Message-ID: <41612asstr$1049343007@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <3E8B9326.000055.51537@ns.interchange.ca> From: "Zebulon" <zebulon@fastmail.ca> X-Fastmail-IP: [24.26.255.35] X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Wed, 2 Apr 2003 20:49:26 -0500 (EST) Subject: {ASSM} Part 10 - Tall, Blond and Bound (Cat-Fight) Date: Wed, 2 Apr 2003 23:10:07 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2003/41612> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: hecate, gill-bates Part 10 - Tall, Blond and Bound This is a work of fiction in 14 parts. It is the fourth novel set in the same world as "The Training of Jeannie and Clair," "Blackmailed into Bondage," and "Staci Davis: Investigative Slave." It is approximately the same length as the other three novels. Zebulon No reference to real persons is intended. It contains strong, non-traditional sexual imagery and language. If you don't like this kind of thing, don't read it. Feedback is welcome. Zebulon@fastmail.ca All Zebulon's work is posted here: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Zebulon/www/ This story may be reposted anywhere as long as (1) proper credit is given, (2) I am informed of where it is being posted, and (3) I am allowed free access to the web site where it is being posted. (MF, FF, Bond) - - - - - Part 10 - Tall, Blond and Bound by Zebulon * * * * * Juanita had grown up on the streets of Rio. She had never known her father and hardly remembered her mother. She didn't know what had happened to either of them. She had been adopted and raised by a group of older street children. When Carlos Guerrero found her, she was a beautiful young girl of 17 out hustling tourists. She picked him up not knowing who he was and was walking him out of the bar, arm-in-arm. They were accosted by five young men--Juanita's accomplices. The men demanded money and threatened to beat him if he didn't hand it over. Carlos just laughed, pulled out a gun and shot the lead brigand in the leg. As the boy went down, clutching his injury and screaming, the other four scattered. Juanita was terrified. The man had never released his hold on her arm. He must have known she had led him into this trap. He did. And he didn't care. He took her to dinner and to bed. And then he took her as his mistress. Juanita was there, two years later, when Carlos and two bodyguards were gunned down in a Caracas steak house near the Centro Bolívar. Juanita was in the lady's room when it happened. When the last shot had been fired, she came rushing out. Carlos was tough. With four bullets in him, he had still managed to return fire and kill both of his assassins. He didn't die until fourteen hours later with his partner, Hector, and Juanita at his side. Before he died he exacted a promise from Hector to take good care of his family. Juanita had assumed that the promise included her. And for the most part, that's how Hector had treated her. But things had abruptly changed. She realized, too late, she had overplayed her hand. Now she was petrified about what would come next. After Hector's rejection and the terrible whipping she had gotten from Tina, her entire world had turned to fear and pain. She had been left for a long time, whimpering and sweating, in the black body suit. Then she was dragged for what seemed to her like a long distance. She was left for an even longer time before Michelle had come and let her out of the suit. She found herself in a small cell with just a cot and a toilet. Michelle did some things to her back that lessened the pain a little. Then she was left alone. She was far too weak and in too much agony to protest. For the next five weeks she lived in isolation. Twice a day someone would slip a small loaf of bread into her cell. She wasn't sure who. The architecture of the door wouldn't permit her to see out and the supplier of her meal never responded to her questions. No one give her water. She had to drink out of the little toilet when her thirst drove her to it. She would flush several times and then drink quickly. Early one morning she was pulled out of her cell by a grinning guard with a mouth full of gold teeth. She emerged into the light, walking stiffly and blinking like a mole. She was terribly conscious of her nudity. He brought her to a large, nearly empty room and almost tossed her in. She recognized it as one of the rooms that was normally filled with bondage equipment. Everything had been removed except for a table in the center on which she saw a small whip and a coiled leather thong. The guard left, locking the door behind him. She thought they were going to torture her. She tried to pray but nothing came. Eventually she went to sit in a corner and wait. Almost two hours later she heard the door unlock. She jumped to her feet as the door swung open and a tough-looking little Dom entered. The door seemed to close by itself. For a long moment neither moved. The Dom was staring at her with an intense, unpleasant expression. The hair suddenly went up on the back of Juanita's neck. She recognized Marcie. 'What the hell was this? Marcie a Dom?' Juanita was terrified. Her eyes darted wildly around the room and fell on the whip. She scampered quickly forward and grabbed it. Then she retreated just as quickly and pressed herself back into the corner. She had the look of a helpless animal. Marcie still hadn't moved. For a long, long moment the tableau held. And then something seemed to snap. When she thought back on this moment, Marcie wouldn't be able to remember having any conscious plan. She just started moving in toward Juanita. Juanita let out an almost inhuman screech and flayed the whip ineffectually. Marcie moved right through it. She smacked the taller girl on the side of her head with the heal of her palm, jarring her teeth, ending her scream, and causing the whip to fall. Juanita was at almost two inches taller than Marcie and had outweighed her by about 10 pounds before her bread and water diet. Now they were about the same weight and it was no contest. Even if Juanita had been in any psychological shape to put up a fight, that first crack to the head would have disoriented her. Marcie simply unloaded on her with a whole series of punches, slaps and jabs. Juanita put up no resistance at all. By the end of 90 seconds, Juanita was covered with bruises, scratches, and small splotches of blood. Her arms were hanging limply at her sides. If she hadn't been wedged into the corner she would have fallen after the first few blows. Marcie was poised to deliver an elbow to the face that might have shattered Juanita's nose when she just stopped. For another long moment nothing happened. And when she told Sheryl about this later, Marcie still wouldn't be able to remember her thoughts. But as Juanita's legs started to buckle she grabbed the stunned girl by the throat and literally threw her into the middle of the room. Juanita careened off of the table and hit the floor with a limp thud. Marcie studied the battered form with a neutral expression. And then there came a thought she would remember. 'Slave, corpse, or mistress.' She had no idea what a mistress was. But she clearly remembered thinking, 'Well, I sure as hell don't want to be a slave or a corpse.' She looked down and realized that as badly as she'd been beat up, Juanita was still very much aware. If anything, the first stinger to her skull was wearing off and she was quickly regaining full consciousness. Almost without thinking Marcie reached over and picked the coiled leather off of the table. "Get up." No response. She uncoiled a length of thong and lashed Juanita across the ass. The girl twitched and sobbed but didn't move. "Get up!" Still no response. Marcie considered lashing her some more, but the fury seemed to have died. She bent down, threaded the leather under Juanita's chin and literally pulled the other girl up to her knees. She tightened the leather enough to cut off the battered girl's air. For a moment there was no reaction and then Juanita brought her hands up to try to pry the leather from her neck. Marcie loosened the thong and hissed, "Get the fuck up or I swear to God, I'll kill you." Juanita got to her feet. She was blubbering now. Marcie trussed her exactly as she and Sheryl had been trussed upon their arrival. She pulled the other girl close and said, "I don't know what the hell is going on, but it looks like things were supposed to turn out exactly this way. So let's go see what's next. Shall we?" Without hesitancy, Juanita replied in a very meek and trembling voice, "Yes, Mistress." That shook Marcie but only slightly and only for a moment. 'Slave, corpse, or mistress.' Well, she wasn't dead. And it didn't look like she was destined to be a slave, either. What the hell was a mistress? She had no desire to find out. She just wanted to be out of here and back to her life in Dallas. But it didn't look like she was going to have much choice. Mistress Tina had said her old life was over. Well, she'd just play along and wait for an opportunity. When she walked Juanita to the door it was pulled open by the gold-toothed guard. Michelle, Sheryl, and Tina all standing expectantly. They seemed to be waiting for her to say something. "Mistress Tina," she began . . . she wasn't sure what to say next. "Mistress Marcie," came the reply from Tina. Apparently, nothing more was expected. Tina turned to Michelle and Sheryl, "Please take Juanita away and clean her up." "Yes, Mistress," replied both girls almost in unison. Michelle took the proffered strap. And taking Marcie's arm, Tina started to walk her off saying to no one in particular, "Mistress Marcie and I have a lot to discuss." * * * * * Vince was sitting in a small French café, sipping a drink and trying to read a Spanish newspaper. His command of Spanish was excellent--his command of his own emotions seemed not to be. He took a deep breath and remembered how long it had been since he'd visited Spain. He'd have to go back one of these days. The thought soothed him. He had been hanging out at this same café on and off for the better part of two weeks. He would read, order an occasional drink or a light meal. He watched cars, trees, stray dogs, and people passing by. He felt the sun on his face and enjoyed the light breeze that blew from time to time. He seemed especially interested, despite his feigned apathy, in the impressive looking building across the street. It was the Paris home of the rich American jet-setter, Candice Richards Prescott Wilson. His indifference seemed to vanish on those few occasions when he caught sight of her. It was early Sunday morning and there was almost no traffic. A limo pulled up to the main gate and was admitted. Vince glanced at his watch. The Mart file seemed to have predicted the exact time of her departure. A butler appeared with a variety of suitcases and loaded them into the trunk. He caught a glimpse of Candy as she walked out onto the front porch and said something to the driver. Vince trembled slightly with suppressed eagerness. She retreated back into the house. Setting the newspaper aside, he picked up the Mart profile with uncertain hands. He felt like a schoolboy on a first date. Shaking his head with disgust at his own emotionality, he reread the file for the umpteenth time. By the time Candy Wilson had met Anthony Richards she had become quite an expert at extracting expensive gifts from rich boyfriends. But she wanted much more than the crumbs tossed her way by well-to-do beaus. So when Anthony came naively along, the only son of a very wealthy and very sickly Texan, she latched onto him. They spent an idyllic year together. A modest wedding. An extravagant honeymoon. A couple of months meticulously invested ingratiating herself to the old man, tending to his needs, listening to his reminiscences. When he died she took care of all of the arrangements, making sure he got a very dignified, if inexpensive, funeral. Afterward she was an angel, helping her young husband make the transition to head of his father's estate. Working closely with the family's law firm she helped set up all kinds of carefully structured trusts and investments. She began an affair with a senior partner in the firm and with his help spent the rest of that year systematically bilking those trusts and investments, diverting huge sums to a numbered Swiss account. Once she had robbed her husband half blind she left him. There was nothing he could do, the attorney had seen to that. The whole situation was horribly unethical and just barely legal. Young Mr. Richards had just enough left to consolidate his holdings into a single modest manufacturing concern where he went quietly to work trying to rebuild his family's fortune. He would never remarry. Candy fled to Switzerland with the attorney. She had convinced him to divorce his wife, liquidate his considerable holdings, and join her. That lasted less than four months. One day she simply stopped by the bank, had the contents of both of their numbered accounts moved to a new account in a different bank, and walked out of his life. The attorney had the temerity to act surprised. He went crawling back to his old life like a man suffering from a monumental hangover. Amazingly, his wife took him back, but predictably his law firm did not. Instead of living out his retirement in idle comfort he found himself trying to reestablish a private practice as an ambulance chaser. Candy went back to jet-setting but as a player rather than play thing. In reflecting on her file, it seemed obvious to Vince she was trying to set up a really big score. She had several opportunities. A bored industrialist from Osaka; a shockingly rich oil magnate from Saudi Arabia; a corrupt politician from Manila. In each case there was a brief fling, but no real attempt to form a union. Vince wondered why. They were all certainly rich enough--each in the two hundred million to half billion neighborhood. Instead she finally settled on Norman Prescott IV, an Englishman who had far more money than sense. He was only worth about eighty-million, but was apparently rich enough for her purposes. She played the wounded bird for him and he fell for it completely. Less than a year later he was licking his wounds while she was counting his cash. She'd actually succeeded in bankrupting him. Vince shook his head. It was hard to believe. She would have made a terrific used car salesman. So now she was freshly divorced for the second time. He started at the distant sound of a door opening. Candy strutted out of the house and got into the limousine. An pale looking girl with a nice figure, her private secretary, came running out as the limo started to move. It stopped. A window rolled down and there followed some animated conversation. Vince checked the file again. Candy had made all the arrangements to spend two weeks in her private beach house on the Mediterranean. It was a small but fancy house in a very exclusive neighborhood--another gift from Mr. Prescott. According to Mart sources she had made it very clear she wasn't to be disturbed under any circumstances. Whatever the secretary was concerned about, this would be her last opportunity to discuss it until Candy returned. The conversation ended. The girl headed back to the house. The limo pulled away. Vince watched it disappear down the boulevard. The time was getting close. He tried unsuccessfully to calm himself and then called the waiter for his bill. * * * * * An exclusive neighborhood, even for the very rich, is not a bank nor is it a military base. The security was good, but hardly sufficient to keep a determined man from simply waltzing in. Had it been necessary, Vince could have arranged to be dropped offshore in scuba gear and gotten to Candy's beach house underwater in the dead of night. It wasn't necessary. He parked his car at a safe distance where it wouldn't be disturbed, made his way to the beach, and simply strolled up the relatively unprotected coast. He came across a sign warning him that he was about to enter private property and that trespassers would be severely prosecuted. He walked around it. When he arrived, the beach was nearly deserted. Candy was a lone figure lying naked on a huge towel down by the water. She looked like she was asleep. With silently singing nerves, Vince walked over to the extravagant beach house, took a seat on the porch, and waited. He studied her backside from a distance. She seemed to be in pretty good shape. Her ass was as nice as he'd remembered it. Twenty minutes later he heard a faint buzzer go off. Candy sat up. Put fresh oil on her body, reset the timer, and lay back. Vince took a deep breath and studied her front. Nice tits. He couldn't see much detail, but they certainly appeared to have held up well over the years. Forty minutes later the buzzer went off again. Candy got up, stretched, and put on a silk robe. She collected her stuff and headed back toward the house. About fifty yards out she spotted him. Pausing only for a moment, she continued as if he weren't there. As she passed him on her way into the house she said in broken French, "If you're still here when I get back I'll have you arrested." He replied in English, just before the door closed behind her, "You don't remember me?" There was just the hint of a tremor in his voice. After a brief pause, the door reopened. Her head appeared and studied him for what seemed a long time. "Vincent?" He smiled broadly and stood. "Eyup." She came back out. "What in blazes are you doing here? I mean, how did you find me?" "I asked the right people." She looked at him appraisingly for a long moment. She seemed to be considering whether to blow him off or invite him in. Finally she said, "I'll find out who that right person was. You'd better believe that. And her ass is history." She favored him with another long look. Curiosity won out. "You might as well come in and have a drink." She pointed at the bar and told him to wait while she took a shower. She also told him not to touch anything else as she disappeared into the back. He smiled at that and checked the fridge. No root beer. He poured himself a small coke and waited. He heard the sounds of a bath being run. He found that her arrogance had calmed him considerably. He looked around the front of the house. It showed clear signs of its prior owner. Lots of dark wood. The very masculine bar. Some heavy leather furniture that Vince imagined was slated for replacement. The house also showed the quick surface gloss of its current owner. Frilly curtains, lacy pillows, impressionist paintings, porcelain knickknacks. In fact, after surveying the place, he thought it looked like a bric-a-brac grenade had gone off in a man's den and scattered feminine shrapnel all over the place. He poured himself another coke. And then another. He heard the sound of a hair drier. For some strange reason, the longer she made him wait the more in control he felt. Vince was on his fourth coke when Candy reappeared. She was clean and fresh, but hadn't put on make-up. She hadn't bothered to dress up either. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe. "You know how to make a Tequila Sunrise?" she asked as she made her grand entrance. "Yeah." She pointed over to the bar and added, "Don't go crazy with the tequila." Vince was quite calm now and thought she needed a good spanking. But he decided to humor her. As he tinkered with ingredients, Candy arranged herself in one of the large leather chairs. She was striking a movie star pose, her legs folded up to one side under her. He brought the drink. She took it with both hands. He sat across from her. "So tell me about yourself, Vince. What are you up to these days?" He told her something of his cover life as a fashion photographer. She lost interest quickly. She only perked up when he mentioned the name of a well known fashion designer. She asked if he would introduce her. Vince had no intention of letting her use him as a society stepping stone and said he didn't know the designer well enough for that. Candy lost interest again. He glossed over details and cut the story short. She seemed relieved when he'd finished the brief narrative. He asked her how she was doing and she talked for the next two hours. He found it fascinating stuff. Especially to hear the differences between her self-biography and the more objective Mart folio. To hear her tell it, she was an unfortunate victim of fate and her own poor judgement in men. Her first husband had been a wimp. She edited the fling with the lawyer completely out of her life. Her second husband was disturbed and psychologically abusive. It was all a clever, resourceful girl like herself could do to come out of these star-crossed relationships with her body and soul intact and with the shirt on her back. But from what she'd learned she'd been able to build up a considerable business fortune. It was such a distorted picture there were places where Vince couldn't see any connection at all to the reality. Was this the girl he'd been carrying the torch for all these years? He didn't seem to feel much of anything anymore and found that rather comforting. Vince was about to take his leave when the subject turned back to high-school. For a little while the conversation improved. Time fell away and Candy seemed to mellow. She was a school girl again, and he could remember the attraction. That fluttery feeling was just starting to return when the bubble burst and they were back in the here and now. Vincent felt like a great load had been lifted. The past was past and the future was his. Candy felt depressed. Something about this ghost from her youth had stirred old memories and made her feel vaguely depressed with the way her life had turned out. The Eagle looked at his watch. He had arrived in mid- afternoon and it was almost eight. He was more than ready to eat. He thought briefly about inviting Candy to dinner but quickly realized he had no desire to do so. The girl he had known was gone. The woman before him was a selfish, maniacal bitch who happened to possess a great body and an even greater quantity of other people's money. But Vince now felt she no longer possessed any hold over him. He made his excuses, got up, turned toward the door, and started out. All Candy had to do was keep her mouth shut and he would have walked out of her life forever. But he was leaving on an all to equal footing to suit her ego. She had money, influence, status. He was a lousy photographer. Yet he had come back into her life without permission, disrupted her well-earned rest, and made her feel less than wonderful about herself. Hell, he wouldn't even use his pathetically minor connections to introduce her to the fashion community. He deserved a parting shot to put him in his place. "So long, ya little greaser. Crawl back to your camera. And if you ever happen to see me at a fashion show, just pretend you don't know me." Vince had frozen in his tracks. She was sure his ego was smashed and was obviously delighted. 'Greaser,' he thought to himself. 'So that's it. She's a racist.' That explained why she passed up the really big money to marry Prescott. Funny, he hadn't know that about her way back when, and the Mart files hadn't hinted at it either. He was still mulling this newfound realization when Candy walked up and started yelling with malicious glee for him to get the hell out of her house. Almost without thinking he swung around and slapped her on the side of her head. She staggered back a few steps and started to yell even louder. In a quick bound he was on her and three hard thwacks later she was down like a dropped sack of flour. Vince stared at the bewildered form sitting on the floor in front of him. Candy was totally dazed. Her eyes weren't focusing. Her mouth was open and silently forming nonsense syllables. One breast was poking out from the disheveled folds of her robe. 'How stupid,' he thought. Why had she provoked him like that? She couldn't have known that she was messing with a Mart recruiter. But she definitely knew she was goading a six foot, powerfully built male. He wondered if she had any more choice in her action than he had with his almost instinctive reaction. * * * * * - - - - - -End of Part 10 - Tall, Blond and Bound - Zebulon - This story may be reposted anywhere as long as (1) proper credit is given, (2) I am informed of where it is being posted, and (3) I am allowed free access to the web site where it is being posted. _________________________________________________________________ http://fastmail.ca/ - Fast Secure Web Email for Canadians ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> | | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+