Thesbian Tease
(C) E. Howe 2002
All rights reserved

Part One

I could not believe my eyes.  She stood in front of us, behind the electronic 
keyboard. Her breasts were thrust forward, and she was pinching her nipples 
through her low cut shirt.  

Let me say it again: She was pinching her nipples through her low cut shirt.  

Got your attention?  That's what she was trying to do to us.  Get our attention.  
She already had mine.  Oh yes, she had my FULL attention.  That is how I saw 
her pinching her nipples.  

OK, I should explain, I suppose.  "We" were the chorus in "Archy & Mehitabel".  
She was our musical director. 

We were rehearsing the opening song, but because of the late hour, our 
concentration was broken, and the chorus stood chattering like giddy hens while 
Lydia tried in vain to get them focused again.  

All but me.  I stood in the front row, my mind racing.  Finally, I spoke up.  "I see 
what you are doing to your nipples, Lydia, because *I* remained focused".  

A hush fell over the chorus.  Her hands had dropped to her sides.  A blush crept 
over her face.  Good.  The fucking bitch deserved to be embarrassed.  

She resumed the song at "...dance, Mehitabel, dance!  Show your shadow how!  
Tonight it's a dance with the bloody moon, tomorrow the garbage scow!"

All month long she had been teasing.  She deliberately wore leotards and halter 
tops to rehearsals, almost laying bare her gorgeous breasts.  She would insert her 
tin whistle or recorder into her cleavage, rather than on the music stand in front of 
her.  

She was a prima donna besides.  During the script rehearsals, she would interrupt 
by entering the theater, and noisily looking for her keys, disrupting the dialogue 
with her whining about them being lost. 

She was a poser.  She would strut.  She would roll her eyes, "tsk" her tongue and 
huff at any suggestions made. 

I will give her this; she was a damn good dancer, and was an outstanding music 
director.  She had whipped the chorus into a cohesive group in a short time.  

But she was a fucking TEASE.  She knew I am a lesbian.  She knew that I was 
staring at her tits.  She would bend forward to reach for a sheet of music in front 
of me, stop half way, and make eye contact.  Then slowly smile.  

Of course I was going to look.  Any human being that loves women would.  But 
the word got back to me:  "You make her uncomfortable.  Don't stare at her tits."

Excuse me?  Like hell I won't! I made a point of staring more blatantly from that 
moment on.  

I noted her tops got even lower cut, and tighter.  This night was the worst... the 
fabric was thin and white.  I could see her nipples beneath her finger tips.  Jesus, 
Joseph and Moira, my loins ached. 

I noted the look of apprehension she had given me.  Good.  I had plans for this 
thespian tease.  


Part Two

"Risa, you know you wouldn't be in this situation if you hadn't been singing in the 
flies."

I took a long pull from my tankard.  The stout ale had a refreshing finish, slightly 
bitter, but clean. It was called "John Barleycorn's Chocolate Obsession", and had 
been produced at this pub for just over 18 years--in fact, they had just had the "I'm 
barely legal!" party last month.  It had a fine head of blonde foam, and in the 
parlance of wine connoisseurs, it had great legs, a full-breasted robust flavor, a 
good nose, and a slightly bitter finish.  I tended to call it "Tiffany's Competition", 
but out of earshot of the master brewer.  

I looked over at my drinking buddy.  "Scooter, is singing in the flies bad luck or 
something?  Is that what you are telling me?  I thought it was humming..."

"No, Risa" he replied with a tone of injured patience.  "Whistling on stage is bad 
luck, because of the backdrop whistle codes.  Give the code for raising the canvas, 
and you might bean a body with the counterweight.  If you hadn't been singing, 
you would not have been heard, and you would not be in the chorus." 

He was right.  Mike, the director of this production had stopped by the theater one 
afternoon as I was working on the rigging for the pulley system, and was singing 
one of the songs I'd heard practiced earlier that day.  I'd received a note the next 
morning from the producer to report to Lydia for chorus practice.  I have perfect 
pitch.  


Scott is the stage manager.  He's a lifelong pal of mine, too.  At one time as 
children, we plotted to run away and join the circus together.  We'd had our first 
sexual encounters together as late teens, and both discovered that while the 
friction of male and female membranes could be fun, we both preferred our own 
kind.  

I sighed over my beer.  "You have a point, Scoots. I am not cut out for the idiocies 
of the theater people.  I can't believe how many of them have confetti for brains--
and are as plastic as Barbie dolls."

We sat in companionable silence, savoring our ales. 
"Is it normal for Lydia to be this much of a tease?  I mean, those tits of hers…"
"You know, Risa, we could do something about her..." 
"Oh no, don't go there, Scott!"
"No, listen, I know we can!"
"Scott, no, what if we are caught?  I don't fancy the idea of being in jail for the 
rest of my life!"
"Risa, there's ways to keep her mouth shut, you know."

I stopped arguing.  I had a vision of Lydia bound and gagged on the dusty stage 
floor, naked but for a corset and fishnet stockings, and I shivered.  Gods, I ached 
to see that happen to her.  Odd how the look of fear in the eyes of a woman can be 
such a turn on.  Especially if those eyes are offset by a brilliant red ball-gag. 

I could hear Scooter chuckling.  I snapped out of it, and looked at him.  He was 
looking at me, and shaking his head.  "You know, I think I've convinced you.  
You should have seen the look on your face just now.  I haven't seen you like that 
since the first time I watched you play with that flogger I bought you for 
Christmas two years ago."

I tried not to blush.  We had shared a fascination with dominance and submission, 
and more recently, Scott had developed a love for abduction porn.  I was unsure 
of it, myself.  

But oh, this woman taunted me, mocked me, teased me, and I wanted to make her 
obey.  I wanted her to weep, to beg for release, I wanted to dig my fingers into 
those gorgeous breasts of hers, and leave marks--MY marks on them.  

Scott leaned closer to me: "Risa, abduction is the heart of BD/SM, if you strip 
away all the niceties of the subculture.  Take away the rituals, the forms, and the 
safewords.  There pulsing in the center, you will find what drives the abductor.  
And you would not be so damn good with a flogger, a strap-on dildo, nipple 
clamps, and various kitchen implements if it wasn't within you! It's the wanting, 
the taking, the consuming without regard for other.  It's pure self, it's all about 
'me'.  

I looked at him.  His eyes were searching mine.  I could see what he meant.  And 
for the first time, I decided to fall into that pulsing core of want and need, as 
thoroughly as the abductee fell to the captor.  

"Scott, let's talk about not getting caught."
He grinned, still holding my gaze. 

Part Three

I could see him thinking this over.  He took a pull off his ale, and then he lowered 
his gaze to the table, before looking around the room, judging the privacy we had 
from inadvertent eavesdroppers.  He lowered his voice, and pitched it carefully to 
just my ears. 

"Blackmail.  That's how we keep from getting caught.  Lydia does not lead a 
blameless life.  I know for a fact that she steals from the costume shop.  And even 
if she didn't, it wouldn't be hard to plant something on her."

I thought about this.  Yes.  The costume mistress would not hesitate to take it to 
the law if she knew.  But there needed something more to really make her afraid 
to tell.   

"What about drugs?  Just to be on the safe side, plant drugs in her house..."

"I knew you'd get into this, Risa!  You're a natural.  So, what do you want to do to 
her?  What kind of revenge would you like?"

I thought a moment.  The image of her bound and gagged floated onto view of my 
mind's eye, and hovered there.  It came to life, and I could see myself making her 
scared, her eyes wide with fright.  I felt a familiar wetness spread in my crotch.  

"I don't want to hurt her, but I would like to scare the living daylights out of her.  
Make her realize that teasing isn't nice, and to get some satisfaction out of  her for 
leading me on."

He nodded.  "So, we get evidence on her habits, and confront her.  Make her pay, 
and then threaten with extortion if she tries to cry for justice."

I grinned.  "Sounds good to me, Scooter! Now, how to do this?  What ideas have 
you got up your sleeve?"

He continued.  "Opening night is next week, and the show runs for 3 weeks.  The 
theater will be closing down for the season after that--summer stock is going to be 
held elsewhere.  Our best bet is to do this after the close of the show. No 
interruptions once the theater is locked up."

I nodded. I'd thought the same thing.  It would be hell putting up with her until 
then--but oh, the satisfaction would be all the sweeter for it.  

Scott brought up some good ideas.  Stalk her.  Find out what she does away from 
her job as music director.  Find the little cracks in her existence.  When the time 
came, I would know where to insert the crowbar to open her wide for the taking, 
like the proverbial oyster on the half shell.  

I followed her home from rehearsal one night, and in my fascination with the 
stalking, I almost got caught.  I would pay the price for it later.  

I had stopped just short of her house, and pulled over to the side of the street.  I 
had seen her car pull into the drive, and I saw the light go on in the second floor 
window.  I watched as lights went on all over the apartment.  She seemed to be 
going through the house frantically. I could see her rushing past the lit windows, 
her hands on her head, and gesturing upwards.  Then I saw her make a phone call, 
her profile through the shear curtains was clear.  

Not more than 5 minutes later, she left again.  I debated-- follow, or take my 
chance trying her apartment? 

I stayed behind. 

Lady Luck is a perverse bitch.  Not only was the stairwell entry door unlocked, so 
was her apartment door.  I slipped in carefully, my hand turning the door knob 
slowly. She'd left lights on all over the apartment. 

The door opened to a kitchen.  Off to the right were rooms-- a quick glance 
revealed a small bedroom at the back of the apartment, used as a storage room.  
Eureka!  An entire rack of costumes.  I shuffled through them--and recognized 
several from recent productions.  Sadistic Sue the Costume Queen would be livid 
at the sight of this!

I stepped through the rest of the house.  In the living room, there on the coffee 
table was just the thing needed to make her life a blackmail hell:  a straw, a razor 
blade, a flat mirror, and a tiny glass vial, empty, its black plastic cap resting 
beside it. 

Ye gods, who blew coke this way anymore?  Most folks either freebased and 
smoked it or shot it up now-a-days.  Ah, no, lovely Lydia would not endanger her 
singing voice that way, nor would she mar her arms with needle marks and 
lesions.  

I entered her bedroom.  A huge water bed dominated it, too large for the room.  
There were drawers in the pedestal.  I opened one. 

Oh, my goodness, Lydia...ball gag, ring gag, dildoes, cuffs.  And a collar.  
Leather, black, utterly plain except for an expertly mounted D ring, dead center.  
It buckled.  I could see that one hole in particular was used, and the leather 
creased where the buckle rested.  It was clean and smelled of saddle soap.  It also 
smelled of her...

I replaced it in the drawer.  A clothes hamper stood in the corner.  On top was the 
white leotard that she wore that night when she pinched her nipples... I pocketed 
it.  

I wanted to cut it off her body, ala Clockwork Orange.  Once again, I entered the 
living room, to judge her life.  Few books--coffee table art books.  My god, 
Norman Rockwell?  Please.  Alphonse Mucha art nouveau prints on the walls.  
She was a refugee from the 70's.  

Just then I heard the kitchen door open.  My heart leaped into my throat.  Turning, 
I saw the front entry.  I could hear her putting keys on the kitchen table... give me 
TIME! 

I slipped to the door, and unbolted it.  I was in direct line of sight into the kitchen.  
Oh, no. Pleasepleasepleaseplease lemme get out of here. 

I heard water running, and sighed my relief.  I opened the door, and slipped out 
onto the stairway landing.  

Her front door was made of glass panels...and had a sheer curtain on it.  Backlit 
from within the room, I could see clearly.  It led to a landing of a stairwell down 
to the porch door.  

She entered.  I held still, not daring to move.  She had something...I grinned.  In 
addition to her stash, she carried a vibrator.  

It was a moment's work to measure out a line, crush it to fine powder with the 
blade against the mirror, chopping with a quick fluid motion.  She lined it up 
deftly, and then put down the razor blade for the straw.  

Two quick inhalations, and the line disappeared up her nose.  I could see the 
change in her face as the White Lady mounted and then rode her.  

She picked up the vibrator, turned it on.  I could hear the humming... ye gods, I 
have to be quiet!  

I'm not one to dwell on looks.  I really am not.  Attitude does more for me than 
anything else.  A slave kneeling at my feet with head bowed is hotter than any 
supermodel.  Keep your playboy centerfolds.  A well-caned ass with perfectly 
placed welts is my turn on.  

Ah, but Lydia... legs that make a perfect ass of themselves, strong arms that 
would be perfect tightly bound wrist-elbow-upper-arm behind her back.  Hair 
long enough to braid, and the tip of said braid to fall at least to her mid back.  It 
was a pleasant brown color, nothing spectacular.  Who cares what color when it's 
being used to tie her head to the corner post of the bed?  

Ah, but her breasts.  Full, generous breasts.  The upper curves trembled--yes, 
trembled, when she walked.  OK, maybe jiggled... but trembled sounds so much 
nicer.  

Nipples that seemed to be in perpetual arousal.  But they tended to retract a little 
when they got cold...I bet the same thing happens now...

I watched.  Yes, as she passed the vibrator over them, they would retract into 
harder, smaller nubs.  She had pulled them out of the top of her shirt, and was 
rubbing them with fingers and vibrator.  

She put one foot on the table beside the mirror.  She tugged her skirt aside, a large 
and loose affair, probably from India, judging by the print on the fabric.  I had a 
clear view of her snatch.  

Now there's an apropos word... snatch.  I'll snatch you, my pretty...pretty snatch.  
Yes.  very pretty.  The vibrator moved into position.  It rested on her clit, I think.  
Judging by the way her head was thrown back, and resting on the back of the sofa, 
I'd say so.  She pinched a nipple, and stroked her snatch with the toy.  
Occasionally, she would dip it in, thrust a couple of times, and then return to her 
clit. 

I'd bet she needs direct stimulation there to cum.  I made a mental note.  She 
pressed it to her slit, lengthwise.  I saw her roll her head from side to side, and 
bounce her hips up and down, using her foot as leverage.  

She arched her back, her tits thrusting upwards, and lifted her hips.  She 
shuddered along the length of her body, and I heard her cry out for the first time...

Oh, gods, the sound of a woman cumming shoves me close to the edge.  It was all 
I could do to keep from reaching into my own pants and fingering myself.  

She lay back suddenly, and turned off the toy.  For a moment, she lay there, her 
breath ragged.  Finally she stood, and picked up the accoutrements of her habit.  
She left the vibrator on the sofa.  She left the room.  

I have no clue what possessed me.  I opened the door, entered, and picked up the 
toy.  I left just as quickly, closing the door behind me quietly.  I left the building, 
and at a dead run, went to my car.  

I was safe.  I'd managed to get out without being caught.  I felt exhilarated at my 
daring.  

Later that night, I had to replace the batteries on that vibrator.  Twice.

Part Four

I suppose I should tell you a little about myself at this point.  

Hmmm?  What do I look like?  I hope I don't look like the fool you seem to think 
I am!  Listen, I've been telling you about how I stalked Lydia, and I plan on 
telling you what I did to her--I'll be damned if I give you a description for the 
cops. 

Jesus, Joseph and Moira!  If you're that curious, ask Scott. 

Anyway, what I will tell you is this:  I had been the scene shop supervisor for a 
season and a half when I was caught singing in the flies by the director.  Next 
thing I knew, I had a note from him to present myself for the chorus.  Seems that 
they were lacking in altos.  :::shrug::: What can I say?  Not to put too fine a point 
on it, I have perfect pitch.  

So I showed.  And that's when I had the full force of thespian personality conflict 
hit me full in the face.  The chorus was fine, as long as they were singing.  Once 
the music stopped, they became a gaggle of gossiping geese, with about as much 
mental capacity for discretion as geese do for bowel control.

Ah, but when we were singing...that made it all worth while.  And in spite of her 
cunt and clit teasing ways, Lydia was spectacular as a director.  

The night after I had entered Lydia's apartment and made off with her toy, I met 
Scooter at the brew house.  I told him what I had managed the night before. 

"YOU WHAT!?!?!"
"Shhh, Scooter, quiet, you'll get every god damned patron in this flea trap 
listening!"

He fumed.  But he didn't reach across the table and grab me by the neck.  
Considering his next statements, I think he possibly had reason to. 

"Risa, you blithering idiot, you parked your car on her street, in plain view?  You 
went in her apartment without gloves, and left fingerprints on God-knows-what.  
You take two items she is sure to miss, and you almost get caught?  Don't you 
EVER pull a stunt like that again, or I will make your life more hellish than Lydia 
will ever see!"

I pulled up short.  Ye gods and little fishes, the son of a bitch was right.  
Understand, it's against my nature to look scared.  I don't do it very well, a big 
butch dyke just can't.  But something must have cooled him off quick because 
next thing I know he's apologizing for scaring me.  Go figgah.  

"Risa, look, you just don't know how much trouble you can get in over this.  You 
have to think way ahead, set everything up in advance, to specifically eliminate 
the possibility of capture.  You're letting your groin think for you.  First hint:  
During the stalking, turn off your sex drive if it's gonna cloud your thinking."

I blinked.  The image of Lydia bucking her hips, and the sound of her voice as she 
came filled my head again.  I purposely shut it off.  Sighing, I nodded.  "You're 
right, Scooter.  I'll just have to use the images for stroking later!" 

"Spare me the details, Risa."
"Like hell, Scooter.  I know you get wood over girls in bondage!"

It was an ongoing joke.  I knew Scott was gay.  But he has an impressive 
collection of bondage erotica, vintage stuff, as well as the latest bondage 'zines.  
It's about 90% female.  Looking back, that should have made me wonder more.  I 
just assumed he was simply a collector.  

"Risa, I'm serious.  I don't want you going to her apartment again without me.  We 
are going to have to go back there to get blackmail evidence, and I want to be sure 
to cover your tracks.   In the mean time, I hope to God she doesn't get suspicious 
over the missing items."

Scott is tall and slender, but with a wiry strength that was surprising for someone 
so androgynous.  His outstanding feature was his head of chestnut brown curls, 
falling into his face.  He once played Puck in 'Midsummer's Night Dream'.  He 
was a natural for the role.  He has dimples.  You'd never guess he is a vicious 
Dom.   

That night I dreamed of him as Puck again, that wry grin of his so incongruous as 
he bedeviled a bound and gagged Titania.  Her entire Fairy court looked on in 
obvious pleasure, and I heard a voice say "Not so proud Titania, are you?"  I 
turned and saw a man with intense blue eyes dressed as Oberon, and felt a stab of 
fear as he looked at me.  I awoke in a sweat.  

Part Five

I continued to watch Lydia.  As time went by, she became less a person with a 
name and history, and more just simply 'the prey'.  I was disturbed by this at first.  
When I told Scott, he said:  "It's a good sign, Risa.  You are focusing on the stalk, 
and not letting your feelings about her cloud your mind, and make your actions 
sloppy."

One night he passed me a brown paper bag, and as I opened it, I was surprised to 
see a brown glass bottle with the hard plastic cap of an apothecary shop.  The 
label read  "Perchloride of Formyle: C2HCl3".  A small terrycloth drawstring bag 
with cotton wadding for stuffing accompanied it.  The bottle was small, actually 
marked with the old imperial measure "one gill".  It had a seal on it still.  I tucked 
the bottle into the bag.  It fit snugly in the palm of my hand, and would cover a 
nose and mouth very well when a small amount of chloroform was poured onto it.  

"I found it at a rummage sale at the house of a retired doctor.  It was in a box of 
old bottles and bandages.  I paid £1 for the box.  The chloroform should be good 
still.  I figured you might appreciate it."

I smiled at his idea of a gift, and tucked it into the inside pocket of my jacket. He 
later would pay far more for it. 

Lydia continued to tease.  She would still catch my eye before bending over to 
show her tits.  Once, I caught that same look just as she was bending over to pick 
up keys on the stage.  Another time as she was warming up for dance practice, she 
stared at me from between her ankles, her elbows resting on the floor in front of 
her, and that glorious ass spread wide.  One nipple had slipped free of her leotard.  
She tucked it back in as she stood up, and turned toward me.  I simply nodded and 
walked away.  

I learned to shut down my libido during the stalk--and it became a pleasure on its 
own.  The senses elongate somehow.  There were times when I could have sworn 
I heard her heart beating. It was like a drug.  


Part Six

Scott speaks:

I watched Risa from the flies as she stalked Lydia. Her technique has improved 
since she took me up on my proposal to blackmail Lydia. When she studies the 
resident prima-donna, she doesn't affect indifference to her target's presence. That 
kind of change of behavior might be noted by a victim. Rather, she keeps up her 
usual show of ogling. What Lydia wouldn't notice are the careful glances to the 
side when Risa is supposedly talking with another chorus member, or watching 
her prey in a mirrored surface in the backdrop.

Rather in the way I do with Risa. 
                     
We shut down for the night. As stage manager, I'm busy making sure everything 
is squared away before the theatre is locked up. Risa sneaks a knowing smile at 
me. We have a date with Lydia's apartment and a camera. I'll join her in a 
while...before attending to an appointment of my own. It's my job to secure the 
theatre for the night. I make sure all the doors are locked, and all the nooks and 
crannies are secured, before I head up into the catwalks above the stage. 

There is a particular spot high above the stage. There shouldn't be a door there. 
But it is--a plain wooden door with a narrow stairway.  It is dark with age, and the 
paneling is cracked with age. I knock once, and turn the knob.  I feel the odd lurch 
in the pit of my stomach as I pass The Portal, and the door closes behind me with 
a click. I smile at the familiar scent of the room about me. The rich smell of old 
leather rises from the wingback chairs arranged on the Persian carpet. The 
mustiness from the antique books arranged on oak shelves covering the walls is a 
pleasant counterpoint. I am careful to kneel before the chair in the correct posture. 
I do not look up at Him, though the odor of the tobacco in his briar sends a shiver 
through my loins.

                     "Milord," I whisper, "she is almost ready..."

Part Seven

Risa speaks:

"It's about freakin' time, dude. Glad you could make it." 

He scowled at me.  I stuck my tongue out at him.  "Risa, we don't have much 
time.  I was watching Lydia, that's why I'm late.  She's off getting more coke." He 
grinned as he held up the small vial in the moonlight.  I fancied I could hear its 
siren song in my blood.  I shoved the desire away.  I focused in on his face.  

"You took that from her purse, didn't you?  Good job!" 

He also held up a single key.  

"You got a copy!  YESSSSS!" I hissed my joy.  "Bet you got that poser in 
maintenance to make it for you, huh?"

He nodded, and his eyes flicked as a car drove by.  

"We better get started.  You've got the camera, yes?"

"Of course.  And extra film, too.  I held out the yellow boxes and then re-tucked 
them into the pocket of my jacket.  I shivered against the late spring chill night 
air.  

We let ourselves into the apartment, and spent the next few minutes taking 
pictures of the costume rack, and then the toys I had found in the waterbed 
pedestal drawer.  Just as we finished up, the unexpected happened.  There was a 
tentative knock at the door.  

Scott and I looked at each other.  Silence.  Another knock, hesitant.  Then, a 
voice:  "Lydia?  Are you home?"  Scott ducked into the spare bedroom, and I 
stepped back into the pantry doorway.  

The door opened slowly, and I could just see a small female figure enter, clad in a 
well-worn black leather jacket, and baggy Levi's.  In her hand was... ye gods.  I 
could not believe my eyes.  A dozen long-stemmed red roses.  I almost laughed 
out loud.  Callie, the chorus baby-dyke! At 20, she was the youngest chorus 
member. She was in a white tee-shirt, a black leather jacket, Levi's and boots.  
She must have one hell of a crush on Lydia!  She turned and saw me.  I could see 
Scott behind her, gesturing to me, placing his hand over his own mouth and nose, 
and pantomiming falling asleep.  Then he pointed to his pocket, and then to the 
same area on me.  He was reminding me of the bottle of chloroform in my pocket, 
and the rag.  I smiled, and said "No, Lydia isn't here right now.  I'm her 
roommate.  Let me get some water for those..."

I turned and went to the sink.  I turned back to Callie, and motioned her over.  
Then I opened a cupboard door at random.  She stepped away from Scott.  He 
came up behind her, silent as night, and within seconds had her by both arms.  I 
will never forget the sight of those roses falling in slow motion to the floor, and 
then being crushed beneath our feet.  The smell of roses to this day reminds me of 
that moment.  Roses and chloroform.   

I reached into my pocket, and splashed some of the liquid onto the small stuffed 
bag. I held it to her face, and watched the terror in her eyes fade to black. In 
seconds, she was asleep.  I watched her slump forward in Scotts arms.  I looked at 
him. His  eyes were dilated out, and I could see the lump in his pants.  "Say what 
you want, Scooter, you *do* get wood over girls."

"Girl?  Naw..."
"Check for yourself, dude."
"What the fu--! Hell, I thought she was a boy!"

I grinned at his obvious prevarication.  "Nope.  That's Callie, one of the chorus 
members...I had no clue she had the hots for Lydia..."

We cleaned up as best we could, quickly. The roses left small red marks on the 
old linoleum floor, but it was not easily seen in the pattern.  

"We need to get her to the car.  Give me a hand."  We draped her arms over our 
shoulders, and held her between us.  We walked her to the car, making a point to 
grin as if she were merely drunk.  

I am not sure how we managed to get her to Scott's car without being seen.  There 
must have been a god of abductors somewhere watching out for us.  Scott put her 
supine form in the back seat, and quickly secured her wrists behind her with 
heavy-duty zip ties.  He soaked a rag with bottled water, and rolled it into a ball.  
Deftly he placed it in her mouth, and then secured it with duct tape.  

He looked at me, and I realized something for the first time:  He was in this for 
real.  The light continued to dawn:  So was I.  And I liked it.  Questions began to 
form, and I opened my mouth to speak them.  Scott shook his head, and said 
"Don't ask me any questions, Risa.  I'm not in a position to answer them.  Put your 
trust in me, and we will get through this fine, blood-sister."

I fingered the scar on the palm of my right hand.  Instantly, I was jolted back in 
time. 

Part Eight

"Scooter, it hurts!"
"Hold still, Ris, it will be over in a minute!"

Two blood smeared hands clasped for a moment longer.  The girl tried her best to 
sit still, but the cut on her hand throbbed. The larger hand of the two let go.  

She'd jumped from the swing at the top of the arc, and flew to the sand beneath.  
Falling forward, she'd cut her hand on the glass hidden in the sand.

Scooter had run to her, his legs pumping, moving his 11 year old body as quickly 
as possible.  He caught up the piece of glass, and sliced his own hand in turn.  
"See, Risa?  We can be blood brother and sister now!"

He grasped her hand, pressing the two cuts together. The pressure made the 
bleeding slow.  

"Don't cry, Risa, we'll go get help from your mom.  We'll have matching scars!"

Risa stopped her crying, wiped her face, and said "This means we will be best 
friends forever, won't we?"

Scooter nodded.  "Best friends forever, Ris."

They were taken to the hospital, and endured the cleaning ands suturing in 
adjoining cubicles. 

In subsequent years, they would refer to this special bonding between in times of 
fear and uncertainty.  Nothing, not even Scott's training or Risa's induction would 
break that bond of absolute trust.  But it would be strained to the breaking point.

Part Nine

"Don't ask me any questions, Risa. I'm not in a position to answer them. Put your 
trust in me, and we will get through this fine, blood-sister."

I fingered the scar on the palm of my right hand.  I looked at his face and saw the 
anguish there.  I reached over and touched his cheek, and sighed.  "Scooter, I 
won't press you for details now.  We need to get Callie away, don't we?  Where 
will we take her?"

He shook his head and said "I can't tell you.  I need you to trust me, Risa.  You 
have you to wear a blindfold, ok?"

I looked into his eyes again.  I could hear his voice saying "Best friends forever, 
Ris!" on the day we got matching scars. We were both 11. 

I nodded my assent.  I got into the passenger's seat.  I had taken the bus to Lydia's 
apartment. We drove away, and he took me to a local lover's lane, deserted this 
weeknight.  

He pulled another blindfold out of his pocket.  I turned my back, and he placed it 
over my eyes.  I had to suppress my fears; I am not a sub, and this went against 
every fiber of my being.  

I felt him tighten it, and the night became more intense.  He patted me on the 
shoulder, and said "Damn, Risa, if you were a boy..."

I chuckled, and it broke my fears.  "Scooter, if you were a girl..."

"Speaking of which, she will not remain unconscious forever.  We need to get her 
away."  

I learned later where we went. But that night, I had no clue.  Scott guided me 
indoors, and once he brought in the still sleeping form of Callie, he removed the 
blindfold and showed me a round a bit. 

I was impressed.  This was a building that was devoted to bondage and discipline, 
to sadism and masochism in all its forms.  Not even the best clubs of London had 
a set up like this.  

Callie started to come to, but by then she was bond spread eagled to a chain-link 
fence.  I had the pleasure of watching the fear in her eyes, above the gag in her 
mouth.  

Scott nudged me forward, and said under his breath "You think you can convince 
her to transfer her feelings from Lydia to you?"

I turned back to him, and looked at from under my eyebrows, my head bowed 
slightly, but not in submission.  

I made a point of smiling slowly, letting a ferocity enter my eyes. 

"Oh, yes.  Yes, I can.  Watch closely, my blood brother."

I turned to Callie, and let her see my face.  I heard her whimper.  I picked up a 
pair of large shears from the cart beside me, and advanced.  The whimper became 
a muffled scream.  

Part Ten

Callie hung from the chain-link fence.  I picked up the shears, and advancing let 
her see my face fully. 

She was still shaking off the effects of the ether we had used to subdue her.  
Granted, the effort was pretty useless.  Ether has a quicker knockdown than 
chloroform.  Yeah, it's more dangerous.  So is driving compared to flying, come 
to that. 

Still, it was pure enjoyment to see her try to become aware of her situation.  Her 
wrists were attached by wide cuffs.   Her ankles were too, about 6 inches above 
the floor.  Her hips, boyish enough to tempt Scott, were connected by her belt.   

Her struggles made the chain-link fence rattle.  I was reminded of times when I 
would climb those fences, usually trying to get away from the local toughs before 
they could do me harm.  It was a sound of fear, that rattling of the fence.  For 
Callie, there was no escape, however.  

Her short hair almost fell into her eyes as her head hung to her breasts.  I placed 
my hand beneath her chin, and lifted her face.  "Callie, I can't stop what is about 
to happen to you.  But I will be here afterwards.  You can survive, if you give up, 
if you simply submit."
 
I looked to Scott.  I raise an eyebrow in silent question:  "Can you?"

Scott circled around to the far side of the fence, and looked over her androgynous 
figure.   He closed his eyes, and I can see his crotch swelling…he looked at me, 
and nodded, grinning.  I nod in response.  

"Callie, you know me?  You know I can help you, yes?"
I saw her nod.
"Good.  I'm going to take you down.  First, I have to cut your clothes off you.  I 
need you to hold still."

Her look of terror slapped me in the crotch.  I wanted this to last forever.  I took a 
better grip on the shears in my hand, and began.  

First, her shirt.  Plain white tee-shirt, not even a logo.  Might as well practice for 
Lydia.  I grasped the material above her breasts.  Pulling it out, I lifted the shears.  
*SNIP!*
 I saw her flinch behind her gag.  *SNIP!*  She flinched again.  Her nipples were 
exposed through rough holes in her shirt.  Her breasts were damn near non-
existent.  I wanted to suckle those nipples. 

Her breath was ragged, and tears slipped down her cheeks.  In answer, I felt my 
crotch become wet.  "Callie, remember this:  You will find yourself cherished if 
you submit.  Submit, give in, let us take control of your body, its pleasure, its 
pain, and you will be content.  Submit, Callie".

She shook her head in the negative.  "As you wish, Callie.  
I snipped up the front of her shirt, exposing her chest to view; and then cut along 
the sleeves.  A few tugs removed it completely.

Her Levi's were next to fall to the shears.  Up the legs, open the fly, and tug.  
Gone.  Ye gods, she was wearing boxer shorts!  They were short work before the 
shears.  I finally released her from her bonds.  Her muscles still were rubbery 
from the ether, and I had to help her to all fours.  She shivered, not with cold but 
with fear and confusion.  Her head hung forward.  

Scott handed me a collar, a leash, and a cane.  That man knows what I like! I 
tucked the cane under my arm, and buckled the leash to the collar.  I lifted her 
head by the hair, and felt a shiver of delight as she resisted for the first time.  She 
tried to wrench her head out of my grasp, but I tightened my fist in her hair, and 
pulled harder.  She whimpered through the gag again, and her eyes pleaded with 
me.  I smiled.  "No, you will wear it.  It's part of it all, Callie.  Scott?  Would you 
buckle it?"

I handed the collar back to him as he stepped over to me.  Bending, he encircled 
her neck with it.  In a moment it was buckled.  He stepped back, and I released 
her head.  Holding the other end of the leash, I untucked the cane from beneath 
my arm.  I placed the tip of it beneath her chin, and lifted.  Again, she resisted, 
twisting her face away from me.  

"Fine.  I have no problem correcting you, Callie.  You will remember this."

I raised the cane above her smooth ass.  My arm ached with the need to strike.  
Oh, this was delicious, this was sublime, the first strike is so precious to me.  I 
paused.  I looked to Scott.  I could see the pride in his eyes,  pride at me.  I 
smirked, and brought the cane down, across that smooth expanse of skin.  

She jerked forward, and her arms buckled beneath her.  She screamed into her 
gag.  Her ass was in the air, a brilliant red welt forming.  Ah, a thing of beauty.  
Her shoulders heaved with her sobs.  

"Scott, are we isolated enough to remove the gag?  Would she be heard if 
screamed?"
"Nope.  We are far away from any other people here.  Besides, I'd be happy to fill 
her mouth again if it came to that.  With a ring gag, first, of course."  

I grinned, and removed the gag.  Grasping her head by the hair, I raised it.  First 
the duct tape, slowly so not to tear her skin.  Then, I pulled the soaked rag out, 
and dropped it to the floor.  

"You will not speak without permission.  Do you understand, Callie?"
Her tear- and drool-streaked face remained looking at the ground, unmoving.  
I ran the cane over the welt, and saw her flinch.  "You will answer when spoken 
to.  Do you understand?"

She nodded.  Tears fell again, leaving a dark spot on the floor below.  I smiled. 
"Good girl, slave."

I placed the tip of the cane between her legs, and lightly, so lightly tapped her clit.  
Her body gave her away at that point.  I saw her back muscles ripple, and her hips 
rocked forward, and she humped the tip of the cane.  

Scott's face flushed, and I swear that damn lump grew again.  I grinned.  "You 
want her, Scott?  Those hips of hers are very responsive, wouldn't you say?"

"Get her over the horse.  I want her."  He pointed to a low, wide, leather-covered 
bolster a few feet away.  I nodded, and prodded her towards it.  Reluctantly, she 
started to crawl.  I smacked her ass again, and used the leash to tug her head up 
and back.  She sobbed, her voice so poignant.  

"Stand up, slave.  You will loose your identity here.  You will be fucked, and you 
will loose your name.  Again, I urge you to submit.  Open yourself, and let us take 
you."

She stood, her tiny breasts so tender.  Her pubic hair was dark, like her short-
cropped hair, and her nether lips so small, they hardly showed.  She had good 
muscles, and her belly was tight with strength.  I'd wager that she was a gymnast, 
by her build.  Her shoulders were unusually broad for a woman.  

I pressed her with the cane against the backs of her thighs.  She took a few steps 
toward the horse, and stopped when her belly brushed the side of it.  

"Reach over the horse, and present your wrists on the other side for securing."
She trembled, shivered, and then again, shook her head.  
"No.  No, I won't, I won't."
Fury blazed in me.  I raised the cane, and brought it down across the backs of her 
thighs, this time, and she screamed in agony, and dropped to the floor.  

I reached down, and grasped her hair, and drew her up in a single, fluid 
movement. I forced her to the horse again, and shoved her down on it.  She braced 
herself with her hands.  I raised the cane again, and brought it down once more 
across her ass, just below the first mark.  It landed true, and left another welt, 
1/16th of an inch away from the first.  
Her hands slipped forward, and in a moment I was there, securing them by the 
cuffs to chains with small locks.  

Her ass was up, and the welts burned red against her smooth skin.  She was 
weeping.  

Scott came forward, and unzipped his pants.  In a low voice he said, "Rule 
number one, slave:  You will do as you are told to do."

Part Eleven
                     There's a sweet pleasure in raping a slave's ass. Gays don't 
neccessarily go into sodomy. Many are more comfortable with a lover's hand or 
mouth. Myself included--I love the thrill of a lover's tongue upon my shaft. But 
taking a guy's--or girl's, as the case may be--back passage is a greater thrill. The 
humiliation is greater, the struggles more frantic to escape the ultimate 
humiliation. In many ways it is as bad for a woman to be sodomized as a man. 
Being raped the usual way can be shrugged off, for a time. Taken up the ass is a 
thousand times more demeaning. One is a mere animal, not a human.

                     Callie shrieks as I pump in and out. Her formerly virgin asshole is 
slick with sperm. And another fluid, for I am not very gentle. Holding her bony 
hips,I thrust my shaft deep into her bowels. She bears down frantically to expel 
the invader. Ironically, that just makes it easier to penetrate her. Callie whines a 
high-pitched keen. It is the cry of an animal that has gone beyond anguish into the 
awe that so much pain can exist. She clenches down on my cock, shuddering, in a 
rhythm that is delightful. Tears fall onto the stone-flagged floor from eyes wide 
open, lost in madness.

                     Risa licks her lips. She stands before us, watching, shifting from foot 
to foot. I crook my finger. Callie stirs as Risa approaches. There is just the faintest 
hope in her expression. Perhaps her captor might spare her. She is the same, isn't 
she? She must feel some sympathy, some empathy for her victim's torment. But 
Callie can only cry as Risa unzips the dark pants worn for the stalk. A ring-gag 
plucked from a nearby pegboard is jammed between Callie's teeth. The leather 
strap buckled tight behind her neck makes Callie yowl in pain. She screams as 
Risa's bush is pressed against her wide open mouth.

                     "Lick her good, slave," I whisper, as Callie sobs into her Mistress' 
sex.

                     


--------------------

                     Samarkand & Associates
                     Damsels Distressed, Heroines Imperiled, Slavegirls Procured
                     Reasonable Rates. We'll Call You.

Part Twelve

I stepped back from her mouth when I had finished with her tongue.  I was 
impressed.  It's not easy to tongue a clit through a ring gag, but she did it.  On the 
cart beside the pegboard was an assortment of lubes, and a spray bottle of plain 
water for rehydrating the occasional dry spell.  I had used it to spray her mouth, to 
give her relief from dryness, and because I like a wet tongue.  

 Fastening my pants, I patted her head.  "How is she doing back there, Scott?"  

"Some bleeding, but I think it's more abrasions than tears.  You might want to 
check her over to be sure."  He tossed the wet towlette he'd used to clean his thick 
cock into the trashcan beside the cart.  He tucked that cock back into his trousers, 
and zipped up again.  He came over to the cart, and opened a drawer in it, 
revealing three sizes of latex gloves, the powderless kind.  My FAVORITE!   I 
chose large-I've been told I'm a well hung dyke-and snapped on two of them, one 
over the other, right in front of Callie's terrified eyes.  

I looked at her intently.  She looked back, fearful.  Good.  No catatonia, alert to 
the sound of the latex snapping on.  I grasped her jaw in my hand, and forced her 
to look at me. 

She didn't resist this time.  I still did not trust her. 

"You are no longer a free person, slave.  You no longer have a name.  You are 
simply "this one", or "this slave".  You no longer have a separate identity.  You 
are allowed the luxuary of words only when I say.  You have only the voice of an 
animal, able to moan or scream.  You are mine."

I didn't ask for her understanding.  I knew she would say no, and deny it.  I didn't 
want that right now.  My goal was to have her bond with me, to turn her mind 
from Lydia to me, for me to be the only one in her vision.  To achieve this, I 
would be kind.  Scott has already fallen into the "Bad cop" roll.  It was my turn to 
be kind to her. 

"I am going to examine your rectum for tears.  You are to be still while I do it, or 
it will only hurt worse.  Understand?"

Her head moved up and down, affirming.  A silver strand of saliva swayed back 
and forth.  I smiled and caught it on my gloved hand, and wiped it on her back. I 
patted her check again.  "Good slave."

I stood up, and walked to her rear.  On my way, Scot handed me a tube of KY 
from the cart.  I smiled my thanks. 

I had learned this from an RN at a dungeon I used to frequent in Boston.  "At any 
sight of blood, always feel for tears.  If they are not treated immediately and 
correctly by a trained medic, they can lead to a painful infection, and sometimes 
death."

"Ye gods, Scott, you made a mess of her!  Look at all that blood!"   It was mostly 
to scare her.  There was actually less than I thought there might be.  I breathed a 
sigh, inwardly. Outwardly, I whirled on him. 
"If you've torn her…"
"Easy, easy, we have med staff on premises.  If she is torn, we can have it 
treated."
"Good.  I just bought a new strap-on, and I don't want to have to wait to try it out 
on her."

We both grinned.  The slave groaned.  

Scott handed me the container of towlettes.  I cleaned her anus, watching the 
sphincter react to my gentle touch, and the coolness of the towlette.  It must have 
been soothing.  I watched her vaginal opening as well, and yes, it winked.  Good.  
A bit of pleasure after pain to make her mine…

I tossed the towlette, and then lubed my fingers and her ass with the KY.  Again, 
she squirmed at the coolness of it.  I smacked her ass hard.  "Hold still, slave.  
You are not to enjoy this without my permission!"  She groaned around the gag.  

"Quiet!  I'm sure Scott would have no problems stuffing your throat through the 
ring gag if I asked him to!"  That silenced her.  

I pressed against her sphincter.  It blossomed out, and I slid right in.  Gods, she 
knew to bear down.  Good!  Scott had opened her nicely, too.  Inside, she was 
relaxed.  I stroked downward on the walls of her ass, slowly feeling for tears.  
None, thank the gods.  A rough patch or two,  but that's why enemas are usually 
given before anal sex.  Fecal material abraids.  

I realized something.  

"Scott, how was she inside?  Clean?"  
I cold see the realization rise in his eyes. 
"Yeeees, yes, she was rather clean inside.  Interesting, that."
"Get that gag off her.  I want answers."
He removed the gag, and with my finger still in her ass, I asked "slave, did you 
give yourself an enema today?"
"Yes, I-"
Scott slapped her face, and grasped her hair, holding her face back so that he 
might snarl at her.  "You do not have the right to use "I" any longer.  You are to 
use "this one", or "This slave".  

I could hear her sobs as he released her head.  I could also feel her ass tighten on 
my finger.  Curiouser and curiouser!

"Sir, this one is sorry, this one cleanses after each bowel movement Ma'am!"
That didn't explain the abrasions, though.  "How did you get this abrasion, then?" 
I stroked the rough patch inside her-and she almost orgasmed by the feel of it.
"Ma'am, I used a large Maglight as a dildo…"
Ah.  Yes.  That would do it.  The Maglight had an etched texture for better grip.  
It was rough, like a bastard-cut file.  

I looked at Scott.  He looked slightly peeved.  I grinned.  "Seems like we have a 
player, hmmm, Scooter?"

He glared at the use of his nickname.  I laughed.  Withdrawing from her ass,  I 
stripped off the first glove.  This time, no lube, I entered her cunny.  She had no 
need for lube.  She was thoroughly wet.  I laughed again.  "Oh yes, a player, all 
right.  Slave, you are wet, and I swear I could make you cum in about 2 minutes.  
But I won't, because I want you to know that I am NOT playing.  This is for real.  
This if for keeps.  You are truly mine." 

I could see Scott smiling.  He motioned me over to him.  I slapped the slave's clit, 
just once, and then walked over to him. 

"Risa, first, very good job.  I'm proud of you.  But we need to cut this short.  She 
has to be taken downstairs, and I cannot let you go there.  I'm in deep enough 
trouble as it is for taking her now."
"Scott, I am in this with you.  We can find a way to cover our tracks, I know we 
can!  Let me help!"
"No, Risa, you can't help.  Trust me, please, just trust me, Blood-sister?"
There it was again, the call to that long-ago bonding.  I looked at his eyes again.  
This time they were veiled, simply hard and unreadable.  But his tone of voice 
convinced me.  
"I'll trust you once again, Blood-brother.  But I will eventually have to be told, I 
think."
"I promise, Blood-sister, I will tell when the time is right.  I promise."
[i] "I  promise, best friends forever, Risa, I promise[/i]

Part Thirteen

He took her away, and I stood there waiting.  Once he returned a few minutes 
later, we left the building.  He blindfolded me again for the return trip.  I said 
nothing the whole way.  He didn't either. 

He took off the blindfold when we got back on the interstate.  I finally broke the 
silence.

"Scooter, how many times have I got to tell you, you should use a rubber!  It was 
all I could do not to tell you to stop and put one on"

It was an age old argument.  I knew it was useless.  Scott and I have frequented 
bathhouses before, on both coasts.  I don't know if he uses them there or not. 
Males and females use separate rooms in them.  But I worried about my friend.  

"Risa, she is HIV negative.  She is also negative for all common STDs, plus some 
rather nasty ones you can get from animals."

"WHAT?!?  How the hell do you know--"
"Trust me, Ris, trust me!"

I stared out the windsheild.  The sun was just coming up on this Saturday 
morning.  We had to be at the theater by 5 tonight.  I turned back to him. 

"Scott what the HELL is going on?  I need some answers.  You know I can keep 
my mouth shut."

He sighed.  "Risa, I... I am an abductor. I kidnap and turn over for slavery."

I could not believe what I was hearing.  "You were planning on abducting her, 
Callie, weren't you?"  The words formed on my tongue just as they formed in my 
mind. 

He nodded.  His face was a mask. 
"Ye gods, Scooter.  Where am I in all of this?  This is more real than I 
imagined..."
"Risa, don't ask.  Just, please, don't ask me any questions."
I could see his face crumble.  He was worried, and yes, he was scared.  I could not 
believe my eyes. 

I rubbed my eyes with my fingers and thumb.  "Scooter, talk to me.  What is 
going on?"
He pulled over to the side of the road, and stopped the engine. 

I should have paid attention better, I really  should have.  I should not have 
pushed him so far.  But for all the should-haves, there is only one what-was.  

He looked at me, and said, "I will take you to someone who can answer your 
questions.  Turn around for the blindfold, Risa."

I honestly can't say why I did so, and without question.  I am NOT a sub.  But 
something had been urging me to trust Scott.  Perhaps it is the common blood 
flowing between our veins from that childhood ritual so many years ago.  I 
honestly cannot say. 

He tied it on, and then he said "Hold still a bit longer, Blood-sister."

I remember thinking that the rag smelled of roses and ether as I blacked out.

Part Fourteen

                     Risa drowses in the wingback chair. I've made her as comfortable as 
possible. The cotton ropes are the softest and most pliable I could find. Strong 
though. She twists her wrists drowsily against the cords binding her hands palm to 
palm behind her back. Wrapped three times and cinched vertically with a stout 
reef knot. Left over right and right over left, the way I was taught. Her elbows are 
close together behind her back. Not grinding together, as we often do to break 
slaves. Merely hobbled with a lark's head with the free ends wrapped rattlesnake-
style along it's length. Her elbows are still drawn to each other in a manner that 
presents her bare breasts quite tastily.

                     The rope cinched above and below them, wound about the chair, 
hold her firmly in the chair. More of it dimples the flesh about her knees and 
ankles. Her legs are canted at an angle, tied by a short length to the right front 
chair leg. Sighing, she mmmphhhhsss into the black silk scarf cleaving her lips 
apart. A huge knot in the center of it fills her mouth to capacity. I tied it off firmly 
at the nape of her neck. Under her hair of course. She's surprisingly pretty bound 
like this. Although I do tend to find anyone attractive when at my mercy.

                     Her eyes flutter open.  She tries to stretch...and is stopped short by 
the ropes. To her credit she doesn't writhe or thrash or spoil her dignity. She 
furtively strains against her bonds to find they won't give an inch. She glances at 
me..surprised and scared. But also challenging. I squeeze her shoulder. She holds 
her gaze for a long moment...then reluctantly transfers her attention to the three 
people seated before her in wingbacks of their own. 

                     There is Milord, of course. He is dapper in the Sean-Connery-meets-
Oscar-Wilde manner of his. Lady Paige has joined us--cool and blonde and 
composed, her blue-green eyes glinting mischievously as she studies Risa. A pink 
tongue darts out to moisten her lips. Okombo is here as well. His natty bespoke-
tailored suit contrasts with the white tribal scars etched into his dark skin. All 
wear the domino masks adopted as protocol for the Society for occasions such as 
these. Risa's eyes widen when she sees the Society's seal mounted above the 
fireplace. The flames in the heart flicker over the golden eye in the center of the 
pyramid. She has read her Robert Anton Wilson like I have...

                     "Now," Milord says, with a smooth British accent handed down 
through the family for ten generations, “let us welcome our newest thrall to the 
family..."

                     --------------------

                     Samarkand & Associates
                     Damsels Distressed, Heroines Imperiled, Slavegirls Procured
                     Reasonable Rates. We'll Call You.

Part Fifteen
I dreamed.  And what dreams they were, ropes and roses, and thorns.  I felt the 
prick of thorns on my hand, and the blood welled up.  It spilled onto white sand.  
Blood on the sand.   "Best friends forever, Risa, I promise.  Trust me.  You 
*must* trust me, Risa.  Promise, me, Risa?"  I try to answer him, but something 
fills my mouth, cloth, wet cloth cuts into the corners of my mouth, and all I can do 
is mmmppphhh.  My hands and feet are too heavy to lift, no matter how hard I try.  
Scott's voice chases itself around and around inside my head.  I could smell roses 
again.  Ether.  Roses being crushed beneath our feet. 

I become aware suddenly.   I clear the dreams, like a dolphin breeching the 
surface of the water.  And just like a dolphin, I crash on the hard surface of 
reality.  

I'm tied and naked.  I felt a hand on my shoulder, lightly resting there.  I looked 
up into the face of Scott.  

I'm shocked, and scared.  And then, it hits me, like a freight train in my belly.  
Anger.  Anger so red hot I could kill.  

He betrayed me.  The syphilitic son of a two-bit whore for a mother and the US 
Seventh Fleet for a father!  Jesus, Joseph and Moira, all that talk of "Trust me, 
Ris, trust me."  I fucking fell for it like some baby-dyke with an old school butch.  
They say red-heads have bad tempers.  And yes, they do, but it burns hot and fast, 
and is over quickly.  But the ones you really need to watch out for are us Black-
Irish.  It's not fire you will see in these blue eyes, it's ice.  I've been told that when 
I'm angry, my eyes lighten to the shade of icebergs.  I looked glaciers at him.  My 
revenge would be slow, inexorable, and inevitable.  

He'd done a damn good job of tying me up.  Ropes are secured, and they have a 
little give to them, the fibers being slightly elastic.  I have to lean forward a bit to 
accommodate my hands near my tailbone on the seat of the wingback behind me.  
This makes my tits seem fuller than they are, aided by the pulling back of my 
shoulders.  Other than my legs going numb slowly, it's not too bad.  They don't 
itch, or chaff, either.  I take a deep breath to get on top of my anger.  I see his eyes 
flicker towards my breasts when I do. Shit. Of all the things to be right about, why 
did it have to be about his taste for bound women?  His eyes flickered to the space 
before us, and the figures seated there.  I turned my gaze on them. 

A blonde woman, stunningly beautiful.  She was Ice Queen to my ice maiden.  
Until I saw her tongue flick across her lips below her mask, and then an 
answering fire was kindled in my core.  A black man, dichotomy personified in 
his handsome tweed suit, and the odd cicatrices on his blue-black skin.  They 
gleamed in firelight cast from the hearth to my right, and his left.  As the light 
flickered, the scars writhed.  They seemed almost white...I did not recognize the 
patterns they made.  He too wore a mask.  


Finally, Himself.  Even at this distance, I could smell the scent of good tobacco, 
pipe tobacco.  I can't really remember exactly what he looked like.  Every time I 
think I have it fixed in my memory, it blurs and shifts.  But one thing I remember 
utterly:  Blue, blue, blue eyes.  Like mine.  I blink, try to shake my head to clear 
it.  It's like looking into a mirror. But it's wrong way round, I'm not an older man, 
I'm a woman.  I'm a woman who works with her hands building things, who sings 
on command, who delights in accepting the submission freely given of other 
women, and has developed a taste for taking the not-so-freely given submission of 
women.  I'm Risa, first generation American Irish.  I'm...I'm...  I feel like 
information is being drawn from me like silk scarves pulled from the magician's 
hat.  I shut my eyes, and the feeling stops abruptly. It's like a door slamming 
behind my eyelids.  He too wears a mask.   Of course. 

I turn my head toward the fireplace before opening my eyes again.  Over the 
mantle, I see the insignia of the Illuminatus.  Oh, Sweet Moira, mother of Jesus, 
they CAN'T be for real, can they? I struggle to remember what I had read in 
Robert Anton Wilson's Illuminati Trilogy...

Just then, my attention is drawn back by the sound of Himself's voice. "Now, let 
us welcome our newest thrall to the family..."

Oh, bloody hellfire.  He's a freakin' limey blue-blood bastard.  I'm in for it now.

Part Sixteen

[i]Scott speaks: [/i]

Milord rises, and I sink to my knees on the floor beside Risa's wingback chair.  
Paige and Okombo rise a half a heartbeat later, and flank him as he approaches 
Risa.  I hear her breathing--slow, measured, and conscious.  She's purposely 
trying to stay calm and focused.  I know it won't work, that eventually, she will be 
screaming--and not just in pain, either.  Milord is going to enjoy this rite of 
passage.  He always enjoys the strong-willed ones.  

For over a year I'd been waiting for the word to bring her into the family of 
thralls.  She'd been watched, even before I was told to tell her about the job in the 
scene shop.  I suspect that we had been watched as children together.  The Society 
is long of tooth. 

But now, I had broken ranks, I had taken first one acquisition before time, and 
now Risa.   I knew that I would pay in dear coin for my ineptness.  

I feel a hand on my head, stroking my curls, and then sliding down to grasp my 
chin from beneath.  I smell tobacco on His skin, and my loins swell.  I bow my 
face into his hand, and brazenly plant a kiss on His palm.  I hear Him chuckle in 
response.  He draws my face upwards, and I look into His blue eyes.  So easy to 
get lost in them from here.  In that rich voice of his, smooth and polished to 
hypnotic perfection, he says "We will talk of your methods later.  You will attend 
the Initiation first.  You have a part to play in it."

I feel a strong hand grasp my heart and squeeze.  This is more than I can hope, 
and my worst nightmare at the same time.  I prefer men, and I am always terrified 
that I will fail with the female slaves.  It was only through weeks of training with 
Her Grace Paige and one of the other male thralls that I was able to learn to 
function with females.   Risa has no clue what it takes for me to be able to take 
females.  

But with her, it is different.  Tall, trim, and she's got muscles on her back that I 
have to avoid looking at when she swings that 16 oz waffle-headed framing 
hammer.  I stay OUT of the scene shop when I hear the sound of hammers.  She's 
black Irish, hair thick and wavy, and cut to stay out of her eyes as she works, but 
just short of her shoulders in back.  Blue eyes.  She has a taste for leather, and 
usually has it on her person somewhere, even in summer.  

What?  What's stopped me?  For years, it was my preference for men, and later, I 
was told to not to, no matter what.  That training overrides any desires I have.  

Milord indicates that I am to lead Risa. I nod, and from my kneeling position, 
begin untying her legs.  I look up into her face, and she is looking daggers at me.  
For a moment, I consider closing my legs against the possible arc of a rather large 
foot as it swings towards my genitals.  Her eyes flick down there, but then she 
merely looks away from me.  Something closes between us.  I remember that I am 
supposed to be untying her.  

Once done, I reach for her arm, and help her stand.  I tied those legs a bit tight, 
and the rope marks are deep.  No doubt she is feeling the rushing pain of returning 
blood.  She makes every effort to stand tall and straight, in spite of it.  I feel a 
surge of pride.  She will make a noble thrall.  

[i]Risa speaks:[/i]
Himself stands up, and Scott, damn his eyes, drops to his knees.  For a moment, I 
can pretend that he is my slave, kneeling beside my chair.  I feel another rush of 
heat in my core.  I shut it down in two or three heartbeats.  I see him place a kiss 
on Himself's palm.  I feel it hit my gut again.  Of all the people I've wanted to top, 
I've wanted him the most.  It's a power thing.  He's so damn pretty, his chestnut 
curls, and chocolate brown eyes.  He is so fair skinned, he glows on stage.  How 
many times have I seen him across the stage , only his face visible, and his hands, 
in the low lights used to avoid the shin-busters fixtures for floor lighting.  Slim 
hips, yes, but an over all androgyny that I find so attractive in women.  I dislike 
femmes.  They flutter.  Butches tend to power trip.  Give me the androgyn.  Come 
to think of it, Lydia is one of the rare times I've found myself attracted to an overt 
femme.  But she doesn't count, she's straight.  And those tits...oh, god those tits 
are perfection.  

After a brief exchange with Himself, Scott moves in front of me, and still with his 
knees spread in that classic slave posture, he begins untying my legs.  Is he stupid, 
or what?  I could easily bust his balls with a size 10 foot.  I look him in the eyes, 
and then flick my gaze downwards to his groin.  He is naked, as I am.  He wears a 
collar, though... I have to look away.  

He stands me up, and gives me time to deal with the pain of the blood returning to 
my legs and feet.  He is trying to lessen the impact, I think.  He's as bound in his 
own way as I am, really, but I did not realize it at the time. 

Himself gestures to Scott to take me forward, to a small door behind me, and as 
we pass through it, the temperature changes dramatically.  I was very warm in that 
room, with the fire.  Here it is cooler, and I shiver.  My nipples harden again.  

I am lead into the very same space that we had left--when?  This morning?  I have 
no idea how long I was out.  The space has been cleaned.  I see the tall glass 
container with canes in them, their unfinished tips soaking in an inch or two of 
clean water, like flowerless stems.  The cart has been refreshed, toys all in line.  
Cuffs, Wartenburg pinwheel, clamps, clothespins.  Whips, floggers, crops, gags, 
chains, all depend from the same board I had perused for items to use on Callie.  I 
can smell my own fear. 

I am placed face-first against the chain-link fence, and the sound of the rattling 
again captures my attention, and calls to a deep fear in me, a fear of the bands of 
toughs that once cornered me in an alley, and how they were tormenting me by 
tugging at my hair and clothes before a shop owner stepped out to throw away 
some boxes. 

I feel Scott's hand on the back of my neck, under my hair.  He unties my arms, 
and again the agony of returning blood engulfs me.  He doesn't let me get used to 
it this time.  He pulls my arm out and puts a soft-lined cuff on it, wrapping 
quickly, and then attaching with a quick release hook to the fence.  I cannot reach 
it with my fingers.  The same happens to my other arm, and the agony of pins and 
needles intensifies.  The three masked figures appear in my line of sight, and I 
note that chairs have been placed there, more wingbacks.  Leather.  Spectacular 
leather wingbacks.  Deep brown, just the color of Scott's curls.  How lovely he 
must look when viewed from behind, kneeing in oral service before one of those 
chairs...

They take their seats.  I can hardly see them in the stygian gloom.  The light is on 
me from behind them.  I feel Scott cuff and secure my ankles, and then he steps to 
one side.  For a miniscule eternity, I simply am observed.  I can smell their 
predatory scents.  Herself smells of Cinnabar, my favorite perfume.  Himself 
smells of pipe tobacco smoke.  And the other, He has no smell at all that I can 
discern.  He grins and I can see the flash of white against his blue-black skin.  He 
scares me the most.  I feel my heart racing in my chest, just looking at him. 

He can inflict the worst of the pain, I have since learned.  

Himself speaks again.  "I think we will begin with the canes.  I want her well 
marked, you understand, but keep blood to a minimum.  That will come later.  
You may begin at will."

I see Scott approach the odd vase of flowerless stems, soaking to absorb the water 
and become flexible.  I know how brittle they become if left unwatered, and the 
edges of the broken cane can lacerate deeply.  He withdraws one, and wipes the 
tip with a cloth to dry it.  He strokes the length of it, and then flexes it to test its 
parabolic arc.  

Himself addresses me directly, and I avert my eyes again, to shut him out of my 
mind.  "Risa, you have made some grave mistakes in your hunting of Lydia.  You 
endangered the capture.  You stole from her for your own pleasure.  You did not 
think about your actions.  You did not prepare for them.  You will receive one 
hundred strokes from the cane."  He stands, and comes to me, and catches my 
eyes.  I am held fast by them.  I cannot look away.  "Risa, this is so that you may 
enter our service with a clean slate.  Once you receive the punishment, it will be 
over.  We do not hold grudges.  Accept your punishment.  You know you have 
earned it, don't you?"

It became fact as he spoke it.  I did deserve it.  I nodded.  "One more thing.  The 
canes have an extra bite:  They have been soaking in vinegar."

I shudder, and an iron fist clenches my heart.  This will be more than most 
masochists I know can handle. I have never given one hundred strokes before, the 
most was 73 before the sub began babbling our safe word.  There is no safe word 
here.  

Scott positions himself, and I can smell the vinegar.  I close my eyes.  The first 
blow lands on the back of my legs, just above my knees.  I flinch, and bounce 
against the fence.  The sound of the rattling echoes inside my head.  I begin to cry, 
and the taste of salt offsets the smell of vinegar. 

I try to stand fast for as long as I can.  Each stroke, each blow blinds with white 
vinegar bitterness.  Each blow lands beside the next, none touching.  Up my legs, 
over my ass, and then below the shoulder blades.  Good, he knows what to avoid.  
He stops at 50, and says  "Milord, I dare not cover the same area for the final 
ones, for fear of bloodletting.  May I turn her for the final 50?"

I have been screaming for at least the last twenty strokes.  I had let loose, each 
one blending into the next, and the screams had elongated.  The source was the 
pain, and the pain was utterly consuming.  I was loosened from the fence, and 
taken to the other side.  I could hardly walk.  Scott put his arm around my 
shoulder and supported me.  I was re-attached to the fence, this time facing out, 
and toward the three in the chairs.  I could see Scott, his focus on the job.  I was 
the target to him, I can tell.  This both soothed and angered me.  I closed my eyes 
against it.  He approached again.  I could smell him, his scent a comfort.  I cannot 
describe it, it's just him.  He doesn't wear colognes.   

The final fifty were spaced evenly over my upper thighs and my breasts.  Again, 
my world became the white blinding bite of the bitter canes.  I lost my voice to 
the screaming.  By the end, I was near to unconsciousness.  A rag soaked with 
vinegar was wiped over my face, and the smell assaulted my nose.  I gasped, and 
took the last ten in a silent stupor.  The last stroke must have drawn blood, 
because I became aware of the touch of a cloth stroking the spot, and then the 
stick and pull of a bandage.  

"Take her down, and be sure she is cleaned for the initiation."   I tried to raise my 
head, but couldn't.  The sound of the ocean filled my head, hot and swirling.  My 
eyeballs pressed on the socket edge, and the taste of salt fills my mouth.  I had 
bitten my tongue, and blood mingled with my saliva and fell in strings to the floor 
at my feet.  I felt Scott release my feet first, and then arms, and I fell forward onto 
him.  The last thing I heard was "I'm here for you, blood-sister.  You have made 
me proud."

I took odd comfort in that before passing out.

Part Seventeen

[i]Scott speaks[/i]

When Risa stopped screaming, I became worried.  I almost asked to stop, fearful 
that the pain had become too much.  A quick glance at her face, and I was 
reassured that she hadn't gone catatonic.  She just didn't have the voice for it any 
more.  She was also close to passing out.  I reached for a washcloth, and wet it in 
the vinegar in the cane vase.  I brushed it over her face, and she gasped.  I 
watched her closely, hoping she would come around for the final blows.  She 
would need to, or Milord would have it done over later.  Her eyes opened, and she 
focused enough for me to be satisfied.  I gave the last ten strokes.  She remained 
silent, though.  Her voice was gone.  

I noted a small trickle of blood on her breast, the cane having split the skin 
slightly.  A small cut, easy to clean and bandage.  I did so.  No infections allowed.  

I turned and faced Milord, and bowed.  He flicked his fingers to indicate that I 
was to recover from the obeisance, and then said "Take her down, and be sure she 
is cleaned for the Initiation.".  

I released her from the fence, and she slumped forward into my arms.  I lifted her, 
easier than I imagined, and whispered into her ear "I'm here for you, blood-sister. 
You have made me proud."

I wasn't sure she heard me.  She was unconscious in my arms. Bowing once more, 
I turned to take her below stairs. 

A voice behind me stopped me.  "Perhaps, Lord Thespis, Initiation should wait? 
After all, there is the matter of the tease, no?"  Okombo.  His voice sent chills 
down my spine.  Both pleasure and pain are mixed in memory of that voice.  

"Okombo, you are of course correct."  I heard Him sigh.  Then in the tone used 
for nameless thralls, he addressed me.  "Take her and clean her up anyway.  I can 
see that you are worried about her.  Use this time to regain her trust, for surely 
you have broken it with your inability to control the situation.  You may yet 
redeem yourself in this manner.  You will suffer punishment in either case.  More 
if you cannot mend the rift."

I stood there, my back to my Lord and Master, with Risa in my arms.  I turned, 
and bowed slowly, my back and legs screaming at the effort this time.  Arising, I 
kept my eyes down.  "Yes, Milord.  I will try my best to regain her trust." 

Let me explain something now.  Risa was my best friend.  We grew up together, 
played games and planned adventures.  At 11, she cut her hand at the playground, 
and I took the opportunity to offer the ultimate bonding between children--blood 
brother-sister.  I took the same piece of glass, and cut myself, and we pressed the 
wounds together, believing that our blood would flow between us.  I shudder now 
to think of how dangerous that was.  Filthy hands, sand, and not to mention the 
chance of hepatitis!  Or the chance of permanently crippling myself by severing 
tendons.  I was one lucky bastard.  Risa to this day cannot move her little finger 
on that hand.    

What I had done the night before was a last resort.  Risa was never one to let it lie, 
she has to be made fully aware of what is happening.  The ether was mandatory.  I 
could not risk bringing her to The Portal without it.  I would have died with her if 
I had.  

I knew that Risa would hate me.  I also knew that I may very well have lost her 
forever as my friend, and that was something I did not want.  I resolved to regain 
her trust.  I had a long way to go before it happened.

Part Eighteen

[i]Risa croaks:[/i]

I awoke to intense fire dancing along my skin, and then a path of coolness cutting 
between the fields of flame on my back.  I was face down on a soft surface.  This 
was a good sign, and so I tried to move my arms.  Bad Idea.  VERY Bad Idea.  
Muscles cramped and sore screamed in protest.  I must have made a noise because 
the coolness stopped its travels and was removed.  I felt a familiar hand on the 
small of my back, one of the few places unmarked by the vinegar soaked cane.  

"You're safe, Risa, it's ok…"
I managed to croak out "Like fuck I am, the hell it's not, Scott Michael Patrick 
O'Reily!"
The sound of my voice was like the cawing cacophony of a murder of crows.  I 
tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry.   I heard him sigh.  

"Here.  Have something to drink, Risa.  You will need to sit up, I don't have a 
straw."

Thirst drove me to do the painful.  I rolled to my side, and facing away from 
Scott, sat up.  I would not turn to him.  I raised my hand, and a mug was placed in 
it.  It was warm.  I sniffed-ooh, chamomile, and mint, and something else, a 
pungent, acrid smell.  Ah.  Valerian for my nerves.  That would be welcome.  I 
hope they sweetened it.  

It soothed my throat.  My Grandmother had taught me herbs as a child one 
summer in Ireland, so many years ago.  I had to wonder how Scott knew.  He 
always shrugged it off, never wanted to learn about them.  

"One of the medics took the time to learn herbs months ago when I mentioned 
your knowledge of them."  Scott's voice answered my question before I could ask 
it.  It was an annoying life-long habit of his.  I often did the same to him.  It was 
one of those odd things we had in common, and later I found out it was the reason 
I was "invited" to join The Society, rather than become one of its victims.  

I sat in silence, sipping the soothing tea.  I could hear Scott moving about the 
room.  I faced a blank wall.  A quick glance revealed that I was on a bed, still 
naked.  My body was sore, arms still in agony from pulling on my fastenings 
during my caning.  I did not know what time it was, nor what day.  Oddly, the 
pain of my welts was subsiding.  

I felt something soft and warm draped over my shoulders.  It was a blanket.  I was 
on the verge of tears.  How could he have done this to me?  My best friend, the 
brother I always wanted.  The betrayal was worse than any caning could have 
been.  I was heart wounded and sore.  And it would take much more than tea and 
sympathy to heal it.   

"Risa?"
I ignored him.  
"Risa, you have to hear me out.  Please?"
I took another pull from the mug.  The valerian was acrid, bitter, and potent.  It 
calmed me.  I took a deep breath, and then pulled the blanket around my welted 
breasts.   
"Risa,  please turn and look at me.  I need to know you are not broken."

The HUBRIS!  I whirled on him, and splashed the contents of the cup in his face.  
I was both glad and disappointed that the liquid was only warm, not scalding.  I 
didn't have the strength to throw the mug, or I might have as well.  

Scott merely sighed, and reached for a towel on the floor.   He must have 
anticipated my reaction.  

I could not scream at him yet, despite the soothing effects of the tea.  So I glared 
10 foot icicles, glaciers, and icebergs at him.  

"Risa, how many times has your mom told you?  What if your face froze like 
that?"
I let out a shriek, and raised the mug to throw it.  He snatched it out of my hand 
before I could let fly.  He stood, and refilled it from a carafe on a small table.  The 
same table held a bowl, presumably the source of the cooling water I felt upon my 
back.  

I realized something.  All though I was naked, I was not tied, nor gagged.  I had 
not been gagged for the caning, either.  They had let me scream myself hoarse.  

It would be weeks before I could sing again.  Oh, gods, this was worse than being 
gagged.  They had stolen my voice from me.  I started to sob.  

I felt Scott's weight on the bed beside me.  He placed the mug back in my hands.   

"Risa, would it help if I told my own story?"
That got me.  Curiosity overrode all else.   I nodded yes, and he began. 

"About 3 years ago,  when I took the job of stage hand at the theater…"

Part Nineteen

[i]Scott speaks:[/i]

I expected Risa to attack.  And she did, tossing the warm tea at me in a rage.  I 
reached for the towel at my feet, and cleaned myself off.  Oh, the look she gave 
me-If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under.  When Risa is angry, her eyes will cut 
you to non-existence.  I took another chance and pushed once more.  "Risa, how 
many times has your mom told you?  What if your face froze like that?"  

That had the desired effect.  She raised her arm to throw the mug at me.  She was 
still too sore to move quickly, and it was an easy matter to snatch it from her 
grasp.  

She seemed to crumple.  It's an impressive sight when a 5'10" butch dyke breaks 
into raking sobs.  Good.  It's part of the process.  Anger, then sorrow.  Next 
should be denial, or escapism.  I'd rather have escapism-easier to deal with, really.  
Then eventually, she would accept her fate.  

Honestly, it's not such a bad life.  As a thrall, my needs are met.  Besides having a 
well-paid job,  I am allowed to indulge my deepest fantasies safely, without fear 
of retribution.  I love the stalk, the capture, and the subduing of slaves.  I honestly 
do not know what happens to them after I realign their mentality.  I don't care.  I 
just make them slaves.  

Take Callie, for example.  An immediate rape will remove any sense of balance, 
or stability.  It shatters any hopes for release, and sets the stage for the reshaping 
of the psyche.  Anal rape is my personal favorite.  As I said, it reduces the person 
to a commodity.  And a valuable commodity she turned out to be.  I could not 
oversee her continued training, but an initial report had come to me.  She is a 
natural candidate for enslavement.  A masochist and some very deep-seated 
internalized homophobia.  By the time we are done with her, she will be a 
spectacular slave, begging for painful punishment after licking a Mistress to 
multiple orgasms.  It will be the only way she will cope with the shame of her 
desire to couple with her own gender.  

Or, we may go the other way:  Condition the self-loathing away, make her proud 
to be a pleasure-slave to a powerful but closeted Lesbian politico.  She will be 
able to take pain and pleasure joyfully, without shame.  

But this is not the fate in store for Risa.  Handsome Risa, who shares my taste for 
power-exchange, for giving pain, for bending the will of the slave.   She will 
become a thrall like me:  A sexual servant, and a valuable member of The 
Society.   Thralls can rise in ranks.  As I understand it, Lady Paige, Lord Thespis, 
and Okombo had all been thralls at some point in their lives.  

But now, I had to deal with Risa's sense of loss.  She sat up sobbing, her back and 
shoulders showing the welts still.  The infusion of mint I used to wipe her down 
would give her relief for a while.  Its scent was mild.  

I provided an escape:  "Risa, would it help if I told my own story?"  I saw her turn 
to face me, anger, sorrow and curiosity warring on her elvin face.  She nodded 
once, and wiped her face with a bare arm.  I handed her the towel, and she 
accepted it without a word.  

OK, I know.  You want to know what she looks like, right?  Risa is tall.  5"10', 
and as I have said, she is well muscled on her back.  Not as heavily as a man, but 
still, impressive.  Black hair, blue-black, not just merely dark brown.  And those 
incredible eyes of hers.  Brilliant blue, like an autumn sky.    Her face is long, and 
has sharp edges, elvin.  She tends to get freckles on her nose and cheeks in the 
summer.  

Her figure is okay, I suppose.  She has slim hips.  Breasts?  Not as big as Lydia's 
but they are rounder.  Her nipples are much smaller than Lydia's, too.  Not much 
help, is it?  Risa wears sport bras, and Lydia would wear an underwire bra, if she 
were allowed to.  

I  picked up the bowl, and fished the rag from it, gave it a squeeze and then set the 
bowl back down.  I gestured to Risa to turn back around, and began wiping her 
back.  

"About 3 years ago, when I took the job of stage hand at the theater,  Mike Du 
Blois was the stage manager."

She interrupted.  "You mean the director, right?"
"Risa, you have got to learn that you can't interrupt, it's gonna cause you all sorts 
of heartache!"
"Scooter,  I'll be damned if I go to this without full disclosure, on MY terms.  I'm 
no dummy, and you know it."

She pushed my hand away.  I could feel that she was regaining strength.  I really 
didn't want to secure her again.  I had to think fast, and to get her calmed down. 

"Reesie-cups, if you are so god-damn smart, you will listen to what I have to say.  
You cannot fuck with The Society.  You and I have been watched since we were 
children, I suspect.  Remember the doctor who treated our cuts?  I think he was 
the one who tagged us for induction.  We are both a bit on the odd side-other than 
our cuts, we have never had any injuries.  We always seem to avoid trouble at the 
last minute.  Remember that time we left the night-club early, and we found out 
later that it burned to the ground after we left?"

She nodded.  

"The Society watches out for folks like us.  I've been in this now for just less than 
3 years.  Mike was the one who brought me into it.  He drugged me with 
Rohypnol, and I woke up just like you did.  In front of Them.  Same room.  Same 
set up.  I underwent training, Risa, you have no idea what it means to be a thrall.  
We are trained in sexual service, yes, but more.  Our natural talents are trained, 
and put to use for The Society.

"We, you and I, are supposed to be an abduction team, I think.  I have never 
brought anyone else into The Society, Risa.  You are my first.  When His 
Lordship told me to encourage your stalking of Lydia, I rejoiced, because I knew 
he was going to have me bring you in, as well.  

"Callie was a bonus-she was tagged for abduction, but when she caught us, I blew 
it and signaled you to capture her.  I am going to be caned for that.  I would not be 
surprised if you will be the one to do it, Risa. "

I saw her start at that.  And then, anger resurfaced. "Scooter, it will be my 
pleasure.  You betrayed me."  She snarled, her voice ragged.  

I winced at the sound of her voice.  I had been told to remove her gag when I 
brought her before Them.  I suspect that it was Okombo's idea.  He would delight 
in making a slave or thrall scream until the voice crumbles.  At the end of her 
caning, she had stopped screaming altogether.  It had been washed away by the 
tide of pain.  

"Risa, for what it's worth, I will welcome the punishment.  I can't live with 
knowing I disobeyed directives.  His Lordship is doing this on purpose.  He is 
withholding punishment, something he knows I can't stand.  Once it is done, it 
will be over.  I will be able to go on."  

I could see her face shift between emotions.  Surprise.  Shock.  Fascination. 
"Scooter, you're a Top's Top.  You've never had time as a bottom.  You always 
refused it.  What do you mean?"

"Risa, yes, I am a Top.  But in the hierarchy of The Society, I am near the bottom.  
As a thrall, I am a step above slave.  Part of my training was to accept my station.  
And that means that I must suffer punishment, or pain if Those Above wish it.  
I've come to appreciate it, actually.  I have a deeper understanding of what the 
slave goes through, and as a result, I know how to train the captures to become 
slaves."

"Look, Risa, I know this is a shock.  You're probably freaking out on the ethics of 
it all as well.  Understand something, Risa:  The Society is long in existence, and 
has fingers everywhere.  They watch, they assess.  They make sure of the capture, 
and match the trainee, slave or thrall, with the new owner.  Sometimes they don't 
become slaves.  Sometimes they become tools.  Political tools.  Religious tools.  
Media tools."

"Scooter, I am not too worried about ethics.  I am of the mind that there are folks 
who are born submissives, and I also believe in direct retribution.  Like Lydia…"

Her voice gave out again.  I nodded.  "Like Lydia.  She has been teasing you for 
so long, and I wondered when you would snap.  She's known for that, BTW-I did 
some digging and found out at her last job, she came on to the head of the music 
department and tried to blackmail him.  Luckily, it was all caught on tape.  She 
was fired, but she knew enough to embarrass the college, so they gave her a good 
recommendation.  She is not a nice person, Risa.  And this is your chance to prove 
yourself to The Society.  If you do well, you will be rewarded.  I cannot say with 
what.  I honestly don't know."

I could see Risa was considering.  Come on, little fishy, take the bait…

She nodded once, and pitched her voice low to say "I can see the reasoning 
behind the hierarchy.  It does make sense.  I started as a bottom, and I think that is 
why I am a good top.  You never spent time as a bottom."

Her tone was almost accusatory on the last sentence.  I nodded.  "Yes.  And as a 
result, I am a more brutal top, even now."    

"So, what's next?  How long have we been here?  Won't they miss us at the 
theater?  What about the performance tonight?"

A touch on her back stopped her.  She winced in pain.  

"Risa, don't ask questions right now.  Your voice can't handle it.  Don't worry 
about the performance, a story has been concocted.  We were in a car accident, 
along with Callie.  The stand-ins have taken your positions in the chorus, and 
Lydia is believes that we are all in the hospital.  This will work to our advantage 
with Lydia-she will not be expecting us to  abduct her from a hospital bed!"

She nodded, and I could see trust returning to her eyes.  I smiled.  I hoped that it 
would charm her as it always has, for I deeply wished to see her smile in return.  
After all, she was my blood sister.  I would do anything to make her happy.  

Slowly, 29 years of life together took over, and I could see the same answering 
smile forming on her mouth.  One last thing about Risa-when she smiles, she is 
utterly stunning.  She has dimples in both cheeks.  But do NOT tell her I told you 
that-she'd beat me to a pulp-again.




Part Twenty

[i]Risa speaks:[/i]

The thought of teaching a lesson to Lydia for her clit-teasing ways buoyed me.  
Scooter tended me carefully.  He showed me the small bathroom where I could 
relieve myself, and take a shower.  I noted the camera lens in the corner.  I was 
tempted to cover it with toilet paper stuck on with soap, but I didn't.  I just ignored 
it.  

I've been a bottom.  I know the game: remove the self, remove the personality.  
Make her a vessel, empty.  It's used all over the world.  College frats did it to a 
degree with hazing, years ago.  In the Navy, the shellback initiations are the 
means.  That and boot camp.  A friend of mine once told me that in boot camp, 
the only thing she had outside of her body to distinguish her from her company 
shipmates was the brand of cigarettes she smoked, and the nightgown she wore to 
bed at night.  

Scott appeared the next morning, and checked my welts.  He said that they had 
subsided nicely, and that I should be ok to move.  He was dressed in clean 
clothes, different from what he had arrived in.  Curiouser and curiouser!  He 
looked at me for a moment, and then his eyes dropped.  

"Risa, you will be allowed to leave here under my custody.   I have to tell you that 
if you try to escape, I will be under orders to capture you, and bring you back.  I 
am not sure what would happen to you after that.  His Lordship said that it would 
no longer be a concern of mine once you were returned.  I can say this:  I hope 
that they would simply kill you.  I wouldn't want you to endure what they can do."

I nodded.   I had no desire to run to the authorities.  I was smart enough to realize 
that if we had been watched as children, they probably had eyes everywhere.  
Besides, The Society was beginning to appeal to me.  

"Once you successfully capture and punish Lydia, you will undergo Initiation.  
Then training will begin."

Again, I nodded, trying to save my voice.  It still hurt to swallow, and I knew that 
my best chance of saving my singing voice was to not talk at all.  

Our one-sided conversation was interrupted by a soft knock at the door.  Scott 
opened it, and a cart was rolled in by a female slave with a shy smile and no 
clothes.  She was quick about setting up the breakfast, and said nothing.  Once she 
finished the two plates, she looked at Scott, and then dropped to her knees.  
Classic slave kneel, thighs spread wide, her neatly trimmed twin folds exposed.  
Her eyes studied the floor.  

Scooter stepped up to her, and stroked her face, running his thumb over her lips.  
She opened her mouth, and a look of euphoria crept over her features.  I saw her 
nipples harden.  

"Risa, this is an oral slave.  Her training  focused on teaching her to pleasure with 
her mouth.  She is very skilled, and I can recommend her highly.  Let me 
demonstrate."

I watched as I ate my breakfast, seated on the bed.  He unzipped, and withdrew 
his tool, and immediately it was engulfed in her mouth.  Glancing upward, I saw 
his face.  He sighed his pleasure, and I could see his eyes moving beneath his lids.  

Occasionally, he would wince, or grimace.  His mouth was open, and I could hear 
his ragged breathing.  Occasionally, he would moan lightly.  His tongue would 
dart out to moisten his lips.  

As he neared his peak, his face tightened, and became brilliant red.  His curls 
bounced in time with his thrusting.  He began a rhythmic grunting, a low sound 
on the edge of hearing, and then I could hear words forming.  

"Suck me, harder, harder, suck me while I fuck your mouth, yes, yes, like that!" A 
sharp intake of breath, and he groaned loudly.  His eyes flew open, but he stared 
unseeing at the ceiling, his head thrown back in orgasm.   

All of it probably took about 4 minutes, I'd guess.  I looked to the slave.  She was 
still sucking his cock, cleaning it completely.  Not one drop of cum was to be 
seen.  She'd swallowed it all.  Her hands were still on her thighs.  I was impressed. 

He tapped the slave on her face, and she withdrew from his cock.  I was 
fascinated with the sight.  She seemed reluctant to do so.  Her lips were full, 
swollen. I wondered what they would feel like between my thighs. 

"Risa, once you have joined us, you will have access to slaves like this when your 
duties allow.  I have had no reason to visit the back rooms of the local gay bar 
since I was initiated almost 2 and a half years ago."

I grinned.  Being careful to pitch my voice low to avoid croaking, I said "That 
explains why you seem so much calmer, too, Scooter." 

He nodded and grinned in return.  Reaching down, he stroked the slave's face 
again, and I could see her face nestle into his palm, eyes closed, lips open.  She 
turned just enough to plant a kiss in the hollow of his hand.  I could see her pink 
tongue dart out to almost touch his skin before licking her lips.  She was blissful. 

Scott tapped her shoulder, and she reluctantly stood.  He gestured to the door, and 
she turned to go, leaving the cart in the room. 

I tried very hard to sit still.  The scene that had just played out before me had 
aroused me painfully. 

Scott seemed to ignore this.  He sat own on the bed beside me, and ate his 
breakfast from the dish on his lap.  I looked to the cart, hoping for coffee.  I was 
not disappointed,  a carafe invited me to pour.  I did so.  I offered one to Scott as 
well.  He accepted with a murmered "Fanks" around his scrambled eggs and toast.  
I grinned.  He still remembered his manners, somewhat.  

The coffee went a long way to calm my arousal.  We sat and ate in 
companionable silence.  Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and jelly.  Easy food to 
serve or keep warm.  The coffee was superb.  

Scooter stood and placed his plate on the cart.  He went to the other side, and 
opened the cabinet doors at the bottom, and withdrew clothes.  My clothes.  I 
stopped chewing in midbite, and stared.  He tossed them over the cart to the bed 
beside me.  I watched them fall open, and caught the smell of laundry detergent.  
They were clean.  

I finished my food, now cold, and placed the plate beside the first one on the cart. 

Scott leaned against the wall, and watched me.  Damn!  Well, if that's the way of 
it, I'd make a show of it. First the socks, one at a time.  I gathered them and then 
leaned over to my toes, and slipped my foot into it.  Then I raised my leg, 
straightening my knee, and pointed my toe as I pulled the sock down the length of 
my calf.  I peeked from behind the curve of my knee, and smiled.  I could see him 
grin in response.  I did the same with the other leg.  He grinned even wider, and 
this time I could see his eyes flick to my exposed groin.  He licked his lips, and 
then looked away.  Hmmm.  His face became blank. OK, still not too interested in 
that, I suppose. 

I stood and turned my back to him, and I heard him shift positions.  I smiled.  I 
reached for my pants-I rarely wore underwear.  I could hear him breathing slowly.  
Oh, yes, you do love the backside, don't you, Scooter-pie!  I shook the pants out 
and then lowered them so that I could step into them.  I gathered the leg up until 
my foot emerged from the hem.  Then I stepped into the other leg, and repeated 
the process.  I glanced back, and caught him staring at my ass.  His irises were 
dilated out fully, and his lips were parted.  Oh, yes, I have your interest now, 
blood-brother!  I took my time pulling them over my hips.  I let the bottom curve 
of my ass catch on the waist band.  I stoped for a heartbeat, and heard an intake of 
breath.  

I tugged the jeans up, and felt my ass jiggle into place.  Dead silence behind me.  I 
turned my head, and saw him staring at my ass.  My fully covered ass.  He 
glanced up at my face, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him blush.  I've got you 
pegged, Scooter. I've got your number now, pal. 

I smiled slyly at him.  He cleared his throat and said "Risa, please…" His voice 
catches.  He clears his throat again harder this time, and continues.  "Risa, please 
hurry.  I want to get back to the city for the opening of some stores." I note that in 
spite of the blowjob, he's hard again.  Damn.  I'm not THAT good looking! 

I obliged.  I quickly put on my shirt, and then put on my shoes.  He handed me a 
comb, and I ran it through my hair.  My teeth!  He passed me a toothbrush, and 
toothpaste, and I went into the bathroom. 

When I returned, he had the blindfold in his hands again.  I pulled up short.  It 
was the same one, and I could smell ether and roses.  I almost panicked. Instead, I 
took a few deep breaths, and then turned around.  Without a word, he blindfolded 
me for the return to the city. 

I could feel his erection brush against my ass as he did so. I shivered.

Part Twenty One

[i]Scott speaks:[/i]

After I left Risa in her quarters that night I made my way back to Them.  I 
knocked on the Portal, and entered when told to do so. I knelt in front of His 
Lordship, eyes lowered.  He was smoking his pipe, and the tendrils of thick 
smoke made art nouveau patterns beneath the subdued lights.  It smelled rich.  A 
feeling of fear and arousal combined blossomed in my loins.  My prick stiffened. 

I could hear the smile in Lord Thespis' voice when he spoke.  "I can see that you 
have not forgotten the smell of the briar."

"No, my Lord" is all I can murmur.  
The three of them chuckle, and a frisson of fear runs down my spine.  Okombo 
would laugh like that when he… Well. That story is for telling later.  I risk a look 
at Okombo--dangerous.  Dangerous because he is so unpredictable.  He is a wild 
card if there ever was one.  He is looking right at me.  To my immediate relief, he 
winks at me, and I drop my gaze.  

Okombo spoke up next. "I think, Thespis, that this thrall is very well suited for 
ensuring the success of the game.  You have chosen well.  I may very well lose 
my wager."

"Oh, come now, Okombo, you aren't going to forfeit are you?  There is always the 
possibility that Scooter here will make another blunder of the sort he did with 
Callie."

I sat as still as possible on the oriental carpet.  The warmth of the fire caressed my 
skin, but a chill had settled in my bones.  Risa and I were the participants in a 
wager between Lords Okombo and Thespis?  Shit, fuck, hell and DAMN.  Where 
did Lady Paige fit in?  Ah.  Judge.  Nothing else made sense.  

On queue, she spoke.  "Okombo, you have spoken of the wager in front one of the 
subjects.  I am not sure that this was wise, and I would ask you not to reveal the 
wager to any of the others."

"My lovely Paige,  I have no problem with Okombo speaking of the wager in 
front of my thrall.  In fact, I would speak with him on this matter myself.  
Okombo, will you allow it?"

Again, I hear that laugh from Okombo's scarred face, and I have to stop myself 
from twisting in fear.  "I have no problem wi' that, Thespis.  You say what you 
want to the man."  To someone who does not know him, that voice would be 
soothing, melodious.  It is rich with a South African rhythm. 

"As he has indicated, Lord Okombo and I have a wager.  Will you be able to bring 
your 'blood-sister' into The Society?  I say you will.  Okombo thinks that you are 
too close to her, and that they dynamics between you will interfere.  We've argued 
back and forth for the past 10 years on this issue.  The stakes are these:  If you 
fail, you will be turned over to Okombo.  I will also loose Lydia, my favorite 
personal slave.  I doubt that Risa will survive the failure.  She will no longer be 
your concern at that point.  

If you succeed, rest assured that you and Lydia will remain in my possession, and 
that you will be joined by Risa.  Have I made myself clear?"

I nodded.  I was flattered--Lord Thespis had faith in me, enough to put me on the 
line, along with Lydia.  

"Yes, my Lord, I understand.  I will do my best to ensure that Risa is fully 
indoctrinated into The Society as you wish."

He spoke again.  "Good.  Tomorrow, you will take her back to the city, and begin 
the preparations for Lydia's erstwhile capture and punishment.  If Risa should try 
to escape, you are to return her to me.  I will turn her over to Okombo."

Terror gripped my heart, and my prick wilted.  A wave of heat washed over my 
face, and I knew I blushed my humiliation.  I could hear Okombo chuckling.  "He 
doesn't like the idea of that, Thespis.  I think he would protect her from me, yes?  
Please, let me have then for the Marking.  I will make them blood-sibs all over 
again.  That is if he succeeds."  

"I think we can accommodate that, Okombo.  You may Mark them if they 
succeed.  If they do not, you may have them completely."

Lady Paige spoke up:  "I really don't know why you two asked me to be judge.  
You seem to do so well without me."

I heard the three of them chuckle again.  

Finally, Lord Thespis spoke.  "You will complete the capture by a week from next 
Friday.  

Okombo interrupted:  "Thespis, Lydia knows what of this?"

"Only that Risa is a candidate for thrall, and that she is to entice her into the role 
by whatever means, just as we agreed.  She has already provided blackmail 
material in the form of a phony drug habit."

Okombo must have nodded agreement.  My Lord spoke again to me.  "I want 
Lydia bound, gagged, and concious on the stage by midnight, a week from this 
coming Saturday.  If she can do that without flubbing it, I will allow her to take 
retribution on Lydia for all the teasing she's suffered.  I would enjoy the 
production!"

I sat as His Lordship told me the rules, of how I was not to talk with Lydia, I was 
only to assist with educating Risa, that she would have to do all the work, and that 
I could only be an observer.  Any assistance beyond that would be a disqualifier, 
and that I would be held responsible.  I could not even help Risa lift Lydia, if it 
came to it.  I wasn't too worried about that.  Risa has the strength. 

Finally, I was dismissed, and I made my weary way to my bed down below.  It 
would be a long day tomorrow, starting with breakfast with Risa, and a short 
demonstration of one of the perks of The Society.

Part Twenty Two

[i]Scott continues:[/i]

When I went to Risa the next morning, I kept it as low key as possible.  Breakfast, 
and a bit of oral pleasure from the slave I especially enjoy for her ability to suck 
harder than most men can.  That's saying something.  

Risa is a voyeur, and I know she would enjoy the sight.  Probably almost as much 
as I enjoyed the service.  

Then she threw me for a loop.  When I gave her clothes back to her, she made a 
point of putting on a show.  I was surprised by it, too.  First she pulls on her 
socks-freakin' white tube socks, for crying out loud.  She's got strong claves, and 
her thighs are squared off, not round, like a woman's.  It was disconcerting to see 
a cunt at the bottom of that raised leg.  But it kinda fascinated me at the same 
time.  Risa never did let me play doctor with her as kids.  

Then she stood up, and put on her pants.  Black jeans, snug across the ass, but not 
too tight.  They had moving room.  She bent over, her ass towards me, and 
stepped into the legs, one at a time.  I don't think I'd ever noticed her ass before.  I 
caught a glimpse of her cunt again.  She must trim her bush some-she had no hair 
on her inner thighs, like so many slaves do before we have it permanently 
removed.  She also has a small anus.  It was perfectly round, and looked so damn 
inviting.  I imagined forcing my cock into it, while she was bent over, tied and 
gagged.  I could feel my cock stirring in response to the mental images.  I shifted.  
The waistband of the jeans has sorta caught on the undercurve of her ass.  Her ass 
is framed by it, and for a moment, she stands there, holding it like that.  He legs 
are open just a bit, and I can see her pubic hair, and her lips, and her anal opening 
all lined up perfectly.  My mouth goes dry.  My cock swells.  

Finally, the waistband wins, and slides up and covers the view.  I linger a bit 
longer, staring at her ass in the jeans.  Damn.  If…

I glance up, and see her staring at me, an inscrutable look on her face.  I feel the 
heat wash over my face again, and then I see her eyes flick towards my erection.  

I try to clear my throat before speaking.  "Risa, please…"  My voice catches, and I 
have to retry to clear.  "Risa, please hurry, there are some stores I want to get to 
when they first open."  It was a bloody lame thing to say.  I know.  But I could not 
ruin the wager, if I wanted to eventually finish that sentence the way I had 
originally thought it.  "Risa, please take your clothes off, and present yourself for 
my pleasure". 

When I blindfolded her, I made sure to brush my cock against her ass, and was 
rewarded with a shiver down the length of her body as I knotted the ties.

Part Twenty Three
[i] Risa speaks[/i]

Scott's claim of wanting to stop by a store when it opened was transparent.  I had 
shaken him.  Good, because I intended to make him suffer.  I figured he was 
under orders not to "do" me.  And the scurvy son of a whoremonger had teased 
me just as badly as Lydia did with that exhibitionist bit of oral play with the slave.  

Understand something.  I had not forgotten the betrayal.  I had not forgotten the 
feeling of sliding into that long black nothingness, the smell of ether and roses my 
only companion.  I had not forgotten the humiliation of being brought before 
Himself and His cronies naked and bound.  

As for the beating, I was of mixed minds.  I think to a degree, I deserved it-I 
[i]had[/i] acted stupidly.  But to make me kill my own voice with my screams was 
as bitter as the bite of the vinegar-soaked canes.  

Lydia was not the only one being stalked.  I had another debt to collect. 

We were in the final week of production, and I was not going to be able to sing at 
all.  This left me free to watch Lydia, to become sure of her habits, the odd times 
she left the apartment, and the times she would be sleeping. 

The strike party was held after the last curtain call, right on the stage.  As set 
construction crew leader, it was my duty to see the set struck, torn down, and any 
salvageable bits put in storage.  After weeks of planning, modification, revisions, 
and building, it's a jolt to see it dismantled in less than a half hour.  The cast stood 
by and watched my crew go at it.  They moved with precision, each one watching 
for the next bit, and moving in to do the job. As they lined up on the now-empty 
stage, the cast applauded.  My crew took a well-earned bow.  

I stood by Scott, and supervised.  For effect, I leaned on a cane, and moved 
slowly.  I tended not to talk, for I wanted my voice to heal.  I was the perfect 
invalid.  Lydia had made a point of welcoming me back, of saying that she'd 
heard I'd lost my voice due to trauma to the neck, and that I was not required to 
answer.  She wished me well, and to my utter surprise, she gave ma a hug and 
surreptitious kiss on the cheek.  I blinked.  Just blinked, you hear?  

Like most parties, people got drunk, and in the wings couples paired off for a bit 
of pat and tickle in the curtains.  Pleading soreness, I left early.  Scooter drove me 
home.  

I invited him up, and I could see him waver.  He finally accepted.  

"One week till you have to have her on that stage, bound and gagged, Risa.  What 
are you planning to do?"  He flopped down on the sofa.  I took a seat in my 
battered old wingback, a $25 Good Will special.  I love wingbacks.  They speak 
of power to me.  I kicked off my boots.

"That depends on how her habits change now that we are not in production.  I 
suspect it will shift a bit.  I am hoping to make the capture on Saturday morning.  
That way I can have her properly bound and conscious as per your instructions by 
Saturday night.  She has yoga class on Saturday mornings, and I will make sure 
her car is dead in the parking lot.  She will be relieved to see me showing up at 
that point, and offering her a ride.  That's when she will be taken to the local 
make-out spot, and be sedated."

"What about being seen in the parking lot?  Your car plates?"
"Not to worry, blood-brother, I've got that covered.  I have an extra set of plates 
from a junkyard.  They were a bit expensive, but the junkyard owner is a friend.  
He can be trusted to say they have been on his desk for the last 3 years."

Scott nodded.  I stood and stretched, and made a point of wincing.  I walked over 
to the window, and looked out, on hand on my hip, the other holding the blinds 
open.  I could feel his eyes on my ass.  I smiled, and stood still.  My pants were 
tighter, chosen specifically for this moment.  I released the blinds, and stretched 
my arms above my head, my tank top riding up my waist.  I rotated my arms at 
the shoulders, and could feel the muscles on my back move.  

"Are you…"  I turned, and looked at Scooter.  He wore a mask of passivity.  "Are 
you still sore from the caning?"

Inwardly, I smiled.  Outwardly, I simply nodded, and looked at him.  He stood, 
and said "I saw some massage oil in the bathroom."  He turned and left the room. 
It was all I could do to not laugh out loud.  Here, fishy, fishy, fishy!
He came back, oil bottle in hand, and a towel over his arm.  I turned away from 
him, and lifted my shirt over my head.  I unbuttoned my jeans, and stepped out of 
them, my ass framed in nothing but plain white underwear.  Cotton.  Anything 
else would be wasted on him.  He once confided in me that he loves the sight of a 
man's ass in white briefs.  I'm no man, but I suspect it holds true anyway. I left 
them on. 

When I turned, he had laid out the towel on the carpet.  I lie down, face first, and 
heard him remove his belt.  He laid it on the sofa.  I could hear the jangle of the 
buckle.  Then his shoes, thudding to the floor.  Nothing else.  I felt him move over 
to me, and straddle the backs of my legs, and then kneel down.  I stretched my 
arms beside me, turned my face to my left, and closed my eyes. 

He must have run the oil bottle under hot tap water.  It was warm, and soothing.  
The welts had long gone, but my muscles still ached.  He's got good hands, 
strong.  He pressed his thumbs into the muscles across my shoulders, slipping 
between the strands, and letting them slide along the length of them.  Then he 
kneaded the bulk of the muscles with his whole hand, fingers, palms, and that 
mound of flesh below the thumb.  I sighed.    A woman voicing her pleasure is a 
turn on.  Even if it's just a backrub.  It would not be difficult to show my 
appreciation.  He was good.  Damn good.  The combination of sore muscles, and 
the soothing motion of his hands moving across my back felt good.  I was tempted 
to give in, to let it go where it would.  But no.  As good as that end might feel, I 
knew that my goal would feel better.  So I simply enjoyed the moment, but held 
onto control of my reactions.  I moaned deep in my throat, a low, husky sound.  
Scott shifted above me.  His hands moved down my back, working each side of 
the spine.  I rocked from side to side, my thighs brushing the inside of his legs 
through his jeans.  I felt my ass bounce just a little with the movement.  I'm sure 
he saw it.  

He stopped just short of my ass, and reached for the oil again.  I remember 
thinking to myself 'Oh, god, if he works my ass, I may very well give in'.  He did 
just that.  He pulled the elastic down, and my ass popped free.  He left the panties 
around my thighs.  The oil was cooler, but it warmed quickly beneath his hands.  
He worked both cheeks, one at a time, and them together.  Then he stopped.  I lay 
still, waiting.  I feel him fumbling at his pants.  He stops, and wipes the oil from 
his hands on the towel edge beneath me, and goes back to his pants again.  

I hear a sound, the soft click of a Buck knife opening.  It's all I can do to stay 
where I am.  I breathe deep, pretend I don't hear, lay still.  The mental image of a 
rabbit caught in bright headlights, frozen in fear flashes before my closed eyes.  I 
feel my panties lifted away from my legs.  A tug upward, and sudden looseness.  
It repeats with the other leg.  He tugs them out from under me, and then pats my 
ass.  I hear the knife close again, the snick of the blade sliding home in the 
groove.  He chuckles.  

"Risa, your face gives you away.  You were scared shitless, weren't you?"  What 
else could I do?  I nodded.  

He moves over me, holding his body off of mine, leans down to my head and 
whispers in my ear "It was a turn on, too, wasn't it?"

In answer, I raise my ass to his groin, and feel the hardness there, and nod again.  
I hear his intake of breath.  It's his turn to moan.  I stay raised up, just pressing 
against him, and feel him move his hips, rubbing against me.  Finally, he 
straightens up, and moves back from my ass.  He holds it raised between his 
hands, looking.  I know I'm swollen, that my vulva is in full bloom, I can feel my 
clit hard and standing out.  What must he be thinking?  I know he likes boys.  I 
wonder if he is disgusted, or if it is just foreign, like a book in an unknown 
language.  

I feel him run a finger down the length of my slit.  He flicks my clit, and I react.  
A moan escapes my throat, and my cunt constricts once, a sure sign that a bit 
more and I will cum.  "Stay like this. Don't move". 

I nod, and feel him get up.  He leaves the room, and I hear him in my bedroom.  
He's in my nightstand, looking for something.  I hear him return.  

"You're predictable, Risa.  I found these in your nightstand, just as I thought I 
would."  I hear the snap of latex.  He'd found my gloves.  

I also hear the sound of the oil bottle.  Or so I thought… "I also found your lube."  
I breathe a sigh of relief.  Oil in the cunt caused me a painful yeast infection once, 
and it's not something I want to deal with again.  

The lube is cold.  He spread it over my ass, my cunt, and I shuddered.  This was 
going further than I had wanted, but not as far as I wanted now.  I didn't want his 
fingers, I wanted his cock.  

I feel his thumb press against my anus.  I make a point of bearing down, and he 
slides right in.  I feel the rush of pleasure, a wave of heat and cold that washes 
over me whenever I have a visitor in the back door.  I raise my head, press myself 
upwards with my arms, and moan.  Then, with his fingers, he brushes my clit.  I 
buck, unable to stop myself.  My cunt constricts, hard.  Just a bit more, another 
brush against the clit will do it.  I cannot remember a time when I've been this 
ready, this fast.  

Instead, he simply holds still, his thumb moving only a little, feeling the walls of 
my rectum.  I feel as if I am suspended by it, held upright by it.  I cannot tell 
which way is up, only the floor beneath my knees, and the palms of my hands.  
My elbows are bowed out, my shoulders lower than my ass.  I lay my head back 
down.  

I feel wetness seeping from my cunt.  I feel his fingers shifting, his thumb turning, 
and then he presses a finger into my cunt.  I moan as it enters.  How can I not?  
I've become nothing more than a covering for his fingers, alive with the 
sensations.  His fingers become my core.  

I feel the backs of my legs aching, still sore from the caning, bruised.  My breasts 
hang on my chest, my nipples hard, painful.  My arms ache from holding myself 
up, and through all these sensations, I feel a brush against my clit, light, feather 
like, and I buck for more.  I groan, and the groan becomes almost a wail.  He's 
teasing my clit.  The bastard is teasing my clit.  Another brush.  I buck.  He 
watches me, watches my ass, watches my clit.  Brush.  This time, I writhe, 
rotating my hips, riding his fingers.  He begins thrusting in and out, and I feel that 
rush, that wave again, and I moan again, and press into the rhythm, bucking.  So 
fucking close to cumming.  I ride on top of it, as the warmth washes over me, 
leaving the air cold in its wake. 

Finally, he begins rubbing my clit with his other hand, and I throw my head back, 
and cum hard on his hands.  I can only moan, deep and guttural.  I collapse, my 
knees sliding back, but he keeps his hand between my thighs, on and in my cunt 
and ass.  I bounce against the floor, and then subside, my cunt still grasping 
around the single finger.  He withdraws slowly. I hear the snap of the glove being 
removed.  

Through all of this, he hasn't said a word.  I lay there, my heart pounding, my 
breath ragged, my body shivering, and he lays on the floor beside me, and strokes 
the skin on my back.  I shudder with each pass.  Finally, I calm down, and can 
find my voice enough to say "Thanks, Scooter-pie.  I really needed that, more 
than I wanted to admit." 

He simply said "You're welcome, Reesie-cups."  He got up, and went into my 
room again, and returned with my ratty old bathrobe.  He covered me with it.  

I remember thinking that he was a gentleman as he helped me clean up.  He threw 
away the glove, and put the towel in the laundry.  

But the next day, I noted that the ruined panties were missing.  He'd taken them.  
Perhaps giving in had been the best way of snaring his attention!

Risa had me by the balls.  I'll admit it.  I'll also admit that she had me by the mind 
and heart before grabbing my stones.  

After the strike party, I gave her a ride home-not unusual because I had picked her 
up on the way there.  I simply wanted to be near her, even if she was mad at me.  

Risa honestly thought I didn't know.  I could see it, though.  Those blue eyes of 
hers would follow me, and it took me a while to realize that anger wasn't all that 
swam in them.  I could tell she wanted me, too. 

Damn.  I wanted her just as badly.  

As I said, I was under orders not to have sex with her.  I suspect it was part of the 
wager.  And I had broken that with the backrub.  Hey, I'm not a certain former 
president.  What happened [i]was[/i] sex, even if my dick never left my pants.  
She could ruin me before His Lordship and Okombo.  I'd be hamburger by the 
time they were done.  

Still, I don't know what made me take the ruined panties.  I'm not into fetishes.  
But the sight of them on her ass had made me hard.  I suppose that's reason 
enough, isn't it?  

I knew that my punishment would be brutal.  I didn't know it would also be 
torture to Risa.

Part Twenty Four
[i]Author's note:
The following is long because it is Risa's revenge on Lydia.  However, this is 
NOT the end of the story. I hope you enjoy. [/i]

The day after the strike party, I snuck back into the basement of Lydia's building, 
and retrieved the tapes.  They were pretty much useless.  The quality of the tape 
was so poor, I could not recognize her.  But one thing surprised me.  Her bedroom 
camera showed no activity of any kind other than sleeping.  No visitors, no 
masturbation, nothing.  

I returned to the basement that night, and found the three VCRs where I had 
hidden them.  I reconfigured them to work in series, all from her bedroom camera.  
I set the timers to record in extended mode, 8 hours, in shifts.  I would have three 
nights worth of tapes.  

Early Thursday morning, I had all three tapes and the VCRs again, and it puzzled 
me to again see nothing but sleeping.  I mused on this.  A woman who wears 
clothes like Lydia does, who masturbates in her front room, and she doesn't even 
do anything in her bedroom?  

I thought back to the first time I entered her apartment.  A collar.  An unlocked 
door.  A rather old-fashioned way of doing drugs.  A rather lovely display of self-
pleasuring.  I cursed myself for a fool.  I'd been strung along, a bull-dyke with a 
ring in her nose.  Well then.  Time to slip those surly bonds.  

Saturday morning came, and I was waiting at the small building that served as a 
yoga studio, and karate dojo.  The parking was in back.  There was a wooded lot 
to the rear and side.  A cinder-block building completed the other side of the lot.  
Good, little chance of being seen as I disabled her car. 

I tugged the cable off the top of the rotor cap.  No matter how hard she turned it 
over, it would not start.  

I returned to my car across the street, parked among others in a parking lot of a 
supermarket.  I watched the building as the yoga class let out.  They exited the 
front door of the building, and walked in chattering groups up the driveway to the 
rear of the building.  I had put a whole bottle of super glue into the deadbolt the 
night before, to make sure the back door was not useable.  
Ah, there she was.  One of the last to leave, and I watched her walk by herself, her 
hips swaying in the most hypnotic fashion.  

All the other cars left, and I backed out of the parking stall, and went across the 
street.  There she sat in her car, turning it over and getting visibly frustrated.  I 
parked next to her, and then approached her window.  

 "Problems, Lydia?"
"Damn car won't start.  There goes my Saturday!"
"I can help-a good friend of mine owns a junk yard, and has a tow truck.  Let me 
call him for you."
"Risa, thanks.  How much does this cost?"
"Don't worry about that.  He's reasonable.  Prolly charge about $30 to tow it to his 
shop.  He's a good mechanic, besides."

I could see her relax.  Once again, that brilliant smile.  And those gorgeous tits in 
a black leotard top.  She nodded, and I pulled out my cell phone.  I called my 
friend, and told him that there was a car her that needed to be towed, could he do 
it?  Yes, but it would take an hour or so, he'd gotten another call before me.  Sure, 
no problem.  I gave him the address and we said our goodbyes.  

"It's going to take him a while to get here.  Let me go inside and get my business 
done, and let them know a tow truck is coming.  I can take you home after that."

She nodded.  "Why are you here, Risa?  I'm lucky you came!"
"I have a nephew who wants karate lessons.  I'm getting it set up for my sister."
She bought it.  Of course, I could have told her anything, and she would have 
played right along.  

I went into the building long enough to make another call to my friend, to tell him 
that the car was really ok, that I just wanted it towed away.  He was smart enough 
not to ask questions.  In his line of business, it's a matter of natural selection not 
to.  

I went back to Risa, and we climbed into my car.  

I made a point of turning the opposite direction from her home, when she  told me 
which way to go.  She looked at me, puzzlement on her face.  "This isn't the way 
to my house…"  Add acting to that list of skills, I thought.  Time to force her 
hand.    

"Lydia, you're in on this, aren't you?"
Silence. 
"Don't try that with me, Lydia.  I have a damn good idea what's happening here."  
Finally, she spoke.  
"Yes.  I'm in on this, Risa.  What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to deliver you as instructed.  But first, I am going to have my 
satisfaction of you."
She didn't react to that at all.    
We drove in silence for a few more blocks.  
'You're a slave, aren't you, not a thrall."  It was a statement. 
She nodded. 
"Whose?"
"I can't…"
"BULLSHIT!  You can, and you will.  Whose slave are you?"
She was silent a bit longer.  Finally she said "Lord Thespis is my Master". 
I wanted to jump for joy.  Yes!  I had a bargaining chip of high value.  

We arrived at the theater in short order. I took her into the set storage area in the 
basement.  I had everything I needed down here-a roll of clear film used to secure 
boxes to pallets in stores was there, web strapping with buckles.  A hand truck for 
moving set furniture.  
I had left a bag of tricks there earlier, too.  Toys of all sorts-a ball gag, a foam 
ball, blindfolds, a vibrator or three, and an assortment of dildoes, and my harness.  
Clamps, lube, condoms, gloves.  Duct tape, and PVC tape, too.  It's a standard 
orgy bag, and when it's in the car, I make a point of obeying traffic laws.  I really 
don't want to have to explain the contents to a cop if my car is searched.  

I turned to Lydia.  "We have several hours to kill between now and when I will 
make the delivery, and I intend to put them to good use.  Frankly, I didn't like 
being teased, and I think I deserve some sort of payback."

I saw no fear in her eyes.  I wanted to.  I wanted to see her pupils dilate out, I 
wanted to see her breasts heaving as she tried to catch her breath.  Instead, she 
stood there, her face serene.  "As you wish". 

I slapped her across the face, and snarled "As I wish, is right!  It's Ma'am to you.  
Answer me!"

"As you wish, Ma'am!"  Her eyes were lowered, and my palm print left a bright 
red mark across her face.  She trembled slightly, and I could see her nipples go 
tight and small in her leotard.  

"Take off your clothes."
She did so, folding them carefully.  The loose trousers first, then the leotard.  Her 
breasts fell free, heavy and round.  Yes, those tits were spectacular.  Large.  Soft.  
And oh, gods, the nipples small and hard, the areoles crinkled tight.  They were a 
gorgeous wine color, deep red, with hints of bruising, slightly purplish.  Someone 
had used those nipples hard recently.  The sight made me wet.  I reached out and 
pinched one, hard, and watched her face.  She grimaced in pain, and then she 
flushed.  I tugged the nipple, pulled it out, twisted it, and was rewarded with a low 
moan. 

"You like pain, don't you?"
She simply nodded, and winced again as I pinched the other nipple like the first.  

I lowered my mouth to her right nipple, cupping the under-curve of the breast in 
my hand, and lifting it.  I bit the nub, and then began sucking it hard.  Her breath 
quickened.  I could feel her heartbeat beneath my hand.  It was a rapid tattoo, and 
I thought of a bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage.  

I broke away from her nipples, and she sagged as I did so.  She was breathing 
hard, her face lowered.  She held her hands behind her back.  How obliging of 
her, I thought.  

"Turn around, and then get on your hands and knees."
She turned slowly, dropped to her knees, and bent over to place her hands on the 
floor in front of her. 

Her ass was white, no cane marks.  No marks of any sort.  Her spine had those 
little bumps in a neat row over the curve of her shoulders.  Down by the base of 
the spine, it was a small valley, and I thought about running my tongue along it to 
see her shiver. 
She wore her hair in a single, long braid.  It had fallen to the floor over her 
shoulder.  I picked it up, and then tugged on it, not hard, really.  Just enough to 
jerk her head back, and expose her throat.  Using her braided hair as a lease, I 
made her crawl to the furniture props room.

We store all sorts of things in there-bureaus, tables, sofas and loveseats.  Chairs.  
And a real beauty, a four poster bed.  It had been made by the scene shop-I'd 
turned those posts myself.  It was gorgeous. 

I shoved her down with a foot placed at the back of her neck.  I held tension on 
her braid at the same time, and I could see her trembling.  Ah, yes, fear.  I 
grinned.  

She was on her elbows and knees at this point, my booted foot resting on the back 
of her neck, my hand holding her braid.  Right in front of her was the side of the 
bed, still with a mattress and box spring on it, but no sheets.  I released her braid, 
and removed my foot.  I walked behind her, and looked at her ass and cunt.  Yes, 
in full bloom, wet.  I returned to her head, grabbed her hair, and pulled her face 
up.  I looked at her eyes.  I could see want in them, and as I pulled her hair harder, 
slowly, I could see it increase as the pain on her scalp increased. 

I slapped her face again.  Just because I could, because I wanted to see fear in her 
eyes.  But all I saw was hunger.  

Her neck was fully exposed again.  An idea occurred to me.  I reached to my belt, 
and removed the folding knife from its holder.  It was a good one, with a fine 
point, and an edge that holds sharpness very well. 

I opened it with a flick outwards, the blade loose from years of working it just for 
this effect.  It was impressive.  

I finally saw fear in her eyes.  I felt a wave of heat wash over me again, just as I 
had felt when Scott had pressed his thumb into my ass.  The memory mingled 
with the here and now, and I felt a bit of disorientation.  He's in the building, I 
realized.  I let go of her hair, and walked over to the door and threw the bolt on it.  
It was a slider, large enough to stop any intruders.  I did NOT want Scott to see 
this.  It was mine alone.  

How did I know he was in the building?  I just knew.  It's been like that all our 
lives.  We just knew.  We've been known to finish each other's sentences before, 
and when one was hurt, the other knew.  I've been told since that we seem to have 
a rather deep bond, but it still sounds like psychic mumbo-jumbo to me.  We just 
knew, OK?  

When I returned, she was still looking at me, with fear in her eyes.  I held the 
knife edge to her to her throat.  She was terrified.  Good.  Tears started to form, 
and she tried to close her eyes.  

"Open your eyes and look at me bitch, or I will cut the lids!"

Ah, the way they flew open, and the shear terror on her face.  Scott had been 
right.  When you strip away the civility of SM, when you deny the use of 
safewords in BD, what you have left is this, this raw fear, and *that* is what drew 
me to The Society.  Fear.  The look of fear in a slave's face, the way they shiver 
uncontrollably.  I love it. And if they are honest, so do they.  I know.  I've been 
there.  

I smiled at the look on her face.  Eyes wide, mouth open, panting.  I wanted to pet 
her, to stroke her throat, and pat her ass.  Maybe diddle my fingers in her slit.  No.  
I wanted to draw this out.  

I drew the knife across her throat, slowly, barely brushing the edge of it against 
the skin.  She shivered, but she kept her eyes open, streaming tears.  I thought I 
heard a whimper when I stopped.  Of course, she would not have made a sound 
with that keen edge against her larynx. 

"Get up on the mattress."
She didn't bother to stand, but climbed up, and resumed her position on all fours 
on the bed.  

What to do?  On her back?  Leg spread, tickle her clit with the tip? On her belly, 
and draw designs on her skin of her back, leaving scratches in a paisley pattern?  
Or perhaps make her hold the blade edge against her cunt-slit with her thighs, and 
torture her nipples further?  

No.  I should not mark her.  That would be hubris on my part.  She was not my 
slave to do so.  She belonged to Himself, and I knew I could only push him so far 
before he would retaliate.  

He may do so anyway, so I may as well enjoy these few hours of pleasure with his 
slave in the mean time, said a voice in my mind

She made a pretty picture on the bed, on all fours.  Her breasts hung down, and I 
remembered mine doing the same recently, and I felt that rush again.  I reached 
beneath her, and captured a nipple between first and thumb, and rolled it hard 
between them.  She groaned her pain and pleasure.  

"I've half a mind to cut this off, Lydia.  You teased me with it.  You made sure I 
never actually saw it, but oh, you teased me."

She nodded.  As I pinched it again, she grimaced.  

"You may speak."
"I was told to tease you."
"And you did as you were told.  This is your reward, I suppose."

I ran the edge of the blade along one side of her areole, lightly.  I'm sure she could 
only feel the coolness of it, and not the sharpness.  She held still.  I tired of that, 
and moved the blade to her back.  I traced a pattern of swirls with the tip, with just 
the weight of the blade behind it.  A small scratch appeared, following the path of 
the blade.  No.  I lifted it, and closed the blade.  I found two nipple clips, the long 
ones with the sliding rings to tighten.  I affixed one to the near nipple, and then 
straightened the connecting chain between them before placing the other one.  I 
massaged her breasts to warm them.  

Her head hung down, and she panted a bit, trying to get on top of the pain, to 
transform it to pleasure.  I obliged her with it by reaching  behind her, and 
between her legs.  I parted her lips, located her clit, and pinched it.  Her head 
jerked up, her eyes wide.  She still looked terrified.  Good.  I rummaged around 
on the bed-ah, yes, I'd brought it, the neurowheel.  It was a favorite toy of mine, a 
small wheel on a holder, like a pizza cutter, but with incredibly sharp points.  It's 
used by neurologists to test sensitivity.  It is also a spectacular pain-toy.  It all 
depends on the pressure used.  It can leave a perfect line of drops of blood, evenly 
spaced, or it can merely tickle.  

I ran it down the insides of her arms, over and over, lightly.  I alternated between 
her arms, and then began to pay special attention to the insides of her elbows. A 
row of red dots appeared just below the folds of each arm.  Perfect. 

I then moved to the backs of her thighs, and calves.  Dancer's legs, shapely, 
strong.  Beautiful.  I wanted to draw designs on them, use the knife to make scars 
like Okombo's.  No.  She is not mine.  I contented myself with drawing more 
fractal curves with the pinwheel.  I stood back to enjoy my artistry.  Lovely skin 
she has for this.  I noted that her cunt had opened, displaying the deep colors of 
the inner lips.  It glistened with wetness.  I nudged her thighs and knees apart 
further, and as her hips lowered, her cunt became more open, and I saw a drop of 
wetness fall to the mattress.  I could smell her arousal.  

"You put on such a lovely show with your vibrator, Lydia.  I remember that.  I 
had to beat off with it later, you know.  I think I even brought it with me… ah, 
yes, here it is."

I reached for the vibrator-fresh batteries.  I looked at her face, brilliant red with 
embarrassment.  I've got to hand it to Himself.  He's got good taste in slaves.  This 
one had such a readable face.  She glanced up at it in my hand, and tears fell 
again.  She pressed her lips together to keep from wailing, I think.  I turned it on, 
and the sound seems loud to me.  It did to her, too, because she looked startled at 
it. I pressed down on her back, until the connecting chain between the nipple clips 
was about an inch off the mattress, and then I leaned the vibrator on it, and watch 
her reaction.  The buzzing traveled the length of the chain, and her nipples are 
vibrated at the same time through the clamps.  I saw her gasp, and the vibrator 
fell.  

"Do not let it slip off the chain again, or I'll leave a scar on you!"

I popped the knife again, and held the blade in front of her eyes.  I felt a sudden 
gush of wetness at the look of terror on her face.  I put the knife down again, 
within reach.  

I wanted to hurt her, to make her terrified, to make her cum and beg to stop 
cumming.  Instead, I put the vibrator back on the chain.  I walked to her backside, 
to watch her cunt.  It is winking, grasping on nothing.  It looked like a hungry 
mouth.  I wanted to fill it. I took a small dildo, and the bottle of lube.  I smeared it 
with the lube-and thought of Scott's cock as I did so.  His is thicker than this, and 
I remembered wanting it in me when I was on my knees, his fingers teasing the 
cum out of me.  I shook the feeling off.  I pressed the tip of it against her second 
mouth, and I heard her moan loudly.  But she held perfectly still.  A glance at the 
chain hanging between her nipples told me that the vibrator was still in place.  
Slowly, I filled her with the silicon phallus.  It had a flanged base, and I thought it 
would be nice to fix it in place.  

"Don't move."  I went to the door, and listened.  No sounds, and so I stepped out 
and retrieved the roll of clear film.  It would be awkward, but it would do the job 
beautifully.  I brought it to the bed after closing and bolting the door.  I took the 
vibrator off the chain, and had her sit upright, kneeling on the bed.  She seemed 
relieved.  Although I saw it shift, and slip downward a bit, the dildo stayed put.  
Oh, yes, nothing but the best muscle control for Himself, no doubt.  

I took off a long length, and wrapped it around her waist , scrunching it to narrow 
it some.  As I neared the end, I left a three foot length, and tied it off with a half-
hitch at the small of her back.  Then I passed the length between her legs, pressing 
the flange of the dildo home, driving the cock into her fully.  She drew her breath 
in a gasp.  I passed the length under the waistband, and then back down through 
her legs again.  I mark the spot where her clit is with a my fingers pinching the 
spot, and then pull it back out and tie a knot in the plastic film.  I press the knot 
against her clit through the first layer of film, and then run the rest of it up to the 
band in the back, and secure it. 

I snap at the knot with thumb and second finger, a fast, hard fillip.  She jerks in 
response.  

I take the time to stand back and enjoy my handywork.  Her face is covered with 
her tears, eyes puffy and red.  Her nipples, trapped in the clamps, are a deep red, 
bordering on purple.  They will have to be loosened soon.  The clear plastic film 
makes for a strange chastity belt.  The knot makes for an odd accent between her 
lips. 

I step over to her, and loosen the clamps.  I do not remove them, just loosen 
enough to let the blood flow again.  I watch her face-this is when the pain kicks 
in, when the blood returns along with feeling.  I watch , and am rewarded with her 
distorted features, and she lets loose with a cry of sexual agony.  Her hips buck 
once, and then she holds them forward, offering a full view of the knot on her clit 
again.  I snap it and watch her jerk.  I grasp the knot between my fingers, press it 
to her clit, and rub it from side to side, as much as the tight film lets me.  With my 
other hand, I jiggle the chain still hanging between her breasts.  She screams.  I let 
her, no one can hear down here.  

Needless to say I had my pleasure on her.  I eventually removed the film, and 
replaced the dildo with another one, larger, held fast as a strap-on over my pants.  
I love the feeling of the thrusting into a woman's cunt, the rhythm is so soothing.  
It's hypnotic.  

She cleaned her juices off the strap on and the smaller dildo beautifully.  Yes, oral 
pleasuring was something she could do very well for men.  She took the entire 
length down her throat after brief struggle to get it past her gag reflex.  I have 
often wondered what that would feel like on a real cock.  Perhaps I could ask 
Scott.  

All too soon, it was time to get ready to make the delivery, and ask for my 
ransom.

Part Twenty Five
[i]Risa concludes her story[/i]

I had taken some thought about how I wanted to deliver Lydia.  Scott had only 
specified that she was to be delivered to the stage at midnight on Saturday.  No 
doubt they expected classic hogtie-bondage, perhaps to see if I could actually do it 
properly.  Screw that for a bluebird over the cliffs of Dover!

After a trip to the bathroom to relieve herself, she stood straight up for me, and I 
wrapped her in the plastic film used to secure boxes to palettes.   I filled her 
mouth with the foam ball.  I didn't bother wetting it first.  I doubted it would be in 
long.  It was followed by a red ball gag, with a hard plastic ball.  

I put her on the hand truck, and by odd chance it matched the red ball gag 
perfectly.  How pretty she looked, the film made opaque by layers, but the gold 
and pink of her skin still visible in places.  He cheeks bulged slightly with the 
foam ball.  The ball gag didn't distort her mouth much, but her lips had gone pale 
around it.  Her brow was furrowed slightly as she tried to cope with the physical 
and mental discomfort.  Carefully, I slit the plastic film above her nipples, 
exposing them.  They were swollen, and the colors were spectacular, deep reds 
and purples of bruising.  I could see the lines left by the elongated clamps.  I 
lowered my head to suckle them in turn, and heard her moan low in her throat.  

I stroked her forehead, and kissed her eyelids.  "You impress me, Lydia.  But it's 
time to take you back to your Master."

She nodded.  I'd like to say that I saw a look of longing or sadness, but I didn't.  
But then, I didn't see joy or gladness, either. 

Finally, I put the straps on her, holding her to the hand truck.  Black bands with 
buckles, 2" wide.  I tied off the loose ends on the uprights of the hand truck.  

Gently, I tilted the truck back, and rolled it to the stage elevator.  I opened the 
gates, and wheeled her on, and then closed the gate behind us.  I glanced at my 
watch.  Perfect.  About 30 seconds to midnight.  I moved the lever to "UP", and 
felt the floor shudder beneath my feet.  

'Old Bess' is original to the building.  It's one of those beautiful cage-elevators 
with wrought iron designs.   It's  a visual delight to see Lydia packaged up on a 
hand truck, with the black wrought iron bars behind her.  I wish I had camera. 

Bess shuddered to a halt, and I could see across the stage.  A spotlight burned 
white on dust of the floor.  I pulled the gate open, and grasped the handle of the 
hand truck, and began the final leg of the journey. 

Of course I stopped in the spotlight.  How could I not?  Lydia's packaging 
reflected the light, and she became a silver goddess.  She winced and squinted in 
the light.  The ball in her mouth was washed almost white with the intensity of the 
spot.  

The spot widened, gave me room to stand beside her.  But something was 
wrong…that was not Scott controlling the spot.  How could he not be here?  Who 
was?  I doubted Lord Thespis was operating the spotlight.  Maybe the black one?  
Or another slave, or thrall?  

Where was Scott?

As I moved forward, the spot widened more, and I stopped at the edge of the 
stage.  "Well, she's here, as ordered.  But I want something in return."

"House!" the voice rang out, with a cultured British accent.  Himself, of course.  I 
heard applause, three sets of hands.  House lights came up, and the spot faded 
around me and my cargo.  

Working lights came up.  The theater was awash in light now, and I blinked a bit 
to get accustomed.  

There in the middle of the house was Himself and His cronies.  The black one, 
Okombo as I would later learn, and that spectacular blonde.  Lady Paige.  

"You want something in return, Risa?  And what would that be?"  The amusement 
in his voice was irritating.

"We both know I am going to be joining your organization.  But I want one thing 
more.  I want Scott as my own thrall."

Silence.  I looked at him.  He stared back at me.  I knew I had pushed way beyond 
the edge, that I was dancing on thin ice.  

"What makes you think you've earned him, Risa?" There was an edge of 
incredulous scorn to his voice. 

I shrugged.  "He's mine. I earned him when he put that ether-soaked cloth over my 
nose and mouth.  I earned him when he stripped my body, and tied me up, and 
brought me before you.  I earned him with every stroke of those BLOODY 
CANES!"

I screamed my anger and my rage, and my voice held.  But I knew not to stress it 
further, and so took a deep breath to calm myself.

"He betrayed me, sir, and that is how I earned him."

"And what would you do to him, Risa?  He was following [i]my[/i] orders.  All 
but one I think and you coaxed that out of him, it seems."  He grinned briefly.  
Amusement danced over his refined features.  

"And would you have one who is willing to betray a lifelong friend working for 
you, sir?  Have you considered that he may very well betray you?  At least I know 
that he will not betray me again.  He was too conflicted."

"But there is the matter of his taking of Callie too soon, and also the 'service' he 
provided you with the backrub."

"Make him mine, and I will deliver the punishment myself."

"If I make him yours, you will deliver the punishment I decree, for you in turn 
will be mine, Risa."

I considered.  Yes.  I would do it. I walked to the steps of the stage, and 
descended them, and walked to the row in front of his seat.  I stopped before him, 
and spit into the palm of my right hand, and offered it to him.  

He looked at it.  He looked at me.  He looked to Okombo, who merely grinned. 
He looked at Lady Paige, who took that moment in time to inspect her lipstick in 
a mirror, and to wink at me over the edge of it.  Finally, he spit into his own hand, 
and clasped mine.  We shook, and I wiped my palm on my jeans.  He withdrew a 
snowy Irish linen handkerchief and wiped his palm.  He folded the cloth, and 
replaced it in his interior breast pocket.   

Okombo laughed.  "Thespis, I must admit, this has been most entertaining.  I look 
forward to the final test of your new thrall."

"As do I, Okombo, as do I!  Risa, may I direct your attention to the stage, please?"

As I watched, a male slave approached Lydia, and removed the straps holding her 
to the hand truck.  Next, he slit the film, and she was free.  Her body was covered 
with marks from the film.  She looked lovely.  She walked naked to the stairs, and 
presented her self in the aisle.  He nodded, and she sat on the floor with her head 
bowed.  

As I turned back to the stage, the houselights dimmed, and the spotlight came on 
stage.  A heavy pipe-frame descended to the stage floor.  It was large, made of 3" 
pipe, a large rectangle set on end.  It had feet on extended horizontal legs, long 
enough to keep it from tipping.  Scott hung from the top bar by chain attached to 
wide cuffs on his wrists.  Similar cuffs secured his ankles to the bottom bar.  His 
faced away from the house, and his back…

His back was already covered with welts.  From his shoulders to his calves he was 
covered with horizontal welts, laid out in perfect order.  The only places that did 
not have them were across the kidneys, and the backs of the knees.  

"As you can see, he's already had some punishment.  It will be up to you to 
complete it.  I think another 100 strokes will suffice.  Of course, if you feel it is 
too much, you will forfeit possession, and both you and your 'Scooter' will be 
turned over to Okombo.  I believe he has some new scarification techniques he'd 
like to practice."

I turned to look at him.  No backing out now.  I'd given my hand, and I could not 
break my word.  I cursed myself for a fool, agreeing before knowing the details. 

I looked back at the stage.  A naked male slave that I did not know was setting up 
one of those carts I had seen at the place where I had received my punishment.  
Attached to the cart was a tall glass container with several rattan canes, and the 
small amount of liquid.  I guessed it was vinegar.  

I made my way to the stage steps, mounted them, and walked over to the frame.  
Scott was conscious, and gagged.  I looked in his eyes, and saw recognition.  How 
helpless he looked, and yet he had the set features of resignation.  He knew what 
was going to happen.  

"I accept this, Risa.  Do it, finish it, and I will be yours."

I almost jumped out of my skin-I heard him as clearly as if he spoke to me.  I 
must have imagined it, because I had not heard it before, nor since.  He closed his 
eyes.  He shifted and winced.  

On the cart was a bowl of water, washcloths, some antiseptic cream, and 
bandages.  Also were latex gloves, lube, and a variety of dildos.  And the canes in 
their glass quiver.  I took one, and flexed it.  Supple, yet tough, resistant to 
bending.  I swished it to test its action.  It whistled in the air with the motion. I 
could smell the sharp tang of vinegar in its wake.  I wiped it with a dry washcloth 
to remove any excess moisture.  

I looked along the length of it, checking cracks.  None.  It was thin, thinner than I 
liked-too easy to break the skin with this sort. I was not into blood sports.  I think 
they knew that, and this was my test.  Everything was set up specifically for that.  
I examined Scooter's back again-the welts were large, inflicted recently, probably 
as I was taking revenge on Lydia below the stage.  Any more would surely split 
the skin.  

Could I do this to him, my closest friend, my blood brother?  A part of me 
recoiled.  No blood!  I had never, ever drawn blood on any of my consensual 
partners.  Even when asked, I would decline.  

To have my hand forced like this was hell.  I probably could have done it to 
Lydia-hell, the idea had crossed my mind.  I had wanted to scar her, to mark her 
as my own and return her to Himself as an insult.  But that was revenge, not 
bloodlust.  

A memory flashed before my mind's eyes:  Scooter in the sand, grasping the glass 
shard, and drawing it across his palm, and the blood welling up.  I remember 
seeing it dripping to the sand below, and feeling it slick between our palms as he 
pressed his hand in mine.  

I flexed my hand, and as always, my pinky did not close all the way.  I had 
damaged a tendon that day.  

I began the strokes.  Within 10 strokes I had split the skin.  A trickle of blood slid 
down his back.  It became a challenge to avoid the splits, and Scott's reactionary 
jerking made it even more difficult to aim properly.  

I did not dare stop to console him.  I did not dare stop to console myself.  Each 
split tore at my barriers.  I was weeping at the sight of him, bloodied by my hand.  

I moved down his legs, hoping that he would hold still so that I could aim 
properly, so that I would not cut the backs of his legs. 

"Scott, hold still, this is dangerous."  Had I spoken it?  I don't know.  He made the 
effort none the less, and I took careful aim on an unwelted spot just above the 
back of his knees.  I was at stroke 75 now.  

The smell of blood mingled with vinegar.  I could smell my own fear, and the 
smell of pain from Scott.  It was a nauseating mixture.  My stomach recoiled.  

I stopped long enough to walk to Scott's front, to check to see if he was still with 
me.  I didn't want to drive him to catatonia.  I may very well have.  I took a wet 
cloth with me. 

His mouth was stretched by the ball gag, and a strand of saliva dangled and 
swayed from his chin.  I wiped his face, but avoided his eyes at first.  They were 
closed, but fluttered open when I touched his brow.  

It must have been driven by his pain, because it hit me full force.  I could see 
myself through his eyes, my head thrown back when Callie was licking my clit, 
my orgasm evident on my face.  The sight changed, and I saw myself on my 
knees, my ass in the air, and my cunt swollen with want between a set of hands.  I 
saw myself hung on that chainlink fence, my back welted, screaming.  Along with 
all of the images came attending feelings.  

Desire.  Want.  Lust.  Love.  

My god, he was in love with me.  My jaw dropped.  His eyes focused on mine, 
and the images stopped.  So did the feelings.  Something broke in me, and I felt 
something answer his silent question.  I thought of him naked in front of Lord 
Thespis, of him kneeling, with his knees apart, his member erect and beautiful.  

I thought of the sunlight on his chestnut curls, and how gorgeous they were.  I 
thought of his legs, long and strong.  I felt pride of ownership, of desire, of lust.  
Of love.  I could tell he felt those feelings, just as I had felt his. His eyes widened, 
and shone.  I nodded once.  

Those final 25 strokes were the hardest I have ever given.  I gave up on trying not 
to spill any more blood.  His back was covered with splits.  Blood coursed 
downward, each drop becoming a crimson flower on the black paint of the stage 
floor.  

At the last stroke, I hesitated.  My arm hurt, my stomach was in knots.  My vision 
blurred with tears.  My heart ached.  I turned to the house.  I could not see beyond 
the glare of the spotlight.  I turned back to my subject.  I laid the last stroke across 
his shoulders, and the skin held.  

I threw the cane to the floor, and dropped to my knees.  I heaved and threw up 
what little I had in my stomach.  

The male slave approached, and picked me up, and offered me a glass of water.  I 
took a small sip to rinse my mouth, and was presented with a bucket in which to 
spit.  I did so.  He disappeared, and returned with a mop and bucket.  He began 
cleaning the floor of the stage.  Good.  Scooter would not appreciate vomit and 
blood on [i]his[/i] stage floor.  

I turned to Scott.  He still hung from the frame.  I released his feet first, and then 
encircling his waist with my arm, I reached up and released the clips from the 
cuffs.  My arm slipped on the blood on his back.  He leaned against me for 
support, and I held him to me.  "You're mine now, Scooter.  It's ok.  You're mine 
now."

I felt him nod once, and he slumped to the floor, slipping from my arms.  He'd 
feinted.  

I could hear the sound of applause again from the house.

[b]Epilog:[/b]

[i]Thespis sits at a large desk, a sheet of fine paper in front of him.  He holds a 
pen in his hand, and it glints gold in the light.  He is writing, and as he comes to 
the end of this sheet, he places it upside down on the stack by his elbow, and 
draws another from the ream in front of him.[/i]

"…So it seems that love, blood and telepathic bonds are indeed intertwined.  Our 
subjects to this day seem to have a very strong bond.  They both deny being able 
to 'hear' one another, but they are undeniably aware of each other's presence.  

Careful observation reveals that they are able to locate the other out of line of 
sight.  They often hand each other items without looking, and receive them in the 
same manner.  It only seems to work if the male is in submission.  

The female has resisted all training to desensitize her to bloodletting.  She is able 
to do the task, but always vomits at completion.  

Okombo is as baffled as I am about it.  He has marked them as a pair, the usual 
insignia, but this time it is carved in their flesh instead of worn as devices on their 
collars.  They held each other through the procedure, it was most touching.  

It is hoped that this report reaches You in good health, and that the enclosed 
videos will be pleasurable to view as well as a means of documenting the 
phenomenon. 

I remain Your humble servant
Thespis.



