BDSM Library - Bondage Club

Bondage Club

Provided By: BDSM Library
www.bdsmlibrary.com



Synopsis: The exposing of a world-wide conspiracy of powerful individuals dedicated to the kidnapping, torture, training and enslaving of beautiful women, and the murder of anyone who gets in their way ...
Bondage Club

THE HOOK



She turned then and stared at me - eyes narrowed, lips curled, deep indentations
in the corners of her mouth. The earlier confusion gone.

"Enough of this shit," I snarled at her. "Just tell me what the fuck 'Bondage
Club' is."

Her eyes narrowed further, and her marked mouth twisted into a lop sided smile.
Her voice, when she spoke, was a mindless drone. "The first rule of Bondage Club
is that you do not talk about Bondage Club."

And from there, things went straight to hell.

*****

Bear with me, please. All will become clear.


THE VENDETTA

That was a little insensitive of me. Coming in on the middle of the "story" like
that was never going to make things easy to understand. But then, I'm not sure I
understand them, so maybe it's for the best. Either way, I apologise. But I had
to try and create a level of interest in this "story". Otherwise it may have
gone unnoticed - and then all my efforts will have been for naught.

Okay, now that little explanatory piece is out of the way with, maybe I can get
on with things. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Victor Kendalli. Vic
for short. I'm 6 foot tall, a little under average weight, and have sandy-brown
hair. Maybe you know me - or someone exactly like me because I used to be your
everyday, run-of-the-mill, ordinary guy. I worked fifty-five hours a week in a
large downtown brokering firm, and fifteen hours of that was unpaid. I wasn't
very high up in the company, but I'm young and my immediate superiors told me
I'd have a bright future if "I played my cards right". In contrast, my lofty
superiors weren't even aware I existed. I lived in a one room studio apartment
in a reasonable part of town. "Reasonable" in this sense was defined as having
to dead bolt my doors at night, but not living in fear of being gunned down by a
stray bullet that was probably intended for the schmuck who'd "forgotten" to pay
his friendly, neighbourhood dealer.

That's me. For better or worse. I think you'll agree there's not much to harp
on. So why am I wasting my breath here?

Because I want to tell you all about Bondage Club. And to be quite honest - what
better place can there be for that than here, on this website? Maybe some of you
are members of The Club already. Maybe even now you're trying to find me. Using
all those ultra high tech procedures to track me back through my e-mail account,
or ISP number, or some fucking thing. To be honest, I don't give a shit.

If only because I'll be dead before the end of the week.

I know it, and if you're an influential member of The Club, you know it.

But I bet you didn't expect THIS. I mean, me posting my story to this site.
Maybe you thought I was going to go public - tell the whole world about The
Club. But I didn't see the point of that. I'd have been dismissed as another one
of those loony guys raving on about fanatical cults and white slavery rings and
abducted women. So I've opted for this method. Take my legacy to those people
who might actually believe what I'm saying. Or at least not dismiss it outright.
Write my tale into story form, here, on my lap-top as I skip from city to city,
trying to stay one step ahead of your "Angels". And then post it into the site
as access to a remote terminal permits. I just hope I'm not putting the site's
moderator in any danger.

And if just one of you readers can follow this up, can do a little digging in
the right place at the right time, then my work is done. Because that person
will tell one other trusted person in the field, and like a stack of dominos
toppling in succession, word will spread. Until, one day, everyone knows about
it, and with knowledge comes exposure. Which means the truth (or a fairly close
approximation of it) will come out. And the whole Bondage Club will fall.

Spectacularly.

Call it the "Bottoms-Up" approach to fucking The Club over. I am. It has a nice
ring to it. 

*****

The one thing I failed to mention about me in my little opening description, is
that I lived with my girlfriend. Her name was Susan Alissa. Pretty name, huh? I
thought so. In fact, I thought everything about her was fantastic. Until she got
caught up in The Club.

She was gorgeous. Long, dark hair, scintillating blue eyes, perfect white teeth.
Small, but well rounded breasts with the most perfect nipples I'd ever seen. And
an ass . . . God. Even now, I can feel it beneath my gently squeezing hands. Her
legs, too, were flawless. At least, they were from where I was often positioned.

You've probably noticed I'm using the past tense in describing her. That's on
purpose.

Because she's dead.

And it was The Club that killed her.

*****

More soon, if I can stay ahead of Them.


The Initiation

Everything was pretty much perfect between Susan and I until a Thursday evening
two and a half months ago. I came home from work a little over an hour early on
that particular day having decided, after all the overtime I'd been putting in,
that I deserved an early night with the woman of my dreams.

I let myself into the apartment and dumped my briefcase on the floor beside the
door. Looking up, I started to say something like "I know, it's a miracle, I'm
home early", but I only got as far as opening my mouth.

Susan was writhing naked on the floor in front of the couch. Her beautiful face
had been covered by a black silk hood, and she had been brutally bound with
yards upon yards of midnight blue rope. Even from where I was standing I could
see that her elbows had been crushed together with yards upon yards of cinched
rope and that her hands were bound in the traditional palm-to-palm fashion. Her
long slim legs were bound at the ankles, knees and upper thighs - all in the
same looped then cinched manner. The brutal part, however, was in the way more
of the rope had been wrapped around her hooded face at mouth level and then
pulled back to be tied to her two big toes. This had the effect of arching her
body like a taughtly strung bow, and made it impossible for her to move more
than a few inches in any direction.

"Susan?" I finally managed to utter.

I took a few tentative steps toward her - my mind not quite grasping what I was
seeing. Susan and I were no strangers to bondage, of course. In fact, it was a
very common element of our love making. Scarves, ropes, cuffs, blindfolds, gags
- I'd used them all on her. Sometimes, we'd even sit down and work out a
scenario to role play together.

Those were my favourite times with her. At least in a sexual sense.

It was also no secret to me that Susan liked to engage in the occasional self
bondage. The way she explained it, she usually did so as a way to vent her
sexual frustration at my long working hours, and not-so-infrequent business
trips away. Then there were those times that she'd tie herself up as a present
to me. I'd walk in and find her hands cuffed behind her back, her legs spread
and tied to the bottom of the bed, and her mouth filled with a silk scarf.

But never like this. Not so stringently. Not naked on the cold polished wood of
the floor. Not so she was whimpering quietly as she lay in her bondage.

And besides, how could she have managed to tie herself like this? It just wasn't
possible.

That thought was confirmed a few steps later when I saw her thumbs had been tied
together with thin twine and further attached to her two big toes. Hurrying
forward, I knelt beside Susan and told her in a loud voice that I was here and
she'd be alright now. She stiffened as I spoke, and began to rock on her stomach
from side to side, moaning madly into whatever it was gagging her beneath the
hood.

"It's okay. Calm down. I'll have you lose in a minute."

Despite my reassurance, she continued to shake and moan as my fingers went to
work on the rope holding her head back to her ankles. It took a short while -
the knots were tied beyond my level of expertise - but I eventually worked it
lose, and eased Susan's upper body to the floor. I pulled the hood away from her
sweat stained features and saw that her lips were hidden beneath three wide
strips of black tape. She tried to say something, but little more than an
indignant grunt came out. I looked up and saw that her eyes were narrowed at me
angrily.

"What? I'm moving as fast as I can!"

Slightly confused, I picked away at a corner of the tape before pulling it from
her lips. A swell of red material immediately became apparent between her teeth,
so I hooked a finger into the sodden cloth and prised it lose. But before it had
even fallen to the floor, Susan was expelling a second wad of the red material
from her mouth, this time with her own tongue. It was only then that I noted
with surprise that the wads were actually two pairs of her more racy panties.

But I was in for an even bigger surprise.

Susan coughed once and then rasped at me: "Just what the FUCK do you think
you're doing?" 

I pulled away from her in shock. "I-I'm untying you. What does it look like?"

"Yeah? Well who the hell told you to do that?"

I was literally at a loss for words. The venom in her voice was incredible! I'd
never heard her so angry.

"Oh for Crisaakes Vic, just finish untying me. It's pointless now anyway."

I finally found my voice. "You mean someone didn't bind you like this?"

She craned her neck to look up at me and then spoke very slowly. "No Vic,
someone didn't. I was practicing some self bondage and I'd almost reached my
record time. But that's ruined now isn't it?" She twisted in her bonds
impatiently. "Would you just get on with it."

It was bullshit. Anyone who'd ever tied a knot before could see that. She'd been
tied by someone else and was trying to hide it from me. The question was why?

And was she sleeping with him?

Oh God, was Susan cheating on me?

Angry now myself, I finished untying my girlfriend in stony silence. It took me
the best part of five minutes to fetch scissors, cut away the twine binding her
digits, and then loosen the midnight blue knots around her wrists and elbows.
After that, she angrily shrugged me away and proceeded to free her own legs.

Teeth marks in my bottom lip, I sat back as Susan tossed the last of the ropes
aside and stood up. "I'm going for a shower," she said coldly before cautiously
limping in the bathroom's direction. The blood had evidently yet to fully return
to her limbs.

I decided to wait and confront her with my "suspicions" when she came out of the
shower. Maybe she'd feel more like talking when she'd had a chance to wash away
the sweat and tend to the numerous rope marks mapping her body.

The door to the shower slammed closed. I shook my head. Exactly why was she so
angry? I was the one who should have been bouncing off the fucking walls. It
just didn't make any sense . . .

The buzzer for the intercom rang.

Co-incidence? I think not.

I leapt up and hastily made my way over to the intercom. "Yes?" I said quietly,
having stabbed the 'Send' button.

There was silence for a few moments before a rich, deep voice filtered up to me.
"My apologies, I was searching for a Ms. Alissa. I have evidently pressed the
wrong button."

Bingo.

"No, not at all. Ms. Alissa lives here." I smiled through gritted teeth. If this
guy was who I thought he was . . . "She's currently indisposed, however. Can I
say who's calling?"

Another long pause. "No, thank you. I believe I'll return when she's not
otherwise engaged."

"No, please. Why don't you come up and wait for her." I decided to let him off
the hook - anything to get him within arm's reach. "She'll be out of the shower
in a few minutes."

"To whom am I speaking please?"

"I think that's something I should be asking, don't you?"

This time the pause was almost ominous, and when the voice spoke again it had
lost all of its former pleasantness. "My name is Mr. Chaswell. And you will
leave this message for Ms. Alissa: 'Six weeks to go'."

With that, the line went dead.

I was tempted for a moment to make a mad dash for the elevator. To ride it down,
and charge out into the foyer - ready to confront this 'Mr. Chaswell'. But I
knew it would be pointless. He'd be long gone even before the elevator had even
responded to my call.

But he'd left behind more questions than ever, and I was determined to find the
answer to each and every one of them. No matter what it took.

Even if it meant my relationship with Susan.

*****

The night had ended in a huge fight. I'd confronted Susan with Mr. Chaswell's
message and she'd flown completely off the handle, telling me it was none of my
business and that I had no right to interfere with her life. Then she'd stormed
out.

She'd been beside me the next morning when I woke up, however, and that had
eased some of my paranoia. But it was still another week before we had a proper
conversation, and a further four days before we sat down to talk about that
night.

Susan explained that she'd been tying herself up more regularly of late because
she'd stumbled across a copy of a self bondage guide at some alternative second
hand book-store. She showed me the book, and I had to admit it was pretty
impressive. It was called "Self-Bondage for the Serious Practitioner" and
detailed 50 different positions - with one of those being exactly the position
I'd found Susan in when I'd come home that night. I didn't recognise the
publisher ("BC Initiatives"), but then that was hardly surprising given that my
entire bondage library consisted of "The Story of O".

And Mr. Chaswell? Well, apparently he was the proprietor of the aforementioned
book-store, and had stopped by to inform Susan that the next shipment of related
books was six weeks away.

All in all, it made sense. Perfect sense, really - especially once the book had
been produced as proof. By the time Susan was finished I'd felt about six inches
tall. We'd been through two weeks of fighting over nothing more than my own
severe sense of paranoia.

So I'd made it up to her. Flowers. Chocolates. Dinner at a five star restaurant.
The works.

When we finally arrived home, I took Susan by the hand and smiled at her. "So
you're pretty good at tying yourself up now. But I bet you could still learn a
thing or two from me." She'd giggled and I'd set about proving my point. Wrists
crossed and tied behind her back; then drawn up to be attached to an overhanging
beam. Bent over now, a two foot spreader bar attached between her ankles. Rope
wrapped lovingly above, below and between her breasts in an intricate bra like
fashion. A silken scarf for a blindfold, and a white ball gag strapped behind
her teeth. Her body helpless and her cries muted as I took her from behind . . .

I remember it now as the last truly happy moment of my life.

*****

Believe it or not, I may have lost the Angels tracking me. That's three days
without any sign of them. I'm actually starting to wonder if I may even get to
finish this story before they catch up to me. It's a long shot, but I can hope
right?

Keep your fingers crossed for me.

But even more importantly, keep reading. Because the more you read, the better
chance there is that something will be triggered in your memory. A description
of a place, a particular person's speech pattern, a mannerism I've noted.
Anything. And then . . . well that's up to you. Learn from my mistakes as I
write them though. Be smarter than me. Don't try and do everything yourself.
Talk to someone you trust. I mean REALLY trust. 

More soon.


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.


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.

*****


AN EARLY EXIT

So there I was, mounting a stage upon which my girlfriend was bound, gagged and
being whipped, while a stream of bouncers surged towards me, in the middle of a
Club evidently dedicated to the binding, gagging and torturing of women.

In my impulsive rage, I'd assumed that Susan was being whipped against her will,
but then I caught a look at her eyes as I came alongside her and everything
changed.

For Susan did not so much look back at me, but right THROUGH me with
half-closed, pleasure-filled eyes ...

Right up to that point, I'd been prepared to die - to go out swinging, and in
the process, hopefully take Mr Chaswell with me. I wanted him dead so much that
I basically didn't care what happened to me moments later.

But that moment of revelation while looking into Susan's eyes stopped me cold,
and a new plan of action slotted neatly into the forefront of my mind . . .

*****

Even as the first of the bouncers mounted the stage behind me and the murmur of
the crowd reached outrage" proportions, I extended my hand toward Mr. Chaswell,
and forcing a smile, said: "The cat, if you please."

Despite my own predicament, I was tempted to laugh at the look of surprise that
etched itself across the older man's sweat-covered face.

"But you're . . . "

"Of course I am, but does that really matter?" Booted footsteps behind me
heralded the arrival of the female bouncers. One word from Mr Chaswell and I was
gone.

It was now or never. "Please," I hissed. "I'm OWED this."

A measure of his composure returning, Mr Chaswell straightened and nodded
slowly. "Alright, ten strikes, and then we'll all leave quietly via the back
door." He glanced over his shoulder to a door set in the back of the stage. "And
Mr Kendalli, I MEAN quietly."

I nodded and he put the cat in my outstretched hand. Another nod from him and
the bouncers were backing off, making room for me. I turned to face Susan's welt
covered back and the crowd beyond her. They were slowly quieting down, probably
coming to believe that I was part of the entertainment.

Mr Chaswell swiftly confirmed that belief. "Members and honoured guests, please
welcome our celebrity lasher, Mr. K!"

Polite applause followed - not that I cared. All I wanted was to whip Susan and
pour every iota of rage, angst, and sorrow I had into the lashes I was to give
her. She'd betrayed me, lied to me, used me. It was obvious that THIS was her
real life, while I'd be lucky to rate a distant second. And for that, I wanted
her to suffer.

But to suffer by my own hand.

So I brought the cat down across the middle of her back with as much force as I
could. Susan immediately began squealing into her gag, but at the same time, I
saw her pelvis start thrusting up and down on the dildo impaling her. So I
lashed her with the cat again . . . and again . . . across her back and buttocks
and upper thighs. But I saved the best for last. I walked around to face my
girlfriend as she hung there suspended, and with my last two strokes, aimed them
squarely at her tortured breasts. Susan screamed into the white ball as those
two lashes fell, and for just a moment I though I'd broken through to her. But
then I saw the way the exposed part of the dildo was glistening beneath her
crotch and realised I'd done nothing more than add to her pleasure.

The crowd seemed equally excited. They had taken their cue from my bold move and
were now applauding loudly. There were even a few calls of "Bravo!" coming from
the back of the dance floor. Rather than responding, however, I turned and
walked across the stage to where Mr Chaswell was standing. I handed him the cat
and together we walked out the back door, flanked by three of the gloved and
booted bouncers.

Behind us, the spotlights went out and the curtain again closed across the
stage.

*****

"You demonstrate a rare talent with the cat-o-nine tails, Victor. Tell me, have
you wielded one before?"

We were in a dark back alley, and I was in no doubt as to what was to happen
next. Mr Chaswell had led the way through a veritable maze of dimly lit
corridors, before coming to what appeared to be a service elevator. We descended
in silence with our escort, and it was only once we were outside and he had
taken the opportunity to light and puff on a fat cigar, that he had spoken.

"Only once or twice."

"Ah," he said. "Well it seems you have an instinct for it then."

I smiled without humour. "If it's all the same to you Mr Chaswell, I'd like to
get this over with."

"A man of action and very few words, I see. Well so be it. Hold him." Two pairs
of strong hands gripped my upper arms and forced me to my knees. Mr Chaswell
delved into the depths

of his three piece suit and came out holding a small caliber pistol. He saw my
look.

"Don't worry, it may be small but it will do the job." He produced a second item
from somewhere about his person - a small silencer - and began screwing it into
place. "I have to say, Mr Kendalli, that I'm quite surprised by your eagerness
to die. If it was myself in your less than envious position I'd want to know all
about how my woman had fallen into such company. Are

you not even the slightest bit curious?"

"Does it make a difference?"

"No, I guess it does not. I cannot allow any outsiders into my Chapter of the
Bondage Club. The Presidents would oust me as soon as they had word of such an
occurrence. But I do wish we had met under other circumstances. I, for one,
would have been proud to sponsor your application for

Membership."

"Am I meant to be flattered?"

Mr Chaswell sighed. "Sadly, no. That would be too much to expect on my behalf.
Still, allow me to offer you this one comforting thought before you die." He
finished screwing the silencer into place. "Susan will be well taken care of.
She is to become one of the elite group of female assassins that even now hold
you still. We have dubbed them 'Angels'. Aptly titled, don't you think?"

I craned my head back to take one last look at the women holding me. Two of them
were looking at Mr Chaswell, but the third - a gorgeous raven haired woman with
sky-blue eyes - was staring straight at me. Meeting her gaze only momentarily, I
proceeded to scan each of the other women, before eventually nodding. "I doubt
there'd be many who'd disagree."

"Well very soon, your Susan will be an elite among them. Her training has been
of the highest caliber, and her conversion is without flaw. Not that I expected
anything less, of course. After all, it was I who singled her out the day she
came into my little book store, looking for a Dominance and submission book." Mr
Chaswell chuckled. "It seems she was ready to take things a step further with
you Mr Kendalli. So I offer you my belated apologies for intervening when I
did."

"Fuck you," I replied simply.

He ignored my insult. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a function to return to.
These Angels will see you 'out'." He tossed the silenced pistol at the raven
haired Angel - who caught it deftly - and nodded in my direction. "Make it quick
and painless. The show he put on for us tonight earns him that much at least.
Afterwards, you know what to do."

While I dealt with the surprise that the man himself wasn't to be my
executioner, Mr Chaswell turned to face me one last time. "Enjoy the rest of
your evening, Mr Kendalli."

I didn't reply. Mostly because I couldn't think of anything to say beyond "Go to
hell".

He disappeared back into the building.

The raven-haired Angel moved around in front of me - the silver gun contrasting
starkly with the black of her gloved hand. Without a word of warning, she
pointed the barrel of the gun at the center of my forehead and . . .

"Leave," she said suddenly.

"But . . ." started the Angel to my right.

"I said 'Leave'. Do it now."

The hands forcing me down on my knees fell away. Turning, I saw the two near
naked women walking back through the same door that Mr Chaswell had just used.

"Look at me," ordered the last Angel. I did so instantly. Something strange was
going on here, and I didn't want to ruin it by failing to obey a command.
Especially one that had sounded so edgy.

The Angel struggled to speak for a few moments, as if she was unable to say what
she wished. 

"I want . . . y-you to whip . . . me . . . L-like you . . . did 113F." Her words
came out through clenched teeth.

By the time my addled mind had pieced together what she was asking me to do, the
Angel was speaking again, but this time more fluently. "Tie me ... gag me ... p-
punish me. Please? Just ... like her."

I spoke to the gun barrel in my face. "Yes, right now. I want to do all that
right now."

The Angel sagged and fell to her knees in front of me. Our eyes locked. She
dropped the gun between us. "T-thank you . . . Ma-Master."

I snatched the weapon up, my head filled with visions of blasting her and
running like hell. But I knew I couldn't do it, and I also knew that this
particular Angel would be applying to have her label put to the test if Mr
Chaswell knew she'd participated in my escape.

I stood and offered her my hand. "C'mon. We have to get away from here first."

Her gloved hand took mine and together we ran.

*****


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.

*****


THE LAST LAUGH

I'm grinning as I type this. Mainly because I'm imagining how you Members of the
Club must be reacting as you read this. Shock? Dismay? Fear? I'm guessing, of
course, but I'd wager that you're feeling all of the above. You were all
probably praying to whatever you believe in that I wasn't going to say anything
about "The Word" - or even  that I'd somehow managed to misconstrue what I
heard. And now I'm about to dash that hope with what I've written below.

So why did I wait this long to share this invaluable piece of information? Well,
that's easy to answer. If I had have started my tale with a "Here's the way to
make an incredibly beautiful group of female assassins yours for the taking!",
how many people do you think would have believed me? That's right, none. Not a
fucking soul. In fact, the moderator would probably have never even posted the
first parts of my "story".

But THIS way, I've established credibility. Certain readers have been following
my misadventures over a fortnight now, so they know (or at least suspect) that
I'm on the level. And if that's the case, the thing that they're going to have
freshest in their mind at the end of this piece is the very Command Word that
you all strive so hard to protect.

But enough of my gloating. Time to spill ...

*****

Despite my initial misgivings, my key slid easily into the lock. I grinned at
58A who was hovering protectively by my side.

"Are you pleased, Master?"

"Very," I said, and put my finger to my lips in a sushing gesture. I figured
there was no point in announcing our arrival to anyone who might be lurking
inside.

I pushed the apartment door open gently. Steeling myself, I started forward
after the swinging door in a half-crouch, but 58A stopped me with a firm grip on
my shoulder.

"What?" I mouthed.

She frowned at me, and motioned for herself to lead the way into my old
apartment. Given that she was the trained assassin, I agreed she had a point and
made room for her to move past me.

Somehow moving silently on the balls of her booted feet, 58A eased her way
inside. I watched her glance from left to right . . . and suddenly rear back in
surprise. An instant later, a black baton crashed into the side of 58A's head,
knocking her unconscious to the floor. Without even thinking, I was throwing
myself through the doorway and at her assailant. We went down together in a
flailing jumble of arms and legs. I came out lying on top of the baton-wielder,
and used this advantage to recover my balance first. Leaping to my feet, I aimed
a vicious kick at my opponent's midriff - but stopped it in mid-arc as the "he"
turned out to be a gorgeous "she". And more particularly, MY one time gorgeous
"she".

Susan was decked out from neck to toe in black. Black turtle-necked sweater,
black lycra leggings, black leather wrist-length gloves, and black knee high
boots. In short, she looked incredible. As she warily climbed to her feet, I
noticed there were deep indentations in the corners of her mouth - as if she had
recently been gagged, and gagged tightly.

Twenty whole seconds had passed since the moment I'd recognised her, and still
neither of us had said a word. For a crazy moment, I wasn't even sure she knew
who I was, but then . . .

"You shouldn't have come back."

There was no warmth in her words whatsoever.

"You shouldn't be in my apartment," I responded

She took a sudden step to the left and all of a sudden we were circling each
other like opponents in a gladiatorial arena.

"I'm ordered to be here."

"Oh yeah? By who? And why?"

She smiled coldly. "My Master. The why should be fairly self-explanatory."

"Your Master? Jesus, Susan. What the hell happened to you? I thought . . . I
thought we were in love."

There. A flicker. Just a shadow and it was gone, but a flicker nonetheless.

I pressed on before she could respond. "I mean, what was it that The Club
offered you that I didn't? If you wanted more in our bondage games, you just
should have said so." I'd gotten through to one Angel in this manner, and I
figured it was worth trying on another. "Don't you remember the whipping I gave
you on stage? You can't tell me your Master or anyone else at The Club has given
you better than that!"

Susan was breathing noticeably harder by now, and I could see a gleam in her
eyes. Our circling of each other was also slowing - something that I took to be
a good sign because she no longer looked as if she was going to leap for my
exposed throat.

"What is it about The Club that's worth selling your soul for? Especially when
you had everything you wanted before you joined?"

She stopped circling completely, and I did the same. "B-Bondage Club . . . is
everything," she managed to say.

I decided to push her harder. "C'mon, that's bullshit and you know it. I can SEE
you're doubting The Club - despite their programming, despite your training,
despite everything."

That was when her defenses must have kicked in. Instead of biting, she turned on
her heel and strolled across the room, chanting: "The first rule of 'Bondage
Club is that you don't talk about Bondage Club'."

"No! Listen to me. You can't let them win. Don't give into it." I was becoming
desperate. This was my last chance, and my emotions began to cloud the words
that flew from my mouth. "Fight it Susan, fucking fight!"

She turned then and stared at me - eyes narrowed, lips curled, deep indentations
in the corners of her mouth. The earlier confusion gone.

In despair, I snarled: "Enough of this shit. Just tell me what the fuck 'Bondage
Club' is."

Her eyes narrowed further, and her marked mouth twisted into a lop sided smile.
"The first rule of Bondage Club is that you do not talk about Bondage Club. And
besides, " she added after a pause, "I would have thought the traitor Angel
would have told you all about it."

"She did, but I want to hear it from you. I want to hear how they got to you." I
strode purposefully toward her. "And I'm going to MAKE you tell me."

A new voice stopped me cold. "That will be quite enough, Mr Kendalli."

I recognised the voice even before I laid eyes on its owner walking from the
bathroom, holding a 9mm Barretta that was pointed at the centre of my chest.

"Hello Chaswell," I said with fake pleasantry. "I wish you would have called in
advance to let me know you were stopping by. I would have prepared a proper
reception."

Chaswell smiled thinly as he strolled to a stop thirty feet from me. "Quite the
contrary, Mr Kendalli." He emphasised the 'Mr' as if slightly annoyed by the way
I'd purposefully dropped his title. "113F and I have been awaiting your return
for quite some time. But fear not, we've found ways to . . . occupy ourselves."

My eyes darted across to focus on the gag marks at the corner of Susan's mouth.
Although she stood between the two of us, her eyes held an unglazed look and her
lips were forming were words silently. I could also see that her brow was
furrowed, perhaps in intense concentration.

"Now 113F," continued Chaswell. "It's time to finish what we came here to do."

A groan from behind me interrupted Mr Chaswell's instructions. A glance over my
shoulder revealed 58A to be climbing to her feet slowly. "Ahh, my lost Angel! So
good to see you alive. Perhaps now you're ready to return to the fold?"

"Never," hissed 58A. "I serve only my Master." Before she'd even finished
speaking the last word, "my" Angel was darting across the open room between
herself and Mr Chaswell. She moved quicker than any human being had a right to,
but I knew it was a fruitless attempt. 58A was fast, but Mr Chaswell had sixteen
very speedy friends on his side and it would only take

one of them to stop her cold.

He did not fire, however. Instead, he simply spoke one word very clearly.

"Remorhaz."

The effect was instantaneous. 58A stopped to a complete halt within three steps
- just before she could launch her self from the couch in the middle of the room
and at her target - and slid to her knees, head bowed. Susan, too, had ceased
her silent mouthing and now stood with closed eyes and lowered head.

"How the fu-"

"You don't think we failed to plan for the possibility that one or more of our
Angels might get of line do you?" He laughed. "The word 'Remorhaz' is the first
and most basic part of every potential Angel's programming. It is in fact the
basis for the remainder of their training and programming. Whenever an Angel
hears the word, she effectively shuts down - like a computer saving itself from
a particularly insidious virus. And when she boots back up, it's with all
original programs restored." He paused gleefully. "In other words, the once
corrupted Angel belongs again to The Club."

At that point, I knew I was dead. There was nothing else I could do. My "wild
card" had played itself and I'd come up short. I knew it, and so did the smug
bastard pointing the gun at me.

"Well Mr Kendalli, I really have no more time to waste, so I'm afraid this is
goodbye." He raised the Baretta's barrel slightly to point at the centre of my
forehead.

I gritted my teeth and waited for the end.

The report of the gun going off intermingled with the sound of a piercing shriek
as Susan suddenly threw herself across in front of me. Her graceful dive ended
as the bullet hammered into her upper chest, dropping her like a lead weight.

For just a second I stood there, unable to comprehend that I wasn't dead - but
that the woman I loved most likely was.

And then I was moving, incomprehensible rage fuelling my flight. I crossed the
first fifteen feet between myself and Chaswell in what felt like a nanosecond,
because he was only raising the gun to fire at me as I leapt off my couch and
arrowed through the air towards him.

He was too slow, of course. He'd had his chance, but killing his prized new
recruit instead of his target had rattled him just enough. I slammed into him
before he had the chance to fire, and together we tumbled to the floor. I
slammed a balled fist up and into his bulging stomach as we rolled to a halt -
this time, my opponent on top of me. Then I reached up and grabbed the sides of
his hair and slammed my forehead into the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted onto
my face in a fast torrent, stinging my eyes and filling my mouth. Chaswell took
the opportunity to smash a fist into my jaw and scamper off me. But I snaked a
hand out and caught his trouser leg, and little by little drew myself up as he
tried to pull away. I threw myself across him, shoving him down onto the cold
hardwood floor of my apartment, and then crashed a fist into his right kidney.
Chaswell floundered beneath me as I managed to straddle his squirming body.

"Please," I heard him whine. "Please stop!"

I grabbed him again by the sides of his head and slammed his head into the
floorboards once . . .

"Die . . ."

. . . twice . . .

" . . . you . . ."

. . . three times . . .

" . . . FUCKER!"

. . . and kept hammering it until I was holding little more than a pulpy mass in

my blood-drenched hands.

Tasting bile, I stood and staggered over to where Susan lay in a pool of slowly
spreading blood. I knelt down beside her, and brushed her gorgeous hair from her
gorgeous face. A pair of unfocused, unblinking eyes confronted me.

Biting down hard on my lip, I turned away and found myself staring at 58A. She
was still kneeling on the floor but was evidently beginning to stir as the
muscles in her legs and arms were twitching. Hurriedly, I rushed across to the
drawer where Susan and I had kept out ropes, scarves and cuffs and gathered up a
handful of restraining items. I had no idea whether Mr Chaswell had been lying
about what would happen when my one-time Angel woke up, but at this stage of
proceedings I wasn't about to take any chances.

I swiftly bound 58A tightly. Hands together in palm to palm fashion so I could
also cinch her elbows together as tightly as possible. That done, I wrapped and
cinched rope around her ankles, knees, and upper thighs, before attaching her
wrists to her ankles in a back-arching hogtie. She was awake by this time and
staring at me coldly, but she never spoke a word as I

stuffed two handkerchiefs in her mouth and tied them in place with a thin

rope as a mouth stretching cleave gag. Over that I wadded another handkerchief,
being careful to prod the edges of it into the small recesses remaining behind
her upper and lower gums. An ace bandage was last, wrapped first in between and
then over her lips to further muffle any sound

she could have made.

My final words to her were a whispered "I'm sorry", to which she responded with
a glare that should have killed me on the spot. It was obvious that Chaswell had
been telling the truth - "Remorhaz" worked. Which meant from this point, I would
be using it to stay one step ahead of The Bondage Club and all its affiliated
Chapters.

*****

I wish there had been time to grieve for Susan. But while I knew that Chaswell
would never again bother me, I was equally aware that there was entire network
of affiliated Chapters who would be baying for my blood

And as a result, I've been running now for almost two and a half months now.

More on that soon.

*****


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