Gromet's Plaza
The Informer
by Uto
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© Copyright 2018 - Uto - Used by permission
Storycodes: F+/f; M/f; captive; brothel; prostitute; client; kiss; naked; bond; rope; burqa; walk; public; oral; sex; climax; cons; X
The Informer 2 Uto F+/f; M/f; captive; brothel; prostitute; client; kiss; naked; bond; rope; burqa; walk; public; oral; sex; climax; cons; X
story continued from part one

The Informer Part 2

The scene was a large, populous city in the Middle East. It was situated between a high mountainous plateau and a rocky, meandering coastline.

A hundred and thirty years ago it had been a collection of mud huts around a small oasis on a little used caravan route. But progress and advancement had come since then. Oil, and later minerals had been discovered and exploited. Water resources in the massif behind the village had been developed into carefully controlled agriculture and lastly, and perhaps most profitably of all, it had become a centre of international finance. Tens of thousands now lived here and if the original hut dwellers could see it today they would have recognised nothing.

Though the city now had many thousands of permanent residents, its new found prosperity meant that it also had a large transient population who came and went all the time. Oil prospectors, mining engineers, people in finance. Some stayed only a few weeks, others for years.

Most of these were men, invariably young and single. Very few brought their womenfolk with them, though the settlement had a standard of living equal or better to most other cities of similar size in the Middle East. Its isolation seemed to attract the adventurous younger male.

And to cater for the needs of these vigorous young men various sexual entertainment establishments had come into being, which could only have been expected. These were sanctioned by the ruling emirate who were only too well aware of the consequences of not having them. Indeed they were patronised by large numbers of the sheiks themselves, even though many were foreign staffed, managed and even owned by outsiders. They provided a variety of sexual dalliance that would never have been available had it been left to local talent. These Islamic potentates were quite happy with these infidel brothels.

And one of the very highest class of these places was an establishment owned and run by one Sophia Lestrade, a lady of indeterminate nationality but one who had some very good connections both nationally and internationally. It was in a large, modern but otherwise discreet and unadorned building a few hundred yards from the main plaza. It was far from conspicuous but comfortably within walking distance of most of the most important buildings in the city centre. One could make one’s way there unnoticed or someone from the building could go to almost any destination. Be it luxury hotel, corporation headquarters, seat of administration. On foot, by unmarked car, all was possible. And appreciated by everyone.

Sophia’s place was quietly internationally famous for the variety of ladies there. They came from five continents and many nations. It was famed and favoured by questing males who liked to mix their love and enjoy women from every corner of the earth. And usually the house could supply girls to suit every request. If not from the region asked for then from somewhere near to it. Rarely was a man disappointed.

For the whole business was well run. The decor where these indulgences took place was tasteful and well designed. Neat, comfortable and not ostentatious. And the women were skilful and well trained and could cater for almost any request and taste. But outright kinkiness and tastelessly bizarre behaviour was not tolerated. Sophia was quite firm about that. And this was understood and quietly appreciated by almost all of her clients.

But perhaps most appreciated of all was the fact that Sophia’s ladies could talk to the males they so delightfully entertained. Some of these men came from very high levels indeed. Engineers, specialists, professional men. Very important personages, men in government, even heads of state (usually from far away, little known countries) had been known to go there. Yet their assigned partners could invariably communicate with them.

English was the lingua franca. Before any girl was allowed to practise her art she was schooled to speak it properly, taught correct manners and all received daily briefings in current social and political issues, at least for the turbulent region in which they lived. They might not understand items as fully as men who knew the area well but they at least knew what they were talking about. And could answer knowledgeably and sympathetically. Sophia had warned them never to take sides in politics.

All told, Sophia’s place functioned very well. Her male visitors came away satisfied and content. And greatly pleased with the girls who had come from such far places to attend to their pleasure.

One such girl was Molly Lamura. Molly, just into her thirties, slim and dusky, had been there for three years. She came from a country far to the south east and was one of its indigenous dark inhabitants. Yet in the past dozens of men had inquired about these little known people and in the end Sophia had arranged for such a girl to be brought in.

Molly, already a prostitute, had been kidnapped and brought here by private jet. A business associate of Sophia’s in her homeland, settling an old score had arranged this and she had arrived, bound and gagged, along with two other young ladies, also secured, who were on their way to a new life in the East.

On arrival she had to undergo an intensive course in correct English, acquire manners and social graces (Molly’s education had been sorely neglected in her childhood) and learn something of the region to which she had come before she was allowed to receive customers. But Sophia had access to some highly skilled and talented educators to do this.

She needn’t have worried. Molly had long known her lack of schooling had held her back, even as a prostitute in her own country and had flung herself into learning with a zeal that astonished her teachers. Long before the course was over she was ready to receive the upper class client she would encounter here. She was a different girl from the tied up and struggling captive who had been carried off the plane when she arrived.

Today, Molly was relaxing in her own apartment. Every girl here had one. It might have been described as a bedsit with an attached room. This last contained a large bed where the ladies entertained their visitors. Sometimes they received them in special private rooms deep in the main complex but on the whole these specialist bedrooms were preferred. The whole building had been carefully architect designed.

Molly had had a full week. A group of oil engineers had come in after a long stint in the desert beyond the coast range and the ladies had worked hard to cater for their needs. Now she was taking her ease in a comfortable leather armchair. The door buzzer sounded.

The caller was Rachel. Not one of the working ladies herself, Rachel Orman was a very competent supervising manager who looked after the welcoming and assignment of the visiting male clients who came to the establishment. She was very subtly skilled at this and arranged pairings that generally suited both visitor and professional alike. Her expertise was much appreciated and she reported directly to Madame Sophia herself. Molly had been on good terms with her ever since her arrival three years ago.

Rachel was fifty five with a firm, solid figure. She had short dark hair which framed a square determined face. She was a caring woman and this was considered fortunate, bearing in mind the number of girls of all backgrounds and nationalities she supervised.

She entered the apartment and the pair embraced. They were good friends. Molly felt if she could be like Rachel some day she would have done well.

The visitor did not waste time. “There’s a young Irish engineer come in with those oil men. Thirtiesh. Comes from a decent background. It seems he’s had a bad time out there in the Djebel Raza. Hot desert location, difficult job and some of the tribesmen turned nasty and shot at them. He’s still unsettled. His firm want him to have a couple of days of tender care to get him back to normal. Think you can handle it?”

Molly had received men who had had upsetting experiences before. “I think so,” she smiled, “Security as usual?” This referred to a concealed alarm button that every girl’s unit had and which could be used if ever a client gave any trouble.

“Of course,” smiled Rachel in return. “He’s had a shower and been given a clean set of clothes. He seems a decent guy, and,” the smile broadened, “He’s passably good looking, though he does have something of a beard.” Then she became serious. “I also suspect he’s got a taste for bondage.”

Molly kept her smile, “I’ve catered for them before. Both here and in the old country."

Ten minutes later Rachel brought the troubled young engineer in and introduced the pair. Then she withdrew and went straight to Security Control and made sure that Molly’s security alarm was in working order.

The engineer’s name was Desmond. He was taller than his intended partner, thin, wiry with his skin tanned by the desert sun. His face might have been handsome but for a serious look that seem ingrained. Molly planned to bring a smile to it. She smiled herself, advanced, softly embraced him and kissed the obviously troubled young man lightly on the mouth.

“Hello Desmond darling,” she began. “We’ll do what we can to make your stay here as comfortable and as pleasant as possible.”

Desmond acted as if he had not heard her. His worried face stared straight ahead. Finally he mumbled, “They fired on us. We were polite and decent to them, and yet they shot at us. Why’d they do that? We’d done nothing to them.”

Molly knew what he was talking about. She had been well briefed on how things were out in the Djebel Raza. She said softly. “Last year MegaOil went into their ancestral country without so much as a by-your-leave. It would have been polite to have formally asked permission in a way they’d have thought appropriate. And taken along a few presents when they did so. They could’ve well afforded it. I believe that’s what they’re belatedly doing now.”

Desmond had no answer to this and Molly felt it was time to press on with the more pleasant business in hand. She kissed him again, slipped her hand deftly inside the waistband of his slacks and began to expertly caress his penis. Within seconds this member began to stiffen and rise to the occasion. He turned, looked her for the first time and slowly appeared to become aware he was in the presence of a delightfully trained young woman who could make him forget the politics of the desert. Still smiling, she took his elbow in her other hand and started to lead him to the love couch. “Come, dearest,” she murmured, “Let us adjourn.”

An hour later they were both lying on the double bed in Molly’s entertainment room. Both were naked. But now the signs of stress were gone from Desmond’s face. He had had a delightful lovemaking and a much needed and long desired orgasm. He was now content and at peace with the world.  And his native friendly Irish garrulity had revived.

“Thank you darling,” he whispered, “I really needed that. Thank you again.” She looked at him fondly. He’d been a considerate lover but she was still trying to gauge his needs and requirements. After all, she was scheduled to be with him for perhaps a day or so.

“Molly,” he went on, “How long’ve you been here? And how’d you get here?”

Molly smiled. She could almost predict how this was going to go. She’d come across these young Irish technicians before. She knew about their cultural background, their repressive religious upbringing.  And how to handle it.

“Two - three years now Angel,” she murmured, “Let’s say I arrived unexpectedly. And I wasn’t all that pleased at first. But I adjusted quickly and now I wouldn’t change it for anything. I’m doing far better here than I’d ever have done where I came from. I’m happy.”

Desmond was persistent. He said quickly. “But were you brought here under duress? Were you tied up? Bound hand and foot? With a gag in your mouth?”

Molly thought, another bondage devotee. Ireland has a lot to answer for. She replied,"Well it’s possible some girls arrive here like that. Who knows?” She went on, “But why do you ask?” She looked at him teasingly, “You sound as if you’d like to tie me up yourself. Do you really want to?”

His face lit up. “Could I? Would you let me? I’ll be gentle. If you’ve got some soft ropes.”

She said yes. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t had done to her before. She got off the bed, pulled open a drawer underneath and took out a cardboard box. In it were sashes, soft cords, webbing straps. Also an assortment of things that could be used as gags. Thick, short sashes that could be knotted  as well as rubber ball gags. Desmond’s eye widened. Molly stood beside the bed, completely bare, directly in front of him. The concealed alarm button was underneath, just a couple of feet away. She crossed her wrists behind her and smiled. “Alright dearest. Go to it.”

Desmond needed no further urging.

He leapt off the bed, took a soft sash from the box and began to tie her hands behind her back. He fumbled a little at first and Molly could hear him breathing quickly but gradually he calmed down. Lastly he secured her wrists with a large firm reef knot. Next he secured her arms to her sides with a wide silk sash. He wrapped this tightly around her and then doubly fastened it with a cinch under each armpit. Finally another sash was tied around her waist and crossed forearms. His captive had worried at first that in his haste and desire he might pull the bonds too tight but she was relieved to see he did not. She was secure, but not uncomfortable.

Next he made her sit on the bed and bound her ankles and legs above the knees with two lengths of which soft white rope. Molly was now securely bound hand and foot. He sat on the bed himself and looked at her. “Do you feel OK?” He asked.

She smiled. “Comfortable enough. And what now my love?”

He did not answer at once. At last he turned and looked at her and in a soft voice said, “If I lifted you onto the bed and got you into a keeling position, then lay down myself, would you suck me off?”

So, he was one of those who liked to be fellated by a bound women. Well, working in this establishment she’d met them before, though usually they were older than this. She nodded and said, “Very well then. And while you’re getting me ready I’ll tell you a story.”

He gently arranged her in a hunched position between his thighs. And she told him of how Chinese emperors of long ago would have the incisor teeth of one of their harem beauties removed in order that they might more comfortably take their lord and master’s member into their mouth. This then became their sole speciality in the seraglio. This was an historical item she had learned in her training period. Men were always interested to learn of such things. Her current partner, despite his preoccupation, was no exception.

But now to the business in hand. Or, more correctly, in the mouth.

Some joyous minutes later Desmond lay at the top end of the bed, flat on his back, his eyes closed, gasping and heaving with ecstasy. Possibly it had been the greatest ejaculation of his young life. Molly was still kneeling between his splayed legs. These apartments were soundproofed but she was wondering if anyone had heard the noise he had made when he climaxed.

Some time passed before Desmond regained the power of speech. “Darling, darling, darling,” he wheezed, “That was magnificent. Oh, darling.” And then latterly, “Will you marry me?”

Molly smiled. She was used to this. Many of the girls here heard declarations of this nature. In a way it was a tribute to their proficiency at their work. “Not today love,” she replied. “We’ve done very well so far, but it’s time to move on.”

Desmond opened his eyes. He was slowly coming back to earth. “Yes, oh yes, I suppose it is. Of course.” He heaved himself upright, sat up, then got off the bed. He did not move to the toilet as Molly thought he might. He stood in front of her, pulled her into a position where she sat on the edge and then knelt and untied her ankles. Next he undid the rope above her knees. Finally he stood up. She wondered what this was leading to. This man was  certainly full of surprises.

He was silent for a while then he spoke. “Molly,” he began, “This is an Middle Eastern country?”

“Of course it is,” she retorted, “What sort of silly question is that?”

“But a secular one, isn’t it? Not like some of them.” He went on. “But, even so, you must have some Islamic dresses here in your wardrobe? For certain occasions?"

Molly wondered where this conversation was going. “Yes, I do. I’ve received sheiks and some highly placed local men at times. The more conservative ones like me to wear a hijab and a long dress. At least to start with,” she laughed, "Once they get going, it’s a different matter. But why do you ask?”

He ignored this. “Do you have a burqa?”

This amazed her. “Well, yes I do. Though I’ve only ever worn it on special occasions. At times there’s been very select gatherings at the emir’s private residence and some of us have been requested to attend. To provide discreet entertainment for very important people. Coming and going we’ve had to wear the full burqa. And with an escort.” She smiled, “Something like having to wear full court dress at Buckingham Palace. But why these questions?”

“Would you show it to me?”

She stood up, her arms still bound to her sides and led him out of the entertainment room, into her private bedroom. Standing at one end of the built in wardrobe, she nodded. “In there. Folded up, on the upper shelf, on the extreme right.”

He took it down out, partly unfolded it and held it. The burqa was grey-green in colour. Of smooth, stiff, probably very expensive material. Desmond fingered it lovingly, particularly the head covering with its wide, yet narrow mesh eye-slit. Molly eyed him. Just what was going on in his romantic Hibernian mind?

She soon found out. “Molly,” he said, “Could we go out, in public? For a short walk. You wearing this.” He indicated the burqa, “And nothing else. And tied up?”

So. He was one of those. She’d met them before. They liked to parade in public in the company of a woman who was naked and bound and completely concealed under some all enveloping garment. And anyone they met would be quite unaware the companion they saw was totally bare, tied up and helpless.

Her mind flashed back to the evening she had been abducted from her own home in her country of origin. There her arms had been bound to her sides and a thick gag forced into her mouth and secured with surgical tape. In order to move her through the streets to a waiting car a waterproof cape with a hood had been draped over her, completely concealing she was bound and helpless. And then she had been led off. She and her captors had met no-one.

And now this client of hers wanted to do the same thing in a foreign country. In broad daylight. Well, things had been done with the burqa before, things which would have quite amazed the conservative designers of the garment. But one thing was certain here. She was going to call the shots.

“All right,” she said, “But let’s get a few things understood first. One. I’m not to be gagged. I want to be in full communication with you while we’re out there. And another. Tie my wrists in front of me, flat against my tummy. The way they are now, behind my back, they’d stand out. Even under the folds of the burqa. It’s possible somebody would notice.”

Desmond nodded slowly. He put the heavy garment on the nearby bed, untied her wrists, pulled her hands round in front and rebound them so that they could be held flat against her stomach. He also took a pair of soft brown shoes of the local variety from the floor of the wardrobe and fitted them onto her feet. She nodded her approval. They would be very comfortable and if they peeped out from under the hem of the burqa, they were exactly what a local married woman would have worn.

There she stood, completely naked except for her footwear, securely bound with sashes, her hands tied in front of her. And looking as pretty as a picture. She smiled. He smiled. But there was one thing more he wanted to do.

Every one of Sophia’s girls had flowers in her room. She had them brought in in large amounts and distributed throughout the girls’ apartments. Molly had a bowl of them on her dressing table. Desmond took two blossoms from it and tucked one into the upper binding sash between her two breasts. The other he carefully placed stem first in her still wet vagina. His companion smiled. So he was one who liked a little artistry with his bondage.

“Well then,” he commented, “You look very lovely. And now to complete the picture." He took the burqa and shook it out. The thick, stiff good quality material rattled.

It took some manoeuvring to get the long garment over her and the head covering adjusted so that Molly could see clearly through the eye slit but Desmond managed it. It was a good fit. If her girls had to wear traditional garb on their occasional visits to the emir’s residence Madame Sophia was absolutely insistent on this. She wasn’t having them tripping on too-long hems and going flat on their faces in public. Or looking as if they were wearing a tent. So the burqas were made to order and the ladies were properly appreciative.

Actually, this all enveloping costume suited Molly well. Its hanging folds could not conceal there was a slim youthful figure underneath and with enough of her dark eyes visible through through the vision slit, she looked the perfect picture of a local beauty whose family had decreed she be covered from top to toe when she ventured out in public. She had one final thing to say.

“There’s a local male’s walking jacket and a traditional flat cap up on the shelf next to where the burqa was. Put them both on. With that and your beard, everyone’ll think you’re a convert. And no one will question us.” He smiled, nodded and donned both items. Oddly enough they both suited him. Some westerners did change faiths, and their mode of dress and he looked the part. Molly nodded her approval. “And now, let us go out and face the world.”

They left Molly’s apartment and walked along the corridor.

They approached the reception area. Rachel was seated at one of the desks. Standing beside her was Madame Sophia herself, apparently making one of her frequent tours of the premises.

This lady entrepreneur was a solid active woman, perhaps just short of fifty. She had a square, determined face, short brown hair and looked accustomed to giving the orders. Despite this she looked as if she could manage a smile occasionally. She wore a neatly tailored white business suit.

Her companion Rachel was sufficiently intuitive to size the situation up. She got up and walked round in front of Molly. “You’re tied up, aren’t  you? Underneath that, your arms are bound? Aren’t they?” Molly nodded.

“And are you gagged as well?” Molly told her she wasn’t. Rachel turned and looked questioningly at Madame Sophia.

Who was smiling. “Not the first time this’s been done.” She commented. “In fact we’ve found burqas helpful in the past. Very useful for transporting reluctant young ladies around. And we do a certain amount of that in this part of the world. As you yourself would know, Molly.”

She went on. “And they’re very useful when handling two or more girls at a time. Bind them hand and foot, gag them securely, then burqa them up and finally lash them securely and tightly outside the fabric, just above the ankles. This makes it very difficult for them to untie each other when they’re left alone. All they can do is wriggle around like animated sacks of corn. And they can’t do a thing to help each other. Oh yes, we’ve found the burqa with its thick, all enveloping material, useful indeed.” She laughed, “But of course, it won’t be necessary to tie your ankles here Molly.”

Sophia Lestrade strode over to the bound, burqa wrapped girl and looked at her. “You’ve been with us quite a while now Molly, haven’t you? I’m sorry I’ve not got to know you better. Rachel speaks very highly of you. And Agnes, who was responsible for sending you here in the first place and who I keep in touch with - she usually asks after you.”

She was inclined to reminisce. “Agnes Jardine and I go back a very long way. We’ve helped each other a lot over the years. I know all about you informing on her.” She laughed again. “In fact she has told me now that industrial suburb brothel wasn’t doing too well anyway. That it was starting to loose money. And the local Council knew weren't happy about it in any case. In short, it’d have gone out of business without your effort. You needn’t have done anything.”

Molly looked at her through the eye slit. Did this mean she need never have informed on Agnes Jardine in the first place? That her newly opened place of competition would ultimately have gone away anyway?

Then she remembered she had also been brought here to provide an example of her race in Madame Sophia’s multi racial stable of sex entertainers. That Sophia, needing someone like her, might still have conspired with Agnes to have her brought here anyway.

She supposed it all added up to one unanswered question. Was she better off here than she would have been back in the middle class, partly industrial suburb where she had plied her trade in her homeland? There she had been free, independent. Earning and saving her own money. But there had been costs too. And there had been a certain insecurity as well. She had been very much aware of the dangers of getting on the wrong side of the wrong people. Here there was security, somewhat more comfort and perhaps a better standard of living. And there was the security of being with a big organisation. Even if Madame departed the scene tomorrow her house would go on. If she stayed here for enough years she might go on to an admin job like Rachel’s. She knew that eventually Sophia’s girls were allowed to accumulate their own money. If not here then somewhere in this part of the world. She knew she would not remain a semi-captive forever. There was a lot of wealth here, she at least knew that. If you’re going to sell yourself, a sensible girl should go where the men with the money are.   

Madame Sophia was staring straight at her - and seemed to be reading her thoughts. “I think I know what you’re thinking,” she smiled, “And I’d say you’re probably better off here than where you were in that place where you came from. And you’ll make more money in the end, if you’re careful, and sensible.”

Sophia Lestrade then abruptly returned to the present. “And as for this outing you and the client are proposing.” She looked at the securely bound young woman, her bonds totally concealed under the burqa. And at Desmond. “I know it appeals to the male mind to appear in in public with their lady totally bound and secured - and at the same time for this to be completely concealed. That’s where the burqa comes in.” She smiled, “A use its designers probably never thought of. Or perhaps they did.”

“Anyway, “ she concluded, “Don’t go too far and don’t go near the mosque.” She looked at Desmond and admonished, “You sir, with that beard and get up look the classic picture of a recent convert. Just stick very close to her.”

And with that she turned and swept from the reception area,



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