Gromet's Plaza Bondage Stories
Bondage Adventures of Lara Cross
by John Roper | Forum Feedback
© 2006 - John Roper - Used by permission
storycodes: MM/ff; M+/f; bond; kidnap; bagged; susp; reluct/nc; X
Bondage Adventures of Lara Cross 3 by John Roper MM/ff; M+/f; bond; kidnap; bagged; susp; reluct/nc; X

back to part two

Part Three

Neither Lara nor Gwenn said a word to each other for the three or so minutes it took to simultaneously arrive at the imploding ecstasy of their enforced delirium. Every so often they'd look up to see how the other was doing. The strapped-on, vibrator/dildos and plugs had been set on low oscillation, giving the experience a slow-motion-ness that drove them up the wall, the ceiling, the floor and the ends of their ropes to a degree that convinced Lara she would never have sex again unless her lover was an expert at rope bondage. 

The cruelty of the rig slowly dawned on their undivided attentions when the full measure of its painful intent completely eclipsed the pleasure of their last drop of climactic closure.


Both did little to suppress the oral aspect of the ride, which only served to heighten the other's pleasure with a kind of empathetic duet neither one had ever performed  before. So, several minutes into their second enforced suspension of the evening, both lowered their heads and did their best to make themselves as intolerably uncomfortable as possible.

 "You OK?"

 "Shshshshsh," whispered Gwenn Dolan, with a look-around, when her professional side suggested the room might have been bugged.

Lara caught on immediately and bent her knees a bit to create some slack in the nipple tether, which resulted in an angle increase in both armpits. Meanwhile, a puddle had formed and begun to spread at the base of the ice block. Then came the ever escalating pain in their ass cheeks, necks, shoulders, feet, elbows and wrists. Whereas before, the vibrating plugs had been a welcomed inducement, they now took on a less appreciated presence, and continued to do so as the intensity of each orgasmic aftershock tapered off and into the realms of dubious distinction. Their audio output, too, slowly changed to reflect a dissatisfaction any unschooled passerby would have immediately winced at and done something about with some kind of presumed medical attention. But there were no passersby, nor would there be any for as long as it took Martin Trent and Dent Chalmer to extract the whereabouts of what they could only guess was some kind of artifact or tomb containing a treasure trove worth millions, if not billions of dollars.

 "She never goes after anything not worth her while," assured the newly realized multi-millionaire to his lawyer over the phone. 

While Martin Trent took care of business, Dent Chalmer listened carefully to the goings on in the basement through his wireless headset and figured the girls were hip to its application. Meanwhile, less than a football field away, Rob Banks zeroed in on Gwenn's homer and thought, "Wow, I love how this club plays."

Both he and Gwenn had signed up for an underground reality show type junket a few weeks before, which slave trader Paula Trace had caught wind of and decided to turn into a golden opportunity by participating as a villainess in what her unsuspecting targets thought was all an intense exercise in the fine are of damsel-in-distress role-playing.

"Better check the basement first," figured Rob after donning a utility belt and an outfit right out of an old James Bond movie.

As for Paula and Mark, since only the former was aware of the hijacking, she did her best to control their negotiations with the Sheik and throw her partner an informative, sideward glance whenever possible.

 "You've got a deal," she blurted before Mark's lack of up-to-date intelligence could rupture the mess they were in any further. She stood smartly, reached for the Sheik's hand, turned and threw Mark a look that assured him they should get themselves out of the smoke-filled room posthaste. In order not to arouse suspicion, Paula took her time leading the way to the Jag, and didn't say anything until she'd driven through the airport gate in a direction that would afford them the highest speed limit.
 She spoke first. "Son a FUCKING BITCH!!!"


After locating and studying the activity of the only two 'players' on the first and second floors of the house, Rob Banks found a cellar window and figured it was the best way into where the homer indicated Gwenn's location. He cut a small hole in its glass, silently loosed the latch, and went in, back first. After scoping the layout, he surmised the opened door at the end of the hallway was the best place to initiate his search. Tossing caution to the wind, he took a calculated risk, based on Martin and Dent's preoccupations with what they were doing, and a gut instinct that almost never failed his highly sharpened sense of timing. A glance up the staircase and a sound check, to make sure his 'foes' hadn't changed their locations, backed Rob away from the window, down the hall and into the opened door room.

Since the silence with which he moved afforded an element-of-surprise advantage, and since Gwenn and Lara's eyes were closed with heads down, Mark relished the situation quietly while an erection injected its focus-shattering influence into the mix.

 "Where's the cattle prod?" asked Martin as he and Dent ascended the stairs and started re-dealing with erections of their own.

 "I'll get it," said his chauffeur/man Friday.

Gwenn and Lara twitched with trepidation when they heard the no-nonsense exchange. "Holy shit!" thought both simultaneously.

 "Well now," smiled Martin sardonically as he picked up the switch and grabbed his crotch. "What have we here? All spent and wishing you hadn't been born I hope?"

Rob listened carefully as he watched through a cracked closet door. His heart raced with pleasurable fear and fantasy fulfilling delight, while the growing distraction down below made clear, practical thinking almost impossible. "Cool."

 "Looks like you two are just a few minutes away from a meltdown," quipped Martin as he looked down at the puddle on the floor and the effect several pounds of tether pressure was having on his victim's nipples.

Neither Gwenn nor Lara opened their eyes or raised their heads as they continued to make discomfort adjustments and lose themselves in the now to a degree only several years of meditation can generate under more favorable circumstances.  Dent switched the vibrators to their highest settings and took careful note of the situation as he stood by and waited on his boss' intentions.

 "I wonder if these bunnies have a blowjob or two left in them before we prod them into the twilight zone."

 'Bastards!' thought Lara.

Just then, Martin's cell signaled…"Yes?... I see. Give me ten minutes." He hung up and headed for the staircase. "We'll tend to them later. Meet me out front in two."

Without so much as a word or expression of disclosure, Martin Trent and his trusty sidekick left the cellar and headed for parts unknown.

 "Excellent," thought Rob Banks as he pulled down his pants and got into relieving himself of a distraction that could potentially blow the game if not immediately attended to.

The Karns sisters were waiting seven minutes when Paula and Mark drove into the parking area in back of Sasha's auction studio.
 "This should be a hoot," figured Kathryn.

 "I'll do all the talking," assured Debra as both got hornier and more determined to become millionaires overnight.

Each sported proof-of-having-resisted Band-Aids on their faces and tears in their clothing, to which Paula and Mark paid no mind whatsoever. Sasha Nash waited in the control room of the auction studio. "Now what?" she wondered after having been turned around from her car ride home by a call from Trace.

 "The Aussies hijacked our score," informed Paula as soon as she, Mark and Sasha entered the studio. "How long have you been doing business with them?"

Kath and Deb smiled with glee, for they knew the Australian connection had never bought in Cairo before, which made it near impossible to backtrack their location.
 "Got a plan yet?" asked Kath?

 "Yeah. We play it by ear until another golden opportunity presents itself."

Gwenn's supersonic hearing picked up on the heavy breathing in the closet long before Rob presented himself to them with knife in hand. A ski mask hid his identity. He said nothing as he popped open the switchblade and stepped closer.
 "Oh-shit," lamented Lara.

 "Not to worry," sighed Gwenn Dolan. "Our prayers have been answered."

All Cross could come up with was an incredulous "Huh?"

 "I was there when he bought that stupid outfit," smiled the PI. "Make it snappy, honey. We haven't a second to lose, and shut up. There's a very real possibility this conversation is either being recorded or monitored. And undo her first. She's been tied up the longest."

The intelligent manner in which Rob Banks undid his 'playmates' assured and comforted Lara in the knowledge that she and Gwenn were in very capable hands. When Dolan was finally able to stand up straight, she gave Rob a knowing, 'so-what-else-is-new' look and jabbed, "What took you so long?"

 "…Uh, it couldn't be helped."

Given the suspected bug wrinkle, the seven and half minutes Rob took to ejaculate his passion through the crack in the closet door had inadvertently increased the distance between them and Martin Trent, who was, as they spoke, listening to every word in the back seat of his limo.


Meanwhile, back at the Sheik's place, news of Wellington Trent's bombastic demise reached his ears.

"Interesting; very interesting," thought Achmed before receiving another report on the whereabouts of the red Jag, to which a homing device had been attached by one of his operatives. In their haste and bewilderment, neither Mark Bower nor Paula Trace had bothered to scan for it when they were at a safe distance from the 747.

In the interest of propriety, and since, given the audio surveillance possibility, it would not have been a good idea to waste time looking for something to wear on the upper floors of the house, Gwenn and Lara decided not to remove the strapped in plugs. One wore Rob's T-shirt; the other, his black top.

 "Where to?" asked bare-chested Banks as they all piled into a rented SUV.

Gwenn turned to Lara, who, while doing her best to find a painless position in which to sit, shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "Your guess is as good as mine." 

The conversation that followed revealed what was really going on to Rob, who, every so often commented with an awestruck 'Wow' as they rolled out of town at an inconspicuous speed while piecing together all the facts of the matter into a cohesive understanding of their enforced and somewhat bizarre partnership.

 "We were set up," nut shelled Gwenn as she tried not to place too much weight directly upon the ten switch impressions Dent had so masterfully and gleefully inflicted upon her perfect posterior.

 "Looks like it," agreed Rob when all the pieces of the puzzle pointed to that logical conclusion. "Good thing we didn't tell anyone about the homer."

Lara didn't bother asking who 'them' were and how Trace, other than having been originally hired by Wellington Trent to baby-sit, figured into their mix. Gwenn took note of the full tank reading on the dash and leaned back into her seat with a sigh of extreme relief. There were another two, five gallon containers of gas in the back of the SUV as well.  An hour and a half later, they turned off the main road and drove another several minutes before pulling up to a well-hidden campsite. A huge, recreational vehicle dominated the hideout's landscape, in back of which a series of four-to-forty-five-foot high boulders kept the site's presence well hidden from the half-mile-away dirt road that got them there.

 "Home sweet home," smiled Gwenn before hugging and kissing her boyfriend of nineteen months.

Lara had long since fallen asleep in the back seat. The debriefing and ordeal that detailed it was simply more than her body and overwhelmed thinking could handle, especially regarding the gone wrong, bondage and discipline role-play adventure her new friends revealed in the telling. 

 "Have I stepped into some shit, or what?" she pondered just before nodding off.

Gwenn and Rob thought as much about Lara's shit.

After making several exploratory phone calls, Paula's team decided to turn in and regroup. One of those calls reported the theft of the van to the rental agency. Kath and Deb had driven and left it in the airport parking lot to create yet another diversion and throw all concerned off the scent of Lara and Gwenn's location. The news of Wellington Trent's bombastic disintegration also found its way into Trace and Bower's awareness. Of course, neither suspected Lara had anything to do with it, given the time lines and recent developments surrounding the out-of-left-field event.

 "I wonder what THAT was all about," said Mark.

 Paula could only wonder as well. "My guess is the poop Achmed wants us to coax out of Cross may be to die for." 

Sasha Nash waited for her inquisitors to leave the studio before making a few calls of her own, and was on the phone to Australia when four, masked operatives crashed her premises, chloroformed the stunned entrepreneur, and tore the place apart. 

 "Tie her up naked," said the head thug before placing a call and thinking as he scoped all the rope and such in the studio. "Nice."

After reporting in, he turned to his team and said, "A ball bind, with arms tied behind, and be sure the gag gives us no reason for concern. Make room in the trunk and put her in one of those sacks." He pointed to the mail bags Trace and Bower had used to transport Lara and Gwenn to the studio.

The next morning, Paula and Mark learned of the van's location between cups of coffee and phone reports from unsuccessful intelligence sources they'd contacted the night before. 

 "They can't have just disappeared," thought Trace. "And I don't think they left the country, no matter what the van in the airport parking lot might suggest. We should have heard from Sasha by now. She's the only one who hasn't reported in yet. Maybe she's come up with a hot lead and is following it up as we speak."

 All Mark Bower could think was "If anyone can find her, she can."

Gwenn insisted on Lara sleeping in the RV's big bed, while she and her hero did a large sleeping bag in the supply tent set up against the U-Haul trailer in back. The next morning, Rob made breakfast while the girls sponge-bathed and designed their hair in as practical a fashion as possible. They all ate ravenously and smiled with self-satisfaction for having overcome their perilous circumstance. Almost nothing was said while devouring a dozen eggs, a package of bacon, a half loaf of toast, six cups of coffee, and a half gallon of orange juice.

 "Better fill up the generator tank," said Rob as he stood from the table, leaving his heroines to their 'girl talk.' For obvious reasons, both had eaten standing.

 "Wanna partner up?" suggested Lara. 

 Gwenn smiled. "Do we have a choice?"

 The question was also answered with a smile. "Guess not."

 "So, how much are we talking about here?"

"That all depends on the Egyptian Government and how bad either they or we decide to be."


Lara finished the last of her coffee and got dead serious. "I prefer to call it protective. After all, those who do all the leg work and life-risking do have a right to relative recompense. If we play our cards right we could come out of this with a 50-50 split of, let's say a half billion?"

 "Wohoh," smiled Gwenn.

Lara decided not to confess to the exploding of Wellington Trent and his associates until the history she'd suffered through at the hands of his unscrupulous methodology had been thoroughly revealed to her two new partners.  While they did the dishes, she suggested some moves. 

 "First, we find out where Wellington Trent stashed what he stole from me, take it back, sell it, and divvy up the profits to give us a monetary power base and you guys a reward for saving my life. Then, we rent a huge truck and take a ten-hour drive." Lara smiled again. "By the way, where the hell are we?"

After having enjoyed an extremely successful acting and modeling career in and around the Middle East area, Sasha Nash turned to producing bondage videos, and had been for almost a decade. The slave trade connection evolved from relationships she'd developed with models who had no choice but to seek out sugar daddies and such after either running away from home or getting themselves into other situations, the reasons for which Sasha never sought to learn.

Since the Sheik had a thing for bondage, and since the money involved was way more than her business could instantly generate, Sasha looked forward to early retirement on the tons she was making as an auctioneer/agent. The grapevine soon materialized a sizable clientele, which hastened the coming of the day when Sasha could, with the monetary clout of a sizable Swiss bank account, dump her past and disappear very comfortably to anywhere on the planet she wished for the rest of her life.

From the moment they met, the Sheik had the hots for Sasha's stunning good looks, well toned figure and self assured persona. She soon became an obsession and the centerpiece of Achmed's fantasy life. But all his advances had been thwarted, which further served to compound his acute frustration. As the years passed, the Sheik's resolve waxed relentlessly in planning directions that would utterly justify the need to kidnap, bind and gag, and thoroughly enjoy the distressed company of Sasha's writhing countenance. When she woke from the chloroform induced unconsciousness, the first thing she noticed was how dark and damp things were. As she tried to move her limbs, the genesis of her situation came racing back to haunt the moment with the realization of her bound and gagged circumstance. The elbow cinch in back was particularly uncomfortable.

 "Oh-wow," commented Sasha Nash when her brainwaves skyrocketed and her pussy began to throb and gush with unbridled excitation.


The room she was instantly filled with light as its door swung open and a guard spoke into his hand held intercom, "She's awake."

"Be right there," returned the thug team leader.

A 100-watt, overhead light bulb suddenly filled the six-by-six cell with more harsh illumination, causing Sasha to squint and shiver in the knowledge of her perilous incapacitation. Two hooded men, one with a thick metal bar in hand, stepped into the room, lifted her to a kneeling position, and slid the bar under the circles of ball binding ropes that ran from Sasha's upper shoulders to her wrists. She was then lifted and carried from the cell, suspended on the bar by a thug on each of its ends. Their team leader appeared and waited ahead of them. "Take her to the big room."

A huge vat, covered with 2-foot wide planks, dominated the center of the dungeon. Sasha was carried up a six-step flight of stairs and placed on the center plank in a kneeling posture. The bar was then replaced by several, thick, suspension ropes, which were further tied to a heavy metal hook dangling just above. Sasha looked around the room, taking careful note of the various torture devices and such it contained. "Whoh."  The sound of an electric motor preceded the tightening of the rope circles that squashed Sasha's hard pressed physique into its ball bind just before she was lifted a foot or so off the planks.

 "Remove them," ordered the man in charge in an unspecific accent.

As each plank was pulled off, indistinct motion could be detected on the bottom of the vat until it was quickly and completely uncovered.

 "MMUHUH!" screamed Sasha when she saw what waited below. "Snakes!"

She could not stomach them, or worms, or anything resembling them. 

 "Everybody out," said the head operative.

 "Now, Miss Nash, would you kindly answer all of my questions truthfully, bearing in mind that, if you don't, you will die to regret it?"

Sasha immediately and vigorously shook her head up and down in an unmistakable gesture of cooperation, while her pussy twitched and dripped with sensual appreciation of her dubiously pleasurable predicament.

 "Do you know the whereabouts of Lara Cross?"

She still had no idea where the tomb raider was, or where she might be found, so she neither indicated a 'yes' nor a 'no' and hoped her interrogator would get her meaning. 

 "I see," said Chasheer, the Mad One. 

While a harem girl sucked on and stroked his formidable erection,  Sheik Achmed Ben Shahad watched by closed circuit TV from the comfort of his 747 study and took another puff on his hundred dollar cigar. 

 "Lower her to within three feet of the snakes," he ordered through Chasheer's headset, "and leave her to think on the matter."

As Sasha was slowly lowered into the vat, her libido went crazy with life threatening deliberation and her first orgasm reached the end of its fuse. She thrashed and writhed wildly and went totally nuts in her ropes while her tormentor left the room, slammed its door, and threw its three bolts. Sasha stared, wide-eyed, down at the several dozen snakes and let loose a gut-wrenching "MUHMUHMUHMUH!"

 "Why the hell didn't I just nod 'yes?'

A subtle wave of wisdom made it perfectly clear to the slave trader that something else was in control at that critical communication juncture. After more than a decade of bondage video producing, the time had finally arrived whereby both Murphy's Law and the ever demanding axiom of "Whatever goes around comes around" poked their ugly noses into the equation of both Sasha's worst fears and hottest fantasy. A strange, counter balancing seesaw of raw emotion and sensual passion removed her from having to judge or comment on the ongoing orgasm that ensued.

"Cameras?!" she noticed when small windows, cut into the vat every 45 degrees, introduced lenses into the bizarre, visual and sensual kaleidoscope of Sasha's first kidnap fantasy-come-true. There was nothing she could do but wait, hope for the best, and experience her wildest dream in a way that made her videos look like a walk in the park. Lifelong speculations as to how a real damsel-in-bondage-distress situation would feel also fell laughably short of what she could not help but both enjoy and intensely regret as each incredible second of her impossible ordeal ticked by.

Every single bondage video Sasha's company ever produced had been mail ordered and seen, several times, by the Sheik. His favorites were those written by Wanda Lust, the pseudonym Nash had assumed in order to protect her already less-than-respectable identity. Sasha instinctively groped to grab hold of her crotch rope. It dug excessively deep into her twitching pussy. Given her distracted concentration, the attempt took a good five minutes to accomplish, only to add further frustration to the maddening predicament when she realized that, no matter how she manipulated the rope, there was nothing she could do to optimize its desired effect any more than it already had.

 "Lower her slowly until I say stop," said Sheik Achmed Ben Shahad to Chasheer, the Mad One, who watched the five-shot screening from his control room.

The Sheik then said "Slower" to Tah Tah, the slave girl who was giving him the blow job.

continued in Part Four

John Roper

No poisonous snakes


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28.07.05 | updated - 06.05.17


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