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From: "Zebulon" <zebulon@fastmail.ca>
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Subject: {ASSM} Part 11 - Tall, Blond and Bound (MF BDSM)
Date: Tue, 22 Apr 2003 01:10:08 -0400
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Part 11 - Tall, Blond and Bound
SPECIAL NOTE: Sorry for the delay. I had been
posting these segments about once a week for a long
time. But in the past month I've been called out of
town on business and simply didn't have enough time
to keep to my schedule. There are still 3 segments
to go and these ought to appear over the next 3 weeks.
`God willin' and the crick don't rise.'
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 11 - Tall, Blond and Bound
by Zebulon
* * * * *
Dinner was almost ready. The kitchen was loaded with
prime ingredients--cuts of meat and luscious vegetables
which only farmers and the very best restaurants ever saw.
And Vince loved to cook. He had noticed that most of the
Mart recruiters loved good food. He knew several who
were really excellent chiefs and all of them, so far as he
knew, were quite knowledgeable about food and wine. He
vaguely wondered about the connection.
A timer went off. Vince had outdone himself. A fresh
salad with a honey-mustard-bacon dressing, lobster
thermidor, a small rib-eye steak--tossed in almost as an
afterthought, cream of tomato soup, fresh asparagus with
tarragon sauce, potato crumpets, and a fruit cup in heavy
liqueur for dessert. He had also discovered a well stocked
wine cellar and selected an excellent champagne that had
been chilling for the past couple of hours. It might not be
quite cold enough yet, but Vince didn't care. It was way
late, he was starving, and he felt like celebrating.
Almost time to start serving. He had found the china
and silverware without any difficulty and set a single place
in the small living room. Along the way, he had torn down
some of the feminine niceties that most offended his
sensibilities. He had stumbled across an eloquent little
candelabrum as well. But he hadn't found the candles.
They had to be somewhere. The soup would be ready in
just a couple minutes. He thought he'd have one last look
around for candles. Not in the drawers. Not on any of the
obvious shelves. He tried the pantry one last time.
Nowhere in obvious sight, but then again, Candy was
blocking much of his view. He had her gagged, roughly
bound, and tied into the shelves on one side wall with some
curtain cord he had cut down from the other room. There
was a rechargeable flashlight hanging on the wall. He
pulled it down. From the look on her blank face it would be
at least another couple hours before the drugs he had given
her would wear off. The bruises on her face where he had
slapped her were clearly visible. His jism had run down her
leg and crusted. He pushed her body roughly to one side
and rooted around on the shelves behind his limp victim.
Aha! Candles.
* * * * *
When Candy came out of her fog, tears were already
streaming down her face. She struggled futilely against her
bonds for what seemed a very long time before the pantry
door swung open and she was blinded by the morning light.
"Morning, babe. I trust you slept well?"
Candy could only grunt in response. It was not a happy
grunt. Vince had improvised a gag using dishrags and
twine. He had used more rags for padding and carefully set
most of her weight on the shelves when he had bound her.
He didn't want to cause any permanent damage by cutting
off her circulation. Beyond that he knew she had spent a
miserably uncomfortable morning.
Vince untied her feet. He was prepared for the kick
when it came. He parried it easily and then punched her
hard in the stomach. As she grunted and wheezed he undid
her hands. He pushed her out of the pantry wearing only
the gag. Candy stood on uncertain legs snorting heavily to
regain her breath. She reached up to pull out whatever he
had stuffed into her mouth. He slapped her hands away.
She glared at him for a brief instant and then screeching into
the gag tried to rake his face with her nails.
Vince was prepared for that too. She missed him by a
wide margin. As she recovered her balance he gave her
another hard slap on the face and then grabbing an arm
twisted her around and slammed her into the nearest wall.
He had pulled her arm high up on her back. And with her
face mashed against the cold surface and fire burning
through her shoulder all she could do was stand on tip-toe
and wail in pain and outrage through her nose.
Vince gave her a hearty crack on the ass and suddenly
released her arm. Candy stumbled backward and landed
hard on the floor. She sat there quivering with a barely
repressed fury. But she was too weak and in too much pain
to try anything. She rubbed her injured shoulder and glared
at him. Tears ran down her face. She did not however try
to remove the soggy gag.
There was a small but heavy butcher block table in the
center of the room. Above it was an overhead rack
designed to hold an array of copper pots. The pots had all
been removed. Some of the cooking gear from the night
before was sitting on the table. Vince cleared it off with a
quick swipe of his arm. Pots and utensils went crashing to
the floor and the sound clattered against Candy's already
frayed nerves. She flinched and began to shiver. Vince
enjoyed her discomfiture. He slapped the table with his
hand.
"Up" was all he said with an ugly grin.
Candy's eyes darted quickly around the room. Vince
was standing directly between her and the dining room. The
door to the outside was locked. She considered the
possibility of escape and decided against it -- at least not
until the odds were better. So she got up rubbing her sore
behind, moved to the small table, and sat.
Vince plucked up another length of curtain cord and
bound Candy's wrists together in front. She didn't resist.
He flung the free end over the overhanging pot holder and
pulled until Candy's arms were pointing straight up at the
ceiling. He secured the cord by tying it to a leg of the heavy
stove. He used another length of cord to tie her feet to the
opposite sides of the table. Her legs were spread wide and
her position very uncomfortable.
He stepped back to inspect his handiwork. Candy
breathed heavily through her nose, weeping into the gag and
glaring at him. Vince was breathing heavily as well, much
more from suppressed emotion than from physical exertion.
He stepped up and palmed her breasts, causing the
nipples to spring to life. She snorted at him as defiantly as
she could. He slapped her face.
"You know," he said as he continued to rub and tweak
her delightful mammaries, "the closest you ever let me get
to these when we were dating was at the drive-in.
Remember?"
She ignored his question and continued to glare. The
slap had stung, but rage more than fear was dictating her
reactions.
Vince mashed and twisted a nipple painfully as he
repeated the question, "Remember?"
Candy thrashed wildly in her bondage and let out a
muffled screech. When he finally let go there were more
tears running down her face, but otherwise her wrathful
expression hadn't changed. With all she had been through,
somehow Candy still managed to project an air of
condescending superiority. And Vince felt the
overwhelming need to crush that out of her.
So he reached over and picked up a wicked looking
pairing knife. He tapped the side of the blade against his
palm and stared at Candy thoughtfully. He was rewarded
with the first genuine expression of fear to appear on her
abused face. This was what he was really after. And he
wanted more. He ran the blade lightly along the inside of
her thigh and said, "You know, I could kill you easily. I
could butcher you like a pig and set fire to this damn
bungalow to cover my tracks."
Candy looked really frightened now and was trying to
shy away from the knife.
"But that would be too easy, wouldn't it?"
Candy seemed to be fixated on the knife and not
listening. So Vince, pulled her nipple as far out as he could
and held the blade against it as if he were about to cut it
completely off. "Wouldn't it?!" he screamed.
Candy started blubbering incoherently into her gag. That
seemed to satisfy Vince. For some reason, her fear was
exactly the tonic he needed. The more she lost control, the
better he felt.
"What we really need," he said releasing her nipple and
tossing the small knife aside, "is to leave you alive." He
looked around the counter top and found a much larger and
more sinister looking carving knife. He hefted it. "But we
certainly ought to do a little rearranging." Candy's eyes
went wide at the sight of the new blade. "You ought to
look as ugly as you act. That way, men won't be fooled."
He held the huge blade against the underside of one
breast. "What if we slice off a tit and sauté it in a nice wine
and garlic sauce?" Her head was shaking no and her eyes
were frozen on the blade. The tears were now dripping
onto her chest. "You could have it for lunch. I sure as hell
wouldn't want any. I've had my fill of you."
Candy was now making a desperate attempt to plead
with him through the gag. The terror in her face was
obvious. And that's when the game somehow lost interest
for Vince. He had won.
Now what? What was he doing? It wasn't revenge.
And it certainly wasn't good training. What was it? What
did all this say about his own level of control? Vince
removed the knife from under her breast and stabbed it
down hard into the butcher block between her legs.
Candice was shaking uncontrollably as he backed away.
Vince was very unsure of his next move as he plumped
himself into a chair on the far side of the kitchen and stared
moodily back at the blubbering form stretched out before
him. He could, of course, simply put her out of her misery
and cover his tracks. He certainly couldn't just turn her
loose. One way or another Candice Richards Prescott
Wilson had to disappear.
But how? What did Vincent want?
* * * * *
Rather than trying to work things out completely on his
own, Vincent decided to contact the Mart to consider his
options. He called a book agency cover number and left a
message. Someone called back on a secured line almost
immediately. He described the situation and discussed
possibilities. The agent on the other end called up Candy's
file and suggested some interesting alternatives. Once
Vincent decided, the agent hung up to make arrangements.
Candy had listened furiously to the phone conversation.
Even through her pain and humiliation she knew it had
something to do with his plans for her. For a long while, he
said nothing. He seemed to be mulling things over. Then
he strode purposely up to her, wrenched the huge knife
from between her legs and, laid it on the counter. He
reached down and tweaked her clit, which was bone dry,
and said, "Well little girl, it looks like you're going on a
trip."
Vincent gave her a stern warning that he would bash her
good if she made any trouble. He then removed her gag
and let her eat, still tied to the butcher block. He fed her
leftovers from the night before as one might feed a dog.
Candy reacted hardly at all. She knew it would be pointless.
Her plan was to make as little fuss as possible and wait for
her opportunity to escape. Visions of having this nasty little
wetback bastard tossed into the most brutal jail in the world
were keeping her going. After breakfast he replaced her
gag, cut her loose, and trooped her first to the bathroom
and then to the den.
He strapped her, face down, over the heavy mahogany
desk. Her wrists were locked together and tied to one of
the legs of the desk; her head was hanging over the edge;
her tits were mashed into the cold surface. Candy's ass was
hanging over the other end of the desk and her ankles were
connected by short ropes to opposite legs. Her mouth was
still full of gag. For the rest of the day Vincent had
alternated between paddling her butt, pumping his large dick
into her twat or asshole, puttering in the kitchen, and
rummaging through the small house. By the end of the day,
her behind was bright red. She had ceased screeching and
writhing long before. She would only twitch at the feel of
the paddle and ripple at his pounding intrusions. Vincent
wasn't revenging himself any more. He was simply whiling
away the time.
That night he fed her again in her bondage. He then cut
her loose for a second time and again let her go to the
bathroom. She was almost too stiff to move from the
constant paddling. She slept in a hogtie at the foot of the
bed. As added security he again drugged her.
The next day was just about a replay of the day before.
As soon as she woke, it was breakfast, bathroom, and back
to the desk. But Cindy's private purgatory wasn't to last
forever. Vincent got a phone call that evening. Cindy
strained to listen but the voice on the other end did most of
the talking. The only remark she clearly heard was, "Then
send a photographer as a back up."
'Why a photographer?' she wondered. 'What kind of
back up?'
By the time the men from the Mart arrived on the third
day, Cindy was actually relieved.
* * * * *
They came by boat. Cathy woke to the distant sound of
a car horn blaring. Vincent was gone and she was still in
her hogtie from the night before. Her mind was just starting
to clear. From the shadows on the wall it must just be
dawn. Once the mental fog had lifted she would attempt to
escape, but for now she just listened and tried to regain her
strength.
Then she heard the voices coming in through the front
door.
"I wonder what all that racket is about." She recognized
Vincent's voice.
"Diversion," answered a gruff voice.
"You mean that's you?"
"Eyup. We wanted everyone's attention away from the
beach."
"Clever."
There were three men with Vincent as they entered the
bedroom. The one with the gruff voice was a cleaner who
would tidy up loose ends after everyone else was gone. A
second, very scary looking man seemed bored. The third
was holding a camera.
In her hogtie, Candy looked like shit. Her skin was still
discolored in many places from Vincent's punches and slaps.
Her hair was completely bedraggled. She was covered in
bruises and half healed scratches. Her ass was blistered in
patches. The photographer looked at Vincent with disgust.
It had nothing to do with the abuse of the girl. That was the
customer's business. But how was he supposed to take
good pictures to show potential buyers? All the make-up in
the world and this woman would still look like hell. He
asked, "What exactly did you have in mind?" The sarcasm
in his voice was evident.
Vincent looked sheepishly back and shrugged. He
handed the photographer a large manila envelope filled with
the candid photographs and glamour shots of Candy that he
had collected while ransacking the small house. The
photographer examined the contents and grunted with
satisfaction. These pictures could be compiled into a
credible portfolio that would show the girl to good effect.
But he also needed some current pictures. Abuse aside, she
was in great shape. He hefted his camera and motioned
toward the bound girl.
Vincent cut Candy's bonds and, lifting her aching form
off the floor, held her up by the scruff of the neck. The
Photographer shrugged and took some pictures. Vincent
twisted Candy this way and that, showing her from every
angle.
As he grunted his approval, the photographer voiced a
question that had been on his mind. "Why the pictures at
all? I thought she was being delivered to 'the Weasel' for
training.
"Maybe," said Vincent. "Master Wiesel agreed to take a
look. Her background bothers him. If he decides not to
take her, I'll just put her on the market as is."
Then the other two men took over. Candy was retied,
rolled into a rug and carried out of the house and onto a
waiting ship. The last thing the photographer said to
Vincent before leaving was to check in with the Mart. They
had an assignment for him if he were interested.
He was.
* * * * *
The next day the Eagle was winging his way to South
America on special assignment. He was looking to recruit a
new Mistress and Bolivia was his first stop.
Mistress recruitment was generally not his pigeon. He
recruited subs and slaves. In general, the primary qualities
of good subs were physical. And when it came to assessing
physical beauty the Eagle was as good as they got. But
finding a Mistress was much more a psychological problem.
In this case the contract was very specific. Mistress
Merilla had decided to retire and the owner wanted a
replacement. More than that he wanted a physical
replacement and none of the available Mistresses were even
close. Merilla was very tall and very athletic and quite
beautiful. Furthermore, she had fiery red hair and a temper
to match. But the owner had grown to love her quite
dearly. So Merilla called the Mart and the Mart called the
Eagle.
The word went out. While the Eagle flew to South
America to see for himself what he was trying to match,
suggestions and recommendations came winging their way
back to the Mart.
* * * * *
- - - - -
-End of Part 11 - 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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