The flight attendant offered him a set of cotton pajamas, asked if there was anything else he needed and told him the flight would take about eight hours. She said they’d wake him an hour before landing and bid him good night. The windows were deeply tinted, a feature controlled by the cockpit crew to the point where nothing outside could be seen and no light entered or escaped the cabin.
Not quite eight hours later, feeling somewhat jet-lagged, but reasonably fresh, he stepped off the plane and immediately felt the heat and oppressive humidity that he associated with the tropics. That fact narrowed down the possibilities of where he was.
He was escorted quickly into a waiting, dark blue Mercedes S550 sedan with a driver wearing a shoulder holster with a large frame semi-auto pistol and bodyguard with a 12-gauge shotgun in the front seat. In a minute, they were out of the airport and speeding through the suburbs of what he decided was Brasilia, Buenos Aires or Santiago. Like the aircraft, the Mercedes’ windows were darkly tinted and he didn’t bother trying to see what was passing outside. He had made too many long business trips to worry about the terrain and landscapes near the airport. It was raining and the surrounding countryside was shrouded in early morning fog.
He really didn’t care which city it was, but he considered that if the people he was going to see looked anything like the two flight attendants on the charter, he was in for an exciting weekend. He had not failed to notice that both young women, who were perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, wore unique gold jewelry on their ankles, wrists and neck. The bright, thin cuffs and collars didn’t seem the least bit out of place, but were unusual enough to indicate that these women were employees of the agency with which he was now a client. The Story of O, which he’d first read years before, came back to him as he settled into the car’s luxurious leather seat and sipped a cold beer provided by his hosts. The beer, he noted, was an expensive, West Coast brand, not foreign.
The two men in the front seat didn’t speak, other than to ask if there was anything else he needed. His response was simply that he needed to get where they were going and get a shower.
“It will be the best shower you’ve ever had, my friend,” said the man in the shotgun seat. “I can promise you that.” His voice was friendly, neutral and without any accent.
“Fine. How long until we get there?” he asked, grateful for the air conditioning in the Mercedes and trying to keep track of their route, although the car’s windows were so darkly tinted that not much of the passing scenery was visible. It had been the same on the aircraft, although he was reasonably sure that he saw what looked like an ocean off to the right as they landed.
The car went through an automatic gate and then proceeded slowly up a gravel drive, the stones lightly hitting the fender liners and somewhat muffled by the rain and wet ground. The car stopped in front of a fog-wrapped stone building.
“We are there,” the escort said.
The shotgun man got out, walked around the car, opened the left rear door and said, “Right up these stairs, please, Mr. Greg. They are waiting for you, Sir. Have a great time. We’ll be here Sunday night to take you back to an airport.”
The “an airport” didn’t register with him at the time, but the broad marble staircase leading up to a huge, dark wooden door of this country manor house was imposing enough to distract him. The door opened before he was there and two men in well-tailored, dark wool suits, starched white shirts and black ties, which seemed to be the corporate uniform, welcomed him graciously.
The inside of the house was as impressive as the jet, the car and the surrounding land: well tended, quiet, secure, elegant. He followed the two men to a room down a well-lit hallway. They opened a door for him, showed him his quarters and suggested courteously that when he was ready, to simply press a button next to the door and someone would take him to his “appointment”.
“Should you need anything in the meantime, just say ‘phone’. The audio monitoring system will pick up your word and ask what you desire,” the guide said. “And please, Mr. Greg, do not leave this suite for now. We maintain very high level security for all of our guests and so, until you are more familiar with our systems, we ask that you remain in your quarters. I hope you don’t find this inconvenient.” Handing him the coded room key card and bowing slightly, the guide backed out the door as he closed it.
“A quarter million bucks and I get confined to quarters,” Greg said to himself as he surveyed the suite of four rooms. Aside from the entry and the main living room, there was a massive bedroom with adjoining bath, a small pantry and a room that said: Entertainment Center. As he was about to open that door, one of the small electronic devices on the wall clicked softly and a female voice asked, “Can I help you Mr. Greg?”
“Ah, no. Sorry. Just talking to myself,” he said to the wall.
“Of course, sir, I understand your comment. All of our new guests say that. Let me assure you that you can leave any time you desire. You are free to go. By tonight, you will have had a short security briefing and be able to go anywhere on the premises. I hope that will be satisfactory.”
“Thanks. I don’t mind staying put for awhile. I want to check out this suite anyway.”
“I understand completely, Sir. Will that be all?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Enjoy your visit with us Mr. Greg.”
Greg used his keycard to open that door and was greeted by a series of lights coming on in the walls and ceiling of what was unquestionably the most complete dungeon he had ever seen. The collection of devices and implements was vast, with wall and glass cabinets displaying every sort of BDSM gadget he had ever considered or used. There were some well built wood and metal devices that he thought only resided in museums and on movie sets: a platform with stocks, a massive torture wheel, two crosses, several whipping posts made of steel and wood, a very complex-looking rack, an iron maiden, a full suite of blacksmith equipment including a bellows with a gas-fired bed of coals, an anvil, an authentic-looking gallows, several coffins, metal and concrete burial vaults and hundreds of hand tools from whips and canes to simple police come-alongs and cuffs. Drawers in the chests held rope of all colors and sizes, chains, locks, collars, hoods, branks, gags, harnesses, shackles and cuffs.
The room smelled vaguely of some kind of incense, sandalwood perhaps, he thought. It was pleasant and not overpowering, but added to the feeling of luxury and money spent on comfort and pleasure. There was also a faint aroma of perfume. Subtle. Feminine. Alluring.
“Some weekend retreat,” he muttered softly to himself, stripping off his cotton Izod golf shirt and slacks and walking into the sumptuous bathroom. There, standing next to the massive, glassed in shower enclosure, was a stunning young woman in an abbreviated maid’s uniform. The deep V of black silk garment, trimmed with white lace, was just enough to cover her sex, her nipples and little else. But the tiny starched cap set back on the top of her long, dark brown hair was the final touch that said that she was a servant, albeit a beautiful one.
She stood politely erect; her small feet on tip toe in a pair of extremely high, black leather heels accented by the dancer’s fishnet black hose with elastic embroidered tops that came nearly to the tops of her finely sculptured thighs. She wore no jewelry other than the same gold cuffs and collar worn by the flight attendants on the jet. Her face as carefully made up with extra dark outline of her brown eyes, her lips outlined by a darker shade of the same maroon lip gloss that covered the rest of her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted, revealing trim, perfect, white teeth and, he noted with a bit of a grin, just the tip of her pink tongue showing between her teeth.
“Special indeed,” he thought. This was enough to justify the money he’d wired as his initial deposit. If this girl was as willing as she was good looking, the weekend would be worth the near quarter million dollars he had already spent. The girl smiled, bowed just enough to allow the skimpy branches of the uniform V to display twin, perfectly shaped breasts. The entire outfit was alm
ost comical in that she was holding, draped over her horizontal left arm, a large white towel with a gold monogram of his initials, TTG.
“I am your shower attendant,” she said, before he could recover himself, not trying to hide his amazement at the degree of detail he had already witnessed in the program.
“Yea. I mean yeah, I guess you are!”
“May I prepare your shower?” she asked, placing the towel in his hands and turning to adjust a series of controls on the wall next to the shower room’s entrance. “You prefer needle spray, moderately hot, correct?” she said without any trace of an accent except perhaps a tiny bit of Southern USA emphasis on some words.
“Uh, yes. Sure,” he said, astonished that she knew this and then remembering the lengthy interview on the phone with someone who said they were building a database of his preferences. Water temperature of his shower had been one of the questions, which, at the time, he thought was strange.
“Your shower is ready, Mr. Greg. May I assist you?”
“Sure,” he said a bit hesitantly. “Let me get wet and then you can help out, if you will,” he said, slowly regaining his composure and recalling the repeated comments by those he had talked with from the agency that his “EVERY need will be taken care of, so just relax and enjoy it.”
He stepped into the shower, feeling the multiple jets and sprays hit his body and seeing, out of the corner of his eye, the attendant reach up behind her back and pull a zipper or release that freed the short maid’s outfit and let it fall to the tiled floor. He wasn’t surprised to see that she wore nothing under it.
“Can we chat? I have a few questions for you,” he said, as he watched her slip out of the shoes and remove her thigh-high hose. He stood still under the streaming water while she began to soap his back with a soft, foamy sponge.
“Of course. I am here to serve your every need.”
“What is your name?”
“You can call be Andrea, if you wish.”
“Andrea.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Okay, Andrea. Do you want to have sex?”
“Of course, Sir. Here?” she asked brightly.
“Why not?”
“Why not, indeed?” Andrea said as she dropped the sponge and slipped her soapy hands over his already erect member, smoothly lathering it and the surrounding area.
Greg turned slowly and faced her, seeing her really for the first time face to face and marveling at his good luck to have this first contact be with so lovely a woman. Her hands left his groin and slowly moved up his body as he reached behind her and pressed her to him.
“Do you have any rope…or handcuffs?” he asked her, pressing his cock into the space between her wet, parted thighs.
“Of course, on the soap and shampoo shelf up and to your left on the wall,” Andrea said, pressing closer to him and adjusting his cock so that it went immediately into her soapy pussy. She was kissing his neck and face while he looked up and saw the wide indented space in the tiled wall. He reached up, found a coiled length of nylon rope and brought it down behind her back.
“Shall I resist?” Andrea asked, nibbling on his lower lip, her tongue working in and out of his half-open mouth.
“No. This is going to be a consenting fuck,” he said, pulling both of her hands back behind her and quickly tying them with the length of rope.
“Oops,” Andrea said quietly into his right ear, pulling slightly away, but keeping him inside her.
“Oops what?” he asked, panting slightly.
“I forgot to ask if you wanted a condom. We have thirteen varieties and…”
“No thanks. Not if you don’t,” he interrupted, renewing his thrusting into her slowly contracting pussy.
She didn’t resist, but seemed to press even closer, moving her hips to fully engage his member, lifting her left leg so that the inside of her left thigh rubbed the outside of his right thigh, rotating her middle body while he carefully bound her wrists.
“You don’t want to know the selection?” she asked giggling.
“Selection.”
“Of condoms,” Andrea said, still chirping slightly as they became more actively engaged under the shower. “If you wish, do my elbows too,” she said. “They touch easily. I am very flexible.”
He reached up for more rope and bound her upper arms, pulling the doubled rope loops tight until her lower arms were parallel and the elbows touching. She thrust out her firm, hard-nippled breasts involuntarily, driving the twin summits softly into his chest.
“Gag me,” she said breathlessly. “Look in the same spot.”
His hand returned to the niche and found a red rubber ball gag. This he easily inserted into her open mouth, pulling the straps back harshly until her cheeks bulged out and her eyes locked on his. She was grinding her hips into his, engaging his cock with her internal muscles and literally milking his member by moving her hips slightly away and then back again, each time contracting and releasing her cunt muscles so as to squeeze and tug on him.
They were, by now, fully engaged in the act, him pulling her bent left thigh higher until she balanced on one leg, he gaining deeper access to her cunt, both moving in an anxious, seemingly desperate fuck under the cascading warm water that mysteriously seemed to have gotten slightly cooler as they mated.
It went too quickly. He fired his first salvo in nearly two weeks and was not in a position to delay it. She made the requisite responses, hammering him with her hips as he came, gasping through the gag, her sweet breathe gurgling around the ball gag until he pulled away, pushing her down in the shower, and turning his back on her, presenting his ass to her water-streaked, gagged face.
“That will be all, Andrea,” he said, reaching for the soap and sponge and washing himself while the girl knelt behind him, pushing her wet nose into his ass crack.
“I said, that’s all. You can go now,” he repeated.
The girl rose slowly, carefully balancing herself on the slippery floor and stepping out of the shower stall onto the towel he had dropped when they entered. She stood there, still gagged and bound at wrists and elbows, watching him wash himself, turning her head slightly and shaking the water from her face. She turned around, took a few steps towards the wall, pressed wet her face to a towel hanging on the wall rack, then slowly walked out of the bathroom.
Less than thirty minutes later, Greg found himself in what had to be the largest, most elaborate and elegant dungeon he had ever seen or imagined. It made the one in his suite tiny by comparison. It was like a set from an old Vincent Price horror movie, except that the actresses were live and real and the restraints on them were authentic, not movie props.
“Mr. Greg,” said the dark-suited guide who escorted him down from his room. “You have several options tonight. You can pick and chose any one or more of the slaves offered here and do as you wish with them, following, of course, the parameters outlined in your agreement with the agency. If nothing here appeals to you, we have other sites and scenes that we can visit.”
“Such as?” he asked, studying the display of lovely young women fastened to the high overhead beams by chain and wrist cuffs.
“We can offer the Interrogation Suite, which is presently vacant. Also, a Water Chamber with tanks, pools, sumps, a steam room, a freezer and other entertainment.”
“And?” Greg asked, still checking the hanging women, all of whom were gagged and blindfolded by various means.
“The equestrian facility is open, although it’s better during the day when you can use the outdoor tracks and pastures. Also, we have an authentic prison compound that is always available with a wide assortment of devices, solitary, a cooler and warden’s private office.”
“Anything else?”
“Of course,” responded the guide with continuing enthusiasm as they walked slowly around the naked woman on display. “The Desert Sheik’s Tent is available until midnight. The Theme Park Adventure is always available, although certain rides may be taken already. The Infant C
omfort Playpen and the Zoo are at your disposal. If you want to indulge in necrophilia, the morgue and crypt are open.” She hesitated a bit and then asked, “Does any of this appeal to you, Sir?”
“No, I think this will do very well for tonight,” Greg said quietly, still surveying the two-story cellar with the high, vaulted ceiling, the massive fireplace, a huge bed on one wall and what might have been called Early Inquisition décor. “I think this will do very well, thank-you.”
“Will you be needing all five slaves tonight?” the escort asked, her face a placid, expressionless mask.
“Oh, boy,” Greg sputtered, his composure almost completely gone. “Do I have to choose right now?” he asked, carefully forming his question while his mind reeled with the prospects of having five truly beautiful women to play with for as long as he wanted.
“Oh no, Sir. Just call when or if you want anyone removed. We’re always available. The room is under close surveillance, as you have been told, but do not take that as a restriction of any kind. I’ll leave you to you work, Mr. Greg. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, by the way, the alcove over there has refreshments. If you find it lacking, just buzz me. Marta, the redhead on the wheel, is a very talented serving wench, so don’t trouble yourself with obtaining food or beverage. Let her do it. Of course, you’ll need to release her first.” The shadow of a smile crossed the escort’s face for only a moment, and then she was gone. “Good night, Sir,” she said as she left the chamber.
Bondage a la Carte Page 4
