Now Amy positioned the control switch on “intermittent”, and then flopped back onto her own bed, waiting to see if the vibrator would kick in before she drifted off to sleep. The device had a four-position switch: fast, slow, intermittent and off. The intermittent setting resulted, as far as Amy could tell after a few days of experimentation, in unpredictable and sometimes quite violent engagements of the vibrator’s motor. At times it sort of started up slowly and just purred along for a few minutes and then shut itself off. At other times, the start-up was more pronounced and the thing buzzed for what seemed to be hours before shutting off suddenly. There was no way, as far as Amy could tell, to determine what it was going to do and when, or for how long. Two minutes later the light in room 403 of the Hotel Glea went out and soon both girls lay naked in the dark. One was soon asleep; the other was jolted out of a light slumber by the crotch-jangling buzz of the robot masturbator. Cindy rode the thing for nine exciting minutes. She chewed desperately on the cloth gag, yanked on her rope bonds and struggled to free her hands so that she might reach the buzzing plastic thing that so deeply penetrated her. The iron bed creaked, groaned and wheezed as the 110 pound girl bucked and thrashed her way through three orgasms before the vibrator shut down. Bathed in sweat and still jerking in her ropes, the blond was immediately asleep.
Before the vibrator interlude, Amy’s last thoughts were “I hate Mexico. How could we have been so stupid?”
That question would be partly answered the following morning when pounding on the hotel room door awakened them.
“Who is it?” Amy shouted, even though the door was all of two feet from the foot of the steel bed.
“The hotel manager, Senoritas. Please open the door. You have visitors here.”
“Visitors?”
“Si. Please open the door.”
“OK. OK. Let me put something on first,” groaned Amy as she looked over at Cindy, who was still bound face up on the bed, but with her head turned towards Amy. In a few smooth motions, Amy got out of bed, pulled on a long T-shirt that barely covered her nicely rounded butt and walked hurriedly over to Cindy. She took the gag out of her mouth, the blindfold from her eyes and threw a sheet over her nude form, leaving only her head uncovered.
“OK,” she said again, hearing the men in the hall shuffling outside the door. “I’m coming.”
Unlocking the door was a matter of turning the old steel key in the simple lock. Amy did this with one hand while the other held the hem of the shirt down over her crotch. She peered out to see three men in dark suits, white shirts and neckties. They were clearly all locals and looked somewhat disheveled, considering it was still early morning. Amy had not looked at her watch before going to the door, but the dim light from the smoggy airshaft said it was perhaps eight in the morning.
“Miss Windham?” the one on the left said with a strong Spanish accent.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I, I, I...” he stammered, staring at Amy’s abundant chest and nipples thrusting against the tight T-shirt. “Permit me to introduce us,” the man finally said, carefully clearing his throat. “I am Ramondo de Casandrez y Filicidado. This is Senor Marco Santanas. We are from The Villa San Cristobal and we have come to take you to your villa.”
“What villa?” Amy sputtered. “At this hour? What are you talking about?”
“Pardon me,” interrupted the third man, stepping forward so that his face was only a few inches from Amy’s. His breath smelled of fish. He had a small brass name badge on his lapel. It said: Luis, Manager.
“I am the day manager of the hotel. Please forgive the early morning interruption, but these people called me this morning and only just arrived. If you wish me to tell them to go away, I will.” Luis said quickly.
“But what’s this villa bit? What are they talking about?”
There was a hurried conversation in Spanish among the three men. Then the hotel manager again interrupted the others saying, “Your travel agent called and said there had been a mistake and that you were not supposed to be in this hotel, but at The Villa San Cristobal, which is in the country many miles from here. Somehow, your arrangements were mixed up with another party. I am sorry. We did not know until now.”
“You mean this isn’t the right hotel?”
“Oh yes. Si, Senorita. It is the right hotel, but you are not the right guests.”
“Shit,” Amy muttered, marveling at the Mexican logic. “The Hag screwed up again.”
“Pardone?” said all three men together.
“Nothing. You go back downstairs and give us ten minutes to get dressed and then come up and get our bags. We’ll be ready then. Ok?”
“Oh yes, Senorita Windham. We wait for you,” said the first man.
“Thanks,” said Amy as she closed and locked the door.
“What the hell was that all about?” Cindy was tugging at her feet and wrists now, trying to free herself, her hair a mess and only one eye open.
“We are apparently in the wrong hotel and these guys were sent by the right hotel to come and get us. That’s the best I can make of it.”
“But why come up here to tell us, why not just call us?” quizzed Cindy.
“Because, you dummy, there is no phone.”
“Oh.”
“So, partner. Let’s get out of this dump. Pronto, Tonto.”
“I’m ready,” Cindy said, waiting for her companion to untie her. But Amy didn’t make any move to undo the ropes. Instead, she picked up her bath kit and unlocking the door again, marched out of the room and down the hall. “See you later,” she said over her shoulder, tauntingly.
Cindy struggled and pulled at the ropes, but she wasn’t successful in doing more than work up a light sweat. So she lay there, debating what had just occurred and wondering what and where The Villa San Cristobal was. Soon, Amy returned and grabbed the sheet and pulled it off her Slave and friend, then quickly untied Cindy’s left hand, leaving the still bound girl to untie herself. This was Amy’s style when she was Mistress and it irked Cindy at times because it usually punctuated an unsuccessful session for them both. She nevertheless got herself untied, picked up the ropes and bandanas and put all of the bondage items back in the toiletry kit before going for her own shower down the hall.
The ride from the Hotel Flea, as they had renamed it, was uneventful as long as one didn’t pay attention to the honking horns, the dense, choking smog and the oven-like heat outside their limo. The 1978 Dodge van had been initially designed for commercial use with only two seats in front and cargo space in back. The Villa San Cristobal had modified it to have a split bench seat in the rear with a bulkhead behind the seat and a sliding door in the bulkhead for access to the cargo area where their luggage was placed. The cargo area had a carpeted floor, walls and ceiling. Tie-down rings for luggage and other cargo had been placed in the carpeted area. The rear doors had no windows and were carpeted over as well. The air conditioning worked well and kept the interior of the van a comfortable 70 degrees while outside it was probably over ninety in the shade.
During the first hour of the trip, the girls learned from the driver that Cousin Lois, the Hag, had called The Villa shortly after the girls’ departure from Miami. Unable to reach her valued customers, Lois insisted that The Villa get to the Hotel Flea first thing in the morning and straighten out the whole mess. According to Ramondo, the Hotel Flea arrangements were for another American party that was yet to arrive. Assuming the reservations had simply been changed at the last minute, (as in fact they had,) the Flea welcomed the girls and said nothing.
“I think you will find our Villa more interesting than the Hotel,” Marco said. “We are very pleased to have you with us and our owners and other guests are looking forward to your arrival.” Saying this, he turned around in his seat and knelt facing the girls.
“That’s nice,” said Cindy. “But right now all I really want is a bath and a decent meal.”
The van was now moving rapidly along a highway outside the c
ity and there was much less traffic. Marco reached back between the girls and pushed open the sliding panel. Then he put his hand inside his jacket. The hand came out holding a small, chromed automatic pistol, which he pointed at Amy. She started and leaned away from the direction of the gun while Cindy screamed and ducked down in the seat. Both girls had the same thought: “We’re going to be robbed.”
“Please, ladies. Do not be alarmed. This is just so that you know I am serious,” Marco said clearly and slowly, still pointing the pistol. “You will both get into the back of the van, please. Do this now or I will wound you painfully in the arm or shoulder.”
“Are you nuts?” Amy cried.
“Get into the back,” Marco said with more menace. “Do not test me.”
Amy turned around and crawled through the panel opening. Once on the other side, she turned on her knees and faced forward, watching Marco carefully. Cindy followed her into the back of the van.
With his right hand holding the gun, the Mexican pulled two pair of steel handcuffs from his jacket pocket with his left hand and passed them to Cindy. Reluctantly, she took the cuffs.
“You, Miss Windham, put these on your friend’s hands behind her back.”
Amy took one pair of the cuffs while Cindy twisted on her knees to present her back, put her hands behind her and felt the steel circles close round her thin wrists. Both women were intimately familiar with handcuffs.
“Make them tight,” Marco ordered. The cuffs clicked a few more times as Amy tightened them on her friend’s wrists. As she did so, she felt the same tingle in her head that she felt every time she bound her friend. This time, it was for real…or so it seemed.
“Now, you put the other set on your right hand, place it behind you and turn with your back to me,” Marco calmly ordered the terrified girl. Amy did this and Marco locked the left wrist tightly in the steel cuff, testing both sets of cuffs on the girls to make sure they would not slip off.
“Please sit now and present your feet to me,” Marco said quietly. The van was now speeding along the road. There were no pedestrians outside and not much traffic. “Please put your feet together so that I can bind them,” Marco said to Amy. Struggling on the carpeting, Amy slowly slid her feet to the edge of the bulkhead and leaned back. Marco produced another set of cuffs and placed them on Amy’s ankles, over her white cotton socks, locking her feet closely together. He then ordered Amy to slide backwards further in the cargo area while he secured Cindy’s feet with another set of cuffs. Then, with four large padlocks, he locked the handcuffs to tie-down rings, securing the girls’ hands and feet to the floor of the cargo space.
“What is this all about? Why are you doing this?” Cindy whined as she struggled and tried to get comfortable in her bonds. Her skirt was bunched around her tanned thighs, showing her white cotton bikini panties. There was nothing she could do about that and she noted that Marco didn’t seem to care. “He’s probably a fag anyway,” she thought unconsciously. They were now completely helpless, chained to either side of the cargo area with their hands behind their backs and feet connected in front of them, locks holding hands and feet to tie-down rings. Marco moved to face Amy and produced what looked like a small plastic sandwich bag with some sort of foam inside. He told them to open their mouths and carefully stuffed the baggie in, filling each oral cavity and then sealing their mouths with the inevitable duct tape. He carefully taped their mouths from below their noses to under their chin. The only sounds that came from the girls now were mumbled moans and cries from behind the tape. Marco tore off more tape and, after warning them to close their eyes, taped over their eyes as well.
Terrified by now, both girls quivered in silence as the van slowed and then turned off the highway onto a dirt side road.
Back in the right front seat, Marco spoke in Spanish to his partner, Ramondo. “I think we now have an excellent catch. Senor Wacho will be most pleased.”
“I agree,” said Ramondo, happily, for the day, although still new, was taking on the signs of success. “We have done well this time. No one will know where they went and no one who cares will have seen them. The Villa will be their new home.”
Back in New York City, Amy’s cousin, the travel agent, was counting the new fifty-dollar bills from the envelope she had received by courier that morning.
“Two thousand dollars! That isn’t bad for getting rid of that pest,” she hissed to her little Mexican dog. “Pepe, I should have thought of this sooner. Once they are reported missing and the investigation is over, we’ll have the contents of the apartment as well, thanks to this little document.” She held up a set of papers she had asked Amy to sign before she left for the airport. She told the girl it was a contract to allow them to take over the rights to the money paid for the bogus vacation the girls assumed. “Their loss is your gain,” the Hag said as she shoved the mass of papers under Amy’s nose and jammed a pen in her hand. “You sign these and I’ll take care of everything,” the travel agent said. Rushing for La Guardia Airport, the girl quickly signed the papers, unknowingly giving Power of Attorney and other rights to her second cousin.
Now the two girls sat, or rather lay, in the back of an old Dodge van, bouncing along a dirt side road deep in Mexico. Their hands and feet were chained; their eyes and mouths taped shut. They were about to disappear and neither had any idea what was happening or why. It would be some time before Amy even remembered the papers she signed and by then it would make no difference. No difference at all.
Chapter Two
Since their arrival at The Villa, they had been kneeling. They now wore leather hoods that restricted any speech, hearing or sight. Leather gagged them as well, with a tight egg-shaped wad of it stuffed deep into their mouths. Soft bees wax had been packed into their ears before the hood was pulled over their heads and locked to the wide heavy leather collars. Silent, blind and deaf, they knelt and waited. They’d been on their knees for hours, always bound and immobile. When the hoods were fitted, they’d briefly seen their surroundings: cool and austere, a light green room with an institutional feeling and a slightly medicinal smell. They’d briefly seen their captors too; not the two Mexicans who had brought them to The Villa, but two tall blond women who were true Amazons of exceptional strength and stature. Their eyes were cold and their methods terribly efficient. These massive women, dressed in black cat suits that showed only their eyes, quickly removed the girls’ clothes using sharp shears and razor blades. Amy’s pink T-shirt and shorts were cut away, as were her socks and underwear. The cotton Bali bra and panties were cut at the narrow bands at the sides and straps and pulled away from her handcuffed limbs, then the duct tape was slowly removed, pulling away some eyebrows, facial fuzz and even some eyelashes as the adhesive tore away.
Cindy received the same treatment, her Amazon handling the girl roughly without a word. The skirt and fitted cotton button down shirt were cut away, then the white brief teddy was cut at the sides and straps and pulled off. Naked and chained, Cindy and Amy soon lay on the cool cement floor, stretched out with their legs still cuffed and their arms painfully chained behind their backs. The Amazons secured them to steel rings in the floor with a thin silver chain and two Master padlocks. A loop of the chain was around each slim neck and locked. The other end was put through the floor ring and locked as well. Three inches of chain between the floor ring and neck loops kept the girls’ heads close to the floor. As they lay there, their captors had inserted the wax into their ears, warming it in their hands and pressing it into the ear canals. Then they forced the hard leather eggs into their mouths and fastened them with a thin leather band that wound back around their heads and locked with a strip of Velcro. The band pushed the gag deeper into the mouth. The gag had a plastic tube in the center of the egg. Before the hoods were fitted, the tube was threaded through the front panel of the hood and clipped to the outside, at the left side of the neck. Then the heavy black leather hood, with its metal fittings and collar, was pulled over the girls’ heads, pulling
their hair down with it until the hood was tightly in pace. Unlike many hoods of this type, it did not have a zipper or lacing to close it at the rear. Instead, the edges were drawn together and small locks were inserted into metal-rimmed holes. Seven small locks were used to secure the hood from the crown of the head to the nape of the neck. As the locks clicked into place, each girl felt, rather than heard the terrible sounds of her head being sealed into the leather tomb. Amy moaned into the hard gag, tried to stretch her aching jaws and gurgled as she was forced to swallow the saliva generated by the intrusion in her mouth and throat. She gulped extra air through the gag tube and began to hyperventilate.
“No,” shouted the Amazon guard. Her mouth was next to Amy’s right ear and as she shouted she swatted the hooded head hard with her hand. “No. Breathe slowly. You’ll be all right.” Another swat to Amy’s head and she got the idea.
Amy settled down and tried to breathe naturally. She was getting plenty of air through the hood nose holes and the gag hose, but the sensation of having her whole head sealed in such a tight enclosure was both new and frightening for her. Being kidnapped and stringently bound only added to her fears. The leather hood was not a new concept for either girl and they owned several in their personal bondage collection, but these hoods were different, they fit like a proverbial glove, outlining their facial features and leaving only their nostrils exposed. Amy’s short hair was compressed against her skull and the outline of her fine features was clear under the thin leather skin. Her nostrils flared with the efforts of breathing with her mouth sealed by the intrusive leather gag. After a few minutes, the fear and stress receded a bit and she was starting to relax when suddenly her head was pulled painfully back until her chin pointed out in front of her and her unseeing eyes were aimed at the ceiling. One of the Amazons was holding her head back while the other clipped another pair of handcuffs to her arms just above the elbows, yanking her slim arms together with great strength. Her shoulder joints screamed as they strained to accommodate the stress as the cuffs snapped shut, her elbows almost touching and her breasts jutting out further, the nipples rubbing against the floor. The guard pulled the top of the hood back a bit further and clipped a light steel chain to the D ring in the top center of the hood. This chain was connected to the links of the elbow cuffs. The distance was short and Amy’s neck and back were bent beyond anything she’d experienced before, even in her Yoga sessions. The strain was unbearable. Her neck, shoulders, back and other muscles in her body all tried to accept the stress imposed by the hood-to-elbow chain, the deep probe leather gag and the cuffs at their wrists and ankles. To complete her suffering, the Amazons added a final agony. The ankle cuffs were unchained from the floor ring and the chain refastened to her wrist cuffs in a perfect hog-tie. Her knees flaring outward, Amy was a bow of pain. She howled into the leather gag and cried into the hood, rolling slightly from side to side in a three-point position on the concrete floor. Her knees were the base of the torment triangle, her flat belly and twin nipples the apex of the pyramid.
Bondage a la Carte Page 18
