The Confirmation
You may be wondering who (or what) the "Angels" are that I keep mentioning. To
be honest, I'd originally planned to say nothing more about Them until They
become major players in my tale. But the more I think about it, the more sense
it makes to tell you about Them now.
Why?
Because I'm not 100% sure I'll still be around to tell you about that part of
things. So if I spill about Them now, at least you'll know what to keep an eye
out for.
The Angels are The Bondage Club's "elite guard", if you will. I know, I know, it
sounds kind of tacky and more than a little hackneyed, but where do you think
cliches come from? They have to have SOME basis in truth - even if only the
tiniest fragment.
I have no idea how many of Them there are. There could be as few as a dozen or
as many as 100. The most I've ever seen in the one place was ten on the night I
worked my way into the Club.
They're all female, of course. The Club wouldn't have it any other way. I mean,
The Club is essentially about power, and what could be more powerful than
rendering strong, athletic, DEADLY females completely helpless by uttering a
simple combination of secret words? You see, each of these Angels undergoes
rigorous, bondage orientated, brain-washing. During this process, they're
tortured, trained, and taught that their identities are subservient to that of
The Club - until such time that they're little more than the perfect killing
machines with a soft spot for
unbearable bondage. At least, that's the way I like to think of Them. As kinky
servants. Or pets.
Yes, let's run with that. They're pets.
They even have a uniform - of sorts. And this is the part where I want you all
to pay particular attention. Because this description may one day save your
life. The Angels, without fail, wear boots and gloves. There's no specific
combination, you understand - just generally boots and gloves. So, for example,
that statuesque beauty that walks by you in your office building every lunch
time, wearing a conservative pinstripe suit, black knee-high boots, and
wrist-length leather gloves could be an Angel. Or that long haired brunette who
walks the corner of 3rd and Lake in thigh high boots and black elbow length
gloves may not necessarily be the latest in the long line of hookers to haunt
that particular spot.
Trust me, it doesn't matter if it's the hottest day in the depths of summer -
They'll be clothed in this fashion. Because the gloves and boots They wear hide
The Club's symbol that is branded on the inside of Their wrists and ankles. An
integrated 'B' and 'C', woven together like the finest of Persian tapestries. A
brand that They "earn" on the day They're initiated as an Angel.
But be warned. To see the symbol "in the flesh", is to be sentenced to death.
I was going to type "to see the symbol 'in the flesh', equals death", but the
simple fact of the matter is that I'm still breathing. And I plan on doing so
for as long as it takes to finish my story.
Do all you Club Members and Angels out there reading this understand that? There
has to be a few of you monitoring this thread by now. Word must have spread. You
Angels, in particular, will be reading along hoping that I'll carelessly drop
some clue as to where I am.
But I'm not stupid. I know the way you think.
I mean, I should. After all, I lived with one of your "trainees" for over a
year.
*****
The day after Susan and I settled our differences in the best possible way, I
phoned the school she taught at to see if she wanted to grab an early dinner
together straight after work.
To my surprise, the receptionist informed me that she hadn't been into work that
day and that the school had had to scramble to find a relief for her. I thanked
the woman and immediately called home, but there was no answer.
When I'd last seen her, Susan had been fine. We'd kissed goodbye briefly and
she'd thanked me for a wonderful evening. I'd told her I'd be home by six and
left her lamenting the fact that she too had to get up and get ready for work.
Obviously, however, something had gone wrong.
Quelling the paranoia that was threatening to again rise, I decided to head home
and make sure Susan was okay. If everything was fine, I could do the rest of my
work for that afternoon from my apartment anyway. The thought that maybe Susan
would be healthy enough to be bound and gagged while I did so managed to worm
it's way into the forefront of my mind.
I smiled and allowed the fantasy to accompany me on the ride home.
By the time I paused outside my apartment with key in hand, I'd almost managed
to silence any and all persistent paranoid thoughts. Deep down I knew that Susan
was just feeling a little ill and was tucked up on the couch watching re-runs of
some God-awful day time soap.
So with that explanation firmly in mind, I let myself into my apartment . . .
. . . and found no-one home.
There was a note on the table though. It was scrawled in a hand writing I didn't
recognise and read: "1919 Donovan. 11am." Frowning, I pocketed the note and sat
down at the table heavily. It was all too much. I couldn't keep up with all this
cloak and dagger shit. If Susan though-
The sound of a key hitting the lock reached my ears. I turned to face the
doorway as Susan walked in, and watched as she visibly flinched at my presence.
"Jesus Vic. You scared me half to death." Her eyes darted down to glance at a
white shopping bag she was carrying. "What are you doing home?"
I forced a smile. "I wanted to spend some more time with you, of course." I
stood and walked toward her, determined to see what she was carrying in her bag.
"So how was school?"
Susan's nostrils flared slightly. "Same as always. Those kids are really a drain
sometimes." She turned slightly and made as if to walk nonchalantly past me.
"Hmmm. I'll bet. So," I said, ignoring the lie, "what have you got in the bag? A
present for me?" I leant toward her, but she shied away.
"Hey! Nothing for you. Just keep your hands out of it." She tried to feign a
playful giggle, but it didn't quite come off.
Not that it mattered, she was past me anyway and heading for the bathroom. "I'm
just going to have a shower, okay? I'll be right out."
I didn't reply. I couldn't. I was too busy trying to interpret the deep rope
marks I'd seen stenciled in her wrists.
And the red whip welts I'd glimpsed along the backs of her stockinged legs.
*****
I let it go.
There was no confrontation with Susan, no accusations, no yelling and screaming
at one another. I figured that if I wanted to find out exactly what was going
on, I wasn't going to get very far by such direct means. Instead, I decided I
was going to follow Susan and get my answers through stealth.
I know, not exactly the perfect basis for a trusting relationship, but I HAD to
find out what was going on. So before you judge me ask yourself this: in my
situation, would you have done any differently?
It was three weeks, however, before I had a chance to act. In that time, I
noticed fresh rope marks upon Susan's wrists or ankles on numerous occasions.
I'd probably have been able to see more marks, but she'd taken
to wearing long sleeved tops and pants when it was still warm enough for short
sleeves and skirts. She was also extremely unpredictable as to when she'd turn
up for work, or even be home at night. One or twice I even found the bed beside
my empty when I woke up to face a new day.
And yet she offered no explanation whatsoever. In fact, she acted completely
normally when she was around - smiling, cuddling up to me, telling me how much
she wanted me to bind and gag her. Whereas in contrast, my mood became darker
and darker. Most of the time, I just sat
there glowering and saying nothing, with the only exception being the way I
responded to her sexual entreaties.
Basically, I was like a mad bull who'd seen one too many flashes of red.
I think it was cathartic. I mean, that's the only logical explanation I can give
now. Kind of like a way for me to work off my anger at Susan's obvious cheating.
I'd bind her hands behind her back extremely tightly, before taking my time to
weld her elbows and lower arms together. Coils and coils of rope pulled into the
flesh of her arms and then cinched together as tightly as I could tie it. Far
from finished, I'd pull her dark hair back into a pony tail and tie it to her
bound elbows with an extremely short length of rope. This had the effect of
yanking her head back so she was staring straight up at the ceiling, her neck
muscles bunched against the strain. I'd then bend her over our dining table and
spread her legs until they could be spread no further. I'd make sure she
couldn't ease her position by roping her ankles to the tables leg's, and only
then set about gagging her.
Not that she ever complained about my treatment of her. In fact, I'd never seen
her so turned on at any stage we'd been together. By the time we reached the
gagging stage, she'd be begging me to take her - to use and abuse her in any way
I wanted. A wash cloth stuffed into her mouth and held
in place with a knotted scarf between her teeth was the only way to quiet her
down. I was rarely satisfied with such a paltry gag, however, so I'd often
proceed to wrap a four inch wide bandage around her gagged mouth and then
reinforce that with half a dozen windings of gray duct tape.
Sometimes I'd keep her like that for over an hour. Playing with her. Taking my
dues.
At least, that was what I THOUGHT I was doing. In actual fact I was just playing
into her hands - speeding the transition from gorgeous girlfriend to callous
killer.
Finally, twenty days after Susan came home with the red welts decorating her
legs, I spotted her leaving our apartment building as I turned the corner into
our street. I told the cab driver to pull over and wait for a moment. The meter
still running, he did so, but not before shooting me a querying frown. Up ahead,
Susan climbed into another cab that promptly pulled away from the
curb.
I steeled myself. This was it. My big chance. She hadn't said she was going
anywhere that particular night, so I had a stronger than gut feeling that the
answer to this whole mystery lay with her present destination. I ran a hand
across my dry lips and made up my mind.
"Okay driver, do me a favour and follow that cab."
The taxi driver half turned in his seat to peer at me. "You're shittin' me?"
"You mean no-one's ever asked you to do that before?"
He grinned at me and shifted the car into drive. "Nope, but I wish it would
happen more often."
I actually almost managed a smile myself as I replied. "You keep up with that
other cab and I'll make it worth your while. Fifty bucks."
"This gets better by the minute. Mister, you got yourself a deal!"
The driver squealed the cab away from the curb - and although I had no idea
what I was in for, I was on my way to my first taste of The Bondage Club.
*****
I may not get a chance to post n the next update. I want to be able to put a few
hundred miles between me and here. After all, it's better to be safe than caught
by The Angels. Until then . . . stay safe.
