Fast Lane Bondage 5

by John Roper

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© Copyright 2004 - John Roper - Used by permission

Storycodes: MMF/f; bond; cons; X

(story continues from )

Part Four

There were nights when Marilyn’s heart yearned to be free of ‘the thorn,’ longed to say “No!” to it, once and for all, to be done with its obsessive compulsions forever. But the castle, with its myriad passageways, labyrinths and appointments would not allow her the option, now that she’d become an unwitting prisoner to its ever-beckoning mysteries, a willing partner to the unique excitements found within its many-themed chambers. Her formidable influence over the wills of men was legend. A ten-year, top-ten career as a high fashion model had taught her much about that power, perhaps too much. Yet, she preferred to be powerless in her sovereignty, impotent to the easily available possibilities, free from the awesome responsibility of selecting her circumstance. It was a dangerous freedom to indulge, let alone master. But thanks to friends, and the safety with which they surrounded her, Marilyn could well afford to run risks when satiating the gnawing needs of her ten-year-old habit.

‘Why?’ she wondered, with mixed regrets, ‘why this unquenchable fixation with the game of restraint? Why must I be bound and held accountable to the lusty whims and fancies of certain, indispensable men? Why?’

Every visit Marilyn paid to Kensington Castle added another part to the puzzle of that decade old quandary, for every pilgrimage said ‘yes’ to an experience in the careful-to-reckless foreplay of bondage and discipline. This would be her seventh sojourn in as many months, timed perfectly to coincide with the impossibility of getting knocked up. What Marilyn lacked in self-mastery, her host possessed to excess. The castle was a kind of laboratory for her curiosities, but to it’s landlord, Alfred, a weekend spent behind its ancient, ivy-covered walls offered the kind of recreation only an avid expert in creative and alluring bondage could fully appreciate, let alone orchestrate. Marilyn had been a rare find, a once-in-a-lifetime subject, worthy of extreme, premeditated attention; a woman whose face and figure commanded the imagination of any classically influenced bondage enthusiast.

She stood before the large, oval mirror opposite the foot of her hotel room bed, took one, long, last look at her Victoria’s Secret teaser, and reached for the black, crushed velvet cape draped over the vanity bench. She’d chosen a white, strapless bra and matching panties for the evening’s outcomes.
‘I wonder who Mr. Lucky will be tonight?’ Bright red, patent leather, skyscraper heels, strapped on at the ankles, completed Marilyn’s killer effect. A foot-long, dirty-blond ponytail made her appear younger than one would, at-first-glance, suppose. In all her life, she had not seen a body worthy of comparison. If one were to clone a hybrid, using DNA taken from John Willie’s U-89 and sweet Gwendolyn, Marilyn would, most certainly, be the result.
“I am something, aren’t I?’ she remembered, while proudly posing, sucking in her gut, and breathing deeply against the bra’s uplifting pressure. “Eat your heart out, Heather Locklear.” As with every important choice she made in her life, she quickly decided, while theatrically donning the cape, to wear nothing but her panties and bra underneath.

Marilyn drove the four miles to Kensington in Lord Alfred’s black Corvette, savoring every mile of the short hop in a state of growing delight and happy concern over what fate awaited beyond the mote that so effectively separated and insulated her fantasy life from the outside majority.
“Can this be me again,” she narrated wistfully, “chasing the illusive butterfly of whim and desire into this dark night, as if to give wings to my wetness and strong drink to this unrelenting thirst for reason? How so be I? Might we discover the secret this eve? Or will dawn leave me again, a quivering excuse for a woman without wisdom? What, then, do you say unto this, dear thorn? What?”
Marilyn’s heart swelled and throbbed in the throws of her impassioned prose, as if to ask the car and wordage to stop and breathe a momentary recess from the strain of overwhelming blood flow now gorging the crevice of resolute wantonness below. But Marilyn was never one to suppress a latent desire. Whenever such stop signs presented themselves on the highways of her often-outrageous life, her premeditated tendency was to pull out all the stops.
“Can this be me again, or some dastardly spirit sent to invade the persistent weakness of a thirty-year-old journeywoman on her quest for the perfect answer to why I am so incredibly and irreversibly HORNY!”

Thanks to the handy piece of electronic gadgetry Lord Alfred had installed under the Vette’s hood, the drawbridge lowered when Marilyn came within a hundred yards of its awesome presence. While waiting for its noisy descent, she reveled, “How precious is this game of ours,” only to flush with uneasiness when the huge door to the dark-gray castle settled into its granite niche. “What is this, dear damsel? Do I detect a precognitive spirit or two prowling about?”
A slow blink caught sight of a vision quite foreign to Marilyn’s academic experience. In it, she was stretched against a sweating, stonewall, her arms and legs drawn to suspended extremes, forming a naked ‘X’ on the view screen of her unavoidable history. 
‘What the hell was that?’
Without realizing it, Marilyn accelerated through the narrow archway and into the empty courtyard. It usually contained at least two or three other vehicles, but not this night. “That’s strange.”

She parked in her usual spot, while the clanking of heavy-metal chain links safely sealed her into the weekend’s redundant agenda. A satisfied sigh and a twist of her delicate fingers keyed off the ignition, punching out the lights as she opened the car door. ‘What’s happening?’
An owl hooted.

The night was calm, with the chatter of crickets ‘round about. Marilyn stepped out of the driver’s seat and strode cautiously across the empty car park. On the way, she reached into the right pocket of her cape for the black-metal handcuffs Alfred gave her for Christmas, and for the night’s adventure. As instructed, she quickly attached them to her right wrist and secured the safety, tucked both arms under the knee-length cape, and behind her back, then routinely, and with practiced ease, cuffed and safety latched the other wrist.
“What madness is this, dear damsel?” she whispered into the cool night air. “Would thee kindly explain, and tell me, also: am I not mildly insane?”
She stood at a small, side entrance. ‘He did say the door closest to the well.’
It swung open swiftly. ‘Dare we continue, dear thorn? Too late now; I’m manacled without key.’ Frivolity failed to quell her arousing fear. ‘Something’s not right. What is it about this night, and why am I rhyming?’
“Follow the green lights,” instructed an unfamiliar, mechanical, female voice from out the ten-watt speaker hidden above the rivet-studded, black-iron door. It slammed as Marilyn strode confidently up the dimly lit, narrow staircase.

Clicking heels echoed femininely within the medieval confines of the damp, musty passageway, as if to say, ‘Here I am, everyone.’ A cold draft wafted up her legs, causing a new sensation to momentarily overtake the heated moisture building up between the tops of her thighs. “Woo,” she exclaimed when Marilyn reached the top of the stairs and entered a long, spacious hallway she had never seen before. The green lights continued to lead the way, while flashes of the drawbridge vision continued to insist themselves into the psychic corridors of her short term memory. ‘Wow.’
In it, she was gagged with red tape, and sweating profusely. “What the...”
The hallway ended abruptly. She turned to face the direction from which she’d come. “Hmmmm.” There were four doors to ponder. ‘One must be mine.’
“You have a choice this evening,” spoke another ten-watt speaker, in a slower, feminine tone. An autonomic impulse closed Marilyn’s fingers to fists, and tugged and twisted at the tight-embracing wrists restraints. “Chose a door, missy, but beware, for one of them leads to love. Take your time deciding. We have all weekend.”
‘A choice?’
Marilyn had never before been given the luxury of making her own decisions at Kensington Castle. 
‘And whose distorted voice was that on the speakers?’ 
Another restless tug on the cold cuffs sent another shivering jolt of erotic titillation to her well-moistened and throbbing quiver.
‘Ah, sweet mystery of life: me thinks the man toyeth with my juices this fine night... She did say love, did she not, it not?’
“Don’t forget to knock three times,” instructed the seductive intercom jockey.
‘And if I knock twice?’

Marilyn was never one to hesitate when making pleasure selections in her somewhat iconoclastic existence, either. The right hand door beckoned psychically, but something told her to go with a more spin-tingling vibe. She took one step forward, and another. 
‘Is it thee, dear thorn, who now taketh over?’ She soon found herself facing door number two. ‘Takes two to tango,’ she quipped. “Tennis, anyone?”
Her right foot knocked twice before she knew it had. The door swung open slowly. And, so, Marilyn stepped confidently through and was immediately accosted by four, commanding arms, two of which tended to hold the upper hand. A quick glance to the right and left revealed two hooded figures dressed in tight fitting, leather jump suits. They pulled her firmly into the middle of the large, dark room, removed the cape, and waited. A ceiling mounted spotlight flashed on, casting its bright beam onto the dark-wood floor, where lay a large, worn out, old mattress. Marilyn looked down at it and surmised she’d be spending time on its tainted surface. ‘Elementary, my dear.’

The arms worked swiftly and efficiently, binding Marilyn’s elbows together behind her back. Her legs, too were bound, parallel, at the ankles, calves, lower and upper thighs. A waist lasso line was roughly led between her legs and up to the elbow cinch. She went limp with surrender, and was soon overtaken by the sweet dilemma of sensual incapacitation. The cuffs were removed and replaced with several tight turns of soft line, and cinched. Twenty-feet of thick boat rope was circled above and below her hard pressed mounds, securing Marilyn’s bound arms to her back and upper torso. A final line ran from the wrist cinch to the upper thigh cinch, and drawn taught before knotted, loosening the crotch configuration somewhat. If she wished to tighten it, only a drastic arching of the back, and a severely pinched wrist cinch would accomplish the desired effect. Her hands were palm-to-palm, and out of the reach of any knots in the area. ‘These guys are good.’

The two dark figures left the room, leaving Marilyn to enjoy the exquisite reclusion of another bondage fantasy-come-true. She looked around a bit to acclimate herself to the sudden, dramatic shift. The smell of dank mattress and castle filled her nostrils with the semi-familiar odor of a long ago, far away recollection. Minutes passed in the rapturous grip of expertly applied bondage before the familiarity of a fading memory caught up with our heroine’s hindsight. ‘I know that smell.’
Another instinctive attempt at escape brought a new blush of kinky excitement to bear, causing Marilyn to grow dizzy in the overwhelming spell of the fix. The skyscrapers now demanded more equilibrium than she could master. The effort to remain standing proved fruitless. She lowered her knees to the mattress and fell onto it in a delirium of aroused delight. ‘What did I do to deserve this?’

This was my first visit to Kensington Castle. I’d often toyed with the notion that such a mythical place might exist, but hadn’t given the fantasy serious thought until meeting Lord Alfred at one of John’s celebrated dinner parties. In the weeks that followed, a lively friendship developed. When he mailed me a photographic resume of Marilyn in tight bondage bliss, and a note that invited, ‘this coming Thursday at my place,’ the rare opportunity put me, and a smelly piece of nostalgic memorabilia, on a jet to his neck of the woods. Now, as I sat in a private screening room, watching Marilyn on a thirty-six-inch diagonal, a pensive minute gave me pause wonder, “This is too good to be true.”
My first few intercom lines were whispered and mixed with echoing innuendo. “Lyn?”
Her eyes went wide with subliminal alarm. “Yes?” A fluid tension engulfed her spine. ‘What intimate recall doth thou cloud from memory, dear thorn?’ Her instincts told her there was something terribly wrong, but she couldn’t get a handle on the particulars, yet. 
“Are you enjoying yourself?” said the echoing ten-watts of audio input Marilyn had come to respect so ‘dutifully.’

She’d been writhing and languishing in sensual repose for more than twenty minutes, (The illuminated clock on the wall said forty.) savoring the classic simplicity of the bind and fighting off each attack of animal impulse as if nothing else existed but the fulfillment of her current, hidden dream.
‘Save it. Save it. Not now. Keep it going.’ “Oh-oh! Woh!”
“Well are you?”
She was obviously tuned into another language, another world. “Huh?” Something told her to search the audio library of memory, aware that the ten-watt question belonged to someone she knew, someone whose tone and delivery evoked uneasiness within the perpetuity of the moment.
‘The way he called me Lyn. No one calls me Lyn, except...’
It suddenly and powerfully hit her. She twitched and squirmed in a spectacular display of realized regret, then heard herself ask, “Chris?”
My intonation was decidedly ominous. “Small world, isn’t it?”
‘Oh-my-God!’ thought Marilyn. ‘How is this possible?’ Her disbelief waxed desperate. “Christopher?”
“In the flesh... Didn’t I tell you we’d pick it up someday? I guess this is the day.”
I punched out the overhead spotlight, leaving Marilyn to ponder the wall clock, and the significance of each exchanged word amidst the dark isolation of room number two and the suspended amazement of the moment.
‘The mattress; it was ours, the one we slept on, made love on.’

It had been ten years since Marilyn escaped the love we held for each other to search for an answer to why she needed to be tied up all the time. I was the one who first made her aware of that need. She’d left without a word, or letter of explanation. I remembered her once asking, “How would you feel if I suddenly disappeared, Chris?” while entertaining the possibility of there being greener pastures elsewhere. My comeback inspired the raising of her left brow.
“Betrayed. And remember, what goes around comes around. You can’t escape us, dear wonder of wonders. We are the keepers of your key. Sooner or later, we’d be bound to pick things up again.”
“Who’s we?”

Marilyn took a deep breath and felt the bittersweet, mixed blessing of rope caressing the tension in her writhing torso. A swell of devastating heartache prompted a few seconds of finger flailing and tight-fist vacillation.
‘This is not happening.’

My long lost lover had committed the cardinal sin against her trusted initiator. She’d tied me up severely, and vanished from my life, without bothering to leave a knife or fail safe solution to the bind.
“Let’s see you get out of that,” she’d challenged, in a fit of fearful anger, before leaving me in seriously inescapable bondage, my mouth stuffed with a dirty sock, held in with several turns of duct tape.
“I’m leaving your life, Chris, for good. So think on that while you enjoy yourself and wonder why I’m outta’ here.”

Room number two was suddenly flooded with bright, glaring light. I sat in a soft, rock-able recliner, watching Marilyn cope with her moment of truth. She’d not yet given her bondage a determined effort, and I’d not yet revealed my belated intentions. We waited, suspended in a timeless vacuum of deep thought, co-appreciating, with awesome respect, the sheer absurdity of our private little justice cycle. It was now my turn to indulge the thorn of our passion, to exercise the sublime powers only an injured victim of a lover’s quarrel could claim. It was time to tell Marilyn how things were, and are.
“The castle is ours for the weekend, dear damsel. We’re locked in, as it were; just the two of us and the central computer, and no one, save Lord Alfred, and two other surprise guests, know of our whereabouts. (Unlike most of her peers, Marilyn kept her indiscretions to herself.) That means no interruptions getting in the way of our concentration. Not like before. Not like when you were on top of the world and life was a smorgasbord of ego-tripping delicacies, when you were queen and I was nothing more than a napkin to wipe your mouth upon when you weren’t hungry for what I couldn’t give you.  Now, if you can get out of that, in the time it took for me to get out of the fix you left me in, put on your cape and leave. The door’s unlocked, the drawbridge will be open, and we’ll call it square. But if you can’t get out, be prepared for a mega-lesson in the fine art of advanced bondage and discipline.”

Marilyn was now visibly shuddering, and wasted no time trying to get free from the simple but superbly applied rope work. 
‘Piece-a-cake,’ she evaluated, based on her formidable experience and track record.
“It was John and Dawn who tied you up. You remember John and Dawn, don’t you?”
Another twitch of manifesting justice pricked the tender spot on Marilyn’s innards, sending another blast of static energy up her spine. The poetic, inner ravings had long since evaporated into a fuzzy, dreamlike mist of disillusioned surprise. She could think nothing now, her mind blank with numbing awe, her body crazy with reckless, uncoordinated writhing. Nothing really violent had ever happened to her in bondage. The trips to Kensington were always playfully elegant, with the slightest specter of hinted danger thrown in to underscore each fantasy.
“If you have anything to say to them, now would be a good time to unload your conscience, if, that is, you still have one to unload.” 
‘Shit,’ scolded Marilyn to her frivolous side before launching into a Herculean attempt at extraction. ‘I knew something like this was going to happen someday... This is a tougher fix than I thought.’

A cold sweat broke out on her milk-white, semi-nakedness, in maddening concert with yet another exploding spasm on the scoreboard of our weekend game plan. I zoomed in on the spectacular eruption, listening also, through a set of stereo earphones, to the satisfaction of Marilyn’s overwhelming feedback.
“You should know that Alfred has no idea we were once an item. In fact, he thinks I’m nothing more than a feeble-minded beginner, a frustrated, horny voyeur. When he returns this Monday morning, he’ll find you bound and alone, tied up just the way you left me when you skipped town ten years ago. So do as you’re told, dear wonder of wonders, and maybe I’ll be persuaded to leave you here in a less strenuous fix than the one you inflicted.”
Marilyn’s escape attempt was inspiring, to say the least. Dawn and John had not bound her too tightly, just snugly enough to let her think there was a chance she could undo herself from the classic bind we’d decided upon.

A sudden, involuntary question erupted from somewhere beneath the deepest reaches of Marilyn’s concern, echoing eerily over the spellbinding video of her endearing efforts.
“Christopher? What are you going to do with me?”
“Whatever I damn well please, missy, whatever I damn well please. Give up already?”
She stopped fighting the ropes to ask a burning question. “What was behind the other doors?”
“That’s classified. You buy your ticket- you take your chances. Why did you risk door number two?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“Let’s just say we both played a hunch, and one of us lost. Either way, I’ll see you when your time is up.”
“...And when will that be?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to find out. See you when I see you.”

A cold, heartfelt dread quickly demolished what was left of Marilyn’s composure, filling the chamber with waves of desperate, emotional radar, emanating subtly into the stark, psychic aura of room number two. She looked around and took stock of things. Ropes and chains hung everywhere, accessorizing a classic collection of mechanical and stationary devices and poles.
‘What have I done?’ “Christopher?” The silence was deafening. “Christopher! I’m sorry about what I did to you. Forgive me?” Marilyn rarely spoke such questions. “What about...”
“I forgive you.”

The lights went out again, leaving only the clock and overhead spotlight to contemplate. Within seconds, Dawn and John were back on Marilyn’s case, applying a soiled sock gag held in with several tight turns of duct tape.
“Look us up when you get back to New York,” invited John. “We’ll do lunch.”
“I said three knocks,” corrected dawn. The severity with which she finished wrapping the gag gave Marilyn another reason for regret. “Have fun.” 
The happy couple then left the room, slamming and locking the door behind them. 
A quick glance at the clock ‘revealed’ an hour and five minutes had passed since the top of the bind. ‘...But I didn’t know Judy was lying...’
I leaned back in the recliner, took another sip of brandy, and left a message on the other end of my transatlantic call.
“Hi, Tiffy. This is CJ. If you’re there, pick up... See you sometime Monday, late. Keep the machine on. I’ll deal with it when I get back. Bye-now, and don’t be getting into anything you can’t get out of, sweets. Love you.”

Tiffany couldn’t get to the phone. She had tied herself up, and would not be able to escape for at least another 2 hours, thanks to a hog-tie line that would not be severed until the knife hanging above the bed fell to the mattress. That wouldn’t happen until the gizmo I designed and built for Tiff reached the end of its time. Meanwhile, back behind door number two, Marilyn had managed to get to her heeled feet and hop to a secluded corner of the chamber, where she leaned up against a cool, stonewall to rest. Another inch to the right triggered an electric eye switch, which, in turn, flooded the wall with several watts of illumination.
A huge mirror, on the opposite wall, gave Marilyn a major, ceiling-to-floor vision to ponder. Four shackle rings, imbedded in the wall behind her, added yet another psychic wrinkle to the ride, giving my overwrought ex pause to think, ‘Who are these guys?!’ while an unexpected multiple made mush of Marilyn’s outraged concerns. 

The characters in Fast Lane Bondage are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. That also goes for the circumstances in which they found themselves.

The End


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