Bound Beauties 9 | good bdsm stories

SHE HAD NOT BEEN DOWN TO HER LAST BULLET.

She had not had to make a choice between Paula and me. She could have taken us both out. She chose not to.

1 am not going to give myself the benefit of the doubt on this one. It is not as if I am safe from the Mouse from now on. Given the right situation, she will kill me. But this had not been the right situation. She "owed" me something for saving her child, even if it was the result of an OMO rape that was ultimately my responsibility.

She gave me my opportunity. I intended to square one.

The Masters Real Estate Company's holdings in New Orleans were daunting. It was no easy task for Snoot to hunt down them all, since most were held by dummy operations. But he had been researching this, state by state, since my first encounter with the bastard.

Apartment buildings, shopping centers, restaurants, time-share condos-the Procurer had them all. But I locked onto the railway house as soon as I heard about it. First, it was vacant. Second, it didn't share its walls or floor with other units.

"Oh, and Tyler," Snoot had said. "He knows that city like the back of his hand.

His parents are buried there."

Buried was not the word. No one was buried in New Orleans.

Liang and I went into the railway house by the front and back doors.

Rebecca Alien hung from the ceiling like a chandelier.

He had tied her around the waist, her arms straight out behind her, attached high up the rope that went from the ceiling to her bent-double waist. That kept her fingers out of the way.

Her head was bent all the way down, ropes around her neck going to her ankles which were a half foot above the floor. They were tied so take it.

I had left Claudia Wentworth and Honey Thompkins for a phone. A long distance, person-to-person call, to Snoot.

"The game's afoot," I said, our agreed code for the Procurer.

"Where?" he immediately asked. No "I'm busy" or "right now is not the best time."

"New Orleans."

Within minutes he had material. What took time was reading it to me. We had no facsimile machine, and having it sent, even by courier, was useless. And as he read, more material came in. He had to read it all; who knew what would turn out to be important?

Like the newspaper clipping showing a proud Rebecca Alien before the hotel she had turned around, upping the rental rate a hundred percent in six months. I knew that wasn't the manager I had seen got into her office. > And the secret passage hadn't fazed me. I was used to secret compartments and hidden tunnels.

They were fairly standard operating procedure in the WSN. Some of the Crimson Mick's safe houses were crawling with them.

I hadn't played it coy. Paula had gone at the Mouse just as I arrived. We had both been lucky. I had saved her and she had saved me. Back to tightly that she could hardly bend her knees.

She was naked and her mouth was still ringed. The Procurer was not there. But there was no doubt he had left something to remember him by between her legs and her lips.

We got the exhausted, abused Rebecca down, and covered her with blankets. We brought Honey Thompkins and Pamela Sturges into the house from the car, where Liang stayed with them.

Honey was a bit buzzed, but she was capable enough to help take care of the others, who were way beyond that. Rebecca was crying quietly in exhausted, hysterical relief, and Pamela was still trying to recuperate from her "hanging."

Liang had taken care of the Kennel. "Nobody's going to be winning any pageant prizes in that group," he had said. Nothing terrible, he had assured me. Just a lot of black eyes, split lips, and a chipped tooth here and there. I didn't doubt him.

I drove like a man possessed, terrified, actually terrified, that I would be too late.

But there was his car. And there was the mausoleum door, ajar. I had only one thing over him: surprise. He still didn't know I was in town and onto him.

But what else could I do? Charge in? And do what? Commit suicide? I went over to

the mausoleum door and stepped in.

Claudia was on her knees and her face, her legs untied, the Procurer fucking her from behind.

As soon as my shadow hit the door in the waning sunset, her had grabbed her hair and pulled her upright to shield him.

My hands were empty, away from my sides. I just stood there, a silhouette no doubt, in the doorway.

"What do you want?" he asked. "Just leave her alone," I said. He looked down at her sweating face, distended by the incredibly tight ball gag, and laughed.

"Unbelievable," he said. "Just incredible." He looked back at me, bemused. "Why do you care about these. ..." He had trouble finding an appropriate word. "...things? Even a little itsy-bitsy bit? For years-decades-you abducted them . . .without a single iota of consideration for them. Why do you suddenly care about them now? What's the point?"

I wasn't going to discuss psychology with him. I told him the truth. "I did that then. I do this now."

"Just something to occupy your time, is that it?" he said in disbelief. "But why! When there's so many other . . . more enjoyable . . . things to do." He looked down as the desperate face of Claudia again, meaningfully.

"You've had your fun," I said. "Leave her be. Leave all of us be."

The Procurer looked at me, looked at her, then shook his head sadly. He even shook her head. "I get it," he said. "You need me. That's it, isn't it? You need me to occupy your time. To give you something to chase after. To keep your own guilt at bay. Right?" His good eye twinkled.

"Get out of here."

"Oh no," he said. "And become a target for your little knife again? Dream on."

He gripped Claudia tighter, in her hair and around her throat. "You know what I can do. Take your knife out and put it down."

I raised my hand and he ducked completely behind Claudia at the same speed. I took the knife out and laid it on the floor.

"Kick it over here," he said. "Slide your foot." I complied and the knife went beside him. He quickly snatched it up and pressed it against Claudia's neck.

She screamed.

"Wouldn't that be ironic?" he said. "If I killed her with your knife?"

"Then I would attack you," I reminded him. "She's the only thing preventing that, knife or no knife."

The Procurer was silent for a moment. "Take off your clothes," he suddenly demanded. "Strip!"

I did as he said, laying down the dart guns I had taken off the OMO enforcers.

"Aha," he said.

I took off everything, standing before them, naked.

"And the watch," he said irritably. I took off the watch.

He stood, dragging Claudia up with him. "When I move," he said, "you move in the opposite direction. When I walk forward, you walk backwards. Got it?" I nodded.

"Hands out from your sides." He started moving.

He moved to my left. I moved to my right. He sidled along the coffin there, Claudia held in front of him. I sidled along the other coffin, in the other direction. He moved toward the door. I moved toward the rear of the crypt, my knees I bending.

Then the moment came. The moment I had been preparing for. The moment I had harnessed all my internal energy for. The moment I had been totally concentrating on. The moment when, like an eclipse, Claudia's head and hair completely blocked out the Procurer's vision of me.

That was why my knees had been bending. If I had stood still, he could have always seen me over her shoulder and head. I concentrated on her implicitly. I held her complete attention by force of will. My mind screamed at her while my lips mouthed two deafening words"Do.

Something."

The words seemed to hit her like a bucket of water, like sudden slaps across her face. Liang had taught me well. As if hypnotized, she immediately spun on the Procurer and went batshit.

She kicked, she writhed, she blocked, she butted. She slammed into him, hitting him with her head, kicking his legs rapidly. He bellowed and threw her away from him, only remembering the knife at the last minute. He swung at her, but she was already going down.

My hands were coming up to my face. He saw me and charged for the door.

I had palmed the halved drinking straw in my right hand. I had palmed the single dart from the OMO dart gun in my left hand. I put both in my mouth.

I already knew I was going to be too late. He was too fast. He would be out the door before I could use my makeshift blowgun.

But then. Then.

Losing an eye is losing part of one's vision, part of one's balance, part of one's equilibrium. A house with two windows loses one, so only one view is available instead of two. Perception is thrown off.

The Procurer saw the door opening in his good eye. He misjudged its location.

No big deal. His shoulder hit the opening, ricocheting him off. It didn't really stop him, just slowed him down ... just enough.

The dart scratched the back of his neck.

He ran to his car. His feet died just as he reached for the door latch. He dove into the side of the car so hard he left a dent.

I took the bawling Claudia out of there. I ungagged and untied her and put her in the back seat where she could bawl tortuously, without restraint. Her hysteria was wretched, throat scratching. The only relief from it was the begging, pleading "thank yous."

I dragged the Procurer back into the mausoleum by his legs. I dropped him on his back, between his parents' sarcophagies. He blinked up at me, somewhere between awareness and dream. The darts had been knockout: a depressant, a sedative, a paralytic. He had only gotten a scratch.

I had picked up my knife on the way back. "You're wrong," I said, kneeling beside him. "I don't need you. I don't need you to remind me of what I could have become. I don't need you to remind me how low humans can sink. There are plenty of others out there to occupy me. I only need to put you out of my misery."

His mouth opened in silent reply.

I plunged the knife into his good eye.

"We prosper," the Old Man had said, "because society rewards evil. It rewards evil with attention, which is what evil wants. A child will do more and more outlandish, destructive things for attention. But once getting it, he will seek any avenue to belie his responsibility. Our society does just that to evil. The greater the evil, the more attention, and the more attention, the more psychological excuses, the more rationale the greater the attempted pardoning.

"In society's obsessive search for reasons, it excuses responsibility. And without responsibility, there is no reason. Until we stop searching for our own answers to other people's questions, evil will always exist. And so will we."

As usual the Old Man was right.

She wore it as a favor to him. She wore it as she looked out of the open french doors, across her room's small balcony, and into the warm May night. The darkness held no peace for her. Her father was in his bedroom, down the hall, dying.

She tried to make sense of her jumbled thoughts as she looked for solace in the moonlit sky. Had she truly never forgiven him for remarrying after her mother died? Even the death of her stepmother hadn't seemed to diminish the hurt. But was what she had done so bad? He hadn't seemed to think so. He had accepted her actions-even seemed proud of her independence.

What shame there might have been didn't last long. Only a month at worst and a year at the best. He could forgive and forget. He had seemed to. That was why she had run to his side when he had called for her.

Her stepmother's family didn't seem so happy to see her. Her stepsister Audrey and stepbrother Oswald were the worse for wear during her absence. Both were even bigger and wider than she last remembered them. Both were still working at the hospital. You would think her father was in good hands, but what did he need with an anesthesiologist and an orderly?

"Ms. January."

She spun around when she heard the words. Across the long, handsomely appointed room, her step-relatives stood in the doorway. Cyndi caught her breath. In the gloom, they looked like a stern warder and headsman.

"Don't call me that," she snapped when she was able to speak again. She found her slim hand, with their short nails painted pink, on her chest-unconsciously blocking any unnecessary view of her cleavage.

"Why not?" said Audrey, coming into the darkened room, letting the dim light from the hall spill in. "That's what you are, isn't it?"

"Not anymore," Cyndi maintained, standing straighten

"What do you want us to call you?" sneered Oswald. "Cynthia? Cyndi?"

"Call me stepsister," eh said firmly. "I don't care. What do you want?"

Audrey looked back at her brother, and they both shook their heads. Audrey tsked and looked lazily back at Cyndi. "It's your daddy," she drawled sarcastically.

"I think this is it. He's calling you."

The news hit Cyndi like a cold, wet washcloth. She jerked in place, her dark blue eyes widening. Then she started forward on the balls of her feet. "Why didn't you say so?" she breathed in disbelief. But then Audrey was blocking her way, her fingers squeezing Cyndi's forearm. The blond stopped short, looking across her wide, firm stepsister just inside the door.

"Because it wouldn't do any good," Audrey was saying. "You're not home tonight. You're out with some dumb stud you picked up in a bar."

Cyndi couldn't believe her ears. She was dimly aware of her stepsister's grip getting hard-er and harder. "W-what?" "Yeah," said Oswald. "He's probably fucking you in the back of his car by now." Cyndi looked up at his smirking face, becom-ing numb. "What are you talking about?" "You've changed, stepsister dear,"

Audrey said in a quiet sing-song, holding Cyndi back.

"Ever since you hit the 'big time.' Now you're nothing but a stupid slut."

Cyndi felt her anger and saw red. She tried to wrench her arm out of Audrey's grip. "Get out of my way!" she cried, moving forward. But all Audrey did was hold onto her wrist. As she passed, Audrey pulled the wrist back and swung it up.

Cyndi gasped in surprise as her feet slid and she started to bend from the pain.

She found herself between her step-relatives. She found herself looking at Oswald's feet.

But not for long. Just as she was becoming aware of the flaming pain at her wrist and shoulder, Oswald sunk his fingers into her hair over her brow and yanked up. Her head rose, her mouth opening to shriek in pain.

Oswald filled the tender hole. Cyndi heard her cry smothered and felt the soft hunk of material filling her mouth. Audrey's arm snaked around her neck and pulled her back.

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