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From: "Zebulon" <zebulon@fastmail.ca>
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Subject: {ASSM} Part 10 - Tall, Blond and Bound (Cat-Fight)
Date: Wed, 2 Apr 2003 23:10:07 -0500
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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.
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