Agents of B.O.N.D.A.G.E. - Skin in the Game

by Kevin Quinn

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© Copyright 2022 - Kevin Quinn - Used by permission

Storycodes: F+/m; F/m; M+/m; mpov; bond; tease; torture; predicament; x-frame; cuffs; cbt; rope; anal; cage; electro; buttplug; cons; nc; XX

Chapter 1 – The Big Tease

From the personal files of Emerson Drake:

Damn! The wench was sucking my cock, and there was nothing I could do about it. She was slowly building me towards orgasm, and desperate though I was to stop it, I could not; I was firmly strapped onto the post and quite thoroughly gagged.

Not that she was hurting me; quite the opposite. Tatyana was beautiful and an amazing fellatrix, ranking up there in my all-time personal top ten. (And believe me, I've experienced the best in the world.)

Plus, her partner, Jasmyn, was providing visual and sensual support by showing off her body – damn, those firm DD cup breasts with pointy nipples were amazing – and running her hands all over my torso, tweaking my nipples, cooing in my ear. They were breaking through my defenses, and despite my training and will-power, I was going to erupt soon.

No, they weren't hurting me; the agony and death-throes would start right after my ejaculation. Automatically and irreversibly. Not that the two women knew that; for them this was just a game, a perverted lark cooked up by my captors, who they thought were my friends and business associates. They didn't know they would literally be killing me with kindness.

Maybe I should back up a bit and explain:

My name is Emerson Drake, and I'm a top field agent for the Bureau Of National Defense And Global Enterprises; B.O.N.D.A.G.E. for short. We are an international crime-fighting group; a private, non-governmental organization, although we have covert connections to law enforcement agencies around the world. My division within the bureau is the Security Taskforce for Underworld Depravity Schemes. Yes, I'm one of the STUDS of BONDAGE.

(Note: I know, I know, our acronyms are a bit on the - shall we say - unconventional side. Not vanilla like FEMA or NATO; hell, not even cool and subtle like UNCLE or SHIELD. The mysterious multi-billionaire founder of our group, known only as "Lady J," chose the names, and she pays us all a handsome salary for what we do. Mind you, not as much as for throwing a forward pass, or starring in a summer blockbuster, but very well, indeed. If she wanted to call our group DUMBASS, I'd sign on the dotted line faster than you could say "Papa needs a new Mercedes.")

Our organization monitors and fights the world of international criminals that the regular police overlook. My unit focuses on those cabals who misuse their fellow humans for their own pleasure and profit; kidnapping, sex slavery, sexual blackmail, perverted bondage, and deviant tortures. You'd be surprised how many of them exist; we've always managed to stop their perverted plans quietly and discreetly. And many of these miscreants are perverts as well, with sex and slaves and sadism part of their daily lives. That's where I come in.

My cover story is that I'm the top sales rep and trouble-shooter for Banking Dimensions for Security Management (B.D.S.M.), a consulting firm for the global financial industry. It explains my frequent travel, lavish lifestyle and my cache of weapons and exotic devices for surveillance and such. I'm also known as a lover of bondage and exotic sexuality in my personal life, which often gets me into the same circles as the villains I pursue.

Feeling my orgasm building under the ministrations of the talented Tatyana, I was sure the folks back in the office would initially be distraught when they heard the news of my death triggered by these lovely ladies. But then there'd also be the dark jokes:

"At least Drake died doing what he loved best" and;

"Death by bondage blowjob? Of course. How else was a sex addict like Drake going to kick the bucket?" and;

"At least Drake passed away giving it his all. And then he gave five or six milliliters more."

Speaking of the office, maybe that would be a good place to start this tale of intrigue, sex, restraints and punishments. (When you think about it, that's everything that makes life worth living!)

A week prior to Tatyana's deadly deepthroat demonstration, I was at BONDAGE headquarters just outside of New York City. I was being debriefed after an initial undercover contact with Viktor, who owned a bunch of nightclubs and bars in Germany. We had reason to believe he was laundering money for, and working with, a bunch of bad guys called T.O.R.M.E.N.T.S. – Tech Organization for Restraints with Mechanical, Electrical and Neurological Torture Systems.

(Obviously, we're not the only ones who can come up with alarmingly on-the-nose acronyms.)

We believed they were the interrogation and intimidation wing of a much larger, shadowy evil group we knew only as CURIA.

Understand, debriefing is a regular part of our routine; but every so often, we operatives undergo a more rigorous screening and lie-detector test to seek out those who have gone rogue or have turned into double-agents. The trouble they have with me is, I have extensive espionage training, along with an unusually strong control over my mind and body. (I literally wrote the book -- well, an internal instruction manual -- on defeating polygraphs.) So, my lie-detector experience is a little different than most.

I reported to Room 69, a secured laboratory/interview/interrogation room where the usual body measurement devices were applied to monitor my heartbeat, respiration and such. They were attached by our medic, the fetching, curvy Doctor C. Carter, and the voluptuous director of Human Resources, Ms. B. Beauchamp. In addition, the pair also wired me with an anal probe and a cock ring, both sophisticated pieces of electronics. They had no problem gaining access, as I was naked and strapped tight with leather cuffs within a sturdy metal frame. Every inch of my eagle-spread body was within easy reach.

I was then blindfolded. Doctor Carter pretended to back away, and the anal probe and the ring started to vibrate; gently at first, but slowly increasing in intensity. To further distract me from focusing on my physiological responses during the polygraph test, I felt someone expertly lube and stroke my cock and balls while Ms. Beauchamp quizzed me all about my personal and professional life, all the while monitoring my body's responses.

(Technically, per BONDAGE HR policy they should have brought in an anonymous third party for the hand job; I wasn't supposed to know that it was Doctor Carter stroking me, but we're all a pretty randy and healthy bunch in the Bureau, and I recognized her marvelous technique and subtle perfume from previous, after-hour trysts.)

(By the way, Christina's a fun date; besides her medical degree, she has advanced certifications in many fields of sexuality. Plus, she's a beauty; she worked her way through college as a lingerie model. Come to think of it, the busty, flame-haired Beauchamp also did some modeling, of the fetish and latex clothing variety.)

(Yes, we have an interesting personnel roster here at BONDAGE.)

The idea is, it's impossible to tell consistent falsehoods when your ass and cock are vibrating and a lovely woman is fondling your cock and balls. In between questions, Byanca did her part by kissing me and nibbling my nipples. I had nothing to hide, but I would have been caught by these two if I did.

I was squirming and sweating after a few minutes of being stimulated with no orgasmic resolution, but eventually the HR chief was satisfied with my answers. I hoped that she would leave me and the good doctor alone to finish the task she had started, but Beauchamp told me that Margaret wanted to see me and was on her way. She took off my blindfold and then whispered something strange to me; "Go easy, this is a bad day for her."

Well crap, that was a waste of a perfectly good erection; I knew Margaret intended to bust my balls -- but not in the fun way. We had butted heads many times before and I always prevailed. But this time, I was at a disadvantage; Carter and Beauchamp made no move to cover my groin or unfasten me from the rack. As they exited the door, I pulled at my bonds and yelled, "Very funny, you lousy mother-fu . . . oh, hello, Margaret."

Next: Margaret takes advantage of our hero. Poor Drake.

Chapter 2 – Electro Interrogation

How to describe Margaret Compagno:

Reserved. Distant. Always seemed a tiny bit pissed off. Wore her dark hair in a bun and sported glasses she might need for reading but wore all the time. Minimal makeup on an otherwise nice face with olive skin. Walked with a little bit of a limp, but I always guessed she might have a decent body under the drab and shapeless pantsuits she always wore.

She didn't make friends at BONDAGE HQ. Never laughed. Never. The closest she got to showing a sense of humor was deflecting my little off-color flirts and jibes -- around the office the women call them "Drake-isms" -- with quick-witted, sardonic comments. Those came fast and hard when, every month, we fought a raging, knock-down battle over the one thing that drove her crazy:

My Expense Report.

Margaret, AKA 'Margaret the Mope', was the dreaded head of the personnel accounting department for our crime-fighting organization. Hey, we're not all field agents.

Walking into the lab with a file folder and closing the door, she was limping a little more than usual. She rolled her eyes when she saw me naked and bound, with my slowly-shrinking -- hey, but still impressive -- cock, still wet and oily from Carter's unfinished hand job.

"Hey, lady, my eyes are up here," I joked, and she let out an annoyed sigh. Obviously, she had not been forewarned of my predicament, but, to her credit, she rolled with it. As I said, we're a pretty libertine bunch at BONDAGE and she was used to shenanigans going on all around her. I asked her, "What did I do now?"

"Last Friday night," she began, looking at my report, "you hired a thousand-euro-an-hour escort from an agency called Randii's Loft to accompany you to a nightclub in Berlin. For a preliminary meeting with a potential target at his office there."

Damn. We had haggled over things like this in the past.

"Part of my cover," I explained. "I'm expected to have a beautiful date in a high-class place like that, and the arm-candy distracts the bad guys a bit. It worked; Viktor took me into his underground office, we bonded over speculating about how Tatyana and his girlfriend would be fun to tie up together, either face-to-face or crotch-to-crotch, and I was able to hide a recording device there. I pitched him B.D.S.M.'s security services, and I'm going back next week to get his answer and pick up the recorder. We do this all the time. What's the issue?"

"The issue," Margaret replied coldly, "is that the meeting took about forty minutes. You paid your hooker for eight hours on the company credit card. Plus, a sizable tip. Plus, Dom Perignon and caviar from room service. Why didn't you send her home after the club?" She glanced down at my cock; it was stirring to life again as I recalled the answer to her question. She sighed in exasperation.

"OK, Mister Drake, we all know why you didn't send her home; I've hacked into the escort agency's computer, and she is beautiful and . . . very talented. Her after-session report says she likes you. Says you actually brought her to orgasm four times during the night, which I believe is . . . somewhat unusual for women in her profession."

I explained, "I kept her at my hotel because I believed that Viktor had people watching me, and I needed to stay in character. Plus, to book Tatyana, who is in high demand, I had to promise an overnight gig." I thought for a moment and gulped. "Ah, wait, she filed a report about our session on their computers? Everything that happened?"

"They keep meticulous records," Margaret replied with an amused smirk. "Makes for interesting reading."

She checked her notes. "Tatyana says she started by tying you up on the hotel floor with ropes, Shibari-style, and made you perform cunnilingus on her while she smacked your groin and nipples with a riding crop. She experienced her first orgasm right there. Then, she added to the intricate rope-work to put you in a stringent hog-tie and caused you to orgasm by fellating you. And then forced you to ejaculate five more times over the next few hours by . . . various means."

Checking her print-out, she listed, "In her vagina, in her ass, with her hands, with a vibrator and finally, with a . . . with a . . . dammit Drake, I don't even know what that last one is!"

"I was only tied up for three of my orgasms," I pleaded. Margaret glared. "OK, that's not relevant. But this is all part of my cover. Word gets around that I'm a kinky, well-to-do player, so I'm obviously not a cop, and I get invited to a lot of parties where I can gather intel."

"Regardless," she responded, "the overnight sex-fest was for your own enjoyment and not relevant to the mission. I'll allow one hour of her fee. The rest comes out of your own pocket."

I sighed. "Honey child, we've done this dance before. You know I'll just go over your head and get it all approved by the Chief."

Margaret didn't reply; she was studying the panel that controlled my anal probe and cock ring. "Interesting device, here. I wonder what this switch does?"


My ass started pulsing with a slow wave of electric charges that made my anal muscles clinch and relax. This room was sometimes used for interrogations, and the equipment could shock as well as vibrate. It was not painful; not yet. But I knew there were a lot of higher-intensity numbers left on that display.

"And this switch?" she mused.


Now the cock ring began to stream pulses of electricity up and down my stiffening shaft. Again, it started with tingles, not too bad, but I knew that agony was just a tiny twist of a dial away. Here I was, naked and bound in a sound-proof room with a woman who had some pretty valid reasons to resent me.

This was going to be interesting.

Silently, we stared at each other for a few moments, like gunfighters in a high-noon showdown in a spaghetti Western. Watching my face, she turned the juice up a notch, both fore and aft. I did not react. Then another notch. And another. I caught my breath and proposed, "How about you cover the fee and I cover the tip and the champagne?"

Up another notch, and she countered with, "You cover the tip, the champagne, and six of the eight hours." Another notch. Getting serious now. Another notch.

"How about fifty-fifty on the whole thing?" I grunted as my legs and pelvis started to quiver.

Another notch. "Sixty-forty," she countered. I said nothing. Pause. Up another notch.

"Deal," I grunted. "Please."

"Deal," she said. That's when I saw her face soften as she smiled. Damn, Margaret was actually enjoying herself, and she looked -- if not radiant, at least she looked -- content for a change. Plus, her eyes were slightly dilated and her breath had deepened. I didn't need a polygraph to read her arousal.

"And just to be magnanimous, the company will spring for the caviar. You do have a daily food allowance." She turned off the voltage. I slumped in my restraints, and I was able to catch my breath. "Are you injured, Agent Drake?" she asked coolly.

"I’ve been better, but no damage," I replied. "Not my first rodeo." Inside, I knew she wasn't trying to hurt me. She just wanted a win. And by God, she got one today. I was actually kind of happy for her, though I tried not to show it in my face. But I showed it elsewhere.

A touch of bondage, danger and pain always gets my motor running, and my cock was now rock hard. And oozing out the tip. Seemingly mesmerized, Margaret touched the head of my penis and softly swirled my precum around the glans.

This was unexpected. The funny thing was, I had always kind of enjoyed our previous, chaste encounters; verbally dueling with a clever woman I had zero sexual tension with, was sort of refreshing. I did not know where this was going to lead.

"It's been a pleasure negotiating with you, Agent Drake," she said with a bit of cool mockery in her voice. She withdrew the hand touching my cock and examined a drop of my juice on her fingertip like she would a laboratory specimen. She leaned in and held it up. I thought she was going to feed it to me, but she wiped that speck of spunk on my chest. "Speaking of pleasure, I have one question, Drake. That Kama Sutra thing you two did in the shower; how did you possibly manage that position while her hands were tied behind her back?"

I grinned at the memory. "Hard to describe," I replied. "As you said, Tatyana is a very talented lady. And remarkably flexible."

"Ah," Margaret said, glancing down at her stiff right leg. "Must be nice."

And just like that, the spell was broken, and she was back to her cold, distant self. "We will never speak of this," she muttered. Avoiding eye contact, she started to leave, then came back and set the controls to vibrate my cock and ass on its highest setting. Limping to the door and not looking back, she called out, "I'll tell Doctor Carter that you need a few minutes of alone-time."

"You don't need to leave in a huff," I called out. The door clicked behind her, and I joked to an empty room, in my best Groucho Marx impression, "You can leave in a minute-and-a-huff."

As I squirmed in my inescapable bonds, the vibrators building me up to a forced orgasm, I thought; well, shit. Christina is not going to be happy with the mess I'm about to make all over her laboratory.

(Side note: When Christina came back in a few minutes, she forgave me, especially since she and I stayed in the room after office hours and I put her in the same bondage rack and rocked her world.

Several times.

You do not wind up a clock like me that tight, and not expect it to spin out of control for the next few hours.)

Next: Drake returns to Berlin and meets the villainess of his dreams. And his nightmares.

Chapter 3 – Captured in the Dungeon

A few days after my painful -- and weirdly erotic -- expense report negotiation with Margaret, I flew back to Germany to meet again with my target on a Wednesday night at the ritzy nightclub that served as his primary office.

I arrived at Viktor's club in Berlin sans my hooker companion from before, but I did have a backup team in the club in case of trouble. On our first trip there a couple of weeks prior, my backups, Samantha and Jack, discovered that his underground offices and storerooms are impervious to radio waves, so bugging the place with a live transmitter was out.

(We also tried tapping into his computer and phone system, but Viktor had such a good security setup that, if we ever find the guy who designed it, we're going to kidnap him and beat the crap out of him. And then we'll hire him at twice his salary to come work for us.)

So, my plan now was to retrieve the voice-activated micro-recorder I had planted on the first visit to tape his conversations and hide another. Per Victor's request, I had left my pistol back at the hotel, but I carried a briefcase full of flyers and business proposals and a gift of caviar for my host. Of course, the briefcase also had hidden compartments for the new recorder, a lock-pick, a throwing knife, and a few tools that could come in handy.

As Viktor and I went down to the level under the club, I sensed a minor change in his attitude, but I hoped that maybe it was because I hadn't brought the distractingly delightful Tatyana this time. (I thought it best to avoid another battle over my expense reports, at least for now.)

We approached his office.

You know how in the movies, the villain's four or five henchmen face off against the hero a few yards away in a fairly well-lit hallway, giving him time to brace himself and plan for their assault? And then they obligingly attack him one at a time, using nothing but their bare hands, so he can punch and kick his way out?

Yeah, these guys never saw that movie.

Normally, I can hold my own in a melee fight, but I was suddenly and expertly grabbed and tased before I could even think to myself, "Shit, they must have found the recorder." I did struggle a bit once it was clear I was being seized, but I resolved to maintain my cover as a debonair salesman, not a dangerous spy.

Once handcuffed and quickly searched, they carried me down into another, secret level, past labs and workshops stocked with medical and electronic gear. We ended up in a dungeon with a large assortment of bondage equipment: cuffs, padded benches, overhead hoists, cages, stocks. There were three other people in the dungeon, but I was going to get neither help nor information from them.

There was a man covered from neck to waist in some kind of tight black wrapping that served as a straitjacket. A virtual reality helmet was locked over his eyes and ears. An oxygen mask over his mouth and nose served to regulate his breathing. The top of the helmet was connected to the ceiling, forcing him to stand. His feet were secured wide apart in stocks, and his naked pelvic region was covered with various electronic devices, fore and aft. Other wires snaked up into his torso, perhaps connected to his nipples. He was moaning and twitching. What he was watching and experiencing, I could scarcely imagine. And I have a vivid imagination.

In the corner I saw two young women (a blonde and a brunette) who appeared to be identical in height and build, facing each other, bound together, in a tight standing cage, their nipples clamped or maybe even stitched to their partner's nipples. They shared a double gag that kept their noses touching while obviously filling their mouths. They were shod in absurdly tall ballet boots that kept them on their tip-toes.

Each woman was secured in a tight arm-binder mono-glove, elbows touching behind their backs. A strap from the bottom end of each binder led down between their butt cheeks and under their crotches, linking to the other woman's arm-binder strap, and holding God-knows-what in place up in their asses and/or pussy. They were also mostly silent but wriggling to try to ease the stress on their firm, tan bodies. Maybe this is what Viktor had in mind when he joked about tying Tatyana and his girlfriend together in our earlier visit.

There were wires leading to consoles and control panels from all three captives. I gathered that they were being experimented on, or maybe interrogated, but their captors had put them in standby mode so they could deal with me. It appeared that, not only was Viktor's nightclub laundering money for the bad guys, it was actually a front for the aptly named Tech Organization for Restraints with Mechanical, Electrical and Neurological Torture Systems, or TORMENTS.

Viktor and his men stripped me naked and searched every orifice in my body. Every orifice. Jeez, guys, I can understand probing for contraband in my mouth and my anus, but come on, what the hell am I going to hide in my urethra!

Normally, my team upstairs would have been monitoring my phone and been alerted to my capture, but no signals got through the underground shielding. Samantha and Jack, plus two others this time, were under orders to wait three hours, and if I didn't show, to create a diversion and come looking for me. I didn't think I'd survive that long, so I was on my own. As we sometimes say in our group, I now had skin in the game.

The henchmen locked leather cuffs onto my wrists and ankles and mounted me, spread-eagle, on a St. Andrew's Cross attached to the wall. I had been strapped onto similar devices many times before, but usually as a prelude to erotic fun and games. Not this time; although it was just then that a strikingly attractive, blonde woman in a tight black mini-dress entered the room. I knew her.

Giselle was merely the head hostess upstairs, in charge of the servers and go-go dancers, but her demeanor down here made it clear she was the one in charge of this subterranean operation. She had the legs of a dancer and the rack of a porn star; I judged her bra-free breasts a firm D cup with perky nips. (Hey, I'm a trained agent; nothing escapes my notice.)

I had met Giselle on my previous visit to the club when I had left Tatyana at the bar during my appointment with Viktor. After the meeting, I found Giselle in a dark corner chatting with my date. And by "chatting" I mean they were, as the Sheryl Crow song goes, "dangerously close to one another," flirting nose-to-nose and caressing each other's thighs.

As I approached, I said, "Don't let me interrupt you ladies. I didn't know the floor show had already started." Giselle laughed. Tatyana started to apologize, but I told her it was fine, I should not have left a beautiful woman like her alone for so long. I invited Giselle to join the two of us at my hotel. She declined, saying she had to work, but I could tell she was tempted; she was undressing both of us with her eyes. (And binding and raping us in her mind.)

As Tatyana and I took our leave, Giselle boldly cupped the front of my pants with her hand, felt my erection and whispered to me, "Sorry for tying up your girlfriend, Mister Drake. Maybe we can do that for real sometime."

Yeah, that was my introduction to Giselle. In the present day, here in the basement dungeon, she stepped up to me on the cross, looked into my eyes and slapped me. Hard. Then she did it again, to the other cheek. And repeated the cycle. She packed quite a wallop.

"Who do you work for?" she asked in a husky tone. Good English with a German accent. We went through the usual "interrogated spy" routine; I regaled her with my cover story as an employee of B.D.S.M. -- Banking Dimensions for Security Management -- selling security systems and various financial services to firms world-wide. The recording device? Sorry about that, a misguided effort to find out more about Viktor's activities in order to pitch the right product and/or to prove he needed my security services.

While I was telling her that pack of lies, she was tying a thin cord around my scrotum, just above my testicles, and attached a line that connected to the base of the cross I was strapped to. It tugged down at my balls only slightly. When I was done with my tale of innocence, she adjusted a control on the cross, a motor sounded, and slowly my wrists were pulled farther up along the planks, stretching me out tightly, like on a medieval torture rack.

I could feel the tension building in my shoulders, my legs and, more importantly, in my scrotum. She leaned in close and kissed me long and hard, fondling my rising cock at the same time. Then she slapped my face again and whispered, "This machine can literally tear you apart if I wish it." Ah, good old German engineering.
Giselle then hiked up her miniskirt and slipped my penis between her upper thighs, rubbing it along her panty-less, damp pussy slit. She pressed the control again, and my wrists and balls were stretched out tighter still.

"I can make life hell for you, Mister Drake," she whispered. "Or I can take you on a trip to heaven." Her eyes were equally seductive and cruel, her smile both lustful and evil. I considered my options carefully.

Next: Drake is dragged into a diabolical deepthroated dance of death.

Chapter 4 – Predicament Bondage

Since I was in danger of being torn apart on the mechanical X-frame and losing my balls, with no rescue expected for at least a couple of hours, I went with my backup bullshit cover story.

At this point, I "admitted" to Giselle that I suspected Viktor's chain of bars and nightclubs were doing some money-laundering, and I could facilitate and expand that activity considerably, at a nice profit for us both. See? Nobody here but us criminals. No hard feelings, let me go, and we can make tons of money on the international black market. Plus, she and I could have a lot of sexy fun. She was not expecting that. She stepped back.

Giselle said, "My men will search your hotel room and examine your possessions to see if your story checks out." Thankfully, she eased off the pressure on the torture rack and continued stroking my cock; God bless it, my manhood continued to respond, despite the danger. Or perhaps because of the danger.

"In the meantime, you have such a lovely schwanz that I think we need to see it in action." She told a henchman to call up to the club on a land-line and see if a hostess named Abella was available to go down on me. "She is a marvelous tease," she told me. "She can keep you on edge for hours."

Informed that Abella was entertaining some super-VIP in a private lounge, Giselle asked if a go-go dancer named Elise was available; she was also an authority on all things sexual. Sorry, came the reply; Elise was servicing the VIP's wife.

Sensing an opening, I continued acting as if I was a fellow criminal who thought I was not really in danger, and they were just playing an elaborate BDSM scenario at my expense.

Expense! That was the answer!

"Hey," I said. "Why don't we call up Tatyana from the other night? The private number for the escort agency, Randii's Loft, is on my phone, along with my preferred-client ID number. If you're looking for someone who loves to suck off a tied-up man, she's your gal."

That seemed to tickle Giselle's fancy, and she called them up. Pretending to be my assistant, she asked for Tatyana to come to the club, but was told that that particular escort was booked for later that evening. I whispered for Giselle to tell the agency that I was willing to pay double her usual fee to change her plans. For a full overnight session. That did the trick.

Then I asked her to order a second lady, a particularly kinky, scarlet-haired co-worker that Tatyana had mentioned to me in our previous session. One that could entertain Giselle while I was being serviced. That really intrigued the villainess. With whispered prompts from me, the conversation -- and Giselle's hand job -- continued.

"Is Margarethe available?" she asked the booking clerk. "She's a redhead. (Pause) You have no Margarethe? Would you check? Perhaps it's another working alias, or perhaps her real name? No? Then send anyone else you recommend who is elegant and doesn't mind a bit of bondage. (Pause.) No, she would not be bound, it will be Mr. Drake. Although that could change if she is willing. Fine. Payment? (Whisper) You have Mr. Drake's card on file. (Whisper) And he'll pay triple if they are here within the half-hour. Good, have them ask for Viktor at the door and he'll escort the ladies to our private suite."

She hung up. "Well, Mister Drake, Tatyana and a girl named Jasmyn will be here to entertain us shortly. We will use this time to relocate you to a more intimate playroom. This dungeon is not for the public; there are too many secrets on this level." To her men she said, "Secure him well, gag him and take him to the Matador Suite upstairs. And bring the Fuck-Me-Senseless stimulators, both anal and oral. Mister Drake deserves our finest hospitality. Oh, and bring the DUE device as well."

Now, when it comes to bondage and sex, I'm usually up for anything, once, but I didn't know what those were and none of it sounded good.

They brought me up a back stairway to the club level. I could hear muffled music playing in the distance. We passed a waitress in the dark corridors along the rear of the club; apparently the sight of naked people in bondage was not unusual back here in the non-general-public section. The goons led me into a nicely-appointed suite, like a sky box at a stadium, that looked out onto the club's main floor.

I had seen these from my tour of the club previously; some were glassed-in for a modicum of privacy, with enough sound-proofing to keep the music and noise at a reasonable level for talking. This suite was one of three equipped with one-way glass facing the club, so we could watch the action on the dance floor, along with the beautiful go-go dancers in their elevated cages, but all the public could see was a giant mirrored wall. Now I could barely hear the music from the floor, so there was extra sound-proofing for maximum seclusion. That did not bode well for my continued survival.

I was placed on a short platform, kneeling, with my back to a vertical post that rose up a few feet. My arms were pulled back over a horizontal bar at the rear of the post, at chest-level, and my wrists secured to either side of the post near my abdomen. My waist was strapped to the post and my ankles to the platform. Bondage mittens kept my hands from being of any use in escaping.

A goon rolled in a cart and took out some kind of small motor with a piston sticking out the top, which he attached to the bottom of the post between my spread-apart thighs. Another one attached a metal device to the post directly behind my head that encircled and covered the lower part of my face, leaving my eyes free.

Giselle came into the suite and seemed satisfied with the preparations. She opened a drawer on the cart and started sorting through an assortment of dildos. They ranged from pencil-thin probes, to 9-inch porn-star cock replications, all the way up to what appeared to the top half of a Louisville Slugger.

Giselle spoke. "One last chance before the ladies of the evening get here, Mr. Drake. Who do you really work for? CIA? Interpol? MI6? The BND?"

She never mentioned my true employer, BONDAGE, the Bureau Of National Defense And Global Enterprises. I was a little insulted that she didn't know about us, but . . . we are a privately-held organization accepting no government funds, we don't advertise, and we certainly do not have a publicity department. I stuck to my cover story as an international security and financial consultant.

"Very well, Mr. Drake. I have talked to my superiors and they have permitted me to kill you tonight. Given your fondness for bondage and sex, we have devised the perfect method." She held up what looked like a thick, but ordinary leather cock ring with a ball divider. "We call this the DUE, as in 'Now you're going to get your due.' Death. Upon. Ejaculation."

As she expertly placed it on my genitals, she explained, "The sensors in this ring will monitor your penile activity. Once you get fully hard, it primes the DUE device inside. Then, upon sensing an ejaculation, a fatal dose of what we call Compound DIX will be automatically injected into your bloodstream.

“You will immediately begin to suffer four minutes of agonizing pain while you'll be unable to speak, and then suffer a death indistinguishable from a sudden, massive cardiac arrest. Imagine, orgasm, agony and murder, just a few yards away from all these beautiful, oblivious, happy party-goers. How deliciously depraved."

I knew of this poisonous drug. I started trying to reason with her. Giselle quickly adjusted the mechanism around my lower face to insert a dental dam gag into my mouth, to keep it open and prevent any further conversation.

She displayed a small tablet. "The cock-ring locks on, and it will transmit your excitement level to this device, so I can watch your orgasmic energy build and build in real time. And just in case you have the will-power to delay your ejaculation indefinitely, or use it to get soft and unresponsive, I have also set the cock-ring to kill you if you lose your erection completely. You cannot stay hard forever, though I will ask the lovely Tatyana to tease you as long as possible.

“Poor girl, she'll witness her client have a massive heart failure, never knowing she will be both your fellator and your executioner. I will have to comfort her in her grief afterward."

I looked out at the crowd in the nightclub. It was still fairly early and humming, but not packed. I could see two of my people, Jack and Samantha, playing a couple who were chatting up others, perhaps looking to score a three-way or four-way later. They knew the layout; they had been here two weeks prior when I was here with Tatyana. I assumed the other two, Daniel and Murray, were roving and circulating between the inside and outside, discreetly checking out who was coming and going.

Giselle found a medium-sized black dildo and attached it to the piston directly below my anus. "This unit is self-lubricating," she said. "We don't want any pain to interfere with your erection. You'll feel a little discomfort at first, perhaps, but I assume it would not be the first time you were . . . stimulated . . . back there."

She then found a slightly smaller-sized white dildo and attached it to the front of the device around my head, opposite my propped-open jaws. "This unit will pump in and out of your mouth. I hope you like sucking cock, Mister Drake. Every sixty seconds, a measure of actual semen, drained from Viktor and other men at the club, will spurt, keeping your mouth from drying out. It also contains a bit of an aphrodisiac. I just adore watching a mix of saliva, snot and jizz spill down a bound man's chest and onto his crotch. Such a wonderfully perverted sight."

She held up a large black rabbit vibrator dildo. "This is the female version of the DUE, called the DUO – Death Upon Orgasm. Used on a woman, it senses when she orgasms – and believe me, this bad boy will do the trick – and then it injects the DIX toxin. When I am comforting Tatyana after your death tonight, after we test our oral skills on each other, perhaps I will use this on her. Police might connect the two deaths, but maybe not. Let's see how things develop."

Next: Will our hero survive? (Of course, he will, dear reader; he's the protagonist and has plot-armor a foot thick. But how does he survive?)

Chapter 5 – Dangerous Deepthroat

Soon, it was just me and Giselle and Viktor in the suite when Tatyana and Jasmyn were shown into the room. Jasmyn was part Asian, with exotic eyes, purple hair and impressive boobs. Tatyana was her usual raven-haired, willowy self. (After our previous encounter, Tatyana was not surprised to see me in this condition.) God bless them, they had hurried over but looked like a million bucks; their dresses were classy/sensual, but those came off pretty quickly, revealing sexy garter belts and stockings, plus sheer bras and panties.

Giselle explained that in honor of a business agreement, we were going to celebrate with a miniature orgy. Tatyana would suck me off, and Jasmyn would pleasure Giselle. After we two each had one orgasm, the two escorts would trade clients, and we would award a big tip to whoever was judged the best in oral skills. Viktor would watch and do his own thing.

"Now take your time, Tatyana," instructed Giselle. "Tease Mister Drake, build him slowly, but be sure to give him the most memorable orgasm of his life -- so far." And you, Jasmyn," she said, starting to undress, "Let's get this party started, bitch."

A few minutes later:

Tatyana was doing her usual marvelous job of pleasuring me, damn her. She knelt in front of me and gazed at me with heavy-lidded, sensual eyes as she stroked, licked and sucked my cock. "Do not cum, mein liebchen," she whispered, playing the Dominatrix role. "Not without permission. You would not want the punishment that comes with that." If she only knew!

Bound as I was on the post, and gagged as I was with the dildo pumping aphrodisiac-laced semen in my mouth, I could not warn her of my impending death when she did make me cum. And make no bones about it, despite my strong self-control, she was going to bring me to orgasm and trigger the poison injected by Giselle's high-tech cock-ring.

Meanwhile, Giselle, who had removed her panties, was lounging in a reclining chair next to me, legs spread on stirrups connected to it. Jasmyn was kneeling between her legs and pleasuring the villainess, licking and sucking at her clit, plus reaching up to play with Giselle's breasts.

Meanwhile, Viktor had unzipped his pants and was stroking himself, watching the four of us but also peeking through a curtain on the side of our VIP suite.

"Come on, Viktor," called Giselle, "let's see what's going on in the Picador Suite." To me and the ladies, she explained, "I've rigged another one-way mirror between this room and the next. We can see what's going on in there, but they can't see us. Abella and Elise are entertaining a very important industrialist and his wife. Wonder what they're up to?"

Viktor pulled the drapes aside and we saw a man hanging from an overhead hoist. His ankles and wrists were in suspension cuffs, all closely connected so that his legs and arms pointed to the ceiling and his body dangled below, folded up on himself. (Imagine a man doing a sit-up and touching his toes. Then tie his limbs together and hoist him up by that connection.)

He was naked, his arms straight and his legs bent a bit. His genitals stood out on the backside of his legs, and one of the club's hostesses/hookers (Abella?) was stroking his cock and working a finger into his anus. He seemed pretty flexible and was obviously enjoying the action.

Next to him, a young woman, even more flexible, was on a chair with its back reclined about 45 degrees. She was bent out of shape as well. Her legs were tucked behind her shoulders and head, and her arms splayed out in front of her thighs. Her crossed ankles were bound over her head, and her wrists were secured out to the sides, holding her firmly in place.

The other hostess (Elise?) was kneeling in front of her crotch and doing something to the wife's pussy. From my vantage point, I could not tell exactly what, but the woman seemed to be crying, quivering, and shouting into a substantial gag covering the lower part of her face. Maybe Elise was using needles, or maybe one of those intense, pointed clit stimulation vibrators. The wife's breasts also sported nipple suckers.

By this time, Jasmyn had given a pretty wound-up Giselle an early, shuddering orgasm. After she caught her breath, Giselle said, "Give me a minute, Jas. See if Tatyana needs a hand to even the score." Jasmyn stood over me, took off her bra, started caressing my chest and nibbling at my nipples. Great! I now had two pros working on me, plus the anal stimulation, plus a dildo shooting an aphrodisiac into my mouth, plus a heady sense of danger that always gets me hot.

Giselle was monitoring my sexual build-up on her tablet that was linked to the cock-ring, and her evil smile confirmed what I was feeling; though I have extraordinary control over my sexual responses, this was a losing battle; I was going to ejaculate soon, and I would die in indescribable agony shortly thereafter.

I looked out into the club the best I could, with Jasmyn's boobs blocking much of my field of vision, but I had lost sight of my primary backup, Jack and Samantha, and the secondary duo, Daniel and Murray. Just then, there was a disturbance behind us, at the door that led to the rear corridor. I heard a woman call out, with a bit of a German accent and drunken slur, "Sorry I'm late, Randii's Loft sent me to liven up the party. Where's Drake at? I want a piece of that meat. And Lenny is here for the women."

There were shouts and protestations from Giselle and Viktor, and puzzlement from the two escorts as the pair of newcomers barged in. Samantha was essentially naked from the waist up, and Jack had unbuttoned his shirt to his navel, both playing the part of hookers to get into the private areas behind the scenes. Viktor just had time to tuck his dick back into his pants when Jack grabbed him in a choke-hold and put him down. Giselle jumped up and faced off against Samantha in a brief skirmish, but my fellow agent hit her with a yawara stick to several points on her body, and she went down as well.

(A yawara is a six-inch rod held in a fist, used to strike at the nerve centers of an opponent and stun them into submission. Sam always disguised hers as the handle of her purse.)

The working girls were ordered to stand aside and shut up, which they did.

While Jack tied Viktor and Giselle and checked the suite for any other dangers, Samantha looked me over and tried not to laugh. I must have been a sight; bound to a post, dildos pumping in and out of my ass and mouth, semen and drool running down my chest. "Only Drake could get himself into these situations," I imagined her thinking. She figured out how to stop the mouth dildo and release me from the mechanical gag.

"We got a Code Crimson Burn," she told me. "Agent in Danger. What's the situation?"

"Get this cock ring off of me," I gasped. "It's got a poison in it that activates if I orgasm. Or if I go soft." Samantha and I had been intimate a couple of times, but we never really clicked; she mostly liked the ladies, but she knew her way around my genitalia. She turned off the anal piston -- thank you, Sam! -- and tried to remove the vile device, fumbling with it for half a minute before realizing that it was locked on.

"Keep him hard," Samantha commanded Tatyana. "But don't let him cum!" Tatyana resumed her talented cock sucking. God bless her, things were crazy all around her, but she knew her job. Samantha asked me, "How do we get this off?"

Viktor was unconscious but Giselle was just stunned. I told her that Giselle would know. She responded with, "My tablet can send the release signal, but I won't tell you the code. Burn in hell, Mister Drake."

"I'll get it out of her," said Sam, clutching her yawara stick.

"No time," I responded. "I've got a better idea. In that drawer marked DUO is a big black vibrator that has the same poison as the one strapped to me. Use it on her. If she cums, she dies. In agony."

Next: Back home, Drake spars with Margaret. Again. But this time, with his clothes on.

Chapter 6 – Of Debriefing and Dating

"Well," I said, "it only took a few seconds of Samantha shoving that deadly dildo into her before Giselle gave us the code to unlock the DUE device on my cock and balls."

It was early Friday afternoon, two days after the events in Berlin. We were back at BONDAGE headquarters in New York. Samantha, Margaret, the Chief of Operations and I were recounting the story of my rescue, via secure video call, to the owner of our organization, the mysterious multi-billionaire, Lady J. Her picture was an avatar; few in the company had actually seen or met her.

Earlier in the briefing, I had explained that I knew Germany was six hours ahead of New York, so I figured that Margaret would still be at her desk and she would see the huge purchase made on my company credit card for the same escort company that we had 'discussed' a few days previously in the interrogation room.

"I did," said Margaret. "I immediately tapped into their computers, like I did before, and found that, not only was it for the same prostitute as before, but for an additional one. At triple the normal fee. At first, I saw red.

"Randii's Loft records all their conversations in case of a 'misunderstanding' on a verbal contract, so I replayed it and heard a strange woman on a landline ask for a red-head named 'Margarethe.' Drake knew I could hack into their system; it could only be a signal to me, and 'red' was a hint of an agent in imminent danger, or Code Crimson Burn. I'm not in the chain of command, but I ran to the Operations Center and persuaded them to let me talk directly to the backup team at the club."

Samantha picked up the story. "We had seen Tatyana and a co-worker enter the club shortly before Margaret's call and be escorted by Viktor through the door that led up to the private suites. At the same time, Ops Center had spotted someone tossing Drake's hotel room on our hidden camera there. Comparing notes with Margaret and Ops, we figured Drake was in one of those rooms and in trouble. Calling in Daniel and Murray as backup, Jack and I made ourselves look less respectable and bluffed our way in. There were three private suites, but we figured Drake and the bad guys were in the one with a guard at the door. As a hooker and a gigolo, we got close enough to knock him out and then enter."

Lady J nodded and asked, "Margaret, you risked your job and credibility to immediately raise the alarm and save time by bypassing the chain of command and storming Ops. How did you know that Drake's purchase was a signal for an emergency and not . . . well, a joke. Or, forgive me, a giant F-U?"

Margaret said softly, "Emerson Drake may be many things, ma'am. A con man, a womanizer, a braggart. A chauvinistic throwback to an earlier time. We've had our differences. But he is not cruel. Not to women. He likes them too much. Besides, we had come to a firm understanding on the matter. I'd be shocked if he reneged on his promise without good cause." She glanced over to see how I'd react.

I could not look at her or I'd start laughing. I suppressed a grin and replied, "Oh, Margaret, I'd be the one thoroughly shocked."

(No one else in the room got the inside joke; obviously, Margaret had not told anyone that she had run electricity through my cock and ass while I was bound a few days previously, to get me to agree to rein in my field expenses. I know I didn't tell anyone.)

Samantha took over the recap. "After he was safe, Drake told us about the labs and the captives in the basement and we realized we needed more help. While Daniel and Murray covered the hallway and took down another couple of goons who tried to interfere, Jack and I hunkered down. I called our contact at the German Federal Police, who was not terribly interested in rescuing one of our agents who they weren't particularly fond of. Then I informed them of sex slaves being held underground. That got their attention.

"They quickly took over the whole place, but by the time that we broke through the sealed doors to the dungeon level, the opposition had taken their computers and files and fled through an escape tunnel. We freed the male prisoner, a German national, and the two young ladies, who were American citizens. The Germans took the man; after a few questions, they released the ladies to me. They kicked Drake out of the country pretty much right away, as a trouble-maker. Or at least a trouble-magnet."

The Chief said, "The man you saw in the basement, Drake, was a young seminary student they had kidnapped. He was a virgin, it seems, and thus a tabula rasa, a blank slate they could experiment on. They were subjecting him to all kinds of visual, aural, and tactile stimuli, pleasant and unpleasant, and recording the results. The Germans are keeping him incommunicado. We know little more than that."

I asked about the two young women I saw in the cage.

"They're identical twins." Samantha said. "Twenty-year-old American college girls touring Eastern Europe looking for their long-lost father when they were grabbed up by TORMENTS. After their ordeal at the hands of a pack of men, we thought it best they were cared for by a woman. A police medic checked them over. We recovered their suitcases and passports, they rested for a few hours, and then we three flew back to the States last night. Doctor Carter is running a complete scan of their physical and mental health as we speak.

Samantha projected a picture of the girls on the screen. "I debriefed them on the way back. Ashley and Renee Marceau. Lovely girls, very smart and capable; their captors suffered a few injuries before they could subdue the ladies. They seem remarkably resilient; despite being kidnapped and manhandled, transported and bound in various torturous positions, they treat it like an adventure.

“From what they overheard in the basement, TORMENTS planned to use the twins for some medical project code-named W.H.O.R.E., with one girl being a guinea pig and the other serving as a kind of one-person control group. The scheme has something to do with sex, but they know nothing else. Nor do we."

{AUTHOR'S NOTE: You can read about Ashley and Renee and their introduction to sex and bondage as 18-year-olds, in my story Weekend at Bettie’s, also published on this website.}

Lady J spoke up. "The Federal Police are telling us little about their investigation so far and are not letting us talk to Giselle or Victor. While we recognize the bigger international threat that an organization like TORMENTS represents, they're seeing only two German citizens who were running a kinky sex-and-bondage trafficking ring. Jack is still in Berlin, following leads. Congratulations to you all on a job well done. We've put a serious crimp in their operations. And it's a step in finding out what their parent organization, CURIA, is planning."

As we filed out of the briefing room, Lady J asked Margaret to stay behind. As the door shut, I thought I heard our boss ask, "How are you doing, Maggie?" I could not hear the response.

A few minutes later, I entered Margaret's office in accounting. She was behind her tidy desk, reading a file, pretending to not notice me. I closed the door behind us.

"What do you want, Agent Drake?" she asked, not looking up.

"What you said in there," I replied. "That's the nicest thing anyone has said about me in a long time."

"Which part?" she asked. "When I called you a 'con-man', 'womanizer,' or 'braggart?'"

I smiled. "Well, all of those are true. I meant the part about me not being so cruel that I would deliberately humiliate you and tell you to go . . . 'F' yourself."

"If you ever did that, Agent Drake," she said, finally looking up, "I would kill you. Literally. I know you have the training; I know you have the weapons; but I would kill you. And make it look like an accident."

I had to assume she was joking, but there was a tiny, steely gleam in her eye that triggered a warning in the back of my hind-brain, where survival instinct lay.

"Noted for future reference,” I said.

She looked back down at her file. "Is there anything else, Drake?"

"I wanted to thank you for saving my life," I said. "You put the pieces of the puzzle together, trusted your instincts and acted decisively. That's pretty rare, even in this business. You saved my ass. How can I repay you, Margaret? Anything you want.”

"Two things," she replied, looking up again. "One: stop fighting me on expense reports. I'm being reasonable and you are not. Remember, I sign your paychecks; you easily make enough to cover the stupid crap you claim, time and time again."

"Agreed. What's the second?"

"You can take me to dinner tonight, Agent Drake. Unless you have a hot date. Which you probably do, because you do have a large and very impressive . . . little black book. I assume.”

Oh, she wanted to play that game. “Ah, my little black book," I said. “I keep it right next to my pager. Which is next to my fax machine. Which is next to my Commodore computer where I check my Myspace account. Actually, I have no plans for tonight, so sure, it’s a date.”

"It's dinner, not a date," she said. "And like the song says, 'don't say yes until I've finished talking.' I want you to take me someplace nice. Not some dark little bistro where you take women you don't want to be seen with. I clean up nice. It doesn't have to be super expensive, but someplace well-lit, someplace fun, with lots of people. Maybe some music."

I paused and went for the joke. "You're describing Chuck E. Cheese."

She harrumphed, and I said, "Kidding. How about Garibaldi's Restaurant on Madison?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "That place is booked solid for two months out.”

"I can get us a table. I'm somewhat of a hero there."

"Let me guess," she said. "You saved the life of the manager."

"Actually, it was the owner's wife and sister. And from a fate worse than death." I smiled. "They were very grateful. Uh, the whole family was, I mean. And they have a harpist who plays on weekend nights. Kim's a lovely woman. Marvelous hands."

"That's another thing, Drake," she said. "For the duration, please reign in the 'Drake-isms.' You know, the little double entendres, the innuendoes, the flirtatious word games. I don't need to hear about your many conquests. Be a gentleman. Show some manners."

In my best upper-crust English accent, I intoned, "The great secret, Eliza, is not having bad manners or good manners or any other particular sort of manners, but having the same manner for all human souls. The question is not whether I treat you rudely, but whether you ever heard me treat anyone else better."

Margaret squinted her eyes to retrieve a memory. "Is that from Pygmalion?"

"My Fair Lady," I answered. "Over-praised as a musical, but under-appreciated as a study of the dynamics between men and women. The school newspaper said that my portrayal of Henry Higgins was . . . 'dreadful.' Hey, I was good. The bastard who wrote the review was just pissed off because I was hitting on his girlfriend."

Margaret cracked a wry smile. "I don't know; teen-aged drama critics can be surprisingly discerning. Is quoting George Bernard Shaw a tactic you use on women to appear more charming, more educated?"

Hell no," I replied, settling back into our usual sparring routine. "No one here knows that I was a theater geek back in the day. And I'd appreciate you keeping quiet about that, because otherwise . . . "

"I know, you'll have to kill me," she said, rolling her eyes. "Copy that. Pick me up at eight."

"Great. What's your address?" I asked.

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," she smirked. "If you want to take me out so badly, figure it out, Agent Drake."

I knew a fun and sneaky way to do just that.

Next: Office bondage. And Drake learns of Margaret's surprising life story - including a link to his own past.


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