by John Argus
With keys and money in hand she crawled towards and then through the half open door, not rising to her feet until she was well along the hall.
Her heart pounded as she headed for his office. Even now she half suspected he was simply waiting for her, and that he would appear from out of the shadows and drag her to the torture room for punishment.
She closed his office door and turned on the light, then hurried to the desk. She tried several keys before finding the right one, and then carefully opened the drawers, one by one, as quietly as possible, keeping her ears alert for any sound of movement from outside the office.
In the top right-hand drawer she found a bundle of letters from her stepfather. The first informed Richardson of his problems with his recalcitrant stepdaughter, and his worries about her wasting the inheritance she would soon receive. He spoke about her weakness and lack of morality and wondered in writing what might be done about her.
Underneath the bundle were all the ‘confessions’ she had made and Richardson had supposedly ripped up. Along with them were statements about the sexual activities she had participated in and fantasies she allegedly held; and worse, at the bottom of the drawer, was a legal document giving her stepfather power of attorney and control of her funds. It alarmed her to think she simply could not recall writing such things.
She turned on Richardson’s computer and printed the letters outlining his plans for the stock swindle and its timetable, cringing and eyeing the door anxiously while the printer clunked and whirred as it fed her the evidence she needed.
Next she unlocked the cabinets behind the desk. Most contained liquor, documents, and supplies, but one entire shelf contained video tapes, dozens of them, all marked with a number system she did not understand. She cursed and went to the door, then hurried along the hall to the storage cupboard she knew was there. She took a suitcase down from a shelf and returned, then took every one of the tapes, packing them in tightly.
She turned off the computer, locked the cabinet, and then returned to the drawers. She noticed a brown envelope in the bottom of the one that had contained her stepfather’s letters and picked it out. Inside were a half-dozen letters from men in foreign countries, offering bids of twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars for his ‘product’. Most were vague about the nature of it, but one, a man from Columbia, offered his money with the proviso that: her breasts are genuine and not artificially enhanced.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Gwen whispered, realisation dawning.
She took the envelope and stuck it in the suitcase, along with the other documents and letters, then locked the desk again. She wasn’t sure why. She had some vague notion that he would not notice anything missing, but to make that work she would have had to return the keys to his trouser pockets, and she could not bring herself to dare enter his bedroom again.
Instead she went quietly to the small laundry room, looking for one of the less revealing dresses he’d purchased for her, but she found none, nor any of the lingerie, nor the clothes she had been wearing when she had arrived.
But at least her own coat was still hanging by the lift with her shoes placed neatly beneath it. She stared at his bedroom door, heart pounding, wondering whether to go back in and find some more comprehensive clothing, but in the end she made a hushed telephone call for a cab, her eyes anxiously scanning the enveloping shadows the whole time, put on her coat and shoes and took the lift down.
The cab arrived and she threw the suitcase inside, and then had him drive her to a motel. There she sat on the edge of the bed for hours, thinking, with the television on in the background for company. There had been only a pair of fifties and a few smaller bills in Richardson’s wallet, and most of it had gone on the motel room.
That left her in a predicament. She could not get home and had no money to stay in New York. Nor did she really know anyone she could turn to. Nor could she stay in the motel. Come morning he would know she must have left by cab, and with his apparent connections would very easily find out where she had been taken. She had to get money from somewhere quickly, and enough to get her home.
Gwen stayed as long as she dared, until she knew he must be awake and looking for her, then took the suitcase and left. She walked for a dozen blocks before getting directions to the subway, and then took that to the railway station.
There she tried the key to the locker where she had left her things, but found it empty.
She went to the lost and found office and gave them most of the rest of her money as a fine and storage charge, desperately thankful that he had overlooked collecting her things as he said he would, then put on some clothes in a toilet, put both suitcases into another locker, and disappeared back onto the streets.
Gwen spent some time wandering, then looked up the address of the lesbian club in the phone book and took the subway there. With some difficulty – and a little sexual favour given to the girl behind the reception desk – she managed to extract the telephone number of Ms Brook, and luckily got hold of April directly with her first call. Having only just arisen she was still a little groggy, and could not remember the name of the escort agency she had spoken of before that specialised in bondage and SM. But she agreed to check up and give it to her.
Gwen then wandered aimlessly through streets and shops, killing time, and then called again. April gave her the address of the place and promised to tell no one, especially Richardson if he called and started asking questions.
Despite her recent experiences the thought of going there was making Gwen feel sick with nerves. But she saw little alternative. She needed money immediately, hundreds of dollars at least. She had to get a place to stay, and had to get a machine to view the tapes. She had no intention of getting on a plane with a suitcase overflowing with smutty tapes and risk having some nosy customs officer discover them.
Besides, hadn’t she experienced everything these types could do to her? What difference would one or two more little experiences make?
It would be prostitution for one thing, she thought, but summoned her resolve and headed for the address April had given her. It was a small office in a large tower block of offices, and the sign on the door read Daedes Consulting.
A middle-aged woman looked up from her desk and frowned. ‘Yes?’ she challenged warily.
‘I need to make some money quickly,’ Gwen told her, deciding frankness was the best approach.
‘Don’t we all,’ the woman retorted sarcastically. ‘So what?’
‘I was given this address,’ Gwen said, holding out the scrap of paper upon which she’d written the details given her by April.
The woman pulled a face of disinterest, but at that moment a man emerged from a side room. He was pretty ordinary, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked, with about as much interest and warmth as the woman had shown – very little.
‘Says she heard she could make some quick money here,’ the woman informed him, without taking her sceptical stare from Gwen.
‘Yeah, right,’ he said aggressively. ‘Get lost, honey.’
‘I know what you do here and I need the money,’ Gwen insisted hastily.
‘And what do you think we do here?’ the woman challenged.
‘I think you hire out girls for sex,’ Gwen said firmly.
‘Oh, you think so, do you?’ the woman sneered. ‘And that’s what you want to do, is it?’
‘Well, I do need money,’ Gwen confessed.
‘So, you want us to take you on and rent you out to our clients, do you?’ the woman laughed dismissively.
‘Well, why don’t you take off your clothes and show us what you’ve got?’ the man suggested with a salacious smirk.
The woman laughed again. ‘Yeah, why don’t you do just that, eh, honey?’
Gwen despised the pair and what they were putting her through, bu
t she opened and removed her coat as the woman sat back in her chair and the man perched on the edge of the desk, both devouring her with their eyes. Then, as casually as she could she took off her blouse, undid and lowered her skirt, and stepped out of her shoes.
She removed her bra and panties and stood with her back straight and her chin held proudly high, desperately trying to appear comfortable under their vulgar scrutiny.
‘Turn around, show us everything,’ the man ordered.
Gwen obeyed.
‘Now bend over and grab your ankles.’
Heart in her mouth, face red, she obeyed, and cringed as the woman sniggered behind her.
‘She’s no cop,’ the man decided, and the woman reluctantly grunted her agreement. ‘So you need money, huh?’ he went on. ‘Okay, let’s see how much you need it. Come here, on your knees.’
Gwen knew exactly what he would want from her, but she obeyed.
‘You’ve done the bondage scene before?’ he asked.
Gwen nodded. ‘Some,’ she said grudgingly.
‘But you’ve never done prostitution work before, have you?’ She shook her head, and as he gazed down at her kneeling before him he unfastened his jeans, pulled down the zipper, and drew out his semi-erect penis. ‘Suck me,’ he demanded.
He seemed to suffer no embarrassment at the presence of the woman, but Gwen could not say the same. Nevertheless she had no alternative, so she slipped her lips around his cock and began to suck. Her hands massaged his testicles, and then she took them into her mouth one by one as her fingers milked his cock.
He hardened even more and she began bobbing her lips up and down his length, then, wanting to impress him, she pushed forward, taking him to the back of her throat.
‘Nice,’ he grunted. ‘Very nice.’
The woman shifted a little and her chair creaked, but the only other sounds in the musty little room were the wet suckling noises of Gwen’s lips and tongue, and the occasional hushed words of encouragement from the man. He guided the movements of her head with one hand, becoming more and more erratic, and gripped the edge of the desk with the other, and when he came she felt a great sense of relief that the ordeal was over and she had hopefully passed their sordid little test.
‘Very good,’ he decided, looking at the woman. ‘They’ll love her.’
The woman grinned slyly. ‘Well, I’ll need to decide that for myself,’ she said. ‘Come here, slut.’
Gwen started to rise from her knees but the man pushed her back down. ‘Crawl,’ he ordered, so she edged unwillingly over to the woman, who pushed her chair back from the desk and gripped Gwen’s hair, roughly pulled her up across her lap and fingered her pussy.
‘What a nasty little slut, coming here offering to prostitute herself,’ she said, and then slapped Gwen’s bottom hard, making her yelped with shock and pain. ‘So, tell us what you’ve done,’ she demanded, and slapped her bottom again.
The couple had Gwen dress in a black business suit, with a tailored jacket and white blouse that hugged her breasts and short skirt that hugged her bottom. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and her own high heels and a pair of false horn-rimmed glasses and a briefcase completed her outfit. They provided her with a price list, and gave her the details for her first assignment that afternoon.
The client, Mr Marx, would pay in cash, they said, because he liked to avoid the documentation of a credit card transaction.
‘Remember, you’re playing a role,’ the woman warned her. ‘Make sure you act real bitchy; he likes to play rough. ‘Just remember the money, and remember everything he does to you because it all costs separately.’
An older man greeted Gwen at the door of the address she was given and she decided she should get into her role from the outset, so she cleared her throat and scowled, looking him up and down with disdain.
‘Are you Mr Marx?’ she demanded.
He nodded and replied, ‘Yes.’
‘I’m here for your appointment,’ she said severely, and walked in without being asked, brushing past him brusquely as he closed the front door.
‘This way,’ he said, indicating a door a little along the hall, and as soon as they were inside and the door was closed he thrust her against the side of a desk with such unexpected force that she dropped the briefcase and yelped with shock. He then shoved her between the shoulders, pinning her down against the desktop and knocking her glasses off. Then he yanked up her skirt while keeping his other hand on her neck, seized her panties and tore them off her with one violent tug.
‘Spread your legs,’ he hissed.
‘Let me go, you pig!’ Gwen cursed, but he merely slapped her bottom and she shrieked.
‘Spread your legs, I said,’ he repeated vehemently. ‘I’ll show you what you’re here for!’
Gasping, she obeyed, felt his fingers clumsily probing her sex and whimpered as they pushed into her. But she had only a moment to contemplate the speed of the onslaught before the fingers disappeared and he impaled her with one frenetic lunge of his cock, his other hand keeping her cheek pinned to the desk.
As he set about fucking Gwen her knees knocked against the side of the desk and her breasts crushed against its surface with every rabid lunge, but she was otherwise able to endure it while he came quickly, shuddering and grunting as he stood behind her, glued to the shapely contours of her bare buttocks, pale in the gloom of the room.
Belying his older and fragile appearance, Mr Marx then pulled her limp wrists into the small of her back and tied them together with some lengths of soft fabric, and the force of his treatment secretly thrilled her.
He roughly dragged her up by the collar of the blouse, spun her round, then grabbed the front of the blouse and ripped it open, sending buttons popping and clattering to the floor. Then as Gwen struggled to recover from the sheer speed and surprise of the attack he gripped her bra, pulled it up, and started to maul and slobber over her naked breasts.
‘Nice tits, for a lawyer,’ he leered. Gwen gawped at him for a moment, chest tight with suppressed excitement, then recalled her role.
‘You filthy pig,’ she cursed. ‘I’ll… I’ll file a complaint!’
‘Ha! Complain all you want, slut!’ he challenged, and then shoved her into the high-backed leather desk chair. ‘Sit down!’
He bent and picked up a handful of leather straps. A moment later he was pushing them over her head and down over her face, forming a hood of sorts, buckling under her jaw. She tried to call him another name but he fed a small dildo between her lips, which filled her mouth as he strapped it in place, effectively gagging her.
He glared up at her as he squatted and snatched off her shoes, and then quickly lifted her feet, setting them on the seat, her heels pressed against her buttocks.
More leather straps bound her ankles firmly in place to the arms of the chair and he moved behind her, and she gasped as he reached down and gripped her under the arms, lifted her up, and dragged her over the back of the chair and down, bending her excruciatingly, and all she could do was whimper into the gag.
There was a metal ring set in the straps across her head and he slipped a chain through it then pulled down hard, securing it to the bottom of the chair.
‘Slut,’ he snarled.
Her back ached fiercely, for she was arched tautly over the top of the rounded chair back. Her head and torso were upside down, her lower half bound in place, legs spread. But despite the outrageous liberties he was taking and his rough treatment of her, Gwen felt wildly excited.
The skirt was stretched across the tops of her thighs – until he removed it, and as a hand mauled between her legs she moaned in abandoned excitement.
Mr Marx then walked around her, opened a cupboard, removed a whip, and then moved into position beside the chair and the lovely bound girl tensed over its back.
He cursed her and lashed it down again, harder this time, then again across her abdomen. She winced and grunted, but felt a growing heat and need, her body seething with sexual electricity.
The whip swung down again, a dozen strips of leather spreading out to lash her taut belly, stinging her in a dozen places, and as the strips stung her lower abdomen she felt a desperate eagerness to feel them strike lower still.
But instead it moved higher and her breasts erupted with pain as the whip cut across them, and she wailed into the gag and writhed tormentedly as the chair creaked beneath her.
Again the whip descended, the individual strips stinging her breasts like a handful of little needles, biting into her rigid nipples.
But the pleasure was still the greater, increasing all the time. She was completely helpless at the hands of the cruel man, and who knew what he was capable of? She felt like a real prisoner, a real victim, and her body shuddered as her sexual anticipation intensified.
Then the whip returned across her lower chest, her belly and abdomen, and finally she felt the flexible strands curling under to snap at her exposed sex. She screamed again, pulling feebly at the restraining straps, but could barely move an inch as the stings erupted along her inner thighs and against her vulnerable sex.
Gwen could not see him, but something was pressed into her – another dildo. It pumped in and out and then was pushed deep and left in place as the whip rained down again, across her breasts and belly before dropping to her sex.
‘You’ll learn your place, slut,’ he growled, striking her again and again.
