Undercover Bondage

"Not too smart, angering your only hope of escape," said her rigger softly, clenching his arm around her collared neck. As he took her into a headlock, his other hand wandered across to her nether region, his fingers drumming against her raw pussy. Isabella quietly gasped—after nearly receiving a rope burn through her crotch the area was more sensitive than ever. His arm continued to tighten around her neck, halting her air supply. His other hand slid up and down her inner thigh as he flaunted his dominance. Her face started to turn red. She clenched her teeth and shook her head, ignoring the uncomfortable tugging in her rear. Just as she thought she would pass out, her tormentor let go of her neck.

"Alright. If you hate gags so much, I'll relent for now. But only so that I can hear your screams," he said, smiling with the confidence of a man who knew his craft and delighted in shooting down sceptics in flames.

Isabella smirked. She didn't know anyone with a higher pain tolerance than her. The professional pervert was only setting himself up for disappointment.

The man noticed her smugness and kneeled before her, his calm face brought close to her flushed features.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered. Her smirk didn't falter. "You know why?"

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."

"Because you're mine." He reached out and took a breast, playing with the clamp as he continued to watch her face. Her nose twitched, the only indication of any discomfort. "All mine. For the next few hours, all of this"—he slapped her thigh-"is my property. And you know what? I'm pretty reckless with my property."

"Nothing like a good threat to start the day."

Now it was his turn to smile. "I'm not threatening you, Scarlett. I have no need for threats when I can do anything to you at my leisure. No, I'm merely explaining the situation to you."

"How chivalrous," she said dryly, wondering if there had ever been a less appropriate time for the word. Her rigger stood up and paced around her as he continued, ignoring the remark.

"They say women are superior at satisfying other women. That somehow their sex gives them insight into what another girl likes. But if that's true, then a woman can empathise with you. She knows what it takes to bring you to the edge, but also when it's too intense. She knows what it feels like when you climax, and how sensitive that rosy little pussy of yours becomes afterwards."

"You're turning me lesbian here, bud. What's your point?"

"My point, dear Scarlett, is that as a mere simple male I have no clue what you feel. I have no idea what you experience when I pinch your nipple, or slap your pussy, or drag an orgasm out of you for the third time. The only clues I get are from watching you. So if you don't scream-"

"-You'll fuck me senseless," she finished, adding a sardonic edge to the trite phrase.

"To put it mildly. Before I'm done with you, not only will your name be a fitting description for that flawless skin of yours, you'll be so far gone that you won't even realise how many dirty sounds gush from your mouth."

"If you're trying to tell me screaming is in my best interest, I'll advise you that begging for mercy is in yours."

"Oh, you're going to be so much fun," he grinned. "Now stop yapping before I beat the sass out of you. And that, Miss Summers, was a threat. One that I'll likely carry out either way, so don't stress over it too much."

Isabella was silent. So the torture was to be of the sexual variety. Not exactly her area of expertise, but it couldn't be worse than pain, right?

"This," said the rigger, "is Mr Stumpy. Mr Stumpy, meet Scarlett." He held a short wooden baton in front of her, its end fixed with a black rubber dildo. She rolled her eyes. "Mr Stumpy likes warm, moist places that he can slide into and hide in."

"Then Mr- Mmmmfff-"

The hand-held dildo was suddenly shoved into Isabella's mouth, stifling the agent's words. She was unprepared for the intruder and silently chastised her carelessness as the dildo slid unobstructed to the back of her throat. But it was gone again before her gag reflex kicked in, stopping just short of where she could expel the shaft from her mouth. Then it slid forwards once more, lightly punching her soft palate and repeating the process. Before she knew it, Isabella was being fucked in the mouth by a fake dick.

It was all the same to her on the receiving end, of course. The dildo was distinctly phallic-shaped, a fact not lost on the bound agent as it flew along her tongue. With each stroke the bulbous head conformed to the back of her throat as though it was made to fit there, only to retreat to her lips a moment later. After a minute or two of this frustrating cycle, her gag reflex never quite being triggered, the man removed the shaft entirely—whereupon she coughed, spluttered, and drooled all over the floor.

"Oh-ho, there is a way to shut you up," he taunted her. "What, nothing to say? I should document this phenomenon." He mimed writing on a dossier. "If model's backchat begins to irritate, oral intercourse suggested as an effective remedy."

"Don't forget to add a spoonful of sugar," Isabella coughed.

"Prolonged oral session suggested for longer-lasting results," he finished menacingly. He put down the invisible dossier and waved the dildo before her, now slick with saliva. "Now, the real reason I just shoved this in your mouth was so that Mr Stumpy could prepare for his next adventure in a somewhat... darker... locale."

Isabella watched with apprehension as her rigger moved behind her and loosened a few sections of her bondage. Most notably, the ass hook came out, and with it the rope eating into her crotch. But a moment later she realised this was not out of mercy, but necessity—the sleek black dildo was now easing its way into her rear. It was not an especially large object, but when a solid hunk of rubber is pushed through that hole it's enough to make a girl's hair stand on end no matter what size it happens to be. Isabella had never had anything larger than a finger in there, and this was not the most ideal time for trying new experiences. Her thighs clenched up and tried to close, but she could no more stop the intrusion than she could escape the ropes.

When the dildo was buried to its hilt, her tormentor began sliding it back and forth as he had in her mouth. Had she not been subjected to a routine enema before commencing the shoot, Isabella would have been disgusted. Even so, it felt perverse, unnatural, and... strangely erotic. Then tremors erupted through her pussy and everything suddenly got a whole lot better.

The man held a vibrator against her puffy lips as he worked the dildo in her ass. Really? Give a girl a fighting chance, she thought. But despite every resolution to remain prudish, Isabella found herself gradually giving in to prurience. She was actually starting to enjoy the ordeal. In her defence, the rigger had been manhandling girls for years and knew just how far to push them before reeling them back into bliss. There really wasn't anything she could do to resist. The chafing ropes faded into the background, her discomfort forgotten as her world centred on the pleasure gnawing at her brain.

Isabella's whole body tensed, her petite form straining to spring free, but the ropes easily contained her struggles. Then she was on fire, her every nerve burning with pleasure as the stimulation took its toll. The sensation dragged on, rising in intensity until she could bear it no longer. A wild scream of protest tore from her throat, the most coherent sound she was capable of. Behind her, the man smiled knowingly and pressed on, kneading her erogenous zones with the humming vibrator with all the tenacity of a professional plying his trade.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say this curvy little body of yours is trying to go somewhere," he observed, moving the vibrator up to her nipples briefly, rattling the weights. "Might I implore you to stay a while longer? I do so enjoy your company."

Two barely-coherent syllables escaped her breathless mouth. "Fff eww."

"I think you've got that one backwards, dear," replied the man, smiling.

It was some time later when he finally relented, putting the tools of his trade aside as he leaned back to survey his work. Isabella Winters was a feverish mess, her bound and suspended form rosy with exertion and quivering with raw nerves. The formerly-coolheaded agent was now anything but, her mouth still hanging agape from the last of her involuntary screams. There was only one thing that could complete this picture, he thought.

"I told you so," he said smugly, pressing another gag into her panting mouth. In the moments before the drug took effect, there was enough time for one final taunt.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Smell that?" he asked, waiting for an answer he knew wouldn't come, savouring the rare moment that his model had no comeback. "That faint odour, that humid musk... That's the smell of fear. Helplessness. Futility. But most of all, cum. There are no heroic escapes in this place. No merciful respites. Just a girl, some restraints, and an endless stream of moaning."

"It's your turn to deliver the latter, dear."

***

"Hello?"

Her voice echoed in the pitch-black darkness.

She was standing upright, her bearing that of a disciplined slave at attention. Except she wasn't standing of her own accord—her legs were held in place by solid metal bands just above the knees. These connected to a pole that ran from the floor up to her neck, where it ended in a rigid posture collar. The pole pressed against her spine, keeping her back straight and her head still. Behind it, her arms were shackled together at the elbows and wrists and laced up in a black leather sleeve. The bottom of the sleeve was locked to the central pole, preventing her from moving the monoglove. Her feet were encased in strict heels and similarly secured against the pole by her fettered ankles. At a glance, she might appear to be standing—but it would be more apt to say she was propped up, fastened so securely that she could move about as much as a piece of furniture.

What little movement she could manage was accompanied by the squeak of rubber, for she was decked out in gleaming black latex from neck to toe. The single-piece catsuit seemed to be custom-fitted to her curves, its skin-tight fit emphasised by the complete lack of undergarments she wore beneath it. She felt the material against every inch of her skin, tight yet flexible, light yet ubiquitous. But even though the glossy black surface enshrouded her entire form, she could scarcely imagine feeling more exposed. There wasn't a bump on her body that wasn't visible to every observer, such as the two rather prominent nubs on her chest. It didn't help that her waist was squeezed into a stiff corset of oiled leather which sat on the outside of the catsuit just below the two gleaming mounds of latex that held her proud assets. She supposed it made sense in some depraved way—if her body was to be on display, any accessory that squeezed extra sexuality from her was a no-brainer. The catsuit no doubt served the same purpose; inside it, her skin would be clammy and mottled, but from the outside, her figure was flawless.

"Hello?" she repeated, a note of desperation creeping into her voice as she realised just how thoroughly stuck she was.

"I'm right here, dear," said a deep voice by her ear, making her jump. She heard a chuckle and then her blindfold was removed.

Blinking against the light, she beheld a bustling hall filled with hundreds of people, some trapped in similar contraptions to her own, others attending to them or wandering around admiring other victims' predicaments. The atmosphere was one of high spirits and excitement, counter to what she might have expected from her first glance.

More than anything, it reminded her of a beauty pageant for pets, where proud owners would bring their excessively-groomed dogs and squabble for the most recognition. Except there were no dogs here—only subdued women whose autonomy seemed to be held in no higher regard than their canine counterparts'.

Across the hall, a shapely young woman wore nothing but a dozen wide straps that held her on her knees before a devilish-looking machine. The machine had a large dildo levelled at her mouth, leaving the girl no choice but to suck on it in earnest. She was clearly skilled at this, too, but something about her staunch expression and the wires running from the machine to her parted legs told the unwitting catsuit model that the girl's proficiency did not develop from fooling around with boyfriends.

Not far from the fellatio training device, another girl was tied spread-eagled to a large X-shaped frame. Her nude body was hairless and smooth below the neck, a fact well-acknowledged by each passer-by. The next exhibit had a woman posed in a most elegant pirouette with one pointed foot secured above her head. Her skirt was hiked up to reveal her enticing pink labia, spread and displayed like a delicate rose. And so the line-up went on. Were they all just models? Why would anyone volunteer for this?

"See? You're not alone, Scarlett," the man assured her. "Now stop fidgeting, the judges are coming."

Scarlett. The name sounded empty in her ears somehow, but for now it was the only one she had.

He replaced her blindfold, throwing her back into darkness. As her bewildered mind processed his words, she idly tried to flex her gloved fingers. Her hands were woven together in a clenched fist, wrapped in turn inside the snug leather armbinder. She couldn't fidget if she wanted to.

"What judg-"

Before she could finish, a hard rubber ball was popped into her mouth and its strap fastened firmly around her head. She tried to mumble around it, but received a quick slap for her efforts. Blinded, gagged, and stinging with pain, Scarlett fumed. Her questions had only grown in number: what was happening? Who was this man? Why did he think he had any right to treat her like this?

"... great thighs that are nicely showcased by the squatting position," said a new voice. Male.

"The rope works surprisingly well as a bra. Matches the wrist tie, too," said a deeper voice.

"Those creases, though. Fond of the sugary treats, is she?" A woman's voice this time.

The voices carried from a short distance to Scarlett's left, so the judges didn't seem to be directing their comments at her yet. Just as well, too. It sounded like the other girl was not only bound in an agonising position, but being publicly humiliated too. If they'd said that to her, Scarlett would have wasted no time in whipping back a retort. But there was no reply from the girl or her master—assuming she had one—and after a brief muttered conversation, the judges proceeded towards the shorter woman.

"And what do have we here?" the female judge inquired.

"Scarlett Summers," said her handler. "Five feet and one inch tall, 120 pounds, aged 31."

Hell. Is he trying to sell me off?

"Well, she's a bit on the small side..." said the woman as she scribbled down Scarlett's details.

"But makes one hell of a package!" whistled one of the male judges. "Just look at these puppies. What are they, an E cup?" He held one of the mounds in question, and Scarlett shook her chest reflexively to the general amusement of the judges.

"Great attitude, too," grinned the third judge, mistaking her recoil for salacity.

"30D, actually," the man replied, his knowledge of her bust size unnerving the fettered model.

"Then you've done a great job of making them prominent."

"Thank you."

The woman stepped closer and slid her hand down the length of Scarlett's catsuit, commentating as she did.

"Black hair. Black latex. Black leather. Black heels. I half expected the restraints to be black too, but the chrome finish is a nice touch," she admitted. "But why the catsuit? It's a common enough garment for pale girls, but your sub has a perfectly lush skin tone."

"The catsuit gives her security."

"Ah, a power play," said the judge, nodding her head appreciatively.

"Exactly. It tells her that even in her most empowering getup, she's mine."

Scarlett squirmed, her face burning an appropriate shade of red.

"We also need to view the sub's unobstructed visage," she continued. "No, the gag may stay in, just remove the blindfold, please."

The thick fabric came away and Scarlett blinked against the brightly-lit hall. The judges were certainly a motley bunch. The woman was their apparent leader, for she commanded obedience with her stern gaze alone. She would be fairly plain-featured herself if not for the heavy application of make-up glamorising her face. The second judge was smooth-shaven and unfairly handsome. Scarlett swallowed as a hot flush came over her. Why couldn't he be the one feeling her up? The final judge had a rugged beard and looked more suited to a sawmill than this urban edifice. When he spoke she identified him as the deeper-voiced judge.

"Why would anyone cover those eyes? They make me want to... I dunno, eat honey or something," he grinned.

"Nice job with the makeup, though," commented the handsome judge. Scarlett's heart skipped a beat. "Barely noticeable, but it highlights her amber eyes nicely."

"Thank you," said her handler, stealing the credit. Scarlett ground her teeth on the gag in frustration, earning her a frown from the heartthrob. Then the blindfold returned, her face no longer needing to be seen.

"So that's Style points, Presentation, Bondage..." the woman looked up from her clipboard and examined the steel restraints keeping Scarlett locked to the pole. "... More than adequate. The last category is Submission. May I?"

"She's all yours," her handler acceded.

Scarlett heard a zip being pulled down and the next thing she felt were two manicured fingers entering her pussy. It must have been from the trapped body heat inside her catsuit and her racing pulse that her nether lips were already warm and lined with moisture, because the judge's fingers slipped right in. For once Scarlett was glad of the blindfold, for her unfocused eyes would only have embarrassed her. The woman probed for a just moment before withdrawing, but it was enough to leave Scarlett wanting more.

The moment of silence that followed was pure torture for the blindfolded submissive. What was happening? How was molesting her supposed to indicate something as subjective as "submissiveness," anyway?

"Mhm, I'd say she's right where she needs to be," came the verdict. "That will be all for now. Your scores will be announced shortly. I'll just confer with my colleagues briefly and we'll leave you to it."

The woman didn't need to say what "it" was for a chill to travel down Scarlett's spine. Now that her purpose as a showgirl was fulfilled, there was no telling how her immobile form would be taken advantage of. She'd also noticed the judge had said his scores. His scores? They were her scores by right. Did the body they were scoring get none of the credit? What had he done?

But she wasn't going to be taken advantage of any further. She'd never submitted to power freaks before, and this was no different. She remembered now that the name Scarlett was just a cover. None of this was real. Not the other girls. Not the judges. Not even what she was wearing. Soon she'd wake up and-

"Well, well. Miss Winters, what have we here?"

***

Chapter 3

Isabella froze. No one should know that name. Yet she knew that voice, its subtle Italian lilt... It had to be her imagination. She was drugged; her mind could pull any number of tricks on her.