Bondage Club THE HOOK She turned then and stared at me - eyes narrowed, lips curled, deep indentations in the corners of her mouth. The earlier confusion gone. "Enough of this shit," I snarled at her. "Just tell me what the fuck 'Bondage Club' is." Her eyes narrowed further, and her marked mouth twisted into a lop sided smile. Her voice, when she spoke, was a mindless drone. "The first rule of Bondage Club is that you do not talk about Bondage Club." And from there, things went straight to hell. ***** Bear with me, please. All will become clear.
THE VENDETTA That was a little insensitive of me. Coming in on the middle of the "story" like that was never going to make things easy to understand. But then, I'm not sure I understand them, so maybe it's for the best. Either way, I apologise. But I had to try and create a level of interest in this "story". Otherwise it may have gone unnoticed - and then all my efforts will have been for naught. Okay, now that little explanatory piece is out of the way with, maybe I can get on with things. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Victor Kendalli. Vic for short. I'm 6 foot tall, a little under average weight, and have sandy-brown hair. Maybe you know me - or someone exactly like me because I used to be your everyday, run-of-the-mill, ordinary guy. I worked fifty-five hours a week in a large downtown brokering firm, and fifteen hours of that was unpaid. I wasn't very high up in the company, but I'm young and my immediate superiors told me I'd have a bright future if "I played my cards right". In contrast, my lofty superiors weren't even aware I existed. I lived in a one room studio apartment in a reasonable part of town. "Reasonable" in this sense was defined as having to dead bolt my doors at night, but not living in fear of being gunned down by a stray bullet that was probably intended for the schmuck who'd "forgotten" to pay his friendly, neighbourhood dealer. That's me. For better or worse. I think you'll agree there's not much to harp on. So why am I wasting my breath here? Because I want to tell you all about Bondage Club. And to be quite honest - what better place can there be for that than here, on this website? Maybe some of you are members of The Club already. Maybe even now you're trying to find me. Using all those ultra high tech procedures to track me back through my e-mail account, or ISP number, or some fucking thing. To be honest, I don't give a shit. If only because I'll be dead before the end of the week. I know it, and if you're an influential member of The Club, you know it. But I bet you didn't expect THIS. I mean, me posting my story to this site. Maybe you thought I was going to go public - tell the whole world about The Club. But I didn't see the point of that. I'd have been dismissed as another one of those loony guys raving on about fanatical cults and white slavery rings and abducted women. So I've opted for this method. Take my legacy to those people who might actually believe what I'm saying. Or at least not dismiss it outright. Write my tale into story form, here, on my lap-top as I skip from city to city, trying to stay one step ahead of your "Angels". And then post it into the site as access to a remote terminal permits. I just hope I'm not putting the site's moderator in any danger. And if just one of you readers can follow this up, can do a little digging in the right place at the right time, then my work is done. Because that person will tell one other trusted person in the field, and like a stack of dominos toppling in succession, word will spread. Until, one day, everyone knows about it, and with knowledge comes exposure. Which means the truth (or a fairly close approximation of it) will come out. And the whole Bondage Club will fall. Spectacularly. Call it the "Bottoms-Up" approach to fucking The Club over. I am. It has a nice ring to it. ***** The one thing I failed to mention about me in my little opening description, is that I lived with my girlfriend. Her name was Susan Alissa. Pretty name, huh? I thought so. In fact, I thought everything about her was fantastic. Until she got caught up in The Club. She was gorgeous. Long, dark hair, scintillating blue eyes, perfect white teeth. Small, but well rounded breasts with the most perfect nipples I'd ever seen. And an ass . . . God. Even now, I can feel it beneath my gently squeezing hands. Her legs, too, were flawless. At least, they were from where I was often positioned. You've probably noticed I'm using the past tense in describing her. That's on purpose. Because she's dead. And it was The Club that killed her. ***** More soon, if I can stay ahead of Them.
The Initiation
Everything was pretty much perfect between Susan and I until a Thursday evening
two and a half months ago. I came home from work a little over an hour early on
that particular day having decided, after all the overtime I'd been putting in,
that I deserved an early night with the woman of my dreams.
I let myself into the apartment and dumped my briefcase on the floor beside the
door. Looking up, I started to say something like "I know, it's a miracle, I'm
home early", but I only got as far as opening my mouth.
Susan was writhing naked on the floor in front of the couch. Her beautiful face
had been covered by a black silk hood, and she had been brutally bound with
yards upon yards of midnight blue rope. Even from where I was standing I could
see that her elbows had been crushed together with yards upon yards of cinched
rope and that her hands were bound in the traditional palm-to-palm fashion. Her
long slim legs were bound at the ankles, knees and upper thighs - all in the
same looped then cinched manner. The brutal part, however, was in the way more
of the rope had been wrapped around her hooded face at mouth level and then
pulled back to be tied to her two big toes. This had the effect of arching her
body like a taughtly strung bow, and made it impossible for her to move more
than a few inches in any direction.
"Susan?" I finally managed to utter.
I took a few tentative steps toward her - my mind not quite grasping what I was
seeing. Susan and I were no strangers to bondage, of course. In fact, it was a
very common element of our love making. Scarves, ropes, cuffs, blindfolds, gags
- I'd used them all on her. Sometimes, we'd even sit down and work out a
scenario to role play together.
Those were my favourite times with her. At least in a sexual sense.
It was also no secret to me that Susan liked to engage in the occasional self
bondage. The way she explained it, she usually did so as a way to vent her
sexual frustration at my long working hours, and not-so-infrequent business
trips away. Then there were those times that she'd tie herself up as a present
to me. I'd walk in and find her hands cuffed behind her back, her legs spread
and tied to the bottom of the bed, and her mouth filled with a silk scarf.
But never like this. Not so stringently. Not naked on the cold polished wood of
the floor. Not so she was whimpering quietly as she lay in her bondage.
And besides, how could she have managed to tie herself like this? It just wasn't
possible.
That thought was confirmed a few steps later when I saw her thumbs had been tied
together with thin twine and further attached to her two big toes. Hurrying
forward, I knelt beside Susan and told her in a loud voice that I was here and
she'd be alright now. She stiffened as I spoke, and began to rock on her stomach
from side to side, moaning madly into whatever it was gagging her beneath the
hood.
"It's okay. Calm down. I'll have you lose in a minute."
Despite my reassurance, she continued to shake and moan as my fingers went to
work on the rope holding her head back to her ankles. It took a short while -
the knots were tied beyond my level of expertise - but I eventually worked it
lose, and eased Susan's upper body to the floor. I pulled the hood away from her
sweat stained features and saw that her lips were hidden beneath three wide
strips of black tape. She tried to say something, but little more than an
indignant grunt came out. I looked up and saw that her eyes were narrowed at me
angrily.
"What? I'm moving as fast as I can!"
Slightly confused, I picked away at a corner of the tape before pulling it from
her lips. A swell of red material immediately became apparent between her teeth,
so I hooked a finger into the sodden cloth and prised it lose. But before it had
even fallen to the floor, Susan was expelling a second wad of the red material
from her mouth, this time with her own tongue. It was only then that I noted
with surprise that the wads were actually two pairs of her more racy panties.
But I was in for an even bigger surprise.
Susan coughed once and then rasped at me: "Just what the FUCK do you think
you're doing?"
I pulled away from her in shock. "I-I'm untying you. What does it look like?"
"Yeah? Well who the hell told you to do that?"
I was literally at a loss for words. The venom in her voice was incredible! I'd
never heard her so angry.
"Oh for Crisaakes Vic, just finish untying me. It's pointless now anyway."
I finally found my voice. "You mean someone didn't bind you like this?"
She craned her neck to look up at me and then spoke very slowly. "No Vic,
someone didn't. I was practicing some self bondage and I'd almost reached my
record time. But that's ruined now isn't it?" She twisted in her bonds
impatiently. "Would you just get on with it."
It was bullshit. Anyone who'd ever tied a knot before could see that. She'd been
tied by someone else and was trying to hide it from me. The question was why?
And was she sleeping with him?
Oh God, was Susan cheating on me?
Angry now myself, I finished untying my girlfriend in stony silence. It took me
the best part of five minutes to fetch scissors, cut away the twine binding her
digits, and then loosen the midnight blue knots around her wrists and elbows.
After that, she angrily shrugged me away and proceeded to free her own legs.
Teeth marks in my bottom lip, I sat back as Susan tossed the last of the ropes
aside and stood up. "I'm going for a shower," she said coldly before cautiously
limping in the bathroom's direction. The blood had evidently yet to fully return
to her limbs.
I decided to wait and confront her with my "suspicions" when she came out of the
shower. Maybe she'd feel more like talking when she'd had a chance to wash away
the sweat and tend to the numerous rope marks mapping her body.
The door to the shower slammed closed. I shook my head. Exactly why was she so
angry? I was the one who should have been bouncing off the fucking walls. It
just didn't make any sense . . .
The buzzer for the intercom rang.
Co-incidence? I think not.
I leapt up and hastily made my way over to the intercom. "Yes?" I said quietly,
having stabbed the 'Send' button.
There was silence for a few moments before a rich, deep voice filtered up to me.
"My apologies, I was searching for a Ms. Alissa. I have evidently pressed the
wrong button."
Bingo.
"No, not at all. Ms. Alissa lives here." I smiled through gritted teeth. If this
guy was who I thought he was . . . "She's currently indisposed, however. Can I
say who's calling?"
Another long pause. "No, thank you. I believe I'll return when she's not
otherwise engaged."
"No, please. Why don't you come up and wait for her." I decided to let him off
the hook - anything to get him within arm's reach. "She'll be out of the shower
in a few minutes."
"To whom am I speaking please?"
"I think that's something I should be asking, don't you?"
This time the pause was almost ominous, and when the voice spoke again it had
lost all of its former pleasantness. "My name is Mr. Chaswell. And you will
leave this message for Ms. Alissa: 'Six weeks to go'."
With that, the line went dead.
I was tempted for a moment to make a mad dash for the elevator. To ride it down,
and charge out into the foyer - ready to confront this 'Mr. Chaswell'. But I
knew it would be pointless. He'd be long gone even before the elevator had even
responded to my call.
But he'd left behind more questions than ever, and I was determined to find the
answer to each and every one of them. No matter what it took.
Even if it meant my relationship with Susan.
*****
The night had ended in a huge fight. I'd confronted Susan with Mr. Chaswell's
message and she'd flown completely off the handle, telling me it was none of my
business and that I had no right to interfere with her life. Then she'd stormed
out.
She'd been beside me the next morning when I woke up, however, and that had
eased some of my paranoia. But it was still another week before we had a proper
conversation, and a further four days before we sat down to talk about that
night.
Susan explained that she'd been tying herself up more regularly of late because
she'd stumbled across a copy of a self bondage guide at some alternative second
hand book-store. She showed me the book, and I had to admit it was pretty
impressive. It was called "Self-Bondage for the Serious Practitioner" and
detailed 50 different positions - with one of those being exactly the position
I'd found Susan in when I'd come home that night. I didn't recognise the
publisher ("BC Initiatives"), but then that was hardly surprising given that my
entire bondage library consisted of "The Story of O".
And Mr. Chaswell? Well, apparently he was the proprietor of the aforementioned
book-store, and had stopped by to inform Susan that the next shipment of related
books was six weeks away.
All in all, it made sense. Perfect sense, really - especially once the book had
been produced as proof. By the time Susan was finished I'd felt about six inches
tall. We'd been through two weeks of fighting over nothing more than my own
severe sense of paranoia.
So I'd made it up to her. Flowers. Chocolates. Dinner at a five star restaurant.
The works.
When we finally arrived home, I took Susan by the hand and smiled at her. "So
you're pretty good at tying yourself up now. But I bet you could still learn a
thing or two from me." She'd giggled and I'd set about proving my point. Wrists
crossed and tied behind her back; then drawn up to be attached to an overhanging
beam. Bent over now, a two foot spreader bar attached between her ankles. Rope
wrapped lovingly above, below and between her breasts in an intricate bra like
fashion. A silken scarf for a blindfold, and a white ball gag strapped behind
her teeth. Her body helpless and her cries muted as I took her from behind . . .
I remember it now as the last truly happy moment of my life.
*****
Believe it or not, I may have lost the Angels tracking me. That's three days
without any sign of them. I'm actually starting to wonder if I may even get to
finish this story before they catch up to me. It's a long shot, but I can hope
right?
Keep your fingers crossed for me.
But even more importantly, keep reading. Because the more you read, the better
chance there is that something will be triggered in your memory. A description
of a place, a particular person's speech pattern, a mannerism I've noted.
Anything. And then . . . well that's up to you. Learn from my mistakes as I
write them though. Be smarter than me. Don't try and do everything yourself.
Talk to someone you trust. I mean REALLY trust.
More soon.
The Confirmation You may be wondering who (or what) the "Angels" are that I keep mentioning. To be honest, I'd originally planned to say nothing more about Them until They become major players in my tale. But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes to tell you about Them now. Why? Because I'm not 100% sure I'll still be around to tell you about that part of things. So if I spill about Them now, at least you'll know what to keep an eye out for. The Angels are The Bondage Club's "elite guard", if you will. I know, I know, it sounds kind of tacky and more than a little hackneyed, but where do you think cliches come from? They have to have SOME basis in truth - even if only the tiniest fragment. I have no idea how many of Them there are. There could be as few as a dozen or as many as 100. The most I've ever seen in the one place was ten on the night I worked my way into the Club. They're all female, of course. The Club wouldn't have it any other way. I mean, The Club is essentially about power, and what could be more powerful than rendering strong, athletic, DEADLY females completely helpless by uttering a simple combination of secret words? You see, each of these Angels undergoes rigorous, bondage orientated, brain-washing. During this process, they're tortured, trained, and taught that their identities are subservient to that of The Club - until such time that they're little more than the perfect killing machines with a soft spot for unbearable bondage. At least, that's the way I like to think of Them. As kinky servants. Or pets. Yes, let's run with that. They're pets. They even have a uniform - of sorts. And this is the part where I want you all to pay particular attention. Because this description may one day save your life. The Angels, without fail, wear boots and gloves. There's no specific combination, you understand - just generally boots and gloves. So, for example, that statuesque beauty that walks by you in your office building every lunch time, wearing a conservative pinstripe suit, black knee-high boots, and wrist-length leather gloves could be an Angel. Or that long haired brunette who walks the corner of 3rd and Lake in thigh high boots and black elbow length gloves may not necessarily be the latest in the long line of hookers to haunt that particular spot. Trust me, it doesn't matter if it's the hottest day in the depths of summer - They'll be clothed in this fashion. Because the gloves and boots They wear hide The Club's symbol that is branded on the inside of Their wrists and ankles. An integrated 'B' and 'C', woven together like the finest of Persian tapestries. A brand that They "earn" on the day They're initiated as an Angel. But be warned. To see the symbol "in the flesh", is to be sentenced to death. I was going to type "to see the symbol 'in the flesh', equals death", but the simple fact of the matter is that I'm still breathing. And I plan on doing so for as long as it takes to finish my story. Do all you Club Members and Angels out there reading this understand that? There has to be a few of you monitoring this thread by now. Word must have spread. You Angels, in particular, will be reading along hoping that I'll carelessly drop some clue as to where I am. But I'm not stupid. I know the way you think. I mean, I should. After all, I lived with one of your "trainees" for over a year. ***** The day after Susan and I settled our differences in the best possible way, I phoned the school she taught at to see if she wanted to grab an early dinner together straight after work. To my surprise, the receptionist informed me that she hadn't been into work that day and that the school had had to scramble to find a relief for her. I thanked the woman and immediately called home, but there was no answer. When I'd last seen her, Susan had been fine. We'd kissed goodbye briefly and she'd thanked me for a wonderful evening. I'd told her I'd be home by six and left her lamenting the fact that she too had to get up and get ready for work. Obviously, however, something had gone wrong. Quelling the paranoia that was threatening to again rise, I decided to head home and make sure Susan was okay. If everything was fine, I could do the rest of my work for that afternoon from my apartment anyway. The thought that maybe Susan would be healthy enough to be bound and gagged while I did so managed to worm it's way into the forefront of my mind. I smiled and allowed the fantasy to accompany me on the ride home. By the time I paused outside my apartment with key in hand, I'd almost managed to silence any and all persistent paranoid thoughts. Deep down I knew that Susan was just feeling a little ill and was tucked up on the couch watching re-runs of some God-awful day time soap. So with that explanation firmly in mind, I let myself into my apartment . . . . . . and found no-one home. There was a note on the table though. It was scrawled in a hand writing I didn't recognise and read: "1919 Donovan. 11am." Frowning, I pocketed the note and sat down at the table heavily. It was all too much. I couldn't keep up with all this cloak and dagger shit. If Susan though- The sound of a key hitting the lock reached my ears. I turned to face the doorway as Susan walked in, and watched as she visibly flinched at my presence. "Jesus Vic. You scared me half to death." Her eyes darted down to glance at a white shopping bag she was carrying. "What are you doing home?" I forced a smile. "I wanted to spend some more time with you, of course." I stood and walked toward her, determined to see what she was carrying in her bag. "So how was school?" Susan's nostrils flared slightly. "Same as always. Those kids are really a drain sometimes." She turned slightly and made as if to walk nonchalantly past me. "Hmmm. I'll bet. So," I said, ignoring the lie, "what have you got in the bag? A present for me?" I leant toward her, but she shied away. "Hey! Nothing for you. Just keep your hands out of it." She tried to feign a playful giggle, but it didn't quite come off. Not that it mattered, she was past me anyway and heading for the bathroom. "I'm just going to have a shower, okay? I'll be right out." I didn't reply. I couldn't. I was too busy trying to interpret the deep rope marks I'd seen stenciled in her wrists. And the red whip welts I'd glimpsed along the backs of her stockinged legs. ***** I let it go. There was no confrontation with Susan, no accusations, no yelling and screaming at one another. I figured that if I wanted to find out exactly what was going on, I wasn't going to get very far by such direct means. Instead, I decided I was going to follow Susan and get my answers through stealth. I know, not exactly the perfect basis for a trusting relationship, but I HAD to find out what was going on. So before you judge me ask yourself this: in my situation, would you have done any differently? It was three weeks, however, before I had a chance to act. In that time, I noticed fresh rope marks upon Susan's wrists or ankles on numerous occasions. I'd probably have been able to see more marks, but she'd taken to wearing long sleeved tops and pants when it was still warm enough for short sleeves and skirts. She was also extremely unpredictable as to when she'd turn up for work, or even be home at night. One or twice I even found the bed beside my empty when I woke up to face a new day. And yet she offered no explanation whatsoever. In fact, she acted completely normally when she was around - smiling, cuddling up to me, telling me how much she wanted me to bind and gag her. Whereas in contrast, my mood became darker and darker. Most of the time, I just sat there glowering and saying nothing, with the only exception being the way I responded to her sexual entreaties. Basically, I was like a mad bull who'd seen one too many flashes of red. I think it was cathartic. I mean, that's the only logical explanation I can give now. Kind of like a way for me to work off my anger at Susan's obvious cheating. I'd bind her hands behind her back extremely tightly, before taking my time to weld her elbows and lower arms together. Coils and coils of rope pulled into the flesh of her arms and then cinched together as tightly as I could tie it. Far from finished, I'd pull her dark hair back into a pony tail and tie it to her bound elbows with an extremely short length of rope. This had the effect of yanking her head back so she was staring straight up at the ceiling, her neck muscles bunched against the strain. I'd then bend her over our dining table and spread her legs until they could be spread no further. I'd make sure she couldn't ease her position by roping her ankles to the tables leg's, and only then set about gagging her. Not that she ever complained about my treatment of her. In fact, I'd never seen her so turned on at any stage we'd been together. By the time we reached the gagging stage, she'd be begging me to take her - to use and abuse her in any way I wanted. A wash cloth stuffed into her mouth and held in place with a knotted scarf between her teeth was the only way to quiet her down. I was rarely satisfied with such a paltry gag, however, so I'd often proceed to wrap a four inch wide bandage around her gagged mouth and then reinforce that with half a dozen windings of gray duct tape. Sometimes I'd keep her like that for over an hour. Playing with her. Taking my dues. At least, that was what I THOUGHT I was doing. In actual fact I was just playing into her hands - speeding the transition from gorgeous girlfriend to callous killer. Finally, twenty days after Susan came home with the red welts decorating her legs, I spotted her leaving our apartment building as I turned the corner into our street. I told the cab driver to pull over and wait for a moment. The meter still running, he did so, but not before shooting me a querying frown. Up ahead, Susan climbed into another cab that promptly pulled away from the curb. I steeled myself. This was it. My big chance. She hadn't said she was going anywhere that particular night, so I had a stronger than gut feeling that the answer to this whole mystery lay with her present destination. I ran a hand across my dry lips and made up my mind. "Okay driver, do me a favour and follow that cab." The taxi driver half turned in his seat to peer at me. "You're shittin' me?" "You mean no-one's ever asked you to do that before?" He grinned at me and shifted the car into drive. "Nope, but I wish it would happen more often." I actually almost managed a smile myself as I replied. "You keep up with that other cab and I'll make it worth your while. Fifty bucks." "This gets better by the minute. Mister, you got yourself a deal!" The driver squealed the cab away from the curb - and although I had no idea what I was in for, I was on my way to my first taste of The Bondage Club. ***** I may not get a chance to post n the next update. I want to be able to put a few hundred miles between me and here. After all, it's better to be safe than caught by The Angels. Until then . . . stay safe.
The Party They're onto me. I slipped up at the last hotel I was hiding in - basically, I used a name I'd used before. Over-tired I guess. But that's no excuse. Not when so much is on the line. They got everything I owned - my laptop, clothes, every dollar to my name. Hell, even my fucking toothbrush. And it was only dumb luck that saved me. I happened to glance up as I walked across the road toward my hotel and saw a shadow flicker across my room's window. At 11pm. In other words, WAY too late for a bed-linen change. So I've gone to ground, and used up possibly the last favour I have owing to me in the world. But at least I've bought myself some time and access to the web again. Although I do have my doubts as to how secure this connection is. But I'm out of choices. So ... Back to my story. ***** We'd been driving for almost 25 minutes before the cab carrying Susan pulled over in front of a downtown high-rise building. I asked my driver, who'd introduced himself as Eddie, to do the same about half a block behind her. She got out and arrowed toward the high-rise as I shoved two $50s in Eddie's direction. "If you want to double this, wait for me." I climbed out without pausing for a response. The last thing I wanted was to lose Susan now. Up ahead, she entered through the revolving doors, and I broke into a trot to keep her in my line of sight. I passed through the same set of doors as she paused in front of a board displaying the building's floor by floor listings. There was little place for me to hide in the lobby, so I stopped just inside the doorway and willed Susan not to turn around. Luckily for me, my quarry seemed to be fully occupied by events in her own world. Without even a backwards glance, she stepped around the board and walked quickly on to the bank of elevators. She stopped, pressed a button, and stepped through the first set of doors to slide open for her. As soon as the they closed again, I darted forward to watch what floor she stopped on. The answer was outlined for me in yellow light a few moments later. Floor 14. Still with no real plan in mind, I stabbed at the number 14 and waited for an elevator to answer my call. Within two minutes, the elevator doors were sliding open in front of me to reveal a short, lushly carpeted corridor that sported two doors and was decorated with numerous paintings hanging upon the walls. The paintings were all basic portraits of older, stern looking men, invariably dressed in suits and smoking some kind of pipe or cigar. One particular man with silver-gray hair and dark eyes caught my gaze, but not because of his appearance. The name under the portrait read "Mr William Chaswell". Right then, I knew I had her. But that feeling lasted all of twenty seconds. The short corridor ended in a T-junction which I half rounded to see a large, stocky man dressed all in black off to the left, tying Susan's hands behind her back. Shock hit me like a blow to the stomach, and I almost ran forward to throw myself at the man - but then the look of bliss on Susan's face registered. I was incredibly lucky not be seen right then, but the man was focused on the rope he was winding about Susan's wrists; while her eyes were closed as she evidently savoured the feeling of being bound. Dodging back, I cautiously leant around the corridor and watched as the man finished with Susan's wrists and asked her if she was ready to enter The Club. She answered in the affirmative, prompting the man to reach into a large leather bag spread out on a table next to him, rummage within, and come out holding a huge white ball gag. Susan opened her mouth wide to accept the gag, allowing the man to work the ball behind her teeth (with no small amount of effort) and buckle the silencing device tightly at the apex of her neck. Although, I could barely believe my eyes throughout this bizarre exchange, I found myself rooted to the spot. A combination of fear, rage, and fascination held me immobile. All that changed, however, when I heard the quiet chime of the elevator behind me. It was clear now that I'd stumbled onto something more complex than I'd imagined, and I had a gut feeling that being found at this time would not be good for my immediate future. So I desperately lunged back down the corridor toward the elevator, and grasped the handle of the door closest to me. Incredibly, it opened. I slipped inside just as the elevator doors slid open thirty feet from me. Not daring to close the door properly, I slipped back into the darkened room. Within moments, a darkly dressed figure moved past my hiding spot. I forced myself to count to ten and then stepped back out into the corridor. Returning to my previous vantage point, I saw a man dressed in an expensive pin-striped suit approaching the thug that had bound Susan. Of my girlfriend, there was no sign. "Good evening sir," said the thug. "How can I help you?" "Achilles," the man said without hesitation. "I'm from the Boston Chapter, and would like to visit this evening." "Very good sir." The thug reached over and opened a set of double doors he was evidently guarding. I was too far away to see into the interior, but I could hear the sound of many voices in quiet conversation . . . along with what sounded like a bevy of muffled moans. The newcomer slipped inside and the sounds were cut off as the guard again closed the doors. Decision time. "Achilles" was obviously some kind of password, but dare I use it? Maybe the guard had recoginsed the man and that was why there hadn't been any further questioning. And on top of that, I was just wearing my daily suit - I was hardly going to pass as a guest at some kind of private club. So many cons to showing myself, so few pros. Taking a deep breath, I ignored my screaming instincts and rounded the corner. The thug stiffened when he saw me and my immediate response was that I'd been made. Outwardly however, I just nodded at the man and smiled reassuringly. "Good evening sir, how can I help you?" "Achilles," I said promptly. "I'm from out of town on business, and I'd like to pay my respects to Mr. Chaswell before I move back to my own Chapter." I have to admit I was amazed at my improvisation. The name-dropping had just come to me, I hadn't even thought it through. The guard's response was almost comical. His eyes widened slightly, and he virtually lunged at the door to open it for me. "Enjoy your evening sir," he said as I slipped past him. And I was in. Simple as that. Of course, they'd let me walk into their Club. That much became fairly obvious later in the evening. But right then, at that moment, I felt almost invincible. Because I'd passed the main hurdle, and there was no-one left to stop me from finding out what Susan had gotten herself into, nor from rescuing her from it. The funny thing was, I never considered factoring Susan herself into that equation. And that, you might say, was a fatal flaw. ***** The sounds swamped me again as soon as I was through the doorway. Voices in hushed conversation interspersed with chuckles of quiet laughter, the occasional tink of glasses being tapped together, and the almost monotonous hum of gagged moans. Not that I could see what was going on for the first few moments. The large room I found myself in was very dimly lit. I could, however, make out a multitude of dark figures milling about on what appeared to be a "portable" dance floor that had a diameter of about 120 feet, and was thus big enough to occupy the majority of the large room's floor space. Behind it, I could also see people milling about a long bar set against a glass wall. Slowly, I began to be able to make out the individual figures in front of me. Most were of the caliber of the "gentleman" that had preceded me into the room - perfectly groomed and immaculately dressed. There was no doubt that these people were the elite of our society. They virtually stank of money with their three piece suits or fitted tuxedos. Some had older women on their arms garbed in backless gowns, shimmering silks, and diamond chokers. It would have been a very normal gathering - just your average high-class party - if not for the remaining women in the room. Like Susan, they were all bound and gagged, but in many and varied ways. Some of these women were milling about among the regular party-goers, almost as if they too were pampered guests. The main difference, however, was that their arms were stringently bound (in most cases) behind their backs, their ankles were hobbled with short lengths of rope, and their mouths were stuffed with a gag of some kind or another. Generally, the bound women were dressed in lingerie - corsets, stockings, and high heels appeared to be the norm. Some, however, wore shoulder length leather gloves, knee-high boots and literally nothing else. For some reason that I couldn't quite put my finger on, the gloved and booted women seemed the center of most of the attention. Unbound guests would often break away from their discussions to offer a comment or two to the beautiful women, before punctuating their message with a pat on the rump, a tweak of a nipple, or a subtle finger slid between their legs. Most of the gagged moans that were even now reaching my ears appeared to be a result of this obviously acceptable form of treatment. It was without a doubt, the most surreal scene I'd ever seen. But, amongst it all, there was no sign of Susan. "Uh innk urr?" I was startled from my in-depth inspection of the floor by the gagged query emanating from my left. I turned to see a pretty brunette in a maid's uniform thrusting a drink's tray in my direction. Her elbows had been cinched together behind her back, and her wrists had been cuffed on either side of her body to a black leather belt encircling her waist. The tray she was thrusting at me was held up by a support strap that disappeared behind her head to rest against the nape of her neck in the style of the traditional hot dog seller at the baseball. Extra support for the tray was provided by the nipple clamps the woman was having to endure. The chain that attached the pair of clamps together had been pulled through a D-ring on the front of the tray, ensuring that its surface remained stable and the drinks upright. Not surprisingly, given the way her nipples were being distended, the maid's expression around the ring-gag that had been tightly buckled between her teeth was not one of enjoyment. I must have been gaping at her for some time, because she again had to prompt me with a "Uh Innk urr?!" I tired to close my gaping mouth and nodded at her in what was a reassuring fashion, before lifting a flute of champagne from her tray. Now that I could see properly, and knew what to look for, I was easily able to make out the multitude of similarly bound and gagged servants weaving throughout the crowd, offering drinks at every turn. I followed the path of one particularly gorgeous red-haired maid as she walked behind the bar to join a small queue of women who were having their trays restocked by a tall Amazon of a woman. She, too, wore long gloves and was bound and gagged - although her hands were only cuffed in front of her. Presumably, her binder had known she'd be unable to pour drinks and stack trays if she was any more stringently fettered. Deciding it would be in my best interests to mingle, I walked into the crowd attempting to find somewhere less conspicuous to stand. As I did so, I noticed the multitude of female women standing at various points on the edges of the room. All were very tall and broad across the shoulders and surveyed the room as if they were the most adept of security guards. Although they were unbound, the only clothing they wore were elbow length gloves, panties that barely covered anything, and a pair of thigh high leather boots - all of which were scarlet in colour. I sipped at my glass of wine as casually as I could. How many of the strange "bouncers" were even now watching me? Studying my every move? A cold sweat began to bead on my forehead. I didn't want to think about what would happen if an intruder was caught in this kind of place. Which in turn prompted the though: How the fuck had Susan become mixed up with these kind of people? And more to the point: where the hell was she? As if answer to my unspoken question a cultured voice suddenly crackled over a hidden PA system, silencing those actually able to speak within a few words. "Ladies and gentleman, fellow Members and distinguished guests . . . welcome to Bondage Club." The entire crowd burst into loud applause. "As always, I would like to begin by reminding you that the first rule of Bondage Club is that you do not talk about Bondage Club." "And the second rule . . . is that you do not talk about Bondage Club! I hope everyone here understands our rules. And what breaking them can mean." No-one in the crowd spoke. In fact, virtually no-one moved. They were completely riveted. "But enough of the formalities. Tonight," continued the voice, "we have a very special guest among us that I am proud to present to you all. She is the woman that I have personally chosen as this Club's newest Angel-to-be: Number 113F!" A dark curtain at one end of the dance floor parted and pulled back to reveal a slightly raised stage area. Two bright spotlights suddenly focused on the stage . . . and my flute of champagne dropped from my hand to shatter on the dance floor. I was only dimply aware of the nearby people turning disapproving frowns upon me, as my attention was almost completely held by what was being displayed for the crowd's rapidly mounting enjoyment. Susan had been suspended from the ceiling with her weight supported by her roped wrists. Her body was criss-crossed with thin rope that bit into her flesh cruelly. Each breast, for example, was actually segregated into four distinct parts, with their nipples crushed beyond recognition. Susan's dangling feet were spread wide and tied to rings in the floor of the stage, forcing her into a kind of inverted-Y shape. Her torturers had taken full advantage of this position by impaling her on what appeared to be a 15 inch rubber dildo mounted on an iron pole set into the stage floor. Susan squirmed about uncontrollably on the rubber cock in what I took to be an effort to avoid the man behind her and the cat-o-nine tails he was lashing against her back and upper legs. She was also unable to voice any kind of cry because her mouth was still filled by the huge white ball gag I had seen her silenced with before entering The Club. Around me, the crowd began to cheer and applaud, their eyes sparkling in the glare of the spotlights. Sickened, I shoved my way toward the stage, all too aware of the scarlet clothed bouncers already making a bee-line for me. Ignoring them, I pressed on, the sickening feeling giving way to anger as the crowd started to chant in time with each lashing of the cat. By the time they were yelling "FOUR!", I was climbing onto the stage, a full five meters ahead of the closest bouncer. I jumped quickly to my feet, and for the first time, found my gaze moving past my pain-wracked girlfriend to the man torturing her. I recognised him instantly. It was the man from the portrait in the hallway. Mr. Chaswell himself. And as far as I was concerned he was a fucking dead man. *****
AN EARLY EXIT So there I was, mounting a stage upon which my girlfriend was bound, gagged and being whipped, while a stream of bouncers surged towards me, in the middle of a Club evidently dedicated to the binding, gagging and torturing of women. In my impulsive rage, I'd assumed that Susan was being whipped against her will, but then I caught a look at her eyes as I came alongside her and everything changed. For Susan did not so much look back at me, but right THROUGH me with half-closed, pleasure-filled eyes ... Right up to that point, I'd been prepared to die - to go out swinging, and in the process, hopefully take Mr Chaswell with me. I wanted him dead so much that I basically didn't care what happened to me moments later. But that moment of revelation while looking into Susan's eyes stopped me cold, and a new plan of action slotted neatly into the forefront of my mind . . . ***** Even as the first of the bouncers mounted the stage behind me and the murmur of the crowd reached outrage" proportions, I extended my hand toward Mr. Chaswell, and forcing a smile, said: "The cat, if you please." Despite my own predicament, I was tempted to laugh at the look of surprise that etched itself across the older man's sweat-covered face. "But you're . . . " "Of course I am, but does that really matter?" Booted footsteps behind me heralded the arrival of the female bouncers. One word from Mr Chaswell and I was gone. It was now or never. "Please," I hissed. "I'm OWED this." A measure of his composure returning, Mr Chaswell straightened and nodded slowly. "Alright, ten strikes, and then we'll all leave quietly via the back door." He glanced over his shoulder to a door set in the back of the stage. "And Mr Kendalli, I MEAN quietly." I nodded and he put the cat in my outstretched hand. Another nod from him and the bouncers were backing off, making room for me. I turned to face Susan's welt covered back and the crowd beyond her. They were slowly quieting down, probably coming to believe that I was part of the entertainment. Mr Chaswell swiftly confirmed that belief. "Members and honoured guests, please welcome our celebrity lasher, Mr. K!" Polite applause followed - not that I cared. All I wanted was to whip Susan and pour every iota of rage, angst, and sorrow I had into the lashes I was to give her. She'd betrayed me, lied to me, used me. It was obvious that THIS was her real life, while I'd be lucky to rate a distant second. And for that, I wanted her to suffer. But to suffer by my own hand. So I brought the cat down across the middle of her back with as much force as I could. Susan immediately began squealing into her gag, but at the same time, I saw her pelvis start thrusting up and down on the dildo impaling her. So I lashed her with the cat again . . . and again . . . across her back and buttocks and upper thighs. But I saved the best for last. I walked around to face my girlfriend as she hung there suspended, and with my last two strokes, aimed them squarely at her tortured breasts. Susan screamed into the white ball as those two lashes fell, and for just a moment I though I'd broken through to her. But then I saw the way the exposed part of the dildo was glistening beneath her crotch and realised I'd done nothing more than add to her pleasure. The crowd seemed equally excited. They had taken their cue from my bold move and were now applauding loudly. There were even a few calls of "Bravo!" coming from the back of the dance floor. Rather than responding, however, I turned and walked across the stage to where Mr Chaswell was standing. I handed him the cat and together we walked out the back door, flanked by three of the gloved and booted bouncers. Behind us, the spotlights went out and the curtain again closed across the stage. ***** "You demonstrate a rare talent with the cat-o-nine tails, Victor. Tell me, have you wielded one before?" We were in a dark back alley, and I was in no doubt as to what was to happen next. Mr Chaswell had led the way through a veritable maze of dimly lit corridors, before coming to what appeared to be a service elevator. We descended in silence with our escort, and it was only once we were outside and he had taken the opportunity to light and puff on a fat cigar, that he had spoken. "Only once or twice." "Ah," he said. "Well it seems you have an instinct for it then." I smiled without humour. "If it's all the same to you Mr Chaswell, I'd like to get this over with." "A man of action and very few words, I see. Well so be it. Hold him." Two pairs of strong hands gripped my upper arms and forced me to my knees. Mr Chaswell delved into the depths of his three piece suit and came out holding a small caliber pistol. He saw my look. "Don't worry, it may be small but it will do the job." He produced a second item from somewhere about his person - a small silencer - and began screwing it into place. "I have to say, Mr Kendalli, that I'm quite surprised by your eagerness to die. If it was myself in your less than envious position I'd want to know all about how my woman had fallen into such company. Are you not even the slightest bit curious?" "Does it make a difference?" "No, I guess it does not. I cannot allow any outsiders into my Chapter of the Bondage Club. The Presidents would oust me as soon as they had word of such an occurrence. But I do wish we had met under other circumstances. I, for one, would have been proud to sponsor your application for Membership." "Am I meant to be flattered?" Mr Chaswell sighed. "Sadly, no. That would be too much to expect on my behalf. Still, allow me to offer you this one comforting thought before you die." He finished screwing the silencer into place. "Susan will be well taken care of. She is to become one of the elite group of female assassins that even now hold you still. We have dubbed them 'Angels'. Aptly titled, don't you think?" I craned my head back to take one last look at the women holding me. Two of them were looking at Mr Chaswell, but the third - a gorgeous raven haired woman with sky-blue eyes - was staring straight at me. Meeting her gaze only momentarily, I proceeded to scan each of the other women, before eventually nodding. "I doubt there'd be many who'd disagree." "Well very soon, your Susan will be an elite among them. Her training has been of the highest caliber, and her conversion is without flaw. Not that I expected anything less, of course. After all, it was I who singled her out the day she came into my little book store, looking for a Dominance and submission book." Mr Chaswell chuckled. "It seems she was ready to take things a step further with you Mr Kendalli. So I offer you my belated apologies for intervening when I did." "Fuck you," I replied simply. He ignored my insult. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a function to return to. These Angels will see you 'out'." He tossed the silenced pistol at the raven haired Angel - who caught it deftly - and nodded in my direction. "Make it quick and painless. The show he put on for us tonight earns him that much at least. Afterwards, you know what to do." While I dealt with the surprise that the man himself wasn't to be my executioner, Mr Chaswell turned to face me one last time. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr Kendalli." I didn't reply. Mostly because I couldn't think of anything to say beyond "Go to hell". He disappeared back into the building. The raven-haired Angel moved around in front of me - the silver gun contrasting starkly with the black of her gloved hand. Without a word of warning, she pointed the barrel of the gun at the center of my forehead and . . . "Leave," she said suddenly. "But . . ." started the Angel to my right. "I said 'Leave'. Do it now." The hands forcing me down on my knees fell away. Turning, I saw the two near naked women walking back through the same door that Mr Chaswell had just used. "Look at me," ordered the last Angel. I did so instantly. Something strange was going on here, and I didn't want to ruin it by failing to obey a command. Especially one that had sounded so edgy. The Angel struggled to speak for a few moments, as if she was unable to say what she wished. "I want . . . y-you to whip . . . me . . . L-like you . . . did 113F." Her words came out through clenched teeth. By the time my addled mind had pieced together what she was asking me to do, the Angel was speaking again, but this time more fluently. "Tie me ... gag me ... p- punish me. Please? Just ... like her." I spoke to the gun barrel in my face. "Yes, right now. I want to do all that right now." The Angel sagged and fell to her knees in front of me. Our eyes locked. She dropped the gun between us. "T-thank you . . . Ma-Master." I snatched the weapon up, my head filled with visions of blasting her and running like hell. But I knew I couldn't do it, and I also knew that this particular Angel would be applying to have her label put to the test if Mr Chaswell knew she'd participated in my escape. I stood and offered her my hand. "C'mon. We have to get away from here first." Her gloved hand took mine and together we ran. *****
58A Ever so slowly, I'm losing it. That might sound like an odd thing to admit, especially when I know there are interested Club members following this tale as I post it. But what else could you expect after months on the run? It's winter, and virtually every second woman is wearing boots and gloves. Logically, I know this. But all I'm seeing are Angels come to silence me forever with a timely double-tap to the head. Just yesterday I turned and grabbed a woman around the throat while we stood waiting for the lights to change at an intersection. Her hands were hidden behind gloves and her legs encased in boots, plus she had been shadowing me for half a block. Or so I thought until she maced me right in the eyes and ran away screaming. I don't think I can last much longer. But here's hoping I make it to Christmas. Cross your fingers for me. Hell, say a prayer if you're that way inclined. I think I need the help. ***** Believe it or not, the cab driver was still there waiting for me. And the look on his face when he saw the virtually naked woman running along the street at my side was ridiculously comical given our situation. We piled into the cab. "Go," I said to him as I slammed the door behind us. But the driver was just staring at us, mouth working for words, eyes locked on the Angel's quaking breasts. "Please, just drive." I looked back up the street in the direction of the alley, fully expecting a horde of the Angels to round the corner at any second. "What the fuck i-" Before he could say anything else, the raven haired Angel snapped forward in her seat, and grabbed the cabbie in a pincer grip by his neck. "My M-Master ordered you to drive. Do it or I'll twist to the left, like this." The cabbie's eyes widened and a pained gurgle escaped his lips. The Angel let him go with a push, and sat watching her prey carefully. The cabbie took the "hint" and swiveled in his seat to turn the engine over. He pulled away from the curb and accelerated as fast as the old cab was capable. I leant over to the Angel and whispered in her ear: "From now on, you'll let me handle any and all situations that arise - unless I tell you otherwise. Is that understood?" Eyes lowered, she nodded. "Yes my Master, but . . . will I be punished?" The question took me by surprise, although it really shouldn't have. Was I going to tie, punish and then fuck this woman? This assassin? I mean, what about Susan? Was there any chance for us? I knew all of the answers as soon as I asked myself the questions. Susan was gone. Probably for good. The look in her eyes as I'd mounted the stage had told me that. She'd been programmed too well. But then, it seemed I'd managed to get through to this one - even though it was only in the context of undermining her existing programming. It wasn't like I'd broken it. And there was always the possibility that she'd revert back at any stage. I was going to have take steps to make sure that didn't happen. ***** Back to my apartment was obviously out of the question. That would be the first place The Club would look. So where? As much as I wanted to turn to a friend, I had a very definite feeling that doing so would only place them in as much danger as I was in. The same applied to my family. Which meant I had to rely on myself. A scary proposition at best. I asked the driver to drop us off at a low profile hotel on the outskirts of town. A $50 a night job. I paid him the remaining $150 in cash for the trip and "inconvenience" of the night befere advising him to say nothing about what had happened. For his own good, of course. He told me "Sure, no problems", but I could see that that sentiment was going to be good for about four hours. Probably until he got off his shift and went to a bar with some work mates and they began to trade stories about the day's fares. I could see him raising his voice above the chuckles of his drinking buddies to say "Well you think THAT'S weird . . ." One night was all we could afford in this dive and then we'd have to move on. I paid with plastic and resolved that I wouldn't be doing that again until this was all over. Tomorrow, I'd find an ATM first thing and withdraw as much of my savings as I could. Then we'd find a place to lay low across the other side of town. Eventually, when I thought things had cooled off enough, I'd head back to my apartment and grab as much stuff as I could. Interestingly, the thought of going to the cops never seriously entered my mind. I guess I kind of sensed that this thing was way too big not to involve some kind of high up influence. If the cops hadn't had a run in with The Club by now it was because they were being directed away by someone important. Later, my Angel would confirm that feeling for me as she lay tied to the four corners of the lumpy double bed I'd rented. In fact, she told me pretty much everything I've hinted at in posts to this point. That there are numerous Chapters of the Club. That they're situated on the 14th floor of important high-rise buildings in different cities around the world. That each Chapter is headed up by a Leader, but that all are answerable to an informal Committee staffed by Lifetime Members. That the Angels are either kidnapped (read "recruited") off the street, or comprised of naive volunteers like Susan. That they undergo rigorous reprogramming procedures that are all bondage and torture orientated. Until they're virtually machines with no real identity of their own - save a number and a letter. The number serving to identify how early they were recruited, and the letter indicating how high up the ranks they are. My Angel, 58A (she said she no longer remembered her real name), was not sure how many other Angels existed outside of her own Chapter, but knew that the tattoos adorning the ankles and wrists of each varied according to the Chapter they belonged to. But perhaps most significantly of all, 58A told me that The Bondage Club was one of the largest and most well organised slavery rings in the Western world. Hence the need to train Angels. To protect the organisation, and to ensure it remains a secret. Of course, I'd suspected pretty much all of this from the things I'd seen and experienced. You simply don't have someone "offed" because they've stumbled onto a social bondage club. Nevertheless, it was still somewhat frightening to have my suspicions confirmed. Not that 58A had any idea of the way I was reacting to her words. By this stage I'd blindfolded her with her own pair of long gloves and was thrashing her with my belt every time she volunteered information that I deemed useful. She strained against the curtain cord binding her to the bedposts as I strapped her breasts again and again, leaving angry red marks on her milky white bulbs. That was the deal we worked out - that I'd belt her with the same force I'd used on Susan back in the Club, if she answered my questions to the best of her ability. When I was satisfied I'd gotten all the information that I could out of her, I stuffed a wash towel as far as I could into her mouth and tied it in place with my necktie. Then I proceed to aim by blows at her exposed slit, and continued thrashing her until she was sobbing into her thick gag. Later she thanked me for the beating and begged me to fuck her the next time I decided to do the same. ***** We stayed on the move for the next three weeks. I kept an eye on the newspapers and the local television news, half expecting a story about a criminal on the run from the police with my name and appearance. But it never happened. Evidently, The Club had decided to clean up its own mess. 58A and I had developed a fairly specific pattern. Wake up, untie her, clean up, check out, hit an ATM (if need be), find a new hotel, pay cash under an assumed name, and head to our room. There, I'd bind her again and proceed to "punish" her for whatever discretion I could think off. I'd bought the two of us new clothes, as well as a large supply of rope, tape and bandannas. So I'd often point out an un-tucked shirt, at which point she'd beg me to discipline her. It was almost as if she needed it - and I was too afraid not to comply after the way I'd seen her handle the cabbie. Plus, at the back of my mind was the sneaking suspicion that she could snap back into her proper programmed state at any time. Hence I'd always take my time binding her. I'd make sure the rope was tight enough to pinch, the blindfold secure enough to work effectively, and the gag layered enough times to make it difficult to breathe as well as silence. Usually, I'd punish her with a thrashing from my belt, but sometimes, I'd get inventive and employ breast and crotch bondage as forms of punishment. When I was done, I'd tie her less strenuously, but equally as securely, and we'd drift off to sleep alongside each other. I wrestled with my conscience for five days, but eventually caved into my desires. Susan wasn't coming back to me, so why should I hold out for her? Consequently, on that night, having tied 58A to the light fixture in the room and whipped her until welts were forming, I spread her legs wide and forced my way into her without a word. Within minutes she had orgasmed around my cock - the extra stimulation too much after a near on week of being bound, blindfolded, gagged and punished. I kept fucking her, however, until the ache in the base of my balls brought tears to me eyes and I exploded inside her. From that point on, our nightly ritual changed slightly to incorporate mutual sexual gratification. ***** My original plan had been to head home on the seventh day to grab what I could, but on the sixth, the lead story was of a gangland style slaying of a man as he walked along a busy city street. He'd been shot four times in front of witnesses as a car sped by. Two in the chest, and two in the head. I recognised the man's photo instantly. Our cab driver. I opted to wait a little longer. ***** At the time, I wasn't sure why I eventually picked that Thursday to go back home. It just seemed right. Later, it became fairly obvious why. Mr Chaswell had once asked me to pass along a message to Susan: "Six weeks to go". Somehow, I must have let that piece of information influence my decision subconsciously. Because it was six weeks to that day that I stood in front of my apartment door, key in hand, wandering if it was even going to fit the lock any longer. *****
THE LAST LAUGH I'm grinning as I type this. Mainly because I'm imagining how you Members of the Club must be reacting as you read this. Shock? Dismay? Fear? I'm guessing, of course, but I'd wager that you're feeling all of the above. You were all probably praying to whatever you believe in that I wasn't going to say anything about "The Word" - or even that I'd somehow managed to misconstrue what I heard. And now I'm about to dash that hope with what I've written below. So why did I wait this long to share this invaluable piece of information? Well, that's easy to answer. If I had have started my tale with a "Here's the way to make an incredibly beautiful group of female assassins yours for the taking!", how many people do you think would have believed me? That's right, none. Not a fucking soul. In fact, the moderator would probably have never even posted the first parts of my "story". But THIS way, I've established credibility. Certain readers have been following my misadventures over a fortnight now, so they know (or at least suspect) that I'm on the level. And if that's the case, the thing that they're going to have freshest in their mind at the end of this piece is the very Command Word that you all strive so hard to protect. But enough of my gloating. Time to spill ... ***** Despite my initial misgivings, my key slid easily into the lock. I grinned at 58A who was hovering protectively by my side. "Are you pleased, Master?" "Very," I said, and put my finger to my lips in a sushing gesture. I figured there was no point in announcing our arrival to anyone who might be lurking inside. I pushed the apartment door open gently. Steeling myself, I started forward after the swinging door in a half-crouch, but 58A stopped me with a firm grip on my shoulder. "What?" I mouthed. She frowned at me, and motioned for herself to lead the way into my old apartment. Given that she was the trained assassin, I agreed she had a point and made room for her to move past me. Somehow moving silently on the balls of her booted feet, 58A eased her way inside. I watched her glance from left to right . . . and suddenly rear back in surprise. An instant later, a black baton crashed into the side of 58A's head, knocking her unconscious to the floor. Without even thinking, I was throwing myself through the doorway and at her assailant. We went down together in a flailing jumble of arms and legs. I came out lying on top of the baton-wielder, and used this advantage to recover my balance first. Leaping to my feet, I aimed a vicious kick at my opponent's midriff - but stopped it in mid-arc as the "he" turned out to be a gorgeous "she". And more particularly, MY one time gorgeous "she". Susan was decked out from neck to toe in black. Black turtle-necked sweater, black lycra leggings, black leather wrist-length gloves, and black knee high boots. In short, she looked incredible. As she warily climbed to her feet, I noticed there were deep indentations in the corners of her mouth - as if she had recently been gagged, and gagged tightly. Twenty whole seconds had passed since the moment I'd recognised her, and still neither of us had said a word. For a crazy moment, I wasn't even sure she knew who I was, but then . . . "You shouldn't have come back." There was no warmth in her words whatsoever. "You shouldn't be in my apartment," I responded She took a sudden step to the left and all of a sudden we were circling each other like opponents in a gladiatorial arena. "I'm ordered to be here." "Oh yeah? By who? And why?" She smiled coldly. "My Master. The why should be fairly self-explanatory." "Your Master? Jesus, Susan. What the hell happened to you? I thought . . . I thought we were in love." There. A flicker. Just a shadow and it was gone, but a flicker nonetheless. I pressed on before she could respond. "I mean, what was it that The Club offered you that I didn't? If you wanted more in our bondage games, you just should have said so." I'd gotten through to one Angel in this manner, and I figured it was worth trying on another. "Don't you remember the whipping I gave you on stage? You can't tell me your Master or anyone else at The Club has given you better than that!" Susan was breathing noticeably harder by now, and I could see a gleam in her eyes. Our circling of each other was also slowing - something that I took to be a good sign because she no longer looked as if she was going to leap for my exposed throat. "What is it about The Club that's worth selling your soul for? Especially when you had everything you wanted before you joined?" She stopped circling completely, and I did the same. "B-Bondage Club . . . is everything," she managed to say. I decided to push her harder. "C'mon, that's bullshit and you know it. I can SEE you're doubting The Club - despite their programming, despite your training, despite everything." That was when her defenses must have kicked in. Instead of biting, she turned on her heel and strolled across the room, chanting: "The first rule of 'Bondage Club is that you don't talk about Bondage Club'." "No! Listen to me. You can't let them win. Don't give into it." I was becoming desperate. This was my last chance, and my emotions began to cloud the words that flew from my mouth. "Fight it Susan, fucking fight!" She turned then and stared at me - eyes narrowed, lips curled, deep indentations in the corners of her mouth. The earlier confusion gone. In despair, I snarled: "Enough of this shit. Just tell me what the fuck 'Bondage Club' is." Her eyes narrowed further, and her marked mouth twisted into a lop sided smile. "The first rule of Bondage Club is that you do not talk about Bondage Club. And besides, " she added after a pause, "I would have thought the traitor Angel would have told you all about it." "She did, but I want to hear it from you. I want to hear how they got to you." I strode purposefully toward her. "And I'm going to MAKE you tell me." A new voice stopped me cold. "That will be quite enough, Mr Kendalli." I recognised the voice even before I laid eyes on its owner walking from the bathroom, holding a 9mm Barretta that was pointed at the centre of my chest. "Hello Chaswell," I said with fake pleasantry. "I wish you would have called in advance to let me know you were stopping by. I would have prepared a proper reception." Chaswell smiled thinly as he strolled to a stop thirty feet from me. "Quite the contrary, Mr Kendalli." He emphasised the 'Mr' as if slightly annoyed by the way I'd purposefully dropped his title. "113F and I have been awaiting your return for quite some time. But fear not, we've found ways to . . . occupy ourselves." My eyes darted across to focus on the gag marks at the corner of Susan's mouth. Although she stood between the two of us, her eyes held an unglazed look and her lips were forming were words silently. I could also see that her brow was furrowed, perhaps in intense concentration. "Now 113F," continued Chaswell. "It's time to finish what we came here to do." A groan from behind me interrupted Mr Chaswell's instructions. A glance over my shoulder revealed 58A to be climbing to her feet slowly. "Ahh, my lost Angel! So good to see you alive. Perhaps now you're ready to return to the fold?" "Never," hissed 58A. "I serve only my Master." Before she'd even finished speaking the last word, "my" Angel was darting across the open room between herself and Mr Chaswell. She moved quicker than any human being had a right to, but I knew it was a fruitless attempt. 58A was fast, but Mr Chaswell had sixteen very speedy friends on his side and it would only take one of them to stop her cold. He did not fire, however. Instead, he simply spoke one word very clearly. "Remorhaz." The effect was instantaneous. 58A stopped to a complete halt within three steps - just before she could launch her self from the couch in the middle of the room and at her target - and slid to her knees, head bowed. Susan, too, had ceased her silent mouthing and now stood with closed eyes and lowered head. "How the fu-" "You don't think we failed to plan for the possibility that one or more of our Angels might get of line do you?" He laughed. "The word 'Remorhaz' is the first and most basic part of every potential Angel's programming. It is in fact the basis for the remainder of their training and programming. Whenever an Angel hears the word, she effectively shuts down - like a computer saving itself from a particularly insidious virus. And when she boots back up, it's with all original programs restored." He paused gleefully. "In other words, the once corrupted Angel belongs again to The Club." At that point, I knew I was dead. There was nothing else I could do. My "wild card" had played itself and I'd come up short. I knew it, and so did the smug bastard pointing the gun at me. "Well Mr Kendalli, I really have no more time to waste, so I'm afraid this is goodbye." He raised the Baretta's barrel slightly to point at the centre of my forehead. I gritted my teeth and waited for the end. The report of the gun going off intermingled with the sound of a piercing shriek as Susan suddenly threw herself across in front of me. Her graceful dive ended as the bullet hammered into her upper chest, dropping her like a lead weight. For just a second I stood there, unable to comprehend that I wasn't dead - but that the woman I loved most likely was. And then I was moving, incomprehensible rage fuelling my flight. I crossed the first fifteen feet between myself and Chaswell in what felt like a nanosecond, because he was only raising the gun to fire at me as I leapt off my couch and arrowed through the air towards him. He was too slow, of course. He'd had his chance, but killing his prized new recruit instead of his target had rattled him just enough. I slammed into him before he had the chance to fire, and together we tumbled to the floor. I slammed a balled fist up and into his bulging stomach as we rolled to a halt - this time, my opponent on top of me. Then I reached up and grabbed the sides of his hair and slammed my forehead into the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted onto my face in a fast torrent, stinging my eyes and filling my mouth. Chaswell took the opportunity to smash a fist into my jaw and scamper off me. But I snaked a hand out and caught his trouser leg, and little by little drew myself up as he tried to pull away. I threw myself across him, shoving him down onto the cold hardwood floor of my apartment, and then crashed a fist into his right kidney. Chaswell floundered beneath me as I managed to straddle his squirming body. "Please," I heard him whine. "Please stop!" I grabbed him again by the sides of his head and slammed his head into the floorboards once . . . "Die . . ." . . . twice . . . " . . . you . . ." . . . three times . . . " . . . FUCKER!" . . . and kept hammering it until I was holding little more than a pulpy mass in my blood-drenched hands. Tasting bile, I stood and staggered over to where Susan lay in a pool of slowly spreading blood. I knelt down beside her, and brushed her gorgeous hair from her gorgeous face. A pair of unfocused, unblinking eyes confronted me. Biting down hard on my lip, I turned away and found myself staring at 58A. She was still kneeling on the floor but was evidently beginning to stir as the muscles in her legs and arms were twitching. Hurriedly, I rushed across to the drawer where Susan and I had kept out ropes, scarves and cuffs and gathered up a handful of restraining items. I had no idea whether Mr Chaswell had been lying about what would happen when my one-time Angel woke up, but at this stage of proceedings I wasn't about to take any chances. I swiftly bound 58A tightly. Hands together in palm to palm fashion so I could also cinch her elbows together as tightly as possible. That done, I wrapped and cinched rope around her ankles, knees, and upper thighs, before attaching her wrists to her ankles in a back-arching hogtie. She was awake by this time and staring at me coldly, but she never spoke a word as I stuffed two handkerchiefs in her mouth and tied them in place with a thin rope as a mouth stretching cleave gag. Over that I wadded another handkerchief, being careful to prod the edges of it into the small recesses remaining behind her upper and lower gums. An ace bandage was last, wrapped first in between and then over her lips to further muffle any sound she could have made. My final words to her were a whispered "I'm sorry", to which she responded with a glare that should have killed me on the spot. It was obvious that Chaswell had been telling the truth - "Remorhaz" worked. Which meant from this point, I would be using it to stay one step ahead of The Bondage Club and all its affiliated Chapters. ***** I wish there had been time to grieve for Susan. But while I knew that Chaswell would never again bother me, I was equally aware that there was entire network of affiliated Chapters who would be baying for my blood And as a result, I've been running now for almost two and a half months now. More on that soon. *****
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