Backwater Bondage

by Reese Gabriel

  Lucas was still yelling at Bosco, telling him to mind his own damned business as she closed the door behind her on her way out.

  Andrea knocked a third time, more loudly, the corners of her eye watching the dismal corridor for unsavory characters. Why an investigator, someone whom Lucas supposedly respected lived in a tenement house was beyond her.

  She shrieked as the door whisked suddenly open, a hand grabbing her from within. A moment later she had her back to the apartment wall, a gun pointed at her stomach, through the silk of her blouse. A man, shirtless, in stained jeans and a two-day growth of beard, his long mane of hair wild at the shoulders was glaring at her, pressing the barrel of the silver gun. His eyes were brown, and his chin was strong and noble.

  He was gorgeous.

  “You don’t look like a cop,” the man said at last, after a panty wetting thirty seconds of silently sizing her up. “How about the IRS. You with them?”

  Andrea tried to focus respectfully on his face, and not on his long sculpted torso, the nipples perfectly round on his perfect pecs, the hair delicious and soft, trailing down in a mouth watering tuft under the waistband of the jeans, down to where his healthy package beckoned.

  “Lucas sent me,” she said, not sure if he was joking. “I’m a client.”

  He raised an eyebrow, doing something wicked to his dimples in the process. Tucking the pistol in his pants, just to the left of his crotch, he laughed dryly. “A client. That’s a good one. You drink coffee?” he asked, putting his hands on his hips.

  Andrea couldn’t hold out any longer. “I’ll drink whatever you tell me to,” she rasped, slipping to her knees. “My name is Andrea. I’m a submissive, looking for my sister. She disappeared two days ago.”

  Her lips trembled at the touch of his bare foot. She hoped she was doing this right. Closing her eyes, she kissed his bare skin as she imagined him making her suck his cock, or else the silver blue barrel of his pistol.

  “Good,” he said, ignoring her ministrations. “Coffee it is, then.”

  From her position on all fours, she watched him walk to the kitchen of the tiny apartment and flip a switch on the coffee maker.

  “Come on in and find a seat,” he told her, gesturing to the living room, which consisted of two folding chairs and about fifty boxes in various states of unpacking. The only other furniture was a lap top computer plugged into the wall.

  Andrea sat gingerly on one of the chairs, perching on the edge, her bare thighs cold on the metal. She’d tried to dress appropriately, wearing stockings, garters, no panties and a half bra, one that brazenly displayed rather than protected her cleavage.

  “Thank you,” she said softly a moment later, as he handed her a cup of coffee, continuing to ignore her kinkily prepared body. So far, she noted, he wasn’t acting anything like a dominant. Was this one of Lucas’ gags? Or was this man, Falcon, making her sweat, forcing her to bare her soul and then wait till he was good and ready for her—like a cat, toying with its prey, sharp claws visible but not yet applied?

  “Thank you,” she said awkwardly, taking the mug in both hands as he leaned down towards her, powerful muscle visible under his golden flesh.

  “I hope you like cream and sugar,” he quipped, pulling up the other chair to sit across from her. “Since you said you were submissive, I didn’t bother to ask.”

  She looked at him strangely. Was this a joke, too? Were he and Lucas in on some kind of game at her expense? Because if they were, this was very poor timing. “Look, Mr. Falcon,” she bristled, “this may seem hilarious to you, me showing up here dressed like a bimbo out of some old detective movie, but my sister’s life is at stake, so if you can’t help me, please tell me now and save me some time.”

  Falcon eyed her, leaned back in the seat, looking bored. “The door’s right over there if you’re not happy with my services.”

  Andrea’s jaw set hard and fast. “You’re right,” she agreed, rising to her feet and handing him back his precious coffee. “I’m not.”

  “Maybe if you called me master,” he suggested.

  She flashed him a hateful gaze. “Fuck you,” she hissed.

  A smile crossed his lips. “Well, all right,” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh, “so you have some spunk after all.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He handed her back the coffee. “Sit down, Andrea.”

  She did so, her heart still racing.

  Falcon ran his hand over the back of his neck, flexing his biceps in the process. “There’s one thing you need to know about me up front. I don’t play bullshit S and M games anymore. I’ve seen too many people get hurt. But if you’re serious about needing a detective who knows the scene, I’m your man. And as you can tell by looking around, I need the work.”

  Andrea laughed, feeling the tension melt away with his self-effacing humor. Not to mention what he was doing to her with those eyes, their color brown and warm as the liquid she was staring into to keep her equilibrium.

  “I was an asshole about the coffee,” he observed. “Do you want it different?”

  She took a long, delicious sip. The apology was sweet, she thought, but truly the thought of him making it for her, taking away her choices and giving her what was best made her tingly and weak all over. “It’s perfect,” she smiled.

  Falcon crossed his long legs, leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “So tell me about your sister.”

  Andrea told him the whole story now, as she sipped her coffee demurely. As he asked her pointed questions, especially about the club and her sister’s connections to Lucas, she did her best to be his equal, the savvy, demanding client who’d pay any price to get her sister back. The last part was true, but as for being equal, Andrea would far prefer to be at his feet right now, or kneeling so she could look up at him and answer his questions.

  Lucas’ cryptic message about the Tiger seemed to bring the most reaction. The darkening of Falcon’s eyes and the tight knitting of his brow told Andrea he knew precisely what that meant. After awhile, the questions wound down and he grew silent, almost brooding. It was all she could do to keep from going to him, to console him, to soothe whatever pain was so deeply etched in his face.

  My body was made to please this man.

  She shifted in her seat. What a strange notion! He was attractive, of course, and she was wont to give herself to any man with a spark of self-confidence, but this was ridiculous. Was it her lack of sleep, her fears for Ashley? More likely it was the way he’d put her off, she concluded, the way he’d made submitting to him an impossible fruit. Talk about a good way to drive a submissive crazy, she mused.

  Falcon was leaning forward, putting his hand on her wrist. “This may not be easy, but we can find her. If you’ll trust me.”

  Andrea nodded, trying to keep her polite, vanilla smile plastered on her face. Trust him? She’d lay down her life for him, not to mention spreading her legs at the snap of his fingers. “I do,” she said, “Trust you, I mean.”

  “Good.” He flashed a perfect smile. “And I’m glad we cleared up the other thing, about the domination. Lucas is quite a kidder, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, hiding the hole in her heart. “He certainly is.” I’ve misjudged him, she thought as she left. He isn’t so strong. Pity for him, because now she’d have to bring him down, the way she did with Tom. No middle ground, sin boldly.

  ***

  Ashley chose the prettiest dress from among the ones Simon had provided her. She was going out with him this afternoon, so she took her time picking the perfect one. It was blue, very conservative with a hemline just above the knee. She complemented it with the pearls he’d provided, and a pair of matching shoes. It made her laugh when she thought of him telling her he didn’t want her and she should go home, when all the while he was doing things like this, buying her clothes and jewelry said something very different.

  It was important to look her best for Simon. And in a strange way, for Tia, too, who was leading such a h
arsh existence back on the island. The slave of pirates now, she would never know such finery as pearls or even the dignity of an untorn, unstained garment. Kept naked or in rags, Tia’s only ornaments were her chains, and of course the bright silver nipple rings her lord had given her. Unless of course one counted the brand, seared into her skin her first morning in the camp, designed to remind her that the previous night’s debauchery at her expense was no exception, but rather the rule of her new life. She wore it proudly upon her ass, a permanent sign of her lord’s possession of her body and of her soul.

  Ashley drew a deep breath. Just before she’d awoken from her nap with Simon, Tia had been gathering the wood for a bonfire. There was to be a big celebration tonight, an announcement by her captain of an upcoming sea voyage, a mission of plunder on the bounding main. Tia was working her hardest, for she knew soon the decision would be made as to which of their treasures to keep and which to leave behind. The value of gold or silver is obvious and indisputable, but a female is only as valuable as her ability to work, to sexually please the man or men to whom she belongs.

  Strive hard, little Tia, Ashley sighed, until I am with you again. They were together often now, for each time Ashley went to sleep, her dreams took her to the island.

  Checking herself in the mirror, Ashley had to admit, she had done well. Hopefully, Simon would agree. Unlike Tom, he was really a man, a man who desired to see his woman dressed to please. She knew this about him instinctively, as surely as she knew that he was the reincarnation of the Pirate Lord and that fate had meant them to be together always.

  She went now to the living room, so that Simon would not have to wait on her. Tom allowed her to keep him waiting constantly, and she’d grown to despise him for it, she knew that now. She knew lots of things now, like how she didn’t hate her sister as much as envy her ability to admit her needs. If Tom could master her, then Ashley wished them well. Truly. For if Tom had loved her, or if she had loved him, then it would have been Ashley on the bed that night, bound in leather, surrendering to his pleasure.

  “You look incredible,” Simon declared, stopping short as he came into the room, dressed in a white suit and gray tie.

  Ashley blushed and lowered her eyes, for while not begrudgingly offered, the remark had a feel of confession about it, as though he’d been compelled to declare her indisputable beauty. “Thank you, milord.”

  “It is I who should thank you.” She’d thought it elegant to wear her hair up, and when he rewarded her with a light touch of his fingers on her neck, she swooned, knowing it had been the right choice.

  “What you see today will disturb you, my dear,” he said, the sadness of self denial evident in his eyes, “but it is what I must do to convince you to leave me.”

  “As you say, milord,” she replied softly. “I am yours to command.”

  The limo ride was sweet for Ashley, as he allowed her to lay her head against his shoulder for much of the way. When she desired to go to sleep, however, curled up on his lap, he told her no, that he had no intention of having her go back there right now, meaning the island. Her disappointment at not being able to discern Tia’s progress was far outweighed by the joy of having her will thwarted by this strong, protecting man, who though he protested indifference, he nonetheless betrayed his care for her at every turn.

  Letting the sound of the car lull her to a state of trance-like peace, Ashley nestled in beside Simon, so stiff and formal. As she stared at the carpeted floor, she thought how one day he will have me down there, pushing himself into my spread legs, showing me that I am his. The idea made her warm and wet and kept her occupied the rest of the trip.

  Their destination was a hotel of sorts, though Simon assured her the guests were anything but tourists. Its location was in a less savory section of the city, not altogether far, she noted, from The Edge. There were men in suits at the front entrance, muscular men whose stances suggested their brute strength was reinforced by concealed firearms.

  It was unlikely anyone would challenge these men, and yet the doors were locked nonetheless. A great fuss was made over Simon and Ashley as they entered, which pleased Ashley, for she enjoyed seeing him relish in his position as the boss. At his side, she felt like a captive queen.

  “We will be taking a tour,” he explained, ushering her by the elbow towards the elevator. Ashley absorbed the surroundings as they walked, stunned by the elegance of the furniture, high Victorian, upholstered in red velvet. The carpet was also red, and there were exquisite paintings, some originals from the looks of them. She could hardly believe such a shabby brick exterior concealed such opulence.

  “Eighth floor,” Simon said to the elevator attendant.

  Ashley had thought such luxuries as manned elevators a thing of the remote past, but somehow in this setting, it seemed appropriate. There was no one in the corridor on the eighth floor. Ashley marveled at the chandeliers and mirrored walls, though it seemed a little sad to see all this beauty hidden from public view.

  Simon stopped in front of one of the long row of ornately carved doors and pulled out a key, from a ring in his pocket which one of the men downstairs had given him. The jingling sound was sexy, and it made her think of chains. She tucked her arm more tightly into his as she imagined Tia, her newly browned skin covered in a sheen of sweat as she writhed beneath her lord, her passion restrained by the metal on her wrists and ankles, and by the links running across her captive body.

  The girl was waiting for them inside the room. She was lovely, a slender dark haired girl wearing a long, low cut gown, cut elegantly to cinch her tiny waist and emphasize her full breasts. She greeted them upon her knees, and Ashley wondered if she was so displayed at all times, or if she merely assumed the position upon entry of a guest.

  “Mr. Rice,” she said, her cheeks flush, her smile concealing little of her trepidation. “What a surprise.”

  Ashley inhaled the girl’s heat, her helpless fear. How exquisite that fear seemed in this wonderfully gilded room, trimmed in gold, a magnificent four-poster bed dominating the classic décor. Simon Rice had taste, wicked taste to be sure.

  “Colleen, I wonder if you would fetch us drinks? Champagne, if you please.”

  The girl was on her feet at once, scurrying with a purposefulness that belied Simon’s casual request. It had been an order. An order given to a slave. Ashley felt the heat surge through her loins as she noted on the girl’s trim ankle, just above her delicate high heel, a ring of steel. As she moved, there was a drag of chain, and Ashley realized she was shackled to the foot of the bed, limited in her motions by the generous length of glistening interlocking rings.

  Simon and Ashley sat on the divan, across from the bed. When Colleen had brought the drinks, he invited her to stand before them, arms at her sides. Simon wished her to tell her story, but first, if Ashley would be so kind as to help her undress?

  “Is she your slave?” Colleen asked, as Ashley rose smoothly to do Simon’s bidding.

  “No,” he replied stiffly. “Please proceed.”

  Ashley’s eyes met the slave’s, a single glance exchanging more than she could ever say in words. They were sisters. Ashley smiled shyly as she moved to help her pull up the gown. It came off in a single, graceful motion, a motion designed to please the man before them. Beholding the girl’s alabaster beauty (she was nude save for garter belt and stockings) Ashley sank to her knees, intent on stripping her clean, bare before their master.

  Stealing a glance at Simon’s obvious hard-on, Ashley put her face to the girl’s inner thigh, kissing, delicately. She would use her teeth, to lower the stockings. The only hindrance would be Colleen’s shackled left ankle. They would deal with that in time.

  “Tell us how you came to be here,” Simon said, trying to maintain an air of business.

  Colleen began to speak, her voice slightly breathless as Ashley worked her tongue and fingers up and down her legs. The particularities were lost as Ashley focused on the feel, the texture of Colleen’s skin. Sh
e had been a model, or aspiring to such when a man offered her lucrative work in a strip bar. She’d fallen in with hard-core elements, and had ended up selling herself to support a drug habit. As her debts mounted, the ‘note’ on her was bought up by an agent of Rice’s, who determined a more permanent solution.

  “Turn around for Ashley,” Simon commanded.

  Colleen obeyed, revealing perfect cheeks, the left incised with a small mark, a trident emblazoned in a circle, the whole of it consisting entirely of deep grooves burnt into the girl’s flesh.

  “What is that mark?” Simon asked, taking the tone of an interrogating attorney who already knows the answer to every question he asks.

  “It is my brand,” Colleen said, her voice a rapturous whisper.

  “What does it mean?”

  “That I am the property of Trident Entertainment.”

  Trident. Ashley had heard of it. A subsidiary of an even larger company, on a global scale which her mother—and therefore she herself—had stock in.

  “What is your function?”

  “To serve the clients of Trident, providing one hundred percent customer satisfaction.”

  “To what are the customers of Trident entitled?”

  “To use my body in any way which pleases them, so long as they do not draw blood or inflict permanent damage as defined in usage contracts.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Six months, sir.” Colleen shifted uneasily as Ashley kissed the brand, ran her cheeks across its hardness.

  “And before that?”

  “A brothel in Tijuana.”

  Ashley was licking her now, running her gritty tongue over the grooves of Colleen’s mark.

  “And the terms of your service there?”

  “I was chained to a small cot. For roughly fifty cents I could be used in any orifice.”

  “Were you clothed?”