The phallic activity increased and then stopped. As the girl’s respiration slowed and she held her breath for fear of reactivating the probes, she became aware of another sensation. The probes seemed to be growing larger. They were swelling inside her. They grew, penetrated deeper, then withdrew, all in some controlled, timed sequence calculated to take her in the direction of an unwanted sexual excitement and eventual orgasm. Then, as quickly as they began, the probes creased. She breathed slowly and dared not move. But her left foot was going numb and she slowly shifted her weight to the right side. Instantly, both probes began again. The same slowly arousing sequence as before occurred again and this time Laura was brought right to the edge before they shut off.
She squeezed her eyes shut, bit down on the pads in her mouth and tried desperately not to move again. When she finally did, she resigned herself to the stimulation and let the waves of the orgasm wash over her, slumping in her chain web and pulling hard on the thousands of taut hairs tied to the post ring. She didn’t care. She was exhausted and she slowly passed into a deep sleep.
The daily work routine was similar to that on an ancient slave galley ship. Each morning, the girls were awakened from whatever sleep they had been able to get during the previous eight hours. The awakening process varied depending on the selected “outfit” of the moment. If, like most times, they were simply chained or strapped to an upright or a wall, they usually awoke as soon as one of the keepers unlocked the door and entered the cell. If, on the other hand, they had spent the night in a more strained position, the wake-up was a matter of unsealing the blindfold or eye covering, pinching or slapping them until they were obviously conscious, then getting them into an upright position.
Each morning’s ritual was about the same. Out of the cell, into the wash room, three minutes allowed on the toilet, then a shower and complete shaving of all areas where hair might ever grow, (except the head). Then a towel and blow-dry, addition of any new or larger impalements, plugs or seals, then to the feeding area where the morning repast was waiting. Mouth plugs, gags and other appropriate silencers and oral restraints were replaced as soon as the “meal” was over and the teeth had been cleaned and rinsed. Start to finish, the whole routine took about 30 minutes and then they were hustled off for the day’s entertainment. This often began with a meeting with the controller, who would determine exactly what, if anything, would be used on the girls that day to make sure they were getting properly accustomed to the environment.
Gail had found early on that the two girls were opposites in their reaction to any forms of restraint or abuse. On one hand, Laura, resisted fiercely each time any efforts were made to bind or otherwise restrain her. Day by day, she put up a struggle as her chains and straps were changed or refitted. There was no easy way to do this and she paid the price of small cuts and bruises as the handlers worked to secure her in whatever the Doctor or Khan decided she should wear that day.
Marsha, the smaller of the two, was exactly the opposite. She accepted the restraint and confinement from the first and seldom complained about anything that was done to her. She reacted well to the training and thus Doctor Gail had already begun to circulate her photos and videotapes, expecting an early sale. Marsha was no different this particular morning. By her own count, she’d been there as much as two weeks and was more or less resigned to the fact that while these people wouldn’t physically hurt her, they had no intention of either letting her go or making things easier for her.
The implements of penetration had been steadily increased in size; until Khan and the Doctor were satisfied that she was enlarged enough to accommodate virtually anything they had in mind. Her rear aperture, never penetrated from the outside until the day they took her captive, was now enlarged enough to take the number 12 dildo plug with little discomfort. Her vagina was also now capable of handling the largest items in the assortment of devices in Doctor Gail’s inventory and Marsha now wore a slightly different version from the original one that had been rammed into her that first night. It was this device that was the Doctor’s focus of attention this morning.
“Let’s see, Marsha, my little slut,” Doctor Gail trilled in his very best cell-side manner. “The old number 12 roto-rooter is just what you need on a permanent basis and so I think it’s time to get you into a custom set-up.”
This meant that they’d take impressions of Marsha’s entire genital and rectal area and design a special rubber and leather pair of panties for her which would allow her to wear both impalements without any visible exterior evidence.
“Slime,” Gail said to his rubber-suited slave attendant. “Bring number 45 up from the hole and we’ll show Marsha here what we’re going to do. She’ll get to see first hand how she’ll look as she joins the work team in Japan.”
Slime, a small, voluptuous, 20-year-old college drop-out who’d answered one of Khan’s ads for “summer help,” nodded her rubber helmet-enclosed head and scooted off quickly to fetch the 18-year old “45”, who was being kept in the deeper cellar because of a small behavior infraction the day before. Slime moved fast, allowing for the permanent leg chains to swing as she moved through the door and into the lift. Her arms were chained behind her and her firm, massive breasts stuck straight out as she slid into the car and pushed the lower floor knob with her rubber-covered forehead. Slime was a full time slave in the lab and did much of the grunt work for Dr. Gail and Kahn. She had a small facial scar that made her unacceptable for sale. Faced with an unpleasant and permanent termination, the girl had suggested to Khan in a rare ungagged moment while he was savagely plumbing her deepest apertures with his dick, that she could be useful in the lab. The short employment interview had gone something like this:
Slime: “Uh, uh, uh. Are you going to kill me when you’re done?”
Khan: “Uh, uh, uh, yes. It will be slow and painful.”
Slime: “Why. Uh, uh, oh, oh, oh? More, more, harder.”
Khan: “I, uh, uh, can’t uh, sell you.”
Slime: “I…oh,oh, seeeeeow. But I can, oh, oh yeeeyow, beee useful.”
Khan: “Yeah? Uh, uh, faster, you fucking slut, faster.”
Slime: “I can be your personal fuck toy slave, whatever…oh, my God, you want. Harder. Harder. Drive it up to my throat.”
Khan: “I’ve got, uh, uh, arrrrgh…lots of fuck toys. Why the fuck would I need you?”
Slime: “You…ya ahhh, yahhh, know why.”
Khan: “Ahhhh, ahhgh…aaaaah…there, take that load of my personal Elmer’s Glue, you fuckin’ slut.” He discharged his usual mega-load of thick cum into the girl’s ass and flopped down on her back. Slime lay, eagle spread, stretched on the bed, with ropes at her wrists and ankles. A modified pony harness and bit was in her slobbering mouth and the reins led back to Khan’s clenched mouth. His hands were locked around her tits, pressed firmly beneath them both. Khan preferred her ass to her cunt and they both knew this was partly because he didn’t want to see her face and partly because, in truth, he was becoming addicted to Slime’s unique and highly creative, multi-directional rotation of her hips. Khan admitted now and then that no other woman had ever done what Slime did for him, so he agreed that he’d keep her as a sexual servant and slave, but she had to always be chained, hooded and gagged. The deal was struck and life went on.
This arrangement had worked out well for all parties and Slime was now a useful, if somewhat slow, cog in the slave lab world of Khan, Gail and Company.
She returned quickly to the lab operations room with her charge, #45, in hand, or rather on a leash that she held in her chained hands. The captive girl shuffled along in the 5-inch heeled boots that were zipped up to the base of each thigh and then fastened to her torso harness by locking garters. “45” wore a small, leather French-cut bikini that fit perfectly to her lean hips and flat belly. The bikini was made from a combination of leather and Fiberglas and was perfectly molded to the girl’s shape. Her hands were pulled back over her head and connected to the back of her collar, el
bows chained together across her forehead, and arms pressed to either side of the leather helmet she wore. Only her eyes were exposed and no sound came from behind the sealed lips and packed mouth.
“Come here,” said the Doctor. “Let’s see how this little item is working out for you.” Slime pushed the girl towards the doctor who produced a small key and fitted it into the tiny flat lock at the base of the girl’s spine. He turned the key a quarter turn and the top of the bikini released, allowing the doctor to open the hard, clamshell-like rear panel and pull the panty down. As she did this, the girl instinctively spread her legs as much as the ankle chains allowed and then bent her knees outward, allowing the two huge prongs to be slowly pulled out together. They exited their slick and gooey homes with an audible pop. The girl’s head was back and a moan escaped from behind the tightly fitted helmet. The doctor then released the locking waist belt embedded in the panty. He slipped a thin stainless steel cable through the bikini’s stitched-in belt loops and this allowed him to pull the tiny confinement garment free, bringing with it the warm, moist probes that had nestled inside the girl for the last 10 hours. Doctor Gail inspected both prongs closely, then, using a light, hand mirror and magnifier; he pushed the girl over into a bent forward position and inspected the orifices as well.
“You see, Marsha,” said the Doctor, standing behind the bent-over, bound girl, “there’s no damage, as long as we break you in slowly. This piece of trash has taken on the biggest ones I’ve got and she takes them easily. So will you, my little shitbird, so will you.
“Slime, get A-2 in here and then take this piglet over to room six, put her up on the stand for the day and see that she’s well occupied,” said Gail, nodding toward Marsha. “Put 45 over there,” he gestured to the wall. Slime nodded, yanked on 45’s leash and pulled her over to the side of the room where she locked the leash to a wall ring.
“You, my dear,” Gail addressed Marsha’s helmeted head, “will produce no less than an even dozen molds today or you get suspension for twelve hours. Don’t even think about short runs today or I’ll have your sweet little ass embroidered. Got that?” he hissed. The helmet nodded vigorously, but Marsha had no idea what he was talking about.
A dozen molds? On the stand? What was this?
Slime meanwhile punched the wall intercom button with her forehead and called for A-2 to come to the door. She then pushed Marsha out ahead of her, through the door and down the hall to the production room, known as room six. Number 45 stayed with the Doctor for additional lessons in the art of entertaining her owners-to-be.
In room six, the modified exercise cycle had been mounted on a steel plate, which was in turn bolted to the floor. The tiny seat had some interesting modifications and without any explanation, Slime directed Marsha to the cycle, had her spread her legs and gingerly seat herself on the saddle. Ten minutes later, the frantic young woman started on her eight-hour shift of forming plastic impalement devices similar to the ones she’d seen on 45. This process was one of Khan’s most ingenious punishments. The “producer”, a captive male or female, sits on the tiny seat of the Exercycle. Sticking up from the top of the seat are two hard rubber nozzles embedded in the center, aligned front to back. The alignment and distance can be adjusted as necessary. A mold balloon is inserted in the subject’s rectum or vagina, occasionally both locations on the females. If only one nozzle is used, the females have a large dildo plug connected to the front nozzle and inserted into their cunt. Male producers have a metal band locked around their balls and penis, securing them to the seat. In either case, the producer sits well fastened to the tiny metal seat with the molding balloon, connected to the nozzle, stuffed deep inside. The balloon is then slowly inflated, filling the interior cavity. Then a liquid plastic material is pumped into the balloon. The plastic fills the balloon, seeking every niche and cranny in the producer’s bowels. The effect is like having a massive plastic enema. The body heat of the “producer” is all that is needed to get the material to slowly harden. When it reaches the right temperature, the material becomes more or less semi-solid. The producer is then raised off the seat and the hardened mold withdrawn. The ease or difficulty in this process depends on the state the victims’ sphincters are in, the amount of lubricate used at the time of insertion and the amount of plastic liquid and pressure used in filling the mold initially. Sometimes removal takes longer than the rest of the entire process and it is undoubtedly the most uncomfortable activity. Producers, when queried about it, likened the removal to giving birth, as they imagined it might feel.
The process takes about an hour and the producer must concentrate on not flexing her internal muscles too much during the process or the mold could be distorted, resulting in an unacceptable product and plenty of trouble for the producer with Doctor Gail or Khan.
After fitting new balloons to both nozzles, applying plenty of lubricant jelly and checking the seal at the seat, the attendant forced the girl to climb up on the seat. Her waist and hips were fastened with straps to the seat and post, driving the rear insertion nozzle deeper and making a tight seal for the process. The forward probe went into its proper place as well. Both items were well lubed and slid in without resistance. Then Marsha’s unchained feet were fastened to the pedal straps. Her helmet was attached to a chain hanging from the overhead and this was tightened so that her sweating body was sitting bolt upright and stretched vertically with little room for movement. A wire that was wrapped around the chain was connected to the earplugs in the helmet. This would allow her to hear the tones that were her only instructions as to when to pedal and when to stop, when to go faster and when to slow down. A wrong response to the instruction tones resulted in a shock from the frontal probe. Pedaling controlled the pumps that shot the liquid plastic into the molds. In essence, the producers were giving themselves multiple enemas. Marsha’s wrists and arms were strapped close to her head and the eye openings of the helmet were then sealed shut. As a further performance encouragement, the attendant then attached two small, thimble-like metal cups over Marsha’s nipples. These were cemented in place with instant super glue. They held immediately. Each cup was connected to the thin wire that ran down to the post under the seat and was plugged in to a contact there. When electric shocks were generated for wrong moves, the nipple electrodes responded as well as the front probe. Today, the girl was making rectal and vaginal plugs and this required heavy concentration because even after a few weeks of impalements, her insides still tended to try to reject the cold flow of plastic as it flooded into her. The dildo impaling her front cavity was an equal distraction and Marsha was sweating profusely after the first lubricated balloons were stuffed up her ass and cunt. She felt the cold wet rubber mold as it began to expand inside and she waited for the instructions. The room was climatically controlled, but the producers always sweated at their tasks and it wasn’t unusual for them to work off five pounds on a single shift.
She heard the first tone and began to pedal slowly. About a minute later she felt the slight vibration as the pumps started to move the cooled plastic material up from the storage tanks and into the post under her seat. Marsha’s workday was just beginning.
“You fail to understand the economics under which we successfully operate,” Dr. Gail chided his visitor. “Our business is really no different than most others. We have services and we have products. We stand behind both and we make sure that our clients and customers get exactly what they want, as quickly as we can deliver. It’s simple, it’s effective and...” he paused while the words sank in, “it’s a very expensive business to run.”
“Of course, Doctor, I understand, perfectly.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, Doctor. I’m an admirer of your operation and occasionally, when the inclination is there, I’m also a customer. Regrettably, I’m not a client.”
“I see, Ralph, that you understand the subtlety of the difference between client and customer. Good for you.”
“Oh yes,” said Ralph, whose n
ame was actually Feng, Loa Whanh. He was a mainland Chinese of the first generation and had worked in the “trade” for several years, taking merchandise back and forth between the Asian continent and U.S. ports of entry.
“As I recall, you have worked for several clients, quite successfully,” said Dr. Gail.
“Yes, but usually only for one.”
“And that is the Green Order, correct?”
“Yes, Doctor. They have been very successful. As you know, they appear to represent a major environmental group both in North America and Asia and they thus attract a fine collection of over-enthusiastic, reactionary young women who are willing, it seems, to make pacts that spell their quiet disappearance.
“In the early years,” Ralph continued, “we saw the same kind of subject busting their buns to get involved with the Peace movement. Today, the environment is really hot.”
“You think it’ll last a while longer?” Gail asked.
“Why not? Nearly all young people hate the establishment, the bureaucratic ways of their government, their parents, and the businessmen they see around them. It’s also quite safe, in their minds, to work to save the whales and dolphins, to bitch about big oil and encourage recycling. Where Green Order works so well is that they get to travel and do more than pass out leaflets.”
“Your quota has gone up in the last year, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, Doctor. Green Order has to grow just like you do. They raised my assigned quote to six a month now and if it wasn’t for our friends in the nutcase media, we’d be very hard-pressed to meet these goals.”
“Yeah, the TV and papers are a great help. Green Order gets a lot of free publicity. It’s a lot cheaper than taking out ads like the Brits and Aussie clients all do.”
Bondage a la Carte Page 12
