, in either side of the dress's chest hole, gripped, and ripped. The dress tore. Not easily, but it tore.

Honey's rich, ripe breasts were free, the perfect round aureolas (pink, naturally) and perfect button nipples revealed.

Muriel grabbed them, one in each hand, and ground them as if spinning a combination lock. "Ooh, nice," Muriel said. "Nice." Then she seemed to get bored and just hopped off the girl.

"Come on, ladies," she said, "we've got work to do."

They fell on her like vultures on a lamb.

Rebecca Alien was at attention. Her facial expression drifted between rapt attention and sensual confusion, her eyes half closing. Her legs, standing wise, vibrated.

All she wore was a white garter belt, flesh-colored stockings, and black three-inch high-heel T-strap shoes. Her arms were behind her, bent up at her back, each wrist tied to each other shoulder.

The rubber-coated wire went over her shoulder and under her arm, forcing her wrists to rest against her shoulder blades. Her right wrist was at her left shoulder and her left wrist was at her right shoulder.

There was more wire at her ankles, holding her feet down and wide, attached to rings bolted in the floor. Her only gag was a ring under her teeth, forcing her mouth wide, strapped behind her head, under her red hair. It let the Procurer hear every sound she made.

Her red lips, glistening with new moisturizer Paula had applied, moved. She gurgled, her fingers fluttered. Her leg muscles spasmed again. She was standing on the pole she had been leashed to earlier. She was impaled upon its rounded top, through her vaginal lips. It went up seven and a half inches inside her.

"There are now three of them," said the Procurer, watching Rebecca from the table. "There are only two of us."

"Do you want me to recruit a third?" Paula cracked.

The Procurer glared at her. "Don't waste my time." He looked back at Rebecca, his face expressionless, his eyelids barely open. "I have done what I have wanted to do ... to the ... blond girl. She reminds me ... of what I do not wish to be reminded of. You may . . . take her from me."

Paula loved the way the guy was turning into a cheap mad millionaire straight out of a bad movie. You can always tell. Sophisticated movie madmen and outer space aliens never use contractions. You know, "I have" and "do not" instead of

"I've" and "don't."

"Take her from you, huh?" said Paula. The Procurer did not answer. Paula shrugged. "Fair enough. I wasn't that busy this evening anyway. What are you going to do tonight?" It seemed as if the Procurer wasn't going to answer that one either. Paula shrugged and turned, heading for the door.

But then, without looking at her, he replied. "I will see to my guests." Rebecca

Alien gurgled.

Honey Thompkins lay, quaking, on the bed. Her wrists were still tied above her head, to the bed posts. Her pink dress still lay in tatters across her. But now her legs were tied as well, with more strips from her own pageant clothes.

Her knees were bent and pushed wide to either side. Her ankles were looped and then another loop went around the top of each thighs. Then, to keep them wide, a

loop went around her knee, under the bed, and up to the other knee. She was forced to lay, knees bent, legs wide, fully exposed.

They had supplemented her gag with more strips from her gown. They sat around her now, laughing, tearing her gown completely and marking her bathing suit with lipstick.

There was a knock on the door.

Honey screamed and the Kennel leaped toward her.

"No, no," Muriel complained. "Nobody can hear anything with this music. Get up, get up!" She shooed everyone off the bed, then dragged the covers from under Honey. The others watched in respect as Muriel threw the bed covers over the bound girl.

"Now you can lay beside her," she instructed. "Make sure she doesn't struggle too much, and keep the covers over her mouth. Okay?" The others laughed and nodded and jumped to their com-petition.

"Hey, hey," said Muriel. "Sit in front of her hands, would you?" The girls giggled at their mistake and two placed their torsos before Honey's wriggling palms.

The knock on the door came again. Muriel went to it and leaned close to yell,

"Who is it?"

"Room service," came the shouted answer.

"Room service?" Beryl blurted as Honey struggled beneath the pressing palms of the Kennel, her eyes big and bright over the blanket top.

"Yes," said Muriel. "I took the liberty of ordering some dinner for us all. You know: nice, ripe, wet, smooshy stuff that can be smeared and dribbled all over.

You all don't mind, do you?"

They all laughed.

"Hold tight," she warned. Then she opened the door. "Come right in," she invited.

A small, round-faced Oriental waiter stood there. Without looking up, he rolled the food-covered tray in.

Paula Nussbaum entered the Hotel Loisir's inner sanctum. She still wore her severe, tailored, mini-skirted business suit (only the skirt had a slit up the side for greater leg movement). Her high heels clacked on the floor, echoing through the passageway.

She turned the corner, passing rooms 1-A and 2-A. There, hanging before her, as they had left her, was Pamela Sturges. Well, okay, not quite as they had left her. Pamela was unconscious, the blood rushing to her head having made her woozy, and finally stamping out her already weakened light altogether.

Paula merely perused the prize for a moment. Her body was beautiful, covered in perspiration that way. Her face was soft and peaceful and reddish, as was her usually blond hair. It was the red from the one-way glass lights and darkroom fixtures which tinged her mane and snatch with scarlet. Her blood-filled head took care of auburning her face.

Her hands were still tied behind her and to her waist. Her legs were still in the ankle ropes. And the double dildo gag still hung down like a penis at rest.

Well, she'd just have to do something about that, Paula decided. It would be a shame to let the plastic cock go to waste. Memories of the same thing in Claudia's mouth danced in the woman's head as she approached, hitching up her skirt. As usual, she wore no underwear.

She tapped Pam on the cheeks until her eyelids began to flicker. Waiting until they opened, Paula then grabbed the pseudo-prick around the hard rubber shaft, using her other hand to keep her skirt up. She pushed the crown between her vaginal lips, then collected Pam's moaning, humming head in one hand. She nodded the blond's head and the shaft went all the way up inside her as the girl screamed.

"Ah," she said to her. "That's nice."

"Very nice," someone agreed.

Paula's head whirled about, straining to look over her shoulder. But before she could pull the dildo out and turn all the way around, she felt cold steel on the back of her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a smiling man.

And behind him, another smiling man.

"That's it," said the man behind her, holding the gun to her throat. "Nice and easy. You ain't goin' nowhere."

"Who the fuck are you?" she demanded.

"Friends of your boss," said the man behind the man behind her. "He told us you were getting uppity."

The man behind her spoke again, with dark sarcasm. "He doesn't like uppity bitches."

"Makes him nervous," said the other.

"Makes him so nervous he'll work with us."

"He doesn't like the OMO either." , "Not at all." The man behind her shook his head.

Paula made a sudden move. The man stopped her with another thrust of his gun, this time jamming it under her jawbone. It ripped the skin. She started to bleed.

"Uh-unh," he said.

"Bad idea," said the other.

"You wouldn't shoot me here," she challenged, her hands still around Pam's head, the prick still in her. "You might," she grinned, "damage the merchandise."

"Not with this," said the man, grinding the thick gun barrel into her cunt.

Paula gasped in pain.

"Doesn't shoot bullets," said the other.

"Bullets are nasty."

"Breaks bones."

"Tears skin," said the first, pointedly, making Paula squirm.

"It shoots darts."

"Poison or knockout. Guess which one this is loaded with?"

"Do you feel lucky, punkette?"

"Shut the fuck up," Paula hissed through gritted teeth.

"Filthy mouth," said the one behind the one behind her.

"Very upsetting."

"Better shut her up."

"Take her out with the other."

"Sell them both."

"Two for the price of one."

"You'll never get me out of here!" Paula promised. She knew from first-hand experience what happened to women in the OMO. Especially loss leaders like her.

"Let us worry about that," the man advised. "Three years in the business and we haven't bro ken anything yet."

"Always a first time," said a female voice.

A girl stepped out from behind the hanging girl. A slim girl with a beautiful face. A face surrounded by pure white hair.

Her body could not be judged. The legs were in dark pants. And the torso was covered by a sleeping baby in a chest harness.

She held a slim blue automatic in her right hand.

Crack. The man behind Paula grew a new eye hole on the right side of his forehead. The man behind the failing man dodged to his right to get a clear shot at the Mouse, but hesitated when he saw the baby. The Mouse did not. She shot him in the face, and then the chest as he went down.

Paula did not hesitate either. She put both hands on Pam's body and pushed, sending the hanging girl out of her and into the Mouse like a human battering ram.

The Mouse was thrown off the floor. She may have been a hardened killer, but she was still slim, still light, even with the baby attached to her. She hit the side wall on her side, using both hands to protect her child. But then Paula was on her.

The woman kicked the Mouse's legs out from under her. She fell heavily on her back. Paula didn't wait for her to settle. She stepped on the Mouse's gun wrist and kicked the automatic from her hand with her other foot.

Then Paula's knee went down, just missing the baby's feet, onto the Mouse's stomach. She backhanded the Mouse across the face, as her body doubled in reaction, with her left hand. The back of the Mouse's head hit the floor with a crack, her bright eyes dimming.

Smiling, Paula drew up her right fist to send it crashing into the baby's skull.

I grabbed her by the elbow as it came up. I twisted and pulled, exactly the way Liang had taught me. Paula went up, backwards, over my turning shoulder.

I slammed her to the floor almost on her side, so she couldn't get her legs under her. And before I let go of her arms, I kicked her just under the chin, using the entire flat of my foot top.

Boom. Almost as loud as Liang could do it. Paula went back, as if yanked by a cable, and crashed through the one-way glass of room 3-A.

I turned around. The Mouse was standing unsteadily, pointing the gun between my eyes.

What could I say? What did I say? I said, "Don't." Who said I had pride? All I knew was I didn't want to die.

"I have to," she said, her voice wavering, her eyes not quite focused.

"It is my fault," I said, trying to do one of two things. One, to buy time.

Two, in case I was going to die, to try to figure out some sort of peace I could out on. "But am I to blame?"

"Fault is enough," she said, the aim tightening, the eyes coming into focus.

Paula rose up behind me, her face maddened, a long piece of broken glass in her hand. She was going to plunge it into my back.

The gun rose and the Mouse pulled the trigger. She shot Paula through her buck teeth, into her mouth, and out the back of her head.

I hunched, glancing over my shoulder. Paula went down, a look of dead surprise on her face.

When I looke d back, the Mouse was gone.

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