58A
Ever so slowly, I'm losing it. That might sound like an odd thing to admit,
especially when I know there are interested Club members following this tale as
I post it. But what else could you expect after months on the run?
It's winter, and virtually every second woman is wearing boots and gloves.
Logically, I know this. But all I'm seeing are Angels come to silence me forever
with a timely double-tap to the head. Just yesterday I turned and grabbed a
woman around the throat while we stood waiting for the lights to change at an
intersection. Her hands were hidden behind gloves and her legs encased in boots,
plus she had been shadowing me for half a block.
Or so I thought until she maced me right in the eyes and ran away screaming.
I don't think I can last much longer.
But here's hoping I make it to Christmas. Cross your fingers for me. Hell, say a
prayer if you're that way inclined. I think I need the help.
*****
Believe it or not, the cab driver was still there waiting for me. And the look
on his face when he saw the virtually naked woman running along the street at my
side was ridiculously comical given our situation.
We piled into the cab. "Go," I said to him as I slammed the door behind us. But
the driver was just staring at us, mouth working for words, eyes locked on the
Angel's quaking breasts.
"Please, just drive." I looked back up the street in the direction of the alley,
fully expecting a horde of the Angels to round the corner at any second.
"What the fuck i-" Before he could say anything else, the raven haired Angel
snapped forward in her seat, and grabbed the cabbie in a pincer grip by his
neck.
"My M-Master ordered you to drive. Do it or I'll twist to the left, like this."
The cabbie's eyes widened and a pained gurgle escaped his lips. The Angel let
him go with a push, and sat watching her prey carefully. The cabbie took the
"hint" and swiveled in his seat to turn the engine over. He pulled away from the
curb and accelerated as fast as the old cab was capable.
I leant over to the Angel and whispered in her ear: "From now on, you'll let me
handle any and all situations that arise - unless I tell you otherwise. Is that
understood?"
Eyes lowered, she nodded. "Yes my Master, but . . . will I be punished?"
The question took me by surprise, although it really shouldn't have. Was I going
to tie, punish and then fuck this woman? This assassin? I mean, what about
Susan? Was there any chance for us?
I knew all of the answers as soon as I asked myself the questions.
Susan was gone. Probably for good. The look in her eyes as I'd mounted the stage
had told me that. She'd been programmed too well. But then, it seemed I'd
managed to get through to this one - even though it was only in the context of
undermining her existing programming. It wasn't like I'd broken it. And there
was always the possibility that she'd revert back at any stage.
I was going to have take steps to make sure that didn't happen.
*****
Back to my apartment was obviously out of the question. That would be the first
place The Club would look. So where? As much as I wanted to turn to a friend, I
had a very definite feeling that doing so would only place them in as much
danger as I was in. The same applied to my family.
Which meant I had to rely on myself.
A scary proposition at best.
I asked the driver to drop us off at a low profile hotel on the outskirts of
town. A $50 a night job. I paid him the remaining $150 in cash for the trip and
"inconvenience" of the night befere advising him to say nothing about what had
happened. For his own good, of course.
He told me "Sure, no problems", but I could see that that sentiment was going to
be good for about four hours. Probably until he got off his shift and went to a
bar with some work mates and they began to trade stories about the day's fares.
I could see him raising his voice above the chuckles of his drinking buddies to
say "Well you think THAT'S weird . . ."
One night was all we could afford in this dive and then we'd have to move on.
I paid with plastic and resolved that I wouldn't be doing that again until this
was all over. Tomorrow, I'd find an ATM first thing and withdraw as much of my
savings as I could. Then we'd find a place to lay low across the other side of
town. Eventually, when I thought things had cooled off enough, I'd head back to
my apartment and grab as much stuff as I could.
Interestingly, the thought of going to the cops never seriously entered my mind.
I guess I kind of sensed that this thing was way too big not to involve some
kind of high up influence. If the cops hadn't had a run in with The Club by now
it was because they were being directed away by someone important.
Later, my Angel would confirm that feeling for me as she lay tied to the four
corners of the lumpy double bed I'd rented. In fact, she told me pretty much
everything I've hinted at in posts to this point. That there are numerous
Chapters of the Club. That they're situated on the 14th floor of important
high-rise buildings in different cities around the world. That each Chapter is
headed up by a Leader, but that all are answerable to an informal Committee
staffed by Lifetime Members. That the Angels are either kidnapped (read
"recruited") off the street, or comprised of naive volunteers like Susan. That
they undergo rigorous reprogramming procedures that are all bondage and torture
orientated. Until they're virtually machines with no real identity of their own
- save a number and a letter. The number serving to identify how early they were
recruited, and the letter indicating how high up the ranks they are. My Angel,
58A (she said she no longer remembered her real name), was not sure how many
other Angels existed outside of her own Chapter, but knew that the tattoos
adorning the ankles and wrists of each varied according to the Chapter they
belonged to.
But perhaps most significantly of all, 58A told me that The Bondage Club was one
of the largest and most well organised slavery rings in the Western world. Hence
the need to train Angels. To protect the organisation, and to ensure it remains
a secret.
Of course, I'd suspected pretty much all of this from the things I'd seen and
experienced. You simply don't have someone "offed" because they've stumbled onto
a social bondage club. Nevertheless, it was still somewhat frightening to have
my suspicions confirmed.
Not that 58A had any idea of the way I was reacting to her words. By this stage
I'd blindfolded her with her own pair of long gloves and was thrashing her with
my belt every time she volunteered information that I deemed useful. She
strained against the curtain cord binding her to the bedposts as I strapped her
breasts again and again, leaving angry red marks on her milky
white bulbs. That was the deal we worked out - that I'd belt her with the same
force I'd used on Susan back in the Club, if she answered my questions to the
best of her ability.
When I was satisfied I'd gotten all the information that I could out of her, I
stuffed a wash towel as far as I could into her mouth and tied it in place with
my necktie. Then I proceed to aim by blows at her exposed slit, and continued
thrashing her until she was sobbing into her thick gag.
Later she thanked me for the beating and begged me to fuck her the next time I
decided to do the same.
*****
We stayed on the move for the next three weeks. I kept an eye on the newspapers
and the local television news, half expecting a story about a criminal on the
run from the police with my name and appearance. But it never happened.
Evidently, The Club had decided to clean up its own
mess.
58A and I had developed a fairly specific pattern. Wake up, untie her, clean up,
check out, hit an ATM (if need be), find a new hotel, pay cash under an assumed
name, and head to our room. There, I'd bind her again and proceed to "punish"
her for whatever discretion I could think off. I'd bought the two of us new
clothes, as well as a large supply of rope, tape and bandannas. So I'd often
point out an un-tucked shirt, at which point she'd beg me to discipline her. It
was almost as if she needed it - and I was too afraid not to comply after the
way I'd seen her handle the cabbie. Plus, at the back of my mind was the
sneaking suspicion that she could snap back into her proper programmed state at
any time.
Hence I'd always take my time binding her. I'd make sure the rope was tight
enough to pinch, the blindfold secure enough to work effectively, and the gag
layered enough times to make it difficult to breathe as well as silence.
Usually, I'd punish her with a thrashing from my belt, but
sometimes, I'd get inventive and employ breast and crotch bondage as forms of
punishment. When I was done, I'd tie her less strenuously, but equally as
securely, and we'd drift off to sleep alongside each other.
I wrestled with my conscience for five days, but eventually caved into my
desires. Susan wasn't coming back to me, so why should I hold out for her?
Consequently, on that night, having tied 58A to the light fixture in the room
and whipped her until welts were forming, I spread her legs wide and forced my
way into her without a word. Within minutes she had orgasmed around my cock -
the extra stimulation too much after a near on week of being bound, blindfolded,
gagged and punished. I kept fucking her, however, until the ache in the base of
my balls brought tears to me eyes and I exploded inside her.
From that point on, our nightly ritual changed slightly to incorporate mutual
sexual gratification.
*****
My original plan had been to head home on the seventh day to grab what I could,
but on the sixth, the lead story was of a gangland style slaying of a man as he
walked along a busy city street. He'd been shot four times in front of witnesses
as a car sped by. Two in the chest, and two in the head. I recognised the man's
photo instantly.
Our cab driver.
I opted to wait a little longer.
*****
At the time, I wasn't sure why I eventually picked that Thursday to go back
home. It just seemed right. Later, it became fairly obvious why.
Mr Chaswell had once asked me to pass along a message to Susan: "Six weeks to
go".
Somehow, I must have let that piece of information influence my decision
subconsciously. Because it was six weeks to that day that I stood in front of my
apartment door, key in hand, wandering if it was even going to fit the lock any
longer.
*****
