Our Only Hope

by The Technician

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© Copyright 2019 - The Technician - Used by permission

Storycodes: MM/f; fucking-machine; toys; bond; kidnap; nc; X

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W Learns the Inner Circle of The Society is Under Attack

This is Chapter One of a book. Because it is a book, some of the chapters are more exciting than others, and some situations do not complete until the next chapter. This first chapter is primarily setup, but has some very interesting parts. For later chapters, the characters and situation will be more understandable if the previous chapters have been read. I could have run this through my regular publisher and made a couple hundred dollars, but I am posting it instead because many more people read my posts than buy my books.

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WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright © 2019 by The Technician ([email protected]).

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use.

Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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Chapter One

Mistress Aleana

I don’t follow social media, but I do have accounts on each of the major platforms. They aren’t under my name, but I have them. Recently three different friends contacted me about an image that was apparently directed to me, so I had to actually sign in and check my accounts.

The image wasn’t sent or shared to me and I wasn’t tagged on it under any of my account names, but once I found the image, it was obvious that it was intended for me. The image was of a naked young woman bound spread-eagled against a wall with a sign dangling from a bright red ballgag that had been wedged firmly between her teeth. Thick leather straps stretched her arms up and out very tightly so that she was almost standing on her tiptoes. Similar straps pulled her ankles fully out, causing the muscles to stand out on her legs and forcing her cunt to gap slightly from the strain. The strap for the gag was excessively tight so that the thin black leather forced the flesh of her cheeks against and almost between her teeth. The sign itself hung down in front of her breasts and said simply, “W, you are our only hope.” There was also a link to a video on PornHub. In all likelihood, clicking on the image would take me directly to that video.

There are a lot of Ws in the world, but I– and anyone who had ever worked closely with me– knew that this message was intended only for me. The “W” in the message wasn’t printed on the paper like the rest of the message. Instead, it was one of my cards, taped to the paper on which the message was printed. My card is very distinctive because of its pale azure blue color and the small frame embossed around the edges of the card. The card is also totally blank except for a large embossed “W” printed in black in the middle of the face of the card. If I want to give a number or email address or whatever to someone, I write it on the back of the card. It was definitely one of my cards. And I don’t hand out my cards to just everyone, so in all likelihood I had personally met whoever had this card.

Beneath the image was a caption which read, “If you can find them you can free them.” At the bottom of the white caption area was another line typed in one of those fonts which are supposed to look like they are hand written. It said, “Or die trying.”

The picture appeared to have been taken in a basement area– at least the walls were block that had been painted white a long time ago and there didn’t appear to be any windows. Nothing looked familiar to me about the setting. I couldn’t see anything special about the woman in the image other than the fact that her eyes appeared to be wide with fear. I didn’t click on the link, but instead copied the URL and checked PornHub to see if it was valid. It was.

A thirty-minute video came up featuring the same young woman hanging in a bondage frame with the same white block walls in the background. A completely masked and hooded, but otherwise naked, man was standing directly in front of her. Another equally naked and equally masked and hooded man was standing behind her. At an off-screen command of “Begin!” both moved forward and drove their pricks into her body. She grunted loudly, but did not scream.

Both men pumped into her for several minutes until they evidently spurted up into her. She remained more or less unresponsive during the ordeal. After a command of “Next!” the two men pulled out in unison and stepped out of the picture. Two more men took their place, and at the command of “Begin!” entered the woman and began pumping.

When they had finished, a strange-looking machine was rolled under the woman’s spread legs. There were two small motors within an open frame with two rods sticking up through it on which were mounted two ebony black dildos. One of the dildos was ribbed, about ten inches long and probably two inches across. The other dildo was smaller and smooth, almost shiny.

One of the masked men locked the cart holding the machine in place while the other guided the smaller dildo into the woman’s ass and then made some sort of adjustment to the rod on which it was mounted. After a few moments, the other masked man guided the larger dildo into the woman’s cunt. Apparently no adjustment was needed. A third man squirted some sort of lubricant on both dildos.

Again there was a call to begin and the motors began turning at a very low speed. As they turned, the dildos were slowly driven in and out of the woman’s cunt and ass. It was obvious from the variations in the humming heard on the video, the speed of the motors could be independently controlled. The two motors gradually changed speed on a more or less random basis. It took almost thirty minutes, but eventually the woman’s body overruled her mind. She opened her mouth wide and groaned out in orgasm. As she did, both motors went to maximum speed. They continued at that speed until she once again reached orgasm. This time she screamed loudly as her body shook and trembled in her restraints. The motors stopped while she was writhing and pulling at her bonds.

When she regained control and was again silent, the motors returned to their lowest speed and a voice said sarcastically, “W, you are her only hope.” He then laughed softly, but bitterly, and added, “If you find them, you can free them...” After a pause, he added curtly, ‘... or die trying.”

I took a deep breath to calm myself. An old saying of my grandfather’s was repeating in the back of my mind, “Your anger is your enemy’s best weapon.” That was not his only advice on handling enemies. He had grown up in the land which originated another well-known phrase, “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” People think Italians are hot-blooded. They are with their friends, but with their enemies, they are as cold as ice.

My body was almost shaking with anger, but I wasn’t about to do anything rash. Besides, I needed more information before I could do anything. I decided to contact Boris and Natasha, my trusted nerds who were much more skilled in things which appear on the internet, to see if they could uncover anything else in the image or video. I figured it would take a little while for them to respond, but was surprised when Boris immediately replied with a link to a large file buried on a commercial site. As typical with Boris, there was no lengthy message with the link.

The file, however, was quite lengthy... and very wordy. It was a forensic evaluation of the image with Boris’ voice narrating as an arrow cursor moved around the image. Portions would highlight and become slightly larger as he pointed to them with the arrow.

“The caption and link are with the earliest versions of the image which I can find on either the open or dark web” he said carefully. “So evidently it is part of the original post. Also, the sign shows no signs of being edited or pasted in and is most likely a part of the original image.” A highly-magnified circle moved around the edges of the sign and across the letters. Then Boris said, “Since the sign and message are real, that would mean that, in all likelihood, the female in the picture did not post this image.”

I wasn’t sure that I totally agreed with him on that, but I would take his advice under consideration. He was usually right in his analysis of technical things.

“The image is very high resolution,” he continued, “which allowed me to discover several interesting things about this woman.” As if to prove his point, he zoomed in on the woman’s eye until only the pupil was visible.

“Unfortunately, there are no usable reflections in her eyes,” he said as everything zoomed back to the original image. “I could determine, however, that the woman is a natural redhead.” As he said that a highly magnified portion of the image appeared in a small circle near the woman’s crotch. “And it would appear that her pubic area is shaved, not plucked or permanently denuded.”

The natural redhead I could see as the magnification of the circle increased until it showed the slight bronze stubble on her pubic mound, but knowing that her cunt was shaved rather than plucked was a mystery until two additional circles appeared on the image that were not part of the original image.

“Notice that the hair on this female has a thick, square look to it,” Boris continued as his arrow pointed to the woman’s magnified mound. Then his arrow moved to one of the new circles. “Whereas,” he said, now sounding like a professor lecturing a class, “... the hair on this cunt which was plucked appears fine and pointed.” His cursor then moved to the third circle. “And the hair on this cunt, which was permanently treated, is extremely fine and almost non-existent.”

The circles disappeared, but Boris’ voice continued. “I’m not sure what it means, but her cunt was most likely shaved about a week before this image was taken.”

Another circle appeared on the image. This time it was a closeup of the woman’s pussy lips. “It would appear,” his voice continued in his flat, analytical way, “that the female is not sexually excited, or at least there is no apparent moisture visible on her labia. They are not swollen, and her clit is not engorged.”

The circle disappeared and a new one appeared with the green eye staring wildly out at me. “And her eyes show the correct widening to correspond to fear,” he continued, “which means that she is most likely an unwilling participant in taking this picture. That, combined with the shaving and the fact that there is a slight ‘cheaters mark’ on her left ring finger, tell me that this is a married woman who was perhaps recently abducted, quite likely about a week before the image was taken.”

His arrow moved to the link at the very bottom of the image. “I will let you watch the video in the link,” he said. “There is nothing of technical importance in the video itself except for the fact that it continues to appear that the woman is an unwilling participant. The quality of the video makes it very difficult to do in-depth evaluation, but it is my interpretation that the woman’s cunt might be freshly shaven when the video was made, so the video was made before the image.”

The entire image blurred out and Boris’ voice became slightly different. “I need to say what you are most likely already thinking,” he said as a slightly smaller, moving image overlaid the frighten female. It was that weird, fish-like Admiral Ackbar from one of the old Star Wars movies saying, “It’s a trap!”

‘One final thing,” Boris said as the admiral disappeared and a circle opened just to the right of the woman’s feet, “this image was most likely taken in Denmark. The wall plug behind her is a distinctive shape found almost exclusively in Denmark. That shape figured in a book I read recently, so it could be that the sender also read the book and is faking things, or perhaps he or she is just a little careless.”

The image returned to its original state and Boris continued, “There is no metadata contained within the image or the video. It would appear that both the image and the video have been cropped and the captions added with the use of an older, freeware image processor that leaves no information with the photo.”

The video ended at that point and I sat at my desk slowly swirling the glass of bourbon I was holding in my hand. I didn’t need some Star Wars character to tell me that this was most likely a trap, but the rest of the information was helpful. One item that Boris did not mention was the name of this woman, but he didn’t have to. I knew this woman. She was Mistress Aleana, wife of Master Robert, both members of the Inner Circle of Masters of The Society. She and I were not friends. In fact, she once slapped my face and said that she would figure out a way to bring me down– her exact words.

I also knew the equipment in the video. I had sold it to Master Robert and Mistress Aleana several years ago. It was for use on their slaves– or perhaps for personal use, they never specified. It was the cheapest one I sold with dual penetration capabilities. I think my pointing out that they could afford a much better unit was what started Mistress Aleana’s pique against me. But regardless of what she thought of me... or I thought of her... she was part of the Inner Circle and was possibly in deep trouble.

My first step was pretty obvious. I would contact the other members of the Inner Circle and inquire about Mistress Aleana. I sent nine priority messages to the members of the Inner Circle. After four hours, none of them had been answered or acknowledged. That was impossible. At least one of them should have answered within that time. Something was very wrong. It was time to call “the number.”

The Society operates within the law, for the most part, but the legal world of BDSM and consensual slavery often overlaps with the criminal world of trafficking unwilling slaves – sexual or otherwise. And there is always the danger that either law enforcement will confuse The Society with some cartel or other criminal organization, or perhaps that one of the cartels, themselves, will act against portions of The Society. So every member of The Society knows “the number.” It is a regular phone number that is staffed 24/7/365. If arrested, you call the number. If you are in legal trouble, you call the number. If your Master or Mistress is mistreating you, you call the number. When the shit hits the fan and there may be legal or other consequences for you or The Society, you call the number.

I called the number. Actually, I used a burner cell phone to call another burner cell phone that was secreted in the battery box of a railroad signal in Avon, Montana. That phone automatically called another phone, also in a railroad battery box, in Rochester, New York. It was that second burner phone which called the number. Many people think you can call undetected using internet phones of one sort or another, but Boris showed me how fast he could trace back even the most secure systems. The cell phone relay with burner phones, on the other hand, took a lot more time to trace. Using two of them doubled the time. I was pretty confident that no matter how fast or sophisticated a tap might be, there was no way to trace the call back to me. Besides, the huge battery box of a railroad signal has more than enough power to reduce a cellphone to a mass of molten plastic long before the authorities can figure out where the call actually came from.

I waited as the first beep and then the second told me that my relay system was working and for the third time I could hear the sound of a phone ringing. After the fourth ring, I began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. If the number wasn’t being answered, things were much worse than I had feared. Then a recorded message began speaking. “Thank you for calling the number,” it said. “If this is W, hang up and do not attempt further contact. All others please wait and your call will be answered.”

“Shit!” I said loudly to myself as I broke the connection. As I set down the burner phone, my regular cell phone vibrated and made a noise like someone knocking loudly on a door – my signal for an incoming text.

I went over to my computer where I have a program that allows me to send and receive texts without betraying my location in any way. The text was from Boris. In unbelievably clear language for Boris, it said, “You’ve got to see this,” and gave a link to a video on one of the free porn sites.

The video stood out for several reasons. One, it was better done than ninety percent of what was on the site. Two, it had several thousand awards from the site regulars. And three, there was a caption which remained at the bottom of the entire video that said, “W, you are our only hope.”

I watched the video. A woman was seated on what looked like a black leather saddle that was mounted on a pole near the bottom of two circles of steel or aluminum. One circle was in the same plane as the saddle. The woman’s legs were stretched out tightly and attached to that circle. Her arms were also stretched tightly above her head and attached to the circle. The purpose of the second circle became obvious when they both started rotating.

If there had been just one circle, the woman would have been spinning like she was stuck in a clothes dryer. But with the second circle also spinning, she was tumbling in all directions as if she were an astronaut in space.

Unlike an astronaut, she was naked. And also unlike an astronaut, she was being forced to orgasm after orgasm. Her entire body was quivering as the twin dildos which were embedded in the saddle thrust and spun and vibrated. Actually the entire saddle could vibrate in cycles totally separate from the two dildos.

The spinning, alone, is enough to totally disorient you. A few hours in the complex tumbling of the machine would break most normal people. When you add the forced sexual stimulation this woman was experiencing, anything could happen.

The woman began screaming “Columbus! Columbus! Oh God! Columbus!”

That was obviously a safeword, but the machine did not stop. Instead there was low laughter from the background and a voice said, “That will not save you, ines.”

In response she began screaming, “Fresno! Fresno! Fresno!”

That brought more laughter, so she switched to “Baltimore! Baltimore! Baltimore!”

This time the voice said, “Maybe this will teach you to stop trying safewords.”

The woman now began screaming in pain rather than passion as high voltage spikes started coursing through her body from the didlos and the saddle. That current could be adjusted from barely noticeable to pleasurable to painful. I know, because I also designed and built this machine. It was a special order for Master Randolph and his was the only one ever built. His painslut wife had taunted him that he could never break her. At a dinner one night when I was present, she said that even I could not create something that would cause her to call out her safeword.

That might have been discarded as an idle boast, but at the time she was hanging in the center of the room in the Lambda position. Her feet were spread wide and bound to the floor. Her hands were bound together palm to palm and pulled high above her head. Her body thus formed an upside down Y– or if you know the Greek alphabet, a Lambda.

Two slaves were flogging her with multi-strand whips. One was standing slightly off to her side and flogging her ass in a regular pattern. The other was standing directly in front of her swinging the whip upward between her legs. He was not following a regular pattern. Sometimes he would strike twice in quick succession and then wait for several minutes to strike again.

Meanwhile, slave ines was screaming in that mixture of pain and passion that only a true painslut can ever feel. “She can go on like this for hours,” Master Randolph said calmly. Then he added, “But I would never allow that because it would cause true physical harm.” He paused and then said, “I need something that would somehow overwhelm her body– no, her mind... causing pain without causing physical harm.” He smiled broadly, “If you could come up with something that would overwhelm her mind so that she can’t go into the pain properly...”

He let it drop at that. Between the swings of the floggers, his wife called out her boast that I could not make such a machine.

I waited a few moments as if thinking and then said, “It would be expensive.”

“Cost is no barrier,” he replied.

It was expensive– very expensive– but it did what he wanted. After just seventeen minutes on the vibrating, tumbling, shocking saddle, slave ines screamed out, “Micky Mouse! Micky Mouse! Micky Mouse!” That was her true safeword.

I went back to the video. Slave ines was still screaming, but now it sounded almost musical. It was musical. It was a song that I had heard... somewhere. Maybe a long time ago... maybe as background music in a commercial, but I had heard it somewhere.

I texted Boris. “Slave ines is singing something. What is it?”

Again Boris answered immediately. “Caught that. Wasn’t sure important. ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane.’ John Denver / Peter Paul & Mary from the 1960's.”

“Thank you,” I replied. I didn’t expect anything further, and was surprised when another text came in from Boris. “Cabo Frio Airport! Columbus, Fresno, Baltimore - CFB. That’s the airport symbol for Cabo Frio Airport.”

I texted back, “There’s a reason that ines is the slave representative to the Inner Circle.”

There were no further texts from Boris, so I sat swirling my bourbon and wondering how I could get to Rio de Janeiro without anyone knowing I was there.

Continues in

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Wayne Mitchell “The Technician”

[email protected]

See my published books at


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