An Inquisitive Federal Agent

An Inquisitive Federal Agent

East Coast Slaver Organization Story - XII

Chapter 03 – Betraying a Friend (or A Wanton Slut without Morals)

Christine Taylor's pussy was drooling so copiously at the thought of what awaited her that she was worried her juices might seep through her panties and skirt to stain her car's expensive leather seats. It took all her self-control to keep both hands on the wheel to concentrate on driving in the heavy Miami rush-hour traffic and away from her wildly itching pussy. She saw her turn and neatly turned her sporty BMW into an old fashioned and decidedly sleazy street-side hotel. Only two cars were parked in the diagonal parking slots in front of the open verandas of the two-story row of rooms and Christine turned her car into a slot directly in front of her assigned room, number four. She hesitated before she turned off her car and peered anxiously about. The small motel looked to have only sixteen rooms, eight on each floor and she didn't see a single Caucasian face in sight.

A towering black man stood leaning languidly against a column in front of room number eight. “My god!” she thought, “he must be at least six-foot-six and weigh over three hundred pounds.” At that moment, door number seven opened and a portly white man slipped nervously out of the room with his sports jacket and tie in one hand and his black leather wallet in the other. At first, the sight of a businessman at this dingy motel was reassuring; until she noticed his disheveled look and the meager greeting he gave the widely smiling black man as he scurried past where he stood watch on the narrow concrete veranda. Christine followed the unkempt white man with her eyes as he kept up the quick pace all the way to his late model Cadillac parked next door beside a twenty-four hour liquor store. As the john drove quickly away, the black man strode into the room and emerged seconds later with a slender black woman in garish street hooker attire. “It looks like that skanky prostitute has a cork up her ass,” she thought to herself with a smile of superiority as she decided she had solved this too easy puzzle. “He's just a pimp with his hooker,” she whispered and her upper lip curled up in a sneer and she averted her face while her eyes surreptitiously followed the pimp and his whore as they walked directly in front of her car and continued toward room number one and the front office beyond. As she passed, the woman kept tugging her Lycra skirt down every few steps to keep the bottoms of her ass cheeks hidden; Christine's sneer deepened. “What a whore,” she whispered, “and in broad daylight too.”

Deciding it was safe to get out of the car; Christine slipped out of the BMW and ran around to retrieve her overnight bag and a bondage kit bag from the trunk before hurrying toward room number four. Without looking behind her, she triggered her door lock on the keyless remote, smiling nervously at the reassuring beep that indicated her car was secured and the alarm active. Without even knocking, she opened the unlocked door and slipped gratefully into the quiet asylum of the dingy motel room. She locked the door with a hint of desperation as the reality of her much dreamt about evening sunk in. It took a few moments for her heartbeat to return to normal

To help calm herself, Christine deliberately ignored her current situation and quickly reviewed how far she had come into the shadowy world of BDSM that she had come to love so much. “Hard to believe this began just seven years ago,” she thought with a dreamy look upon her face. “Until I turned thirty-five, I was boring little Miss Dudley Do-Right.” she thought wryly remembering how she'd ignored dating, sex, and any kind of after work activity as she concentrated whole-heartedly on her law enforcement career. “It's amazing that I actually went ten years without getting laid. I thought that was so normal, … after all, I was trying to get ahead in a man's world.” She remembered that the first time she'd ever seen a bondage magazine was when she was rummaging through a box of evidence taken from a suspected serial rapist's home on her thirty-fifth birthday. “ Bound Bitches ?” she'd questioned when she saw the garish cover depicting a buxom woman naked and in severe bondage; her black and blue breasts wrapped in a veritable cocoon of thin bondage cord. Caroline had stolen the magazine from the evidence box as a birthday present for herself when she saw that it wouldn't be missed from among the many issues of bondage magazines as well as other, equally hard-core smut rags.

It only took a week of long, satisfying masturbation sessions at bedtime before she threw the magazine down on the floor beside her bed and handcuffed herself for the first time in her life. Fully clothed, she'd grunted and moaned like a whore in heat as her pelvis humped wildly against her pillow to get enough friction on her clitoris as she stared at the open pages of the magazine below her on the floor. Her very first self-bondage session was also one of her scariest sessions because after she'd clicked the cuffs against her first wrist, she'd twisted about until she could latch the other behind her back. Christine had been certain that after she finished her fantasy session that she could slip her handcuffs down under her butt and then easily unlock them from the front. She had been sadly mistaken. Christine will never forget how after she recovered from her wonderfully satisfying climax that her heart had almost exploded up her throat in fear when her wrists wouldn't get down low enough to clear her too ample butt. Christine wasn't limber enough, or slim enough to manage the relatively simple task of slipping her cuffed hands to her front. As a lab technician, Christine Taylor was not a graduate of the same field training that Special Agents went through; hence, she lay there gasping for breath and was unable to visualize where the keyhole in her cuffs was located or how to get them unlocked without dropping her only key. Finally giving up accomplishing the task on her bed, she thanked herself for not tying her ankles so it was a simple task to get to the bathroom mirror and twist about until she could find the keyhole. If she hadn't been so afraid that she was trapped permanently, then the disheveled sight that greeted her in the mirror would have triggered another masturbation session. “So, fucking hot!” had been her brief observation before she twisted about in front of the mirror to get a glimpse of her cuffed wrists. Even before she uncuffed the second wrist, she reached up and tugged her bra cup back over the fat tit that had painfully escaped the soft cup during her struggles to get free. After that first fiasco, Christine had planned her self-bondage and masturbation sessions much better. That remembered first feeling of desperation as she discovered herself trapped always helped her get over the edge in her subsequent bondage sessions.

“Still,” Christine chastised herself gently, “it took five years of sessions alone before I dared explore them with other people.” It still embarrassed her that her dating experience was so limited that she'd only achieved success in her bondage goals by going to a BDSM club. “I was so lucky that I had access to confidential files,” she told herself. “After all, I only found out about the club because of a Miami Vice investigation that cleared the place of wrongdoing.” Christine found the address and the name of the Club Manager, Todd Mitchum in her files. Her first interview with the burly man took place on another of her birthdays, her fortieth. “Todd refused to let me join because I didn't belong to a Master,” she told herself. The disappointment of being turned away had been bitter.

What Christine couldn't have possibly known is that while Todd Mitchum was a very effective manager, he did operate in such a way that he got as much pussy as he wanted. His initial assessment of the matronly looking woman was that it wasn't worth the effort to set her up for a quick fuck. Only after she begged did Todd reconsider. “I'll tell you what Christine,” he'd told her bluntly, “without a Master the only way you can join is to turn yourself over to the Club Staff as their slave whenever you're on the premises.”

Pathetically eager, Christine had babbled her agreement to meet any demands he made of her. However, Todd's next comment had scared her away. “OK then, I have time right now for you to audition. Then in the future, just call ahead when you want to spend the evening here and the Staff will be ready to give you an assignment for the night. So, … what the fuck are you waiting for, slave? Get those clothes off so I can see what you have to offer.”

Christine knew that she'd been very naïve. She'd hoped to visit the club a few times to watch and get the feel for how things were done before she plunged in and subbed. Instead, this man she'd just met demanded that she undress and stand for inspection like livestock. She'd burst into tears and run away. After all, at the time Christine had been chaste for ten full years; she was a stranger to sex of any sort that required more than one participant. Even two years later, the smug look of superiority that Todd gave her as she scurried away haunted her. “He knew I was going to run away,” she reminded herself fiercely. She remembered how he'd chased her out of the office and physically held her in the hall until she took his business card. “If you reconsider, call,” he'd told her fiercely, one hand on her throat and another possessively pushing her crotch hard against the wall. “But next time there'll be no backing out and your audition will be an ‘around the world' event. It's unbecoming from a slave to renege on a deal.”

It was only the jarring shock of being thrown against the wall and the helpless feeling from the relentless pressure locking her in place till she accepted the forceful man's business card that brought her back to the club for her audition. Those few moments of domination gave her fuel for nights of masturbating fantasy and she knew she was addicted to the feeling of helplessness. Even so, it took two weeks before she got the nerve to call. Todd's terse reply over the phone had almost made her change her mind. “Look,” he'd told her, “I want twenty-four hour advance notification from you and you have to come in at least three hours before we open. That way the Staff can plan out your role for the night and get you prepped.”

“You mean I can't come in tonight?” she'd tearfully asked.

“No, not for a regular session,” he'd told her and she nearly broke down in tears at the letdown. “But,” he'd relented, “since it's only an audition, you can come now before we get too busy for the night.”

The slave in the reception cubicle was waiting for her when she nervously walked into the BDSM Club's entry vestibule. Christine had shied back from the buxom woman wearing only a skimpy leather ‘G' string and string bikini top that left nothing to the imagination. The slave quickly manhandled her to get a stiff leather collar locked on; a leash was already attached to the leather band. Christine was dragged unceremoniously into the adjacent woman's dressing room where a beautiful Mistress watched with interest as the slave ordered Christine to strip naked. A respectful request to the Mistress after the naked Christine was handcuffed with her hands behind her back let her know that her decision for the night was irrevocable. “Mistress Katherine, Master Todd has asked if you'll escort this newbie to his office. He thought you might enjoy displaying her for a formal audition.”

The slave took away all her possessions, gave her a pair of absurdly high black heels, and she'd tottered, eyes downcast, after the bewitching ass of Mistress Katherine as she was led toward Todd's office. Christine shook herself free from her remembered introduction to the BDSM Club nearly two years prior. “Focus, woman,” she told herself, “you can relive those experiences later after you're ready for your Master.” She set the bondage kit bag on the bed and carried the overnight bag into the bathroom where Christine took off all her clothes and carefully folded everything on the vanity top. She brushed her hair and tightly braided it into a single ponytail before sitting down on the toilet to empty herself and then douche herself clean. An appraising hand rubbed over her crotch to make sure no stubble remained high on her legs. Satisfied, she applied her makeup even though it was likely that her ‘date' for the night might never even look at her face. These humiliating tasks taken to prepare herself to be used as a sex object no longer bothered her, they were simple steps to be taken on her way toward sexual fulfillment. Even the cold squirt of Vaseline she stuck up her ass didn't faze her. The critical stack of personnel folders were in the bottom of the overnight bag; she took them out and placed them on the scarred table in the musty hotel room; her asshole felt squishy from the lubricant as she walked about getting things arranged.

Ready to assemble her bondage gear, she dumped out the kit with a clatter onto the threadbare comforter. Its custom manufacture at a local metal smith had been a complicated task given her soon after she met Robert Morgan, the man she claimed as Master even if he refused to acknowledge it. He had drawn out the basics and then made her determine the exact dimensions while working with the metal smith. It had been a good lesson in humiliation for her; the cold steel of the bondage gear would forevermore remind her of that lesson.

The device was fiendishly simple; its intent was to hold her available for use in any of her holes without the use of ungainly spreader bars that interfered with a man's knees as he mounted her, particularly on soft surfaces such as a mattress. To get around this limitation, Robert described a simple heavy-duty arch or upside down ‘U'. As Christine snapped each of the three primary pieces of the arch together, she locked each joint with a keyed lock to which she had no keys. A number of contraptions had been machined which could be attached to the basic arch. Christine had used them all in her vulnerable sessions with her Master, either alone or in public at the club. Each piece of steel was worth hundreds of satisfying climaxes. The contraption was her most prized possession.

Once everything was laid out in readiness, she picked up the empty bag and brought it to the bathroom where everything (clothes, car keys, purse, and empty bondage kit) was stowed and locked within her overnight bag with yet another padlock to which she had no key. She grimaced at the thought of what she had hidden in a carefully ripped external seam. “He'd beat me to death if he found out about the sliver of a razorblade, the handcuff key, the paperclip, and the broken hacksaw blade shoved both directions inside that seam,” she told herself. “I just can't take the risk of being trapped again, regardless of any promises I make to follow his directions.”

She threw the bag into the shower atop the moldy tiles and padded back to the bed. The first thing she did was unlock the door and push it shut as tightly as it would go. The next was to clip a vicious set of sharp-toothed nipple clips to her breasts along with a length of chain. Nipples already throbbing from the tugging weight dangling off her brown nubbins, she buckled a leather band onto each ankle and below each knee. She stuck a leather-clad ringgag in her mouth and awkwardly ratcheted it as wide-open as she could get it with the specialty locking tool designed for just that use. “Master only wants me to use a headstrap with ringgags if he wants a particularly stupid looking slut,” she told herself, happy to be wearing the simpler self-locking ringgag. Then she settled herself inside the arch, lower legs parallel to the straight sections of the arch and the curve resting above her knees. Her body fit easily within the arch, rings at the open end matched the rings outside her ankles and rings near the padded top curve of the arch matched her knee bands. She snapped more padlocks onto the four sets of overlapping rings, trapping herself onto the heavy steel base. Snaps on the ends of her nipple chains clicked over smaller steel hoops already welded to the middle arch of the bar, forcing her torso down tightly toward the bed and locking her ass up into the air. With her face now forced into the mattress by the fiendish nipple chains, it was hard work to wrap a blindfold around her head and tie it off. Nearly finished, her last task was to snap her wrists into the handcuff halves already clipped to the bar between her ankles and knees. Christine Taylor, professional woman working with the F.B.I. was now bound helpless to a bed in a twenty-dollar-a-day flophouse of a motel, her glistening asshole and drooling pussy pointed toward an unlocked door with a pimp and his whores just a few feet away. Unlike her self-bondage sessions at home, release from the contraption she had commissioned was impossible. Christine had never felt more alive or hornier than at that moment.

Keenly concentrating on every sound because of her helpless and blind situation, Christine felt her heartbeat increase once again. Part of her thrill from the bondage was the fear of discovery and the edge of terror that crept in because of her extreme vulnerability. Even knowing the futility of the effort, she carefully tested her bonds, yanking and pushing at each leather cuff, both thrilled and in fear of their unyielding strength. The nipple cuffs were tested much more gingerly; they wouldn't tolerate a hard tug despite the freedom of movement in her elbows and wrists. Christine knew from experience that the self-tightening teeth on the clamps would cut her nipples to shreds before they'd release.

She clasped her pussy and anal muscles in a vain attempt to get some stimulation to relieve her growing lust. It was no use, the device kept her wide open for use and unable to masturbate or rub herself off on anything. Even if she managed to fall off the bed, she'd remain completely trapped by the unyielding steel of her own contraption.

During her long wait for Robert Morgan, Christine had plenty of time to finish remembering her audition night at the BDSM Club. Three sensitive body parts throbbed with pain from the corrective blows given her by the Mistress before they even left the dressing room. “Don't look up at my eyes, you silly bitch!” had been the first command that was matched with the sidearm blow that rocked against her poor tittie. The stinging blows to each ass cheek had come when her posture wasn't acceptable. The third area struck had been the most painful and the most humiliating. “This wild forest you have down here will have to go!” Mistress Katherine had complained just a microsecond before the riding crop swung upward to land with an audible splat against her exposed juicy pussy. Thus, Christine had plenty of room for the terror and pain she craved as she teetered down the corridor toward the Club Manager's office. “I never even guessed that a woman would lead me around like a pet,” she thought as her pussy throbbed in need atop the seedy motel bed two years later.

Mistress Katherine had led her on a leisurely stroll through the nearly empty bondage club. Christine had been acutely aware of her nudity, somehow made even more obvious by the stiletto heels she could barely walk on. Not yet open, the few men and women working in the club prior to its opening for the night were involved in innocuous tasks such as vacuuming, wiping down tables, cleaning the bar area, and preparing exhibit areas. The ordinary nature of the tasks made her out of place nudity seem even more humiliating. Katherine pulled her by the leash to within a few feet of where Todd Mitchum sat reviewing liquor and food sales with his female wait staff; they were all wearing normal street clothes and only the women glanced her way as she stumbled by. Todd never even looked up. Christine felt as if everyone was leering at her as Katherine led her to every conceivable location in the public areas of the club before pulling her to Todd's office.

The night Mistress Katherine took her into Todd's office was, as with most of her experimentations in self-bondage and then public BDSM at the club, an event that seemed to exceed anything she had ever imagined possible in terms of thrills and sexual release. As they paused to enter the office the black-clad Mistress had dryly commented, “Hmmm, dear, … you positively reek with pussy scent. Next time you either need a longer lasting perfume, or you should consider wiping yourself off with babywipes before you leave the Club's locker room.” Then the woman had smiled possessively, “Of course, you will ‘cum' in this Club and you will earn each orgasm with sweat and tears, so maybe it's a futile effort to try and smell like something other than the weak-kneed skanky whore that you so clearly are.” Helpless with her hands cuffed behind her back and a leash around her neck, Christine had almost cum just from the one-sided, thirty-second exchange outside the office. Her itching cunt had felt super sensitized as she was pulled into the office.

Minutes later she found herself blindfolded and bent over an overstuffed chair in the office, anchored down by the taut leash around her neck; her ankles held widespread by wraps of thin bondage cord that cut deep into her flesh as the woman tightly tied her feet to the rear legs of the chair. Panic at her helplessness had now fully set and Christine was gasping for breath when the woman boldly grasped her chin tightly, yanked her head far back, and then locked lips with her. The kiss was so sudden, … so unexpected, … so forbidden, … and so arousing that a mild climax rocked her the instant the woman's knowledgeable fingers wormed their way down her stomach, past her belly button, to her clitoris. The beautiful Mistress' cruel taunt of, “What an easy whore you are,” escalated her mild orgasm into something much stronger. In what would become a common occurrence over the next two years, Christine's overactive imagination coupled with her reaction to the simplest sexual stimuli overloaded her system when the climax rushed through her; she slipped into unconsciousness, still twitching from her pulsating orgasm.

A tickling touch teased her pussy as she slowly became aware of her location still bound ass-up in Todd's office. The fire in her groin slowly grew but wasn't enough to trigger another orgasm. Finally, eager for another gut-wrenching climax, she whispered, “Please, … harder, … get me off, … please.” The touch continued for a few seconds after she stopped begging and then a blaze of fire crossed her ass on one side, … and then the other. Her surprised shrieks of pain were interrupted by a fierce whispering in her ear, “Cunt! You better remember who the pussy-lapping piece of sexmeat is in this relationship. If you ever command me again, … or even talk without cue, … I'll beat your fat sagging grandmother's ass till its black and blue.” Mistress Katherine punctuated the lesson in manners with another three sets of ass-cheek slashings with the riding crop.

Panting in fear and still horny beyond belief for another wild climax, Christine heard the door to the office open and listened to Todd Mitchum stride in with a cheery hello and an audible kiss on Mistress Katherine's cheek. His entrance interrupted any chance of immediate sexual release for Christine. Blindfolded, Christine never saw the silent question his raised eyebrows asked when he saw the red blotches on her asscheeks and breasts but she did listen shamefully to Mistress Katherine's response, “The unruly bitch needed some posture pointers before we left the dressing room and then she actually sassed back with some lame-assed demand that I give her cellulite-covered lard ass another free climax as if I were her personal servant. Todd, this piece of ass is too old, too fat, and way too inexperienced for you to mess with.” “After all,” she'd added with a conspiratorial wink, “we both know that you've recruited some much higher quality pussy than this skanky thing.”

The much stronger blows to her ass that followed lit an agony of pain that rivaled anything she'd imagined hell could feel like. Sometime during the long beating that Todd administered to the naïve sub, Mistress Katherine left, leaving Todd to punish the slave's unimaginable effrontery alone. When his steel-bar of a cock drove without foreplay deep into her velvety and overheated cunt, she'd raised her head and shoulders and howled her appreciation for the sexing she was getting. Unable to resist, Todd had reached forward around her torso to grasp her nipples and pinched them as hard as he could, squishing the brown nubbins flat and triggering a wild climax in the bucking woman below him as he used her nipples as handles to pull himself deeper into her hot core. The amazingly tight spasms around his cock had thoroughly surprised him. When the muscles refused to let his softening cock loose, he'd reclassified her as imminently fuckable despite her substandard appearance. The pulses from within her belly lasted so long that they manipulated his softening cock back to a full erection; a feat that even the self-avowed cocksman couldn't do unless the woman was just so fucking desirable that he couldn't get enough of her the first time. Each of the dozen or so times that Todd screwed her during the next two years reproved to him what a great fuck she was. His absolute favorite was to let the woman loose above him as he reclined after whipping her ass with a riding crop. Her hips performed a blurringly fast fuck atop his throbbing meat and her inner muscle strength never failed to amaze him. Nobody else that fucked her increasingly experienced pussy-hole during that same two years would ever forget how astoundingly tightly her greedy pussy had milked their fucksticks.

Christine never knew how close she came to discovering the meaning of ‘around the world' that first night in the BDSM Club. Todd Mitchum had fully intended to break in every hole in the naïve woman until her talented pussy so mesmerized him that he wanted more of her cunt. The result was that after Todd pulled his renewed hardon from her clasping pussy and prepared himself to sunk into her asshole he paused, sighed in contentment, and eased himself back into the cunt that was still as tight as a teenage virgin. The Club Manager was a veteran of many fuckings and was able to get as much pussy as he wished. Even so, he'd never forget the first time he fucked Christine Taylor in his office. The three loads he pumped into his ultra-thin condoms ended three of the best times his dick had been treated by a woman's sex hole. “Homely and matronly she might be,” he told himself often during the next two years, “but, whatta fuck!”

Reliving the first time with Todd had raised her sexual heat appreciatively while waiting in the grimy motel room. When the door clicked open, she was more than ready for Master Robert. “Hmmmm,” she moaned into her ringgag. A large hand covered one of her fleshy asscheeks and she moaned again in need. The musk from her copiously drooling pussy was an overpowering aroma in the small stuffy room. A wriggling thumb centered itself on her slick ass grommet and Christine moaned aloud again. The thumb stopped rotating and froze in place as it began to slowly, and relentlessly, sink wrist-deep into her tightest fuck hole. Christine wriggled her ass and grunted her need even as the nipple clamps punished her for moving too far from a complete shoulder-down position on the now sweaty bedcover. Two middle fingers found her gapping cunt and slipped deep within her vaginal sheath to possess her in a classic ‘bowling ball' grip. She gasped as the three digits curled inwardly, tightly taking possession of her bottom and then the now painful grip began to yank her ass from side to side. Try as she could, Christine couldn't get the inwardly clawed fingers to stimulate her needy ‘G' spot. Finally the fingers withdrew, and her Master's cockhead drilled into her pussy. She gasped audibly at the intrusion of only the first massive inches of his masterful dick. He started to stir around her cunt with amazingly strong circular strokes of his giant cock. “Oh, so big,” Christine moaned to herself. “He must be fully aroused, … this is the hardest and biggest I've ever felt his fucklog. What a cock!” The shifting of the massive cockhead from clasping pussy to glistening ass drove her breath away. For once, she was happy that his grip on his dick let only the first three inches of his punishing pole into her body; hoping that he'd ease himself in to give her thin-walled intestines plenty of time to straighten out before he began to fuck into her rectum in earnest. Then, abruptly, the dick was gone and she heard a zipper closing. She moaned in despair at this development and wept aloud in unfulfilled need as he left the room.

Moments later, the motel room door reopened and Christine breathed a sigh of relief as he returned and then her face rolled around the drool-covered bedspread as her Master's tongue centered itself over her pussy and began to give her the best oral sex of her life. Climax after climax rolled over her body as the cunt-lapping continued. She completely lost track of time and the number of orgasms she received as he pleasured her sensitive hole.

When Aaron Clarke, AKA Robert Morgan, slipped quietly into the dark hotel room, a thoroughly lubricated cunt greeted him. There was no doubt as to the heated condition of her arousal given the stench of pussy that permeated the room and the clasping pussy lips that had drooled long strings of pussy lube down the inside of her thighs. Another sign of her sexual readiness came from the mindless grunts of arousal that escaped her ringgag-filled mouth as she tried to wriggle her ass around for yet more stimulation. Aaron ignored his overheated slut and instead sat down at the scarred and worn table beside the bed. He flipped open the files marked ‘CONFIDENTIAL -- LAW ENFORCEMENT USE ONLY.' The sight that greeted his eyes was mesmerizing. “What a fucking piece of ass,” he whispered aloud as he saw the naked titties of Special Agent Samantha Louise Valiant for the first time. “How the hell did someone built like that pass the training at the Academy without a lawsuit for sexual harassment being filed against the guerillas working there?” he asked himself.

He fully appreciated the careful workmanship Christine had invested in the bogus arrest file, the prison processing file, and the signed release forms assigning her to the well-known lesbian prosecutor who had been so publicly discredited during her firing. “She's right,” Aaron thought with his first true appreciation for what the bound bimbo on the bed beside him had given him. “No matter what this Special Agent claims, this is ironclad proof that she was doubling as a common street whore, was legitimately arrested for prostitution, and then traded her freedom for a lesbian relationship with a dirty county prosecutor with drug and organized crime connections.” He leaned back with intense satisfaction at the wonderfully fun, and potentially rewarding, relationship he was going to force on the first woman he'd ever seen in his experienced life that shamed Barbie Doll's vaunted beauty and figure. “Man!” he shouted to himself as he looked at the photograph that showed the woman's naked boobs exploding out of her chest from her bound position atop the toilet, “Whatta fucking bimbo this one will make!” He tried to imagine how the snared woman would feel once she discovered the true depths of the trap into which she'd been lured. His grin bespoke his eagerness to get started on the inescapable trap he'd implement to hold the too dedicated and too inquisitive F.B.I. agent.

He frowned as he realized that only a few pictures of Samantha were included among the files laid out by the laboratory technician. “Hmmm,” he mused, “we can't have evidence of this frame-up lying around her office and home.” He pulled out a pen and boldly wrote across one of the blank folders that had held the few excess photos of Samantha:”

Slut,

Loved every bit of this – it's delicious! Bring everything back in two nights along with all copies of the photos you have (let's clean this up so it can't be traced back to you). I have a great idea about twisting this about, so create another full blank set of the in-processing files and evidence bags, date-stamped and signed just like the others; but use another inmate number, say three later than the one already used. If you want to earn an extra reward, arrange to take off the next few weeks; don't pack, you know I'll provide everything you need. Maybe I'll be disposed to renegotiate the request you've made so many times and formalize your position in life.

R.M.

Aaron grinned down at his quickly penned note. “I've got a lot to do before tomorrow night,” he thought. Then his grin became decidedly feral as he added, “Yes, … there is no doubt that this is a land of opportunity. Whatta fucking place!”

He resolved that he'd make this the most memorable and enjoyable night of debauchery that Christine Taylor had every enjoyed; it would be a long bout of sexual overdose that she'd never forget. “She'll barely be able to walk tomorrow,” he promised with a grin. “Course she has to go to work and walk those long corridors in plain sight of her coworkers.” Deciding it was time to move on, he turned to his own overnight bag for a video camera which he set up on a small tripod and focused on her naked form. He also turned on every light in the small room to improve the quality of the movie. The unblinking red light on the front of the camera indicated to any that could see inside the room that the scene was being captured digitally on high-resolution tape.

He straightened up the files, placed his note atop them, and then added a small capped syringe, a vial of white powder, a vial of colorless liquid, and a packaged alcohol swab to the items on the table. Deciding that his enjoyment would begin later, he walked over to the bed and dumped out the contents of two newly purchased bags of wooden clothespins. He started just above her knee on the tender inside of her leg. Soon an artistic line of wooden clothespins traced a straight line up to the juncture of her legs. Aaron ran a hand down the line, knocking aside the pins one after the other. Satisfied that none broke free of their grips on her smooth white skin, he started just above the other knee.

Christine had been drooling and grunting softly nonstop into her ringgag since her Master's tongue had left her needy pussy with an unquenched fire still smoldering despite the number of climaxes that he had coaxed out of her. She had been overjoyed when he returned and despite the delay in resuming sex, she was happy that he finally took time to look at the offering she had offered him. She grunted happily when she heard his faint gasp of breath at what she was sure were the pictures of the big-titted bimbo that Christine had so easily drawn into humiliation. Sometime later, the clatter of something being dumped between her legs brought her hazy thoughts back into focus. “He pinched my leg,” was her first thought. After the act was repeated just above the first site which was now gently throbbing, she still didn't know what was happening. Only when the throbs seemed to reach nearly to her groin did she realize that he was putting some kind of clamps on her legs. She raised her spine in defense when the back of his hand disturbed the line of clothespins one after the other in a line heading straight to her cunt. He trapped nipples reminded her to behave herself when her move tightened up the chains a little too much.

Eventually, the lines that crept up her legs were matched with lines inside her arms and down the sides of her torso, lines crisscrossing her stomach, and lines spiraling down around her downward hanging breasts to compete with the teeth of the nipple clamps already possessing her painful nipples. The gentle throbbing from almost two hundred clothespins that were disturbed every few minutes by her tormentor became a wave of distracting stimuli that could have been either painful or a needful itching; Christine was in an agony of indecision about how to classify her torment. She did grunt with consternation when her Master pulled out a pussy lip and attached the first clothespin to her labia. The thought, “Oh, fuck! He's headed toward my clitoris!” started her sweating like a pig as she tried to ease herself away from his fingers. “Eiiii,” was her clearly discernable plea of pain when the final clothespin snapped hard against her most vulnerable nubbin of flesh on her body. She tried to hump up into the air to knock off the final clothespin; hanging from her clitoris; however, nothing she did had any effect. If possible, her motions only triggered tiny waves of extra stimulation as dozens of clothespins fluttered about slightly from her futile attempt to escape the increasingly intense throbbings.

Aaron sat back at the dingy table and surveyed his blindfolded victim. He dug into his own nightbag and pulled out a high-resolution digital camera. He took at least fifty quality shots of the squealing bitch bound upon the sweat-soaked, drool-saturated bedspread. He ran a last teasing hand along every line of tightly clasping clothespins and slapped Christine across the ass, enjoying the rippling of the excess skin reacting to his blow. He added another spanking blow. Deciding it was once again time to move on, he took a small tube of aromatic muscle relaxer out of his bag and dabbed an inch-long line of the greasy mixture onto the fingers of his left hand. The scent from the wintergreen-smelling concoction spread through the room as he evenly spread it around his eight fingers. He rolled the fingers of his right hand into a tight roll and unceremoniously jammed all four digits deep into her sloppy cunt. Not wanting to apply too much of the liniment, he quickly pulled his hand out and rolled the fingers of his left hand into a similar spear-tip-like shape. It took a little more effort to worm these fingers into her much tighter anal sphincter. Satisfied, Aaron left the woman alone while he washed his hands.

“Time to stew and squirm my little pig,” Aaron announced from the still-closed doorway. “I think I'll go outside for a nice cold beer while little Miss Wriggle and Grunt does her famous impersonation of a farmyard animal desperate for a breeding. My video camera is making a nice record for you to remember how you look right now, a wriggling, grunting, squealing little whore that thinks only with her clothespin-lined sexhole. We'll continue this fun a little later while I try and decide which of your sloppy holes I want to ream out first.”

Christine had been lying there desperate for a proper fucking after the long hours anticipating her Master's arrival. The superheated bout of oral sex had been wondrous, but didn't fully quench her fiery lust. “God,” she moaned, “I want him in me so bad. But, no, … he leaves after wasting time on those files. Then, instead of mounting her after slowly perusing the files, he sticks those clothespins all over me. Wait, … he's coming back, maybe he's gonna fuck me now.” When he stuck his fat fingers deep into her needy pussy, she moaned in full readiness for a proper fucking. Then, … the heat began to build and his fingers raped into her tighter butt hole. The heat started rising there as well. Panicked, she tried to beg through her ringgag, “Hop, hease. Hop hit. Hit huts ho had.” Then he'd told her goodbye and called her the one name that always brought a heady wave of humiliation, “Miss Wriggle and Grunt.” The door shut with a finality that told her she was stuck ‘stewing' in her own world of sexual need exasperated by the growing heat in her lower two sex holes. “Hot,” she told herself, “Oh, fuck! It's getting hot. Thank god he was conservative with what he stuck into me.” Christine had seen the results of a full coating of the liniment in one unlucky woman's cunt and the simultaneous searing heat in her ass from red-hot Thai chili paste. Witnessing such an extreme corrective session had made Christine very compliant to the demands of her Master.

The rising heat had already made sweat start to drip copiously from her forehead, the salt burning her eyes. She tried to wave her ass around to cool off her burning holes. “Oh, fuck me!” she cried to herself. “I'll give anything if he'll just FUCK ME!”

 

--- To Be Continued ---

 Author: Desert Dog ****** E-Mail: Desertlickingdog at yahoo dot com

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