This is what happened after a mischevious author sent her stories to me several times - LOL. Gromet
Gromet rose from behind his aircraft-carrier sized executive desk to greet the woman. “Ms Cynthia,” he said as he bowed over her gloved hand.
“Mr. Gromet,” she responded. She was tall, and good sized—not fat, but well built and shapely. Her blonde hair was elegantly coiffed, her mature years carefully concealed by expert makeup. She wore a suit with a short skirt and high heels, showing off her long legs.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” she said.
“Perhaps for me—not so much for you.”
“Why—whatever do you mean?” she asked, with an expression of bemused puzzlement.
“Only this. You keep bombarding my ‘in’ box with stories of the most incredible nature. Hangings. Bondage. Sometimes you send the same story more than once. The last straw is when you sent me a story after I’d already posted it!”
“And you asked me here to tell me this?”
“No—I asked you here—to punish you.” From the sideboard, he produced a long-barreled pistol and pointed it at her. She put her hands up, a totally fetching gesture.
“Oooh—are you going to shoot me?” she asked, pouting. They both visualized it—the bullets slamming into her rich body, the blood running from between her fingers as she clutched herself, staggering, then toppled to the floor.
He sighed. “No. It would require getting the carpeting cleaned. Your punishment will be much worse than that.”
“Oh. Well, we’d better get on with it.”
“Yes,” Gromet said decisively. “First, take off that pretty suit.”
She smiled. Keeping her hands up, she turned and strolled a couple of paces away from him, then faced him again. Teasingly, she unbuttoned the jacket, turned away, letting it slip from her shoulders. Skillfully she swung the empty garment in front of herself as she turned to him, then turned away and let it fall from her hand. She turned back, but with her arm over her breasts. He juggled the gun at her, and she obediently raised her hands again—but her arm had covered her black lace plunge bra. Turning her back again, she reached behind herself and unzipped her skirt, letting it puddle at her feet. Swaying, she stood with her back to him, her hands still up, and he considered shooting her in the back anyway for her insolence.
“That’s enough!” he ordered. “Come over here and hold out your wrists.” She did as bidden.
He was a bit disappointed to see she had on a black bodyshaper that pretty well encased her from waist to thighs. She held out her gloved hands, and he buckled sturdy leather wrist restraints onto her. A spreader bar held her hands a body-width apart. He pushed the bar into her stomach, and buckled a strap around her upper arms across her back.
“Oh, my,” she said as she tested the restraints. Her arms were pinned to either side of her waist.
“Now, come with me,” he ordered, putting the pistol away. He led his captive through the expansive rooms of his mansion, past the whipping post, the gallows, and the beheading block. As they passed the entrance to the deep dungeons, the moans and wailing of female prisoners wafted up.
Gromet brought her to an outdoor platform at the very end of the estate. Here there stood a cauldron, containing a heavy roiling liquid that glowed dull red. Bubbles popped on its surface, releasing thick chemical vapors that smelled noxious. Waves of heat flowed off the vat.
He brought her over to where a large hook dangled from a cable that descended from the latticed boom of an industrial-looking crane. Undoing the strap from her elbows, he attached her wrist restraints to the hook. She looked at him, puzzled. He went to the base of the crane and began turning a crank on its side. The hook rose, lifting her arms up over her head. Understanding dawned.
“NOOOO!” she screamed. But her arms were now over her head. The toes of her high-heeled pumps were dragged briefly across the rough decking, and suddenly she was in the air, her feet kicking, suspended by her wrists from the hook. He kept cranking, until she was five feet in the air. Turning another crank, he swung his victim around over the cauldron.
Cynthia looked down between her breasts, down the length of her body, past the toes of her shoes to the hot, bubbling liquid directly beneath her. “Don’t! I’ll do anything! I won’t send you stories you don’t want!”
“No, you won’t—not any more.”
“Please—don’t do this!”
“It’s already happened, dear.”
“Noooo!” She kicked, her high heels swinging in gleaming arcs as she jerked above the deadly vat.
“Now hang still,” he ordered.
“What—like this?” she let herself hang straight, her feet together.
“Yes—just like that.” With that, he yanked the release. The ratchet whirred, the cable whizzed through the pulleys, and the lady dropped directly into the red-glowing, steaming liquid. Her despairing scream was cut off as she disappeared beneath the roiling surface.
A moment later, Gromet hauled up the cable. The end appeared to be dissolving. He swung the crane sideways, out of the way, and waited.
Finally there was a surge in the liquid. Cynthia’s head popped up. Her wig was sodden and askew, and she had lost an earring. She wiped the water from her face, dislodging one of her false eyelashes. Then she settled down on the bench. Reaching under the water, she removed her sodden shoes and dumped them onto the deck.
“Well?” she asked, Are you coming into this hot tub or aren’t you?
23.12.08