Hotel duLoc

by Peter Loaf


       Christine sits by the window and watches the snow covered French alps passing by outside.  The train car is overheated, overcrowded and stuffy.  With every fleeting minute she knows herself to be further from rescue, further from home, further from her Master.
       She thinks about what her Master has told her about her destination and shudders in happy anticipation, very aware of how she must smell to her fellow passengers.
       The way she smells is not Christine’s fault.  Its her Master’s fault, its God’s fault.  Her Master says she’s just made in such a way that when she gets sexually excited she sweats pheromones like a sow and gushes pussy juice like a ditch pump.  He also says that he loves her natural scent more than any man-made perfume and that she must never wear anything to cover it up.
       And how can she not be excited?  This train is taking her to the Hotel duLoc, one of the premier BDSM spas in the world.
       She glances at her compartment mates, noting that two of the men are holding their hats in their laps and sweating almost as much as she is.  The other man is twitching his handsome nose and looking around as if wanting to accuse someone of passing gas.
       Sitting across from the handsome man is his traveling companion, a hard looking, dark eyed blond woman who returns Christine’s glance with a stern look of promise.
       Christine smiles at her, re-crosses her legs, and meets her gaze, feeling as if she is being grilled in a police station basement.  After a moment of intense linkage Christine jerks her eyes away from the woman’s and looks back out the window, suddenly afraid of what she is to do.
       The train slows, pulls into a station and she sees the name duLoc, painted on the station wall.
       Her knees are rubbery as she gets up to grab her gym bag from the overhead storage compartment.  She is horrified to see that she has left a wet spot on the seat cushion and realizes that there must be a matching stain on the back of her red Spandex mini skirt.
       The sexual exposure of it makes her heart thump, her pussy gush anew.
       She watches in the window as, behind her, the two hat men elbow each other and share the silent joke.  The handsome man and his companion stand up as well, each pulling on matching black leather trench coats that look like they should have Death’s Head lapel pins and red and black swastika arm bands.
       When the train stops, Christine opens the door and climbs down, the task made difficult by her tight skirt and too high heels.
       Coatless, shivering in the crisp mountain air, she walks away up the platform, feeling every eye watching her, aware that everyone can see the big wet stain spreading across her butt, feeling her turned on body responding to their attentions in ways that are older than mankind.
       Beneath her white silk blouse, her suddenly chilled nipples are aching, fist hard and puckered, tenting the thin silk in two perfect points.  Between her thighs, her naked, shaved labia are swollen and dripping, her pussy juice running in rivulets down her inner thighs, soaking the tops of her white silk stockings.  Not for the first time, she wishes her Master allowed her to wear underwear.  But she know that he likes her, as he says, “bare and bubbling.”
       She sees a liveried footman holding a slate with Hotel duLoc painted across the top and her name chalked under it and walks over to where he stands.  “I am Christine Maxwell,” she says, shivering from more than just the mountain chill.  She senses someone close behind her and looks back to find the couple in the trench coats have followed her and are now standing directly behind her, so close that she could not turn and run, even if she wanted to.
       “The carriage is this way, Ms Maxwell,” the footman says in heavily accented English, taking Christine’s gym bag.  Then to the two behind her, he says, “Welcome back Countess Von Hilde, Major Denton. So nice to see you two again.”
       The major says something in French that Christine does not catch and the two men chuckle as if sharing a joke.  She has learned that if you do not get a joke, it is probably on you.  She blushes without knowing the reason why and follows the three out to a waiting open carriage.
       Christine is sitting facing the trench coated couple as they wait while the footman loads the luggage and then joins the driver up on the high seat.  With a lurch, the carriage starts forward, catching Christine unprepared and upsetting her back so that her two companions get a good sun lit look up her too short skirt.
       As the horses begin to pull the carriage up the rocky hill toward the hotel, the major says, in a clipped, upper class English accent, “You look cold, madam, may I offer you my coat?”
       She looks longingly at the warm garment then thinks about the wet spot she would leave in its lining, sighs and says, “My Master has sent me here, dressed as I am.  I would not disobey him.”
       The Major smiles in a way that makes her think of a jungle cat and says.  “As you will, madam.” and settles back into his seat, his eyes so full of fire she suddenly feels all hot and sweaty again, despite the chill.
       She remembers what her Master has told her about her destination.  The Hotel duLoc is a fifteenth century castle, built high on an outcropping of naked rock by a Duke born on the wrong side of a blanket.  Having for enemies his own half brothers, the Duke built his castle strong.  It needed to be, before standing ten years it had been besieged three times.  Each time the thick stone walls and commanding position had withstood the siege, keeping the defenders safe and well fed from its labyrinth of underground warehouse caverns and cisterns.
       Now, wired for electricity, plumbed, heated and glazed, it provides the perfect place to explore one’s sexuality.  She twists her neck, looking up at the castle, again shivering with anticipated pleasure.
       The Englishman clears his throat and says, “If I may be so forward, madam, might I introduce The Countess Von Hilde?”
       Christine nods to the dark eyed woman, feeling like a mouse locking eyes with a swooping owl.
       “And I am Major Guy Denton, retired, late of Her Royal Majesty’s Household Guard.  We will be your personal trainers during your stay at the Hotel.”
       “Oh, I see!” she says, feeling the wet spot on the back of her mini skirt getting wetter.
       His eyes move down to where her mini skirt almost hides her crimson, swollen sex.  “When your Master told the hotel of your desires, they naturally sent for us.”
       As they pass under the castle’s huge iron portcullis she finds herself unable to move, unable to protest, unable to articulate her feelings.  She is now a prisoner.  For the next three days she will be kept naked and helpless.  She will suffer the tortures of the dungeon, the pain of the lash.  And, hopefully, she will know the passion of the Gods.

* 2 *
       Watching from a tower window, a large professional video camera held to his eye, Mark Gantry records his lovely young love slave getting down out of the carriage.  He smiles to see that she has obeyed his orders and traveled half way around the world, dressed like a cheap prostitute.  He loves how she always obeys his orders, even when, as now, they cause her intense embarrassment.
       She knows that her obedience is the foundation of their relationship.  The towering love he feels for her is built upon the cornerstone of her submission.  She knows that if she wants to continue their relationship she must obey him.  She also knows that her slavery is completely voluntary, knows that until she says the secret word (No) she will belong to him in every way.
       This weekend, she is here to learn that a possession can be shared.  And that, after being shared, the possession can be reclaimed.
       He smiles at that thought, his plans for her spooling out in his mind’s eye.
       He turns to watch Molly work a computer console, filming Christine’s entrance through a system of hidden high tech video cameras and directional microphones.  He watches as Molly pans Christine across the castle’s great hall, zooming tight to record how tightly puckered her nipples have become in the cold morning air.  Next, as Christine is approaching the hotel desk, Molly catches a good tight close-up of the wet spot.
       Keeping her eyes on the monitor, Molly speaks.  “She’s got plenty of spunk Gantry, I’ll give her that.”
       “Spunks like a ditch pump.” he chuckles, his member hardening at the thought of her wet and ready pussy.  “Doesn’t scream as much as I like, but makes up for it in intensity.
       On the computer screen Molly selects a close-up of Christine’s face as she is signing the hotel register.  She then zooms in to get a look into her eyes, mumbling approval as she sees the unmistakable signs of zoning.
       “Next to you and jenny, she is the finest little sex slave I’ve ever known.” he says, smiling at his own good fortune.  “It’s too bad you don’t have smellavision.  As good as she looks, she smells twice as good.
       “Perhap$ we can bottle it?” Molly says, the dollar sign pronounced.
       Mark knows that Molly loves money, who doesn’t?  But he still marvels at how dollar $ign$ $ometimeS creep into her $peach.
       Getting up so that jenny can take over the control board, Molly says, “Be sure to get long, lingering close-ups of her pussy, the customers have been bitching about your lack of focus lately.”
       jenny meets her Mistresses gaze and shudders with the knowledge of what might happen to her should too many complaints come in.  Staying the premier BDSM site on the internet is a constant up-hill battle.
       Taking Mark’s elbow, Molly leads him over to a couch.  “Sit down, I’ll get us some coffee.”
       Mark sits, marveling at the power of this little cat-like female.  While in the purely physical sense, Moll Flanders is a petite young brunette, 155cm, fifty kilos, 29 years old, spiritually, she is at least three meters tall, strong willed as a locomotive and as ageless as a Goddess.
       The first time Mark met Molly was three years ago in her now famous North Beach club.  He’d been showing three visiting Japanese businessmen around San Francisco one night (Which was a joke, because he lives in Chicago) when one of them spotted the Moll Flanders Club and started a jabber-fest.  Mark had never heard of the place, but they seemed to know all about it and wanted to go there right away.  So he dropped them off at the door then went in search of a safe parking place for his rented Town Car.
       It wasn’t until he got back to the club that he knew it was a BDSM joint.  Bondage had always been Mark’s guilty secret, his private fantasy.  If he’d had a choice he would not have entered the club at all for fear of exposing too personal a part of himself.  But he had no choice.  His guests had gone in here and he had to join them.
       When he got inside they were sitting at a table up close to the stage, intently watching a completely naked young woman trying to cope with a head box and a set of steel ankle and wrist stocks that held her hands down between her widely spread feet.

       Supported by a chain hoist suspended from a track in the ceiling, the head box cut its prisoner off from the outside world while at the same time exposing her nude body to anything and everything.
       There were two other women on the stage, both dressed to kill in high heels, black net stockings and split skirts.  jenny, the blond was pretty much naked from the waist up, dressed only in an open fishnet teddy and a push up bra that did not cover her nipples.  The brunette, Molly, sat at the piano and played as the other danced and sang.  jenny was dancing around the helpless woman, using a wicked looking riding crop to caress her ringed nipples, her spread inner thighs, her dripping, wide open sex, all the while singing a jazzy, passionate version of Feelings.
       The girl in the head box was doing her level best to escape, but fixed as she was, there was little danger of that happening.
       The crop was her only connection to the outside world, her only assurance that that world still existed.
       Mark found myself in a kind of a trance.  He could feel the frustration of the prisoner, the helplessness, the sense of sexual exposure, the rising passion.  More important, he realized, he was getting whiffs of her musky pre-cum.  They were sitting so close that her pheromones were washing over them like a kind of invisible surf.  Under the table, his cock was growing hard as a bar of iron.
       When the song was done the girl in the head box was moaning in passion, obviously on the verge of orgasm, her open pussy seeming to gulp air as she humped her hips up to meet the crop’s snapping cracker.
       The singer knelt behind the shuddering prisoner and began to caress her helpless, sweat covered body, saying, “Do we have any more contestants for I Can Take It Night?  Is there any one of you who’s got the cajones to join our little amateur here on the stage?
       It was at that moment that one of Mark’s Japanese friends noticed his woody under the table.  Soon the entire club knew that he was all saddled up and ready to ride.
       He found himself standing up, his big cock tenting his Dockers, his face flushed, his desire for the prisoner sweeping aside his common sense.
       Mark walked up onto the stage to the applause of the club, letting his cock point the way.  jenny whistled softly, standing up and coming to greet him with a “Well hello sailor!” that got a laugh from everyone, even his Japanese guests.
       “What is your pleasure tonight, big boy, top or bottom?” jenny asked, stepping around behind him to look approvingly at his tight buns and wide shoulders, getting another round of laughter and applause.
       He found himself confused.  What on Earth had made him come up here?  He looked down at the prisoner at his feet and said.  “I guess I want to help you top her some more.”
       “She sure needs topping.” jenny said, then to the crowd asked, “Shall we let him show us his stuff?”  The people clapped and cheered, shouting encouragement.
       On the floor, the girl in the head box was doing her level best to escape her restraints enough to masturbate.  She was getting nowhere, of course, but it was an interesting thing to watch.
       “Well, rule one is if you fuck her be sure to use this.” jenny said, holding up a stud covered condom.
       Mark looked at the condom and asked, “I can really fuck her?”
       “Fuck her, suck her, lick her, trick her, anything you want.  Fixed like that she won’t give you any trouble.  It’s just that if you go too far she might give the safety signal and that will be the end of her part of the show.”
       “Safety signal?”  Mark asked, his hands itching for the helpless girl sitting on the floor.  In the back of his head what remained of his rational self asked, “Her part of the show?”
       “My, you are new in town, aren’t you?”  joked Molly, mugging to the laughing crowd.  “The house safety signal is `Shave and a haircut, two bits’  If for any reason she says, hums or even knocks out its rhythm, the party is over.  Until she does that, however, we have her consent to continue.”
       “Shave and a haircut?”  he said, kneeling behind the helpless nude and drilling her in the back with his cock while grasping her breasts so that her nipple rings stuck out between his knuckles.
       From inside the head box there came a muffled muttering, a hint of angry impatience, of impotence, of frustrated, helpless desire.  His fingers caressed her body, unhampered by anything she could do.  Soon her box muffled mutterings had moderated, becoming almost pleading in tone.  His cock was pressing against her back, its heavy promise hot, hard and throbbing, his musky scent finding its way into her nose and though it, directly to her hindbrain.
       He forgot about the thirty people watching and began to zone in on the helpless captive in the head box.  He caressed her body, as if trying to calm a skittish colt.  He toyed with her, tugging on her nipple rings, tickling, caressing, pinching, slipping two fingers into her open vulva and reaching high up inside to massage her g spot.  Soon her love muscle was convulsing around his fingers in a kind of promise, a kind of incitement, a kind of linkage.
       He had never seen this woman’s face, yet here he was, about to fuck her in front of thirty people.
       Inside the box, the faceless girl was panting in helpless passion, obviously deep in her slave state, ready for his touch, obviously waiting to be fucked, wanting the payoff.
       He wanted to do it, ached to do it,  But he couldn’t.  It was just too personal.  He stood up as if to leave the stage, only to be confronted by Molly and jenny, each armed with a wicked looking black and white braided leather whip.
       “Where ya goin’ dog boy?”  jenny asked, limbering out her whip.
       Mark could not believe what was happening to him. when he tried to move toward the edge of the stage jenny’s whip struck, leaving his left calf feeling as if it had been sliced to the bone.  Jerking from that pain he felt Molly’s whip sting his right shoulder, raising a painful welt two inches long across his upper arm.
       The entire club was on its feet, cheering the two women on as they expertly used the whips to drive him back to cower against the stage’s rear wall.  Once he was trapped, held at bay by the threatening whips, jenny ordered him to strip.
       When at first he did not obey she popped another pain star onto his thigh that nearly made him fall.  He looked into the two women’s faces and knew himself lost.  He looked down at the orgasmic prisoner in the head box and suddenly knew the real reason he’d walked up onto the stage.  He opened his jacket and began loosening his tie.
       As he removed his shirt there was a satisfied muttering from the crowd.  He was glad he took care of his body, proud of his lean, hard, well muscled chest.
       When he lowered his Dockers his big cock popped up out of his boxers, looking like a railroad semaphore.  The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering so loud he was encouraged to strip tease just a little as he lowered his boxers, getting into the spirit of the thing.
       As he was standing on one foot, pulling off his second sock, Molly snapped her whip around his support ankle and yanked, dumping him on his butt.
       “Don’t move, dog boy!” jenny said, standing over him, ready to strike as the other woman knelt to apply a set of ankle shanks, hobbling him and making him their plaything.
       Behind the two black clad women, the crowd cheered and offered obscene suggestions.  It was as if he were living out his most treasured wet dream.
       The blindfold was made of leather and it blocked out all light when Molly strapped it to his head.  Mark started to lift a hand to feel it but jenny’s whip popped and his hand suddenly felt as if it had been stung by a giant wasp.  “Do not try to save yourself now, dog boy, its already far too late.” jenny’s voice said, as she forced her knee between his legs to spread his knees and then pin his throbbing cock to the stage floor.
       Molly, done with the blindfold, began to buckle a dog collar around his neck.  As she worked, she whispered, “Steady on big fella, we haven’t lost a customer in a couple of months.”
       Finished with the buckling, Molly began to caress his naked, freshly whipped body, forcing him to feel his nudity, his passion, his need.

       jenny’s voice said, “Walk like a dog walks, dog boy.” and he felt her whip being none too gently wrapped around his throat.
       Getting to his hands and knees, his ankles snubbed in chain, he crawled across the stage, blindly following the leash, moving to where the girl in the head box waited.
       “Now fuck her dog boy, and it had better be good.”  Molly’s voice whispered into his ear.
       The crowd noise lessened and the piano began to vamp the old Billie Holiday standard All Of Me.  As jenny began to sing, Mark went to work on the girl in the head box, doing his fumbling best to obey Molly’s orders.
       He began by shortening the chain hoist attached to the top of the head box, lifting her bottom off of the floor.  Working by feel, he helped her get her shackled feet beneath her so that she was soon balanced there, her ass sticking out like an invitation to the dance, unable to sit back down.
       He wanted to take her, then and there, driving his aching cock deep into her so perfectly presented pussy.  But Molly’s orders had held such menace that he thought he’d better make a good show of it first.
       He knelt behind her and began to caress her straining, helpless body, finding in the process that her waiting had not been in vain.  She was deep in her slave state, her fevered pussy still as hot, wide and juicy as ever.  Reaching under her, he felt how her ringed nipples remained tight and excited, how hot was her well cropped flesh, how sweat dewed, how horny.
       Aware that his every movement was being watched by thirty loud, half drunk critics and, more importantly, by two women with whips, he began to massage the captive’s nipples with one hand and her out-thrust bottom with the other.
       The pleading sounds from inside the head box told him and the crowd that here was a submissive deep in her slave state.
       A man in the crowd shouted.  “Give her a mustache ride dog boy, you know you want to!”
       Mark wanted to, her dripping pussy smelled so good his tongue was getting thick.  He considered how best to do it, fixed the way she was fixed.  He tried kneeling behind her and bending his neck so as to reach in under her, but found the position awkward, good enough for clit licking but hard to get any true vaginal penetration with his tongue.
       Without warning a whip popped against his bare bottom and Molly’s voice said, “Lie down on your back dog boy, we’ll fix her up for a face sit.”
       Shocked by the sudden explosion of pain in his ass, Mark almost bit off the tip of his own tongue.  The whip’s impacts on his clothing covered flesh had been unbearable.  On bare flesh, it was twice as painful.  He quickly obeyed, truly afraid of another blow.
       “Spread your arms dog boy, we’re going to fasten you down.” came jenny’s voice, kneeling next to him.
       In seconds it was done, he was lying flat on his back, shackled down at wrists and collar, his big purple headed erection sticking up like a smoke stack.
       Still blind, he lay there and listened as the two women worked on the other captive, passing a support strap under her arms and across the upper slopes of her breasts then attaching it up the hoist hook so that her slim neck was no longer supporting so much weight.
       Attaching a length of chain from her wrist/ankle bar up to the same hoist hook above her, they suspended her in a sitting position above the stage then rolled her chain hoist trolley over so that her pussy was positioned directly over Mark’s face.
       As jenny was padlocking his ankle hobble down to a fourth tie-down ring, Molly was turning the spike covered condom inside out so that the dozens of sharp rubber spikes became dozens of sharp teeth.
       “Lick her dog boy, but you better not make her come until I give permission.”  Molly said, working the spike lined condom/cock sleeve down onto his throbbing organ and securing it there with a drawstring cord she tied around his balls.
       Needing no further incentive, Mark went to work on the open pussy swinging above his nose, lifting his face and quickly getting it covered it in the hanging young woman’s passion juice.  After a while someone, Molly he thought, came and squatted down on his latex sheathed organ, becoming the mythical toothy cunt of his fantasies.
       Over the course of the next ninety minutes he learned many things, wonderful things, disturbing things, life changing things.
       It was his first ever real time bondage experience and it was everything he’d ever dreamed it could be.
       Later, he found out that there had been cameras recording the show and almost swallowed his tongue when he found out how much Molly was willing to pay for the distribution rights.
       Taking the money and saying goodbye to his asshole boss in Chicago, Mark moved to North Beach to become one of Molly’s crew of lovers/actors/cameramen/talent scouts.
       Now, three years later, he is about to star in his twenty first Moll Flanders production.  His co-star is going to be Christine Maxwell, his latest discovery.
       Christine has no idea about the cameras, they have found that things go smoother if the bottom doesn’t know her passion is being recorded.

* 3 *
       Knowing she won’t be needing it until Sunday, Christine leaves her bag at the hotel desk and follows the porter up to her room.  Her Master has booked her into one of the highest towers, so it is a long climb up a spiral stone staircase.  Following behind her, their view up under her miniskirt unobstructed, the countess and the major chuckle and make crude jokes.
       Acting like smoke up a chimney, the warm air of the great hall is rising up the stairs ahead of them, sweeping Christine’s fuck-me scent directly up from her frothing pussy to the porter’s twitching nose.  After a few seconds she sees the resulting erection straining at his trouser leg.  My god, is everyone here hung like my Master?  She thinks, feeling a fresh gush of pheromones running down to soak her stocking tops anew.
       Christine will always remember her first meeting with Master Mark.  He was sitting next to her on a airliner, flying first class to Japan for his employer, he said.
       As she always did, when flying, she’d taken every precaution she could think of to cover her body’s natural scent.  She’d worn a severe tweed businesswoman’s suit, with a jacket and knee length skirt.  She’d splashed on a repulsive cheap perfume.  She’d worn both a Tampon and an odor eater panty liner.  She’d smeared underarm deodorant over large areas of her body.
       Still, she saw his nose twitching even before he sat down.
       She is used to that twitch.  She’s been seeing it ever since about the time of her first period, when she was twelve.  First the nostrils twitch, then the eyes dart around the room, searching for the source of the scent, then come the hot stares, the leering looks and, of course, the crude propositions.
       Being cursed with the inability to hide her sexual impulses, her sexual thoughts, from anyone with a nose, she sat there, pretending to be reading a magazine, getting hornier by the minute.  Soon she was wishing she’d worn a maxi pad as well.
       Suddenly she realized, he was putting out almost as much as she was.  She bent down, pretending to be tying her shoe, so she could get a better sniff of him.  He smelled wonderful, better than any man with whom she’d ever swapped pheromones.
       She got out her compact, aware that her nose might be shiny.  Using its mirror, she studied his face as she repaired the damage done by the beads of sweat on her blushing cheeks.  He was a great looking man, dressed in a perfectly tailored Armani suit, looking like what he said he was, a man on a business trip.  But her nose was telling her he smelled like a sailor fresh into port after too many days at sea.
       During the next eight hours they talked, mostly about her.  Mark is a great listener, attentive, understanding and subtle.  Before she knew she was doing it she was telling him a sanitized version of her life story.
       Before they got half way to Tokyo they had decided to sleep together.  What could she do, deny the obvious truth?
       When they were walking through the airport she saw the chauffeur with her name on a piece of cardboard but she walked on by.  She had decided it would be better if she called and talked to his bosses directly.  Besides, she didn’t want Mark to start asking embarrassing questions.
       They took a taxi and checked into one of Tokyo’s premier hotels, asking for a suite of connecting rooms.
       The bell boy didn’t even bother to open her room’s door.  The knowing wink he gave them as they walked, hand in hand, into Mark’s room got him double the usual tip.
       The one thing she had not told Mark was her reason for coming to Japan.  To put it simply, she had come half way around the world to find sexual Mastery.  Someone who could safely take her where she dreamed of going.  Someone who would understand her desires and needs.  Someone like the Muzuma half brothers, Aki and Takashi, a pair of half American, half Japanese bondage practitioners she’d found advertising on the internet.  She had never tried real time bondage, thinking it too dangerous, but these guys were professionals, known world wide for their long, unbroken string of satisfied customers.
       But the moment she’d sniffed Mark’s fuck me scent she’d known the Muzuma brothers were going to have to wait.  Much as she wanted to experience real time bondage, the attraction she felt for this man was far more intense.
       “I need to make a phone call.”  She whispered in Mark’s ear as they hugged after the bell hop was gone.
       “Sure, its right over there.”  Mark said, a smile playing around his handsome features.
       Much as she wanted to let this man undress her, she dared not.  After an all day flight she needed a chance to freshen up, at least a quick shower.  Also, she needed a chance to get rid of her odor-eaters, lest he get the wrong idea.   Fresh pussy juice smells wonderful but when it gets a few hours old it begins to stink to high heaven.
       She walked to the phone, hyper aware of his eyes watching her ass.  She took out her address book and dialed a number she’d been given.  Waiting for the phone to be answered, she turned and met Mark’s gaze.  A woman’s “Hi!” came over the wire and she said, “Aki or Takashi please?”
       After a moment a man’s voice came on the phone and said, “Ms Maxwell?  Where are you?  We sent someone to the airport to pick you up but he tells us he couldn’t find you.”
       Christine watched Mark getting undressed as she said, “I’m sorry, but there has been a change of plans.  I don’t think I will be needing your help after all.” She met Mark’s eyes and smiled at him, rolling her eyes to show how tiresome life can be sometimes.  By this time he was dressed in nothing but skin, well tanned, well shaped, sweat moist skin.  His body, she realized, was as perfect as his face.
       “Are you sure Ms Maxwell?  We are all prepared for you here.”
       “Please accept my apologies for any trouble I’ve caused and if there are any expenses please bill them to my Master card.  You have the number.” she said, rolling her eyes for Mark’s benefit again.
       After hanging up, she excused myself and headed into the bath, expecting nothing out of the ordinary, just looking for a place to pee and get cleaned up.  But when she walked in she discovered it was like a palace in there.  As she took care of her business on the toilet she looked around the room.  There was a huge Japanese tub, big enough for six people, set down into the middle of the floor.  There was also a massage table, a tanning bed, a shower booth, a sink and a toilet.  Everything was either gold flecked mirrors, gold flecked black marble or bright shiny gold.
       Turning on the tub’s taps, she adjusted the temperature to the way she liked it (hot) and called out, “Do ya wanna take a bath?” in a good imitation of Dirty Girl in the Pink Floyd song; Young Lust.
       Mark came in the bathroom door, now dressed in a black silk kimono, holding two martinis in his hands.  “I found the bar, hope you like gin.”
       The tub was steaming and so was Christine.  She shut off the water, walked to him, took the drink from his hand and began to caress his silk covered chest, wanting him to need her as much as she was beginning to need him.
       Gulping down the gin, their eyes locked in silent mutual lust, they sat the drinks down on the edge of the tub and stood up to take each other in an embrace.  Her head enfolded in his strong, over-ripe scent, she heard him say, “Do I really smell that bad?”  As he spoke he unzipped her skirt and slipped it and her slip down off of her rump.
       “Not you, me!” she said, trying to look into his suddenly hooded eyes.  “I’m the one who stinks!”
       “We both stink my darling,” he said, slipping down her panties and gripping her bottom, “isn’t it wonderful?”  He filled his nose and shuddered, his big erection pressing against her navel.
       Lifting her by her bottom cheeks he hoisted her to lift her free of her clothing, then, switching the position of his hands, he lifted her higher to sniff at her swollen labia, his nose pressing in between her thighs.  Balanced high in the air on his strong hands, she seemed to melt inside, her desire for him wrapping her legs around his neck and pulling his face into her still unwashed pussy.  “Ahhhahah,” he shuddered, falling to his knees and burrowing his face in deeper, “this is wonderful!”
       She found herself needing him more than she’d ever needed any man.
       He began to suckle and chew on her swollen pussy lips, thrilling her and driving her half insane with lust.
       Struggling back to his feet, he carried her, his tongue high up inside her vulva, into the bedroom, where he had a surprise waiting for her.  It was a leather bondage hoodwink and several coils of rough Japanese hemp rope, laying on the pillow of the turned back bed.
       “What’s that?” she asked, gripping his tongue with her suddenly clenching love muscle.
       “Your passport to tantric sex, my darling.” he said, when he could get his tongue back.
       “Who told you I liked kinky stuff?” she said, getting down off his shoulders and backing away, trying to cover up her half naked body by stretching down her shirt tails.
       “My friends and business associates, Aki and Takashi Muzuma.” he said, grinning, her wetness smeared all over his face.  “I know all about you Christine.  All about your needs.  I have brought you here to give you what you want.”
       At the mention of the Muzuma brothers she felt the fear in her flowing away, leaving only confusion and lust.  Watching his eyes she slowly removed her suit jacket and blouse, meeting his desire with her own.  Tossing her nipple-proof bra onto the pile, she stood before him and posed, her hands clasped up behind her head, her feet well spread.
       “Your pictures do not do you justice.” he said, his voice husky, his fingers caressing her quivering, passion flushed body.  “But then what can you expect from self taken images?”
       “Please, Master me Master.” she said, finally giving into her need.  “Make me your sex slave.”

* 4 *

       When they reach the top of the tower she stands and waits as the lock is opened and the bolts are drawn back.  The door is oak, heavily reinforced with iron and six inches thick.  It is a door with an attitude.
       When the porter swings it open Christine steps forward, knowing that she won’t be coming out until Sunday night, three days and two nights from now.  Sixty hours of complete captivity.  Sixty hours in the hands of the countess and the major.
       The cell is large, considering how high above the ground it is, about ten meters square and equipped as both a torture chamber on one side and a luxury bedroom on the other.  The mountain sun is spearing in through the Eastern archer’s slits, drawing bright slices of light across the dark wooden furniture.
       As her eyes adjust, she shudders to see the instruments of her enslavement, all laid out and ready for use.  she walks around, inspecting the furnishings, the rack, the witches chair, the cropping stocks, the huge four poster bed and the other furniture.  She visualizes herself helpless and writhing in ecstasy with every lash of the whip.  Between her legs another gob of pussy juice runs down to soak into her stocking tops.  She hardly notices.
       She knows very well what is going to happen.  She and her Master worked on the scene notes for this together, putting in all the tortures she loves best.
       She sees her own hoodwink lying with some other bondage items on a carpet covered platform, looking just as frightening now as it did the first time she saw it, that night in Tokyo.
       That long and perfect night.
       “Strip.” the major says, using a key on a chain around his neck to lock the cell door from the inside.  The countess stands off to the side, removing her black leather coat and hanging it on a wooden hangar.
       Christine opens the buttons of her blouse, watching both of them watch her.  After a few intense seconds she is nude, her desire inflamed body on display.
       “Put this inside your pussy and pull these on to keep it there.” says the countess, handing her a vibrating egg and a red latex string bikini.
       She does as ordered, blushing as the egg forces a pussy fart out of her as it enters, then blushing again as it nestles up against her g spot, making itself felt all the way up to her hind brain.  The panties are made so that the crotch is studded with rows of rubber teeth and soon her pussy lips feel as if she’d sat on a doormat.
       “Put these on.” says the major, handing her a pair of opera length black latex gloves.
       Again she does as ordered, slipping her hands into the gloves and rolling the things on like you’d roll on a condom.
       “Kneel up on the pedestal and put yourself into the bondage your Master described in his scene notes.”  The countess says, opening her blouse to reveal her fishnet teddy.
       Christine crawls up onto the platform, feeling the egg shifting around within her with her every move, and begins strapping her legs in a tightly folded position that pulls her heels hard up against her bottom cheeks.

       When her legs are buckled tight and useless she begins the task of lacing the hoodwink to her own head.  As she tighten the laces she remembers the first time she wore this helmet, that wonderful first night in Tokyo.
       Her Master laced it for her that first time, tightening it and drawing the soft leather close around her face.  At first he left off the blindfold and gag, letting her get used to its discomforts one at a time.  Its cloying, airless warmth, its closeness, its implacable hold.  Then, gentling her like a colt, he added the blindfold and gag straps.
       She found myself suddenly blind and dumb, helpless to defend herself and so horny she was afraid to move.
       She felt her hands being pulled up high into the middle of her back and bound, her wrists lying parallel, each tightly bound to its opposite elbow behind her back, exactly as she’d requested in her e-mail to the Muzuma brothers.
       Step by meticulous step he bound her into the exact configuration she had described, the classic Japanese arm and upper body tie, complete with cooze rope and cross-eyed nipple nooses.
       Attaching a suspension rope to the knot above her arms, and two other ropes to her ankles, he then lead her, blind and stumbling, back into the bathroom, where he had her stand down in the knee deep hot water while he rigged the suspension rope up to a hook in the middle of the ceiling.  Then, hoisting her body up so that her toes no longer touched the tub’s bottom, he tied her off, leaving her suspended, her feet dangling in the hot water.
       Spreading her legs with the ankle ropes, he tied them out to the sides of the tub, leaving only her toes still in the water.
       His hands came to her then, pleasuring the parts of her that weren’t being tortured by his tight ropes, torturing the parts of her that were.  She was where she had wanted to be, experiencing in spades what she’d wanted to experience.  She was under discipline, safe from the possibility of doing wrong, safe from the sin of free will, free to know the full potential of her passion.
       It was as she had dreamed it would be.  She was free, nay, bound to feel her passion rising within her, her long suppressed sexual desires coming at last to fruition.
       During the next couple of hours she must have come twenty times.  Each one of those orgasms was more pleasurable than any she’d had before.  She had confirmed her suspicions.  She is, and always will be, a natural slave girl.

       Now, the hoodwink laced tight once again, she carefully wraps the thing’s collar around her throat, covering the knotted ends of the laces, and padlocking it closed, ensuring that the hoodwink will stay in place.  Dangling down her bare back she can feel the short chain and attached set of handcuffs that await her wrists.  She brings up the blindfold and fastens it in place over her own eyes, using the four snaps attached to the mask.  She feels around until she finds the gag then inserts it into her mouth, quickly, before she loses her nerve.  When the gag strap is buckled behind her neck and its snaps are snapped she is almost ready.

       All that remains is for her to bring her hands up into the middle of her back and to secure them into the dangling handcuffs.  This she does, feeling the flip-flop in her tummy that says she is now beyond the point of no return.
       She feels the excitement rising within her, unstoppable as a glacier, relentless as a pack of wolves.  She bounces up and down in her bondage, experimenting, discovering how the egg bounces and rattles against her g spot with each and every move she makes.
       Her nearly naked body, shining with sudden passion sweat, feels as if it has suddenly grown feelers, antenna that sense what is happening in the room she cannot see.  She hears a clink behind her and a slight tug that tells her she have been tethered in place by a dangling chain.  Now she can only sit here, shivering and shuddering as she waits for the nipple cropping she ordered.
       “We have much to do and little time to do it, Ms Maxwell.” The major’s voice comes from off to the side as Christine feels the countess spreading her knees wide and propping them open with a length of broom handle stuck between her knees.  “We thought we’d combine several of the, ahem, activities, to save rigging time.”
       The crop’s whistle is her only warning before the sharp, pistol shot impact against her inner right thigh, about half way between the leg strap and the knee prop.
       She surges against her bondage, knowing that she is going nowhere.  Knowing that she is going to suffer some before she gets her reward.  Again the cracker comes, this time to her left nipple, the blow setting fire to her tightly puckered patch of nerve filled flesh.  And again, and again the blows come, each designed to make her know her helplessness, her complete captivity, her rising passion.
       Suddenly it stops, leaving her body burning and nearly orgasmic, her breath whistling in and out through her nose, her gag garbled squeaks nasal and urgent.
       She feels a hand gripping the thong of her g string and suddenly her hips are lifted, back and up, leaving her hanging from her throat on one end and her clitoris on the other.  Unable to draw breath, she feels six quick cane slashes across her suspended ass and one across the soles of her feet before she is returned to her knees on the carpet.
       Humping in helpless passion, the vibrator within her vulva now going at double speed, the blackness of the hoodwink filled with star-shells of bursting passion, she begins to come.  It is a long, long time before she stops.


       Watching on the large video screen as Christine shudders through one last orgasm, Mark says, “God Damn, she makes me horny!”
       jenny chuckles from the control board, zooming one of her cameras on Christine’s bubbling sex as the now exhausted egg re-appears, its mission accomplished, in a fresh gush of pussy juice.
       Christine is now free of the dangling chain.  Instead, she is tethered down to the carpet covered platform by her collar, which has been snubbed down to a ring.  Her bent knees have been positioned up beneath her, lifting her bottom high into harm’s way.  She is still helpless in the handcuffs and leg straps, the bar between her knees is continuing to keep her legs spread, her pussy open and available.
       The countess’s hands catch the egg as it is expelled and set it aside, her voice saying, “We should bottle this powerful elixir of yours Christine, it smells Vonderbar.” She is speaking in a soft soothing voice, as if she were putting a child to bed.
       The major, now dressed in a loin cloth and hangman’s mask, is removing the hoodwink’s blindfold, allowing the captive to see for the first time in six hours.
       Moaning in exhaustion, Christine looks up at the major’s big cock straining against his loin cloth and knows her work is, as yet, undone.
       The gag has been in her mouth so long it is seems to have attached itself to her tongue.  Its removal is surprisingly painful, as is the insertion of the major’s hard cock in the gag’s place.  Mark feels his own organ throb at the sight of Christine sucking the major down, her red lips stark against the black hoodwink.
       jenny squirms in her own growing discomfort and switches cameras, catching up on what the countess is doing to the captive’s upended, cane welted, paddle pinked and nettle stung other end.  It is a good night pussy kiss with a two fingered g spot massage so tender and sweet jenny has to snort.  “The Countess Von Hilde likes your subbie, Mark.  You’d better be careful she doesn’t steal her away.”
       “Christine will go where she pleases.” Mark says, feeling the fist of regret clenching in his gut.  “She is more enslaved to pleasure, than to me.”  He confesses, knowing that for some, any Master who makes such an admission, automatically relinquishes the title.  The nice thing about Molly and jenny, he realizes, is that they know how switch he is, and being the same way, don’t hold it against him.
       Molly gets up from the recliner where she has been watching the show and gently shoves jenny out of the director’s chair.  “Let me spell you, jenny darling, your bladder must be bursting.”
       jenny gets up and tries to walk to the toilet, but before she’s gone three steps, is forced to run for it.  “You’d think she’d learn not to drink so much coffee on a day we’re filming.” Molly chuckles, panning a camera to watch the trainers putting their charge to bed for a well deserved nap.
       Still watching the large center screen, Mark says, “Shit, there is almost none of that six hours that need to be edited!”  He marvels, remembering the day’s events.
       “$he’$ exactly what we have been needing, a fre$h face $o to $peak.”  Molly chuckles, zooming on the Countess Von Hilde’s hands buckling the once again blindfolded Christine into a white canvas straight jacket.  “$he’$ going to put u$ $o far above the re$t of the pack they will think their $erver$ have cra$hed.”
       “You’re doing it again.” jenny says, returning to the room with more dignity than she left it. “The dollar $ign$ are back.”
       Molly looks around and says, “That’$ becau$e I need lot$ of money, ju$t to keep you in the $tyle you demand.”
       On the screen Christine is lying on the bed in her straight jacket, only the crotch strap as yet unbuckled.  She is having the hoodwink removed by the major who is saying, “Put the panties on her Countess, we don’t want her pussy to get cold.“
       jenny, now back in the director’s chair, gets a shot of the countess picking up a pair of black Spandex panties equipped with twin internal dildos.  “Yes Sir Major Sir, at your service, Sir, you pushy bastard.” she mutters for the benefit of her lapel mike but too low for the major to hear.
       “What was that?” the major asks, lifting the now unlaced hoodwink from Christine’s face.
       “Oh nothing.” says the countess, spreading grease on the twin dildos and meeting her captive’s eyes in order to avoid meeting his.
       The major looks at his teammate with a strange look in his eye and considers going off script just this once.
       Christine, too tired to protest that she needs to pee first, feels the panties being pulled up her legs, feels the twin dildos being pressed home inside her twin passages, feels the deeply powerful vibrations coming in waves that threaten to re-awaken her passions.
       “Oh God!  I need to pee!”  She cries, knowing that speaking without permission will only earn her extra punishment.

       “Don’t you dare pee this bed Christine, or you’ll spend the rest of the weekend lying in your own stink.” The countess says, reinforcing the panties with the jacket’s cooze strap, driving the final inch of the twin cocks into her body.
       jenny gets a good close-up of the major slipping the gag ball in behind Christine’s teeth, then buckling the strap behind her head.
       Lastly, they attach leather cuffs to the captive’s ankles and stretch them down out to the sides of the bed, spreading her legs achingly wide and positioning her in the bed’s exact center, directly under one of the hidden cameras and in view of six more.
       Christine knows that there are things in the scene notes to which she has not agreed, things that Mark added before sending them to the Hotel staff.  “Surprises” Mark called them.  She assumes this to be one of them.
       In the time Christine has known Mark he has never engaged in what she has always thought of as potty play.  When she’d needed to take a potty break he’d always let her do so, untying her and letting her have the privacy she needs, has always needed, when eliminating her wastes.  Each of us has a line beyond which we will not willingly go, hers is toilet functions.  Bladder training is simply beyond her comfort zone.  Mark understands this and has always honored her needs.  She wants to protest but can only grunt.
       “Have a nice nap darling, but don’t you dare wet the bed.” the countess whispers, bending over her captive and squeezing her canvas covered breasts with both hands before deserting her there, spread wide and helpless, filled with rattling plastic, stretched to bursting with hot urine, desperate, impotent, passionate.
       Because her canvas encased upper body is not fastened down, Christine is free to move around quite a bit, arching her back, rolling side to side, humping her hips, even sitting up a couple of times.  What she cannot do, is get her body, her pee hole, off of the bed.  If she pees, she will ruin the bedding.  If she doesn’t pee she will burst.  She holds on, chewing on the gag, fighting the ankle tethers, pleading for relief, knowing she will not get it.
       A half hour later the training of a lifetime is shattered as hot piss comes flooding out of her to soak everything.  It triggers the most intense orgasm Christine has yet known.  It leaves her nearly comatose, her body completely relaxed, her mind as quiet as a morning’s snowfall.


       When Christine awakes, it is dark outside.  The room is now lit only by dozens of gas candles set in brackets around the walls.  Then it gets darker as rough hands strap a blindfold over her eyes.  Still helpless in her straight jacket, she struggles a little, just for the look of the thing, knowing she will not escape.
       The countess stands off to her right, saying, “Now that you are all rested up, darling, it is time for your first caning.  As you know, in addition to the dozen your Master ordered there will be the three dozen you earned today by talking, coming and peeing, all without permission.”
       Christine feels lucky it is only three extra dozen.  In her Master’s notes it allows up to six.
       She feels her ankles being released from the side of the bed and her two trainers helping her up from the sodden mess she’s made of the bedding.  She is taken, staggering in blindness, still helpless in the piss soaked and stinking canvas restraint, across the room, to a hanging collar, positioned directly over a drain in the floor.
       Tethered, she feels her two trainers removing the straight jacket and dildo panties.  Her wrists are shackled out to the sides, as are her feet, spread-eagling her in a five way stretch.   The sound of a bucket sloshing and a sponge being wrung out informs her that she is about to be bathed.  The probe of the enema nozzle against the rosette of her asshole lets her know they intend to get her insides as clean as her outside.
       When the sponge first splats into her bare chest she discovers the water is snowmelt cold.  As the enema begins to flow into her colon, she discovers it is also cold . . . and carbonated!  She gets the peculiar sensation of a balloon being inflated in her rectum, sealing her asshole tight.  After a time she feels the enema hose being disconnected, leaving the anus cork in its place.
       They back away, leaving her standing spread eagle, shivering with cold and fear.  They are waiting for her body heat to release the carbon dioxide from the enema water, waiting for her tummy to begin to bulge with the growing gas pressure.
       The flogger’s first impact against her ass tells her they want her to dance.  Shivering, she goes into a bump and grind, her bondage precluding almost everything else.
       The pain in her stretching, cramping belly would have forced her into a ball of agony but the five way chains keep her from even that relief.  The floggers flog, now up between her spread legs, marking her swollen pussy lips with stripes of bright crimson, now across her ass so that first one cheek explodes, then the other.  The enema bubbles and expands within her and there is nothing she can do, not protest, not escape, not control her captors in any way.  Hell, she can’t even control her own bodily functions.  Her helpless person is nothing but their plaything.  Her sexuality, like the rest of her, belongs to her trainers.  It is theirs to mold, to shape, to guide.
       The slow but relentless splat, splat, splat of the flogger gives a rhythm to her dance of agony, to her passion, to her life.  The growing pain in her belly is soon counter-pointed by the by the flares of pain in her loins, the stabs of agony when the whip thongs tangle with the enema cork still clenched in her anus.
       Deprived of her vision, she finds her sense of touch multiplied, her sense of smell intensified, her hearing enhanced.  She can almost visualize the flogger’s many thongs whistling up between her legs, the thongs hitting her swollen pussy lips first and wrapping up to mark the swelling curve of her lower tummy with constellations of pain stars, galaxies of hurts, hurts that do not hurt so much as excite.
       Squeaking in passion, Christine passes into her slave state, becoming a being of pure, unrestrained lust.  She fights her chains, her hips humping, her pussy gulping, her vision full of skyrockets and supernovas, her mind fucked.
       Then, just as she is humping herself up to an orgasmic peak, the flogging ceases.  She is quickly released from the five way chains and helped, bent over by her stomach cramps, to the toilet and sat down.  She feels a hand between her legs and suddenly the balloon inside her deflates, releasing the pressure in her guts in a long and windy gush that sprays both the inside of the toilet and her ass cheeks with shitty water.
       She feels her wrist shackles being attached together behind her back and she is returned, shivering and empty, to the dangling collar for a second, much needed, warm water sponge bath.
       Drying their captive with hot towels, they take her clean, sanitized and achingly empty body to the awaiting caning horse.
       Still gagged and blindfolded, Christine remembers the type of caning horse she ordered.  Consisting of a set of pillory stocks for her hands and throat attached to a horizontal bar that will support her torso and present her ass on one side and a sound deadening, world isolating head box on the other.
       She feels her trainers lift her up to straddle the leather covered support bar, handcuffed, she struggles to find her balance as they strap her feet out wide to the support legs.  She is sitting on her freshly flogged pussy, feeling her slave passion returning once again, even more powerful than before.  She is as ready as humanly possible for the four dozen cane slices she has earned.

       The hands finish with her feet and come to release the link between her wrists.  Helped by her trainers, she bends down, squeaking as her weight rolls across her swollen clitoris.  She is positioned, her gagged and blindfold covered face resting in a bed of sound absorbing nipple foam.  As the stocks close on her wrists and neck the sounds of the room simply cease to be.
       She feels her ears pop as the positive air flow system comes on, sniffs the air flowing into the box, knowing that it will be caned and stale smelling.  Thus defeated her remaining senses of hearing taste and smell shut down, leaving only touch.
       She wonders if she will find the prize here, inside the dead silence of the head box.  She wiggles against her restraints, testing to reassure herself that she will not break free.
       She feels hands caressing her hanging breasts, toying with her nipples, threading rings into her piercings, hanging lead weights to the rings, swinging the weights to and fro.  Her nipples begin to burn like candles, bright pinpoints of pain, flickering in a breeze.
       She can hear nothing, save the sounds of her own breathing.  Behind her, fingers slide in and out of her pussy, massaging her g spot as you’d stoke a fire, making her gasp and cry out within the confines of her bondage.
       She feels the fingers pinching her clit out of its protective hood then the bite of a metal clip, keeping it out and hurting it like nothing has ever hurt it before.  She retreats once again into her slave state, the doorway now easy to find.
       The cane, when it comes, hurts Christine so wonderfully that she screams out full throated, the gag and head box making it but a quiet hum to the countess and major and all but deafening jenny through the ear phones she wears.
       Thinking she has privacy, Christine is letting go of the last shreds of her pride.  She has always been proud of her control, proud of the fact that she does so little screaming, so little begging, so little groveling.  Now, with no-one to hear, she lets it go, discovering that letting go is her ticket to the next level of passion.
       The cane slashes are slow, randomly timed and relentless.  Christine’s bottom, already welted by the flogger, feels each new soundless cut like the slash of a razor.  The welts mingle and cross, forming a hot, painful plaid pattern on her bottom.
       Held motionless by her bondage, Christine bucks her body, as if trying to ride her wooden horse through the wall.
       At the count of twenty four the caning stops, leaving the screaming woman bucking in residual orgasm.  jenny zooms the camera with the best pussy view and records how Christine’s passion juice is doing its ditch pump impression once again.
       “How are the live feed numbers looking?” jenny asks, watching the countess removing Christine’s clit clamp and the resulting mini orgasm.
       Molly checks her screen, chuckles, and says “Lookin’ good!  We are about to $et a new record for pay-per-view.”
       “Ain’t life grand?” Mark says, wishing he could be with his love slave and not thinking too clearly.  “Look at her up there, she’s the best there is, better even than the two of you, I bet!”
       There is a long and pregnant silence.  The sudden chill in the control room makes Mark’s tummy do a flip flop.  Molly exchanges a meaningful glance with jenny and says.  “I think it’s time dog boy should join our guest in the tower, what to you think, jenny my dear?”
       jenny says, “Can you handle it?  I’m kind of busy here, keeping this live feed on track.”
       Turning to Mark, Molly smiles to see him already unbuttoning his shirt, the horny subbie look burning brightly in his eye.


       As they climb the tower stairs Mark tries not to stumble in his too short hobble chain.  With his hands cuffed together up between his shoulder blades, held there by a short chain attached to the back of his slave collar, he knows that if he falls he would probably roll all the way to the bottom.  And that would be the best he could hope for.  The other alternative would be for Molly to “save him” by not letting go of her grip on his cock and ball leash.
       Each step up the stone spiral brings him closer to Christine, closer to the woman he loves.  The lusty pleasures he shares with Molly jenny and the others are wonderful, as lusty pleasures go, but the rapport he feels with Christine when they are together is something beyond that, beyond pleasure, beyond lust.
       Finally, he too knows this love magic about which the poets and song writers keep raving.  He knows what happens when two people lovingly understand and willingly fulfill each other’s needs.  He understands the feeling of super satisfaction he gets when he satisfies his love slave’s unspoken desires, understands that finding pleasure in the giving of pleasure is not evil, even if it is done in the trappings of evil.
       The tower room above is an old and evil place, built as a prison for important hostages, it has never, in its five hundred year history, had an escape.
       It’s first occupant was a princess of the Bourbon family, sent to insure the safe passage of the bastard Hapsburg duke through Bourbon territory to a peace conference.
       In a betrayal that nearly cost the duke his life, the beautiful young Bourbon hostage was tortured, raped and then murdered by the duke’s ambitious younger brother, the man he had entrusted to keep her safe.
       When the news of the young woman’s fate arrived during the peace conference, the duke was immediately arrested and taken to the dungeon.
       Back in France, the traitorous little brother was holed up in the castle, declaring himself the rightful King of France and raising an army of thugs and mercenaries.
       Convincing his captors that his brother was now as much his enemy as theirs, the duke was finally allowed to lead a small force in through a secret passage that led all the way up to the usurper’s tower torture chamber.  There, they caught him torturing a peasant couple who’d deprived him of his ducal rights of first night.
       Sealed with the life’s blood of his little brother, the first duke’s peace lasted for the remainder of his life.
       Unfortunately, blood will out and the second duke duLoc was known as Louie Bloody Hand.  And the one after him as The Black Death.  And so it went, generation after in-bread generation of dukes, each one finding his own dark uses for the tower cell.
       Finally the last duke failed to reproduce (its no trick when you are exclusively gay) and the district rejoiced (discretely, for fear of attracting the displeasure of some other nobleman) and breathed a sigh of relief to see the end of the duLoc line.
       The Castle, no longer a military asset by this time in history, passed from owner to owner, each finding the tower room something they simply did not want to dismantle, some using it as a kind of museum, others, including the visiting Marquise de Sade, finding it a place to have revels and orgies, a place for experimenting with human sexuality.
       The furnishings up there, Mark knows, have been perfected over the centuries, becoming specialized to the task of rendering a captive helpless and sexually exposed.  He also knows that Christine is up there right now, having the ride of her life on the cropping horse.
       He lags back, enjoying the insistent tug on his cock and ball leash as Molly drags him up the seemingly endless spiral.
       “Come on, dog boy, your fans are waiting!”  Molly says, jerking on Mark’s leash, hurting him into moving faster.  “Christine is about out of steam.  You are going to keep the fans entertained while she rests up a little.”
        At the landing at the top of the stairs, Mark catches his breath while Molly snubs his cock and ball leash to a ring set into the stone wall beside the cell door.  She then uses her key to unlock the massive door.  Chained hand and foot, his cock and ball leash snubbed, Mark is hers to command, or desert, as it pleases her.  She whispers into his ear.  “Not a sound dog boy or I’ll skin your ass to make lamp shades.”
       Molly pulls the door open and walks inside, leaving him tethered, his face against the stone wall, his tightly bound cock getting harder and more sensitive by the second.
        It must be Christine’s pheromones!  He thinks, rubbing the head of his purple cock against a smooth, pre-come covered stone. She has a kind of magic in her scent, a kind of life-force magic that trumps plain old rabbit out of the hat trickery all to Hell.
       Behind the open door he can hear little, except the occasional sharp whistle-smack of a cane impacting against a bent rump.  Following each blow, the countess’s voice is calling out the number.  “Forty six! . . . Forty seven! . . . Forty eight!
       On the edge of hearing Mark perceives  Christine’s screams of pain and passion, full throated, unreserved, and almost completely confined within the soundproof head box she herself designed.
       He imagines how her ass must be burning in plaid striped pain, her passion like a stallion, running out of control.
       He hears Molly saying, “Ok, good session you two.  Get her down now and put her to bed, I’ve got dog boy here to keep the fans happy while she recovers her strength.”
       Coming back out onto the landing, Molly unties the leash and leads Mark into the cell by his throbbing, purple colored cock.
       Stumbling after Molly in his chains, he watches the still gagged and blindfolded Christine being zipped into a clear plastic inflatable body bag and put to bed.  Once the air bladder between the two layers of the shoulder length bag is inflated, the prisoner’s body is held stiff and motionless, despite the fact that she is held by no other bonds.  Rigging her to the bed with four way bungee tethers, the major and the countess then plug a feeding tube into the hole in the front of the helpless woman’s gag and settle down to watch their trainee learn how to swallow Nutra-shake while laying flat on her back.
       Feeling the fear/lust growing within his chest, his bowels, his tightly bound gonads, Mark watches the black velvet bag coming down over his head, feels the panic as it is tied down to his slave collar, blinding him.
       Leading him to the focal point of four hidden cameras, Molly tethers him by simply tying his cock and ball leash up to a dangling chain.  Attaching a length of chain to the link between his hands and collar, she forces Mark to bow himself backward, until he is off balance, almost hanging from his balls, then attaches the chain to the hobble chain between his ankles.  Next come, first the pinwheel, running lines of tiny blood spots up and down his throbbing hot cock, then one of Molly’s five alarm blow jobs.  Lastly comes the cold steel of a straight razor, dry shaving his pubic hair.
       It is exquisite, it is terrifying, it is on camera.  It is being watched live by ten thousand pay per view perverts, all over the world.
       Christine lies helpless on the bed, held motionless by the clear plastic inflated body bag, once again cut off from the outside world.
       After she finished off the Nutra-shake, her trainers plugged her ears with beeswax and attached the optional black rubber isolation helmet, inflated to seal itself tight around her face, ears and, worst of all, nose.  Suddenly, she has only the tube through her gag with which to get air.  She is held completely motionless by the clinging lining of the clear plastic body bag, its inflated stiffness holding her perfectly still, her hands at her sides, her fingers splayed on her thighs.  Only her toes can move at all and them only a fraction.
       She is proud of her body bag invention and wishes she knew how to market it to other submissives around the world.
       Inside the bag, her freshly welted bottom burns like she’s sat on a hot stove, the entire area bathed in the best, most exquisite kind of pain.  Between her clenched together thighs, her pussy continues its ditch pumping, turning the body bag into a sexual sauna.
       She wishes only that her Master had come to France as well.
       She remembers Tokyo, how they two coupled away her three week vacation, never once setting foot outside that hotel suite until the day they left together for the States.  She remembers the games they played, the lessons she learned, the pains, pleasures and passions they shared.  She remembers how they became soul mates, able to communicate by nods and glances, touches, scents and winks, by spankings, floggings and, best of all, fuckings.
       In those three weeks she learned to trust him completely, knowing his desires matched perfectly with her own.
       Except that she has no idea that he is a switch.  That secret he is saving for a special occasion.  That and the secret about how the entire world is watching her performance here in the tower cell of the Hotel duLoc.
       As always, she finds that breathing against the grip of the body bag is an effort, forcing short, head dizzying, panting breaths in and out of her breathing tube.  She feels hands fooling with the other end of the short tube and begins to hear the faint twin tones of a Paris police car finding its way into her ear drums, probably through her Eustachian tubes, and realizes they have attached a whistle so they can monitor her breathing.
       Head spinning from lack of oxygen, she fights the bag, gaining nothing but unable to stop until the stars of unconsciousness are swirling in the blackness of her twice covered eyes.
       She feels the access zipper being opened over her sex and a vibrating probe being slid in between her swollen labia, nestling against her clitoris and adding whole new galaxies to the star field her blinkered eyes are seeing.  She feels herself being violated by the vibrating plastic and realizes the dildo is L shaped and that it is being inserted into her cream filled vulva far enough to reach her g spot.  She clenches down on it, milking it for pleasure even as it begins to lift her splinted, orgasmic body from the mattress.
       Mark, now freed of all restraints save the most important one, obedience, is being face sat by the countess.  She is now dressed in a dog collar, latex gloves, a scoop neck, sleeveless, black latex tee shirt and high heeled boots.
       While Mark is busy pleasuring the countess’s pussy, Molly is fastening his feet to a spreader bar attached to an electric winch mounted in the cell’s rafters.
       As his feet rise toward the vaulted roof, Mark’s cock comes up to the level of the countess’s face.  She takes him in and swallows him down, deep throating him as he attempts to stick his entire face up inside her vagina.
       Molly picks up her favorite dildo, a black rubber monster she calls Scalawag and begins to spread dura-lube over its nine inch length and two inch diameter, her eyes fixed on Mark’s upended and undefended anus.
       Mark jerks a little at the thing’s first touch, then spreads his knees and tries to relax as Molly slowly shoves it down into his asshole, hurting him a little but promising to feel much better by and by.
       The countess knows what she is doing and as soon as Mark is about to come, she quits, leaving him hanging, his desperate tongue still whipping up a froth in her pussy juice.
       The base on the dildo is drilled and threaded with a length of soft leather thong.  Noosing this thong tightly around Mark’s balls, Molly insures the big rubber cock will stay in its proper place.  Satisfied, she walks to an equipment rack and selects first a riding crop then a pair of heavy wooden wrist and throat stocks.
       As Molly is fastening the stocks, the countess also arms herself with a crop in one hand and a cock and ball harness in the other.  Made of steel rings and leather straps to fit the average man, the harness will not easily fit over Mark’s big erection, as long as it’s as high and hard as it is right now.  She tries to do it anyway but discovers it impossible so she is forced to leave him alone, awaiting a time when it will be possible.
       It takes a few minutes but soon the countess has completed her task.  His cock and balls are caged in the harness, feeling as if the steel rings are trying to thin slice his cock, squeezing him, stimulating him, restraining him to their will.
       Hanging inverted, his legs spread, his hands and head fixed between the planks, Mark has little to say in the matter.  Not that he would, having been ordered to remain silent so as to keep Christine in the dark.
       Over above the bed, Christine two tone whistles her way through one pussy-hooked orgasm after another, her slave state so deep and powerful this time that she thinks she might never return.
       Watching Christine struggle within the whole body grip of the restraint bag, Mark feels the first whistling impact of Molly’s riding crop across his hanging, dildo stuffed ass.  He winks for the benefit of jenny and the on line fans and begins again to try to find his way toward orgasm.
       Out of the sightline of any camera, a light begins to flash beside a telephone.  Molly notices it and walks out of scene to pick up.  jenny’s voice comes on the line and says,  “One at a time, Molly, you got us going cross eyed, trying to watch both of them at once.”
       “Let them listen to Christine while they watch dog boy.” Molly says, “Christine isn’t going anywhere, after all.  And she seems to be having so much fun . . .”
       “How long are you intending to leave her in that thing?” asks jenny, her voice becoming professional.  “It looks from here that she might be getting kinda tired.”
       “I imagine she is getting tired.  Every breath she gets is a struggle.”
       “Ya, I remember, its like being in the coils of a giant snake, you have to fight the air pressure for your every breath.” jenny’s voice is now getting dreamy with the memory.
       “Don’t worry, we’ll keep a close ear on her breathing, if she gets into trouble we will be there for her, just like I was there for you, last night.” Molly promises, hanging up the phone and returning to where the countess is cropping Mark’s upended ass.
       jenny pans one camera to watch Christine and focuses the rest on Mark.  The twin tone whistling of Christine’s labored breathing is the melody, the rapid fire swish cracks of the two riding crops the rhythm section.
       Zooming a camera in on Mark’s cock cage, jenny lets the fans vicariously feel how tight it has become, how confining, how stimulating.
       Now, as if sensing which camera jenny is most likely to be using, Molly kneels down and begins to give the hanging man a blow job, cock cage and all.  Wrapping her arms around his crop pinked ass, she grips the dildo and begins working it in and out, fucking his ass and pulling against his balls with every sensuous cycle.
       Over on the bed, Christine is being tended to by the major.  Having opened the right breast access zipper he is caressing her sweaty nipple, preparing it for the bite of the same small and toothy clamp he used before on her clit.
       jenny mutters “One at a time, Molly, its getting cross eyed again.” as she pans another camera in to catch and transmit the placing of the nipple clamp.
       As Christine’s whistling reaches a new crescendo, Mark begins to come, his caged cock spurting once deep into Molly’s throat and then a second time, twice as powerful, all over her face.
       With the return of the possibility of thought, Christine thinks, Mark is HERE! with a conviction that she feels with her total being.
       Cut off from the outside world, except at the vibrating vulva hook, burning nipple clips and gasping lungs, she has little to go by.  Double blinded by the hoodwink and blindfold, her nose sealed, her ears blocked, she has no senses with which to know her Master is here, yet she knows it just the same.  Knows it strongest in her hind brain.
       His pheromones have finally found their way in through her breathing tube and up into her nasal passages, letting her Jacobson’s organs pick up his distinctive, powerful, bull moose scent.  She wonders if it was his hands that set the nipple clips, his fingers, his evil genius.
       There was no reason he couldn’t come with her, other than his simple refusal.  “I want you to know that I am not the only Master for you.” he told her, the night before she left.
       She didn’t argue with him, having learned that smart slave girls don’t.  Instead she has come here to prove him wrong.  As far as Christine is concerned Mark is her Master, the only one she will ever want.
       Dressed like a cheap whore and leaving a several thousand mile long cloud of her fuck-me scent trailing out behind her, Christine has traveled half way around the world.  The very fact that she is all alone heightening her terror at being arrested, at being kidnapped by some sex fiend, at being raped, at being “Saved” by some whacked out Jesus freak.
       The scenes in the airports and train stations had been bad, having strange men follow her, their glazed over eyes fixed on her Spandex covered and high heel displayed ass, some with their pleated trousers already tented.  The sitting on planes and in train compartments had been far, far worse.
       She had tried to never be alone where someone could proposition her, to never meet anyone’s eyes, to pretend she did not understand their words, whatever language they spoke.
       During the over water leg of her journey she was forced to change seats twice, ending up sitting next to an innocent looking little old Dutch lady who gave her a card just before landing that said the she was Mistress Monique, of the Amsterdam branch of the Moll Flanders Club.  “If you ever need a good job, give me a call.”  The woman had whispered, winking the most knowing wink Christine had ever seen.
       As she’d walked down the jet way in Paris Christine had tried not to think about the kind of work the woman had been offering.  It was a lot like not thinking about elephants.  She visualized herself on a stage, being put through sexual torments and tortures under the eyes of a room full of strangers, plus thousands of internet viewers.
       By the time she got to customs she was shinning with passion sweat and stinking up a storm.  The French customs man took one look at her costume, sniffed the air, stepped on a button and said.  “If you will step this way Madam we have a few routine questions to ask of you.”  She felt a presence behind her and a strong hand gripping her elbow.  She looked back and up into the eyes of a huge coal black man wearing a fez.  She was taken down an elevator to a room deep beneath the airport where she was sat down in a strong wooden chair and asked, “What is your purpose for entering France?”
       “Just a vacation, sir.”  Christine managed, watching the two men’s trousers straining to contain their hardening cocks.
       She glanced up at the two security cameras mounted in the corners of the ceiling and felt a little better until the white man said.  “Remove all your clothing and place here it on the desk, I’m going to have Amed here search your body cavities for drugs.”
       She stood up and backed away, holding out her hands as if to ward off evil.  Between her legs her naked pussy chose that moment to gush out enough juice to form a glob that fell with a splat on the floor between her feet.
       She backed to the room’s only door, only to find it locked.  Amed, grinning like the Devil himself, began removing his uniform coat, his eyes on her trembling, nipple perked, blushing, nearly naked body.
       Two hours later she was on the train to duLoc, wishing they’d fucked her a little while they were at it.
       All in all, it was a gantlet through which she passed, arriving here with her sexual state barely under control.
       Control is not her problem now.  Held stiff and motionless by the body bag, she is under her Master’s complete control.
       Things are looking up.
       She feels movement and suddenly she is back on the bed’s mattress, the vibrating pussy hook no longer supporting her weight.  For a moment it slides in and out of her, taking her a little way back up the mountain she has just descended, before slipping from her spasm wracked vulva and thus from her awareness.  The air begins to rush out of the body bag, letting her weight settle to the mattress, leaving her feeling strangely flexible, even though zipped inside the limp plastic she is as helpless as ever.
       She feels the rush of fresh air as the long zipper is opened, then the touch of someone’s caressing hand.  She quivers to feel how sweat soaked she is and knows how the steamy air rising out of the bag must stink.  She feels her well used and exhausted vulva being touched with a kind of reverence, even as several sets of hands come and grip her wrists and ankles, spreading her on the bed and holding her motionless as the now limp body bag is slid out from under her.
       Still isolated inside the inflated hoodwink, Christine feels clunky high heels being strapped to her feet.  She is helped to sit up and then up onto her feet, discovering in the process that wearing these shoes is both a restraint and a punishment.  Restraint, because they are so high.  Even with her arms loose for balance she has trouble staying up on them.  Running anywhere will simply not be possible.  Punishment, because they force her foot to bear almost all her weight on her toes.
       She feels her hands being taken up behind her back and bound again in the classic Japanese arm tie.  She feels hands pushing down on her shoulders, forcing her into a deep squat as other hands spread her knees and attach a heavy clip to the rings in her swollen, crimson colored labia.  She feels hands on her elbows drawing her upward and obediently straightens her legs, glad to be out of that all exposing squat, only to find half way up that the clip on her pussy ring is snubbed with short chains down to the heels of her shoes.  She nearly falls, trying to blindly squat back down without the hands to guide her.
       Squatting, balanced, bound, already sexually exhausted and helpless to protest, Christine wishes someone would come and fuck her.
       Instead, they take off the inflated beach ball hoodwink gag and blindfold to let her see and smell her Master, hung up by his ankles, his caged cock still dripping from his recent Moll Flanders blow job, his inverted face grinning with pixyish delight.
       Unable to make her stretched out jaw muscles work just yet, she is saved from asking the hundred questions she needs to ask.  She notices that his bottom looks like hers feels, that he too has been hosting a dildo.  She looks up at her trainers in a mute appeal for explanation, only to have her inverted Master say, “Surprise!”
       “Suck him off and we’ll let you stand up Christine.”  The countess says, standing over her with a large professional video camera held to her eye.
       “Make him come all over your tits.” says the major, hanging a pair of lead weights to her nipple clips.  “It might make these stop hurting so much.”
       Christine wants to ask about that camera but doesn’t think her bottom can survive another dozen cane welts on top of the four dozen she already wears.
       She breathes in the musky scent of her Master and begins trying to waddle forward, her eye full of his imprisoned cock, even now deflating within its cage.
       As Mark watches her coming, her every inch of progress purchased at great price, he feels his love for her double, and then double again, making him know that perfect happiness that follows the giving of one’s heart.

       Molly, having shouldered another of the big cameras, gets a low angle close-up of the way the pussy rings are stretching Christine’s labia down out of her bottom.  How with every wobbling step forward she takes, Christine is making the heavy passion juice dripping chains swing beneath her, further stimulating that which needs so little stimulation.
       He feels the rings on his cock getting tight again and fills his head with her stink, wishing she could come to him faster.  He watches with dilated eyes as she nearly loses her balance, shuddering in a mini orgasm that makes her pussy gush anew.
       Hanging from his widely spread feet, the dildo called Scalawag stretching his anus, the thongs and harness gripping his throbbing package, his yoke blocked view of her restricted to her ring tortured vulva, Mark feels her lips and tongue on his imprisoned cock.  The heavy wood of his yoke creaks as his hands attempt to reach out to her, needing to give back some small measure of the pleasure he is receiving.
       Christine draws his caged cock into her mouth, tasting his cum, filling her head with his cheesy stink, needing him between her legs more with every thundering beat of her heart.
       Strapping a heavy professional masseuse’s vibrator to the back of his hand, the major grips the exposed stub of the Scalawag and begins to slide it in and out of Mark’s ass, rattling it against his prostate in a way that only a man could appreciate.
       At the same time, the countess has put her camera down and is kneeling beside Christine, gently rattling her pussy chains with one hand and swinging her nipple weights with the other.
       How Christine stays balanced on her too high heels she will never know, what happens as they seem to implode together, becoming one bright supernova of released sexual energy, she will never forget.
       The End.
       Epilog; Like Mark before her, Christine finds forgiveness in the numbers of zeros on the check Molly gives them as their share of the profits.  So what if she can never teach high school in Marin County again?  There is always Hollywood High.
       The knowledge that her Master also likes to be a slave frees Christine to try playing the part of Mistress for him, something she finds she enjoys enough to become a star.