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.
*****
