The Studio - Chapter One by John Roper
Chapter One - Bondage Stool Pigeon
Rochelle is one of those classy, high strung beauties; the kind one often sees playing a drop dead gorgeous lifeguard in macho TV shows and flicks about body builders and other assorted nature freaks on a tear. When she caught my ad in ‘The Neighborhood Star,’ a curious energy overtook her normally jaded disposition.
THE AD
Dear Damsel: I’m restrained from knowing you by a severe lack of information, but bound and determined to enjoy your feminine particulars to the max and beyond. I am male and hope you are tied to a passion for damsel-in-distress fun and excitement. Are you attractive-to-beautiful and fit to be loved and pleasured when controlled by prolonged, erotic enjoyment and delayed gratification? JR.
FIRST RESPONSE
Dear JR: I’m 30, very good looking, and love the fantasy of B/D foreplay. How old are you? How do I know you can be trusted? I’m a 38D-22-36, 5-5, 115, redhead, and make Fanny Hall look like Pee Wee Herman.
MY FIRST COMEBACK
Dear Pee Wee un-look-alike: I’m old enough, and I can’t be trusted, but I am your man, and you know it. Meet me at noon , Saturday, December 3rd, at 325 East West Street , loft ‘B’. Wear your highest heels, something tight and revealing, and do your nails in fire engine red. I can’t wait either. JR
SECOND EMAIL FROM DAISY MAY
Dear JR: No way. Not a chance. No.
YADA
Dear No: I can wait. When you’re ready, I’m at the loft every Saturday from noon to midnight .
YADA
What goes on in the loft from noon to midnight on Saturdays?
YADA
Damsels, who need tying up, show up, and I tie them up.
What else do you do?
YAWN
Whatever needs doing. I won’t email back. Either you show up or you’re outta here.
The center was abuzz with activity that day. It was as if the girls had all received a subliminal, psychic hunch about the events taking shape. Women are funny that way sometimes. They’ve got a kind of communal radar system that seems to connect them whenever it is time for ‘the girls’ to initiate a newcomer or plan of action who and that would be beneficial to their circle.
Loft ‘B’ is on the fourth floor of a huge, midtown warehouse. When Rochelle stepped off the elevator and scoped the goings-on in reception, she smiled with relief.
‘Son-of-a-gun; and here I thought…’
“Can I help you,” asked a smiling receptionist as she peered up from an appointment book. “…Miss: can I be of some help?”
“…Uh, yes. Is JR around?”
Cindy’s look went plain with disappointment.
“Have a seat.”
It was obvious her expectations had been let down. She punched the intercom and changed demeanors before announcing, as if she were a computer generated recording, “A young lady to see you”.
“What’s her name?”
Cindy looked up at Rochelle’s wide-eyed uneasiness.
“Ms. Damselle,” fun-poked the new screen name in my life.
“Be out in a minute.”
Rochelle stood in a black-skirted, double-breasted, leather suit and red-leather sky-highs, and a cellular firmly in hand and tucked away in her right jacket pocket. Understandable apprehension had long since gone south during the time it took to adjust her senses to the large, stereo-music-saturated, pink reception area.
Cindy decided to socialize.
“First time?”
“…What?” asked Rochelle while shifting her attention from the red velvet, curtained wall directly opposite their point of view.
“Is this your first visit to The Studio?”
“Yes. What’s your name?”
“Cindy. What’s yours?”
“Rochelle Newman.”
“Beautiful name.”
Cindy stood and slowly walked out from behind her desk.
“Can I get you something? We make great coffee.”
“Thanks, no,” said Rochelle as she looked up at the receptionist’s stunning figure. “I love your outfit.”
While Cindy poured hot water for tea, the tasty strains of Herb Alpert’s “Rise” came up on the music mix. Her workout suit was bright red, with high cut hips and red tinted, heavy duty hose.
“I’m into leotards and running shoes. If you decide to join the program, we can get you a discount at SOTA GEAR. Uh, that’s short for State Of The Art.”
Rochelle’s curiosity started to pique as she asked, “Who does your nails?”
Wearing an aura of playful, but very calculated professional ease, Cindy dropped a tea bag into her water, turned, and walked gracefully past our newest quest.
“SOTA GEAR. Where do you have yours done?”
She then sat on the red leather couch, a foot or so to Rochelle’s right, and crossed her legs like Mary Hart.
“I do them myself,” informed Rochelle as she settled in. “Yours are incredible.”
“Thanks. JR insists.”
Suddenly, the door to their right opened and I casually stepped into the conversation with “Hi, I’m JR.”
Cindy broke in. “JR, this is Rochelle Newman.”
The girls stood. I extended my hand for a shake and smiled. We shook.
“Welcome to The Studio, Ms. Newman. Right this way.”
Her cell phone signaled. She gave us a wimpy look and waited for a reaction. We offered none, but, given the situation, appreciated the necessity of the interruption.
Rochelle apologized. “Excuse me.”
Of course,” I smiled, and then walked to the desk to ask, “any new business?”
Cindy joined me as our latest damsel headed for the furthest corner of the room.
“No. This is Adam’s last workout cut; the long version,” reported Cindy Coyle.
I stroked my chin and glanced over at Rochelle.
“Let’s have a look-see.”
Cindy reached for and pressed a button under her desk. The red-velvet curtains parted slowly to reveal a major enlightenment to [email protected]’s tentative curiosity. On the other side of the soundproof glass wall stood a two-foot-high, black-carpeted platform on which Adam Brill, one of our premier workout masters, was finishing up a session with a few dozen trainees.
Rochelle’s eyes widened as she whispered into the cell, “Call me back in twenty minutes.”
The three of us watched for a minute or so before I suggested, “Care to take a look around?”
“Sure,” said our new trainee, without hesitation.
“Right this way,” I Indicated.
As we entered the hallway, she noticed my office. Another step or two brought us to the main event. The music grew louder as we walked.
“All right, everyone,” officiated Adam, “this is the last tune on the mix, so let’s give it all we’ve got.”
A chorus of groans erupted from the colorfully dressed gathering. A few decided to collapse on the floor.
Rochelle and I headed for the rear of the room to watch.
She asked, “Why are they all wearing the same leotard design?”
“We call them chicken suits.” I chose my words carefully. “They can pick any color they like, but the uniform is the same for all B/D virgins.”
“Oh.” Ms. Newman’s spine suddenly tingled with trepidation. “Do you do workouts?”
“No, I just do B/D.” (We watched for a while.)… How about we chat in my office for a spell?”
“OK.” Her tone had evolved into a playful light-heartedness.
On the way, she took notice of the many, one-to-ten, numbered doors around room.
“The showers and lockers are at that end,” I said and pointed.
“What’s behind the doors in the workout room?” asked Rochelle, politely.
We entered my office; I closed the door, and offered her a seat. I sat in my desk chair and continued the orientation.
“Each room contains a unique environment and an assortment of gear and apparatus; the higher the number, the higher the level of difficulty.”
“Difficulty?”
I locked my fingers, leaned back into my roll-around, and leveled my eyes to Rochelle’s before saying, “Let’s just say that door number one leads to a three-wheeled bicycle, and ten is The Space Shuttle.”
An air of skepticism accompanied Rochelle’s next question.
“Who determines the level?”
“…You…and I…And by the way, from now on, your name is Daisy May. Got that?”
“Why?”
“It’s for your own protection; if you get my meaning.”
A few sticky moments went by while Rochelle pondered the instruction…
“I see…Now what?”
I opened the top-center, desk drawer, removed a two-page form, and placed it in front of Newman’s perplexed expression.
“Read this. If you agree to our terms, I’ll be out in reception. Cindy will witness the signing.”
Rochelle picked up and started to read the form. I stood and left the room.
“Take your time.”
She did.
SAME DAY 9PM
I was in my office when the elevator bell rang out over the center’s PA system.
‘How do I know it’s her?’ I figured before reaching for the intercom.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Daisy May,” said an excited voice at the other end.
Another button buzzed my new damsel in. She’d signed the form without amendment and had her nails done at SOTA. I’d changed into something more appropriate: skin-tight, black-leather pants and boots, and white T-shirt.
The elevator doors opened. There she was- her hair up, wearing a plain, tan trench coat and black, patent leather sky highs, strapped on at the ankles. Her hands were pocketed, her face lightly made up, except for deep, dark eye shadow and moist, bright-red lipstick. A small, red purse hung from her right shoulder. I was on the platform in the workout room, motioning through the window for Rochelle to join us. Cindy and Adam were getting ready for the ten PM session and pretending to discuss its particulars with me.
Hi,” said Rochelle as she sailed into the room, “ready whenever you are.”
Cindy and Adam passed her on their way out and both said, “Have a nice trip.”
“Stand in the spotlight beam,” I directed.
She sauntered sexily to the center of the hard wood floor; her gate calm and assured. I followed.
“Tell me, why are you here?”
She stopped, turned, and smiled a bit while squinting up at the overhead light.
“I forgot. Why don’t you make that decision FOR me.”
My tone turned masterful.
“Good answer. Take your hands out of your pockets and let’s see what you’ve got underneath.”
Rochelle did what she was told and fiddled with the two knots in the belt, taking care not to dent or chip the new nail job. She suddenly saw the red curtains closing and heard the door to the room being locked. A wave of goose bumps broke out on her torso and arms. The ambient lights dimmed.
‘Woah…’
The belt fell free and dangled from the two cloth rings in back of the coat. Rochelle took its lapels in hand and deliberately pulled the front of the garment apart as slowly as she could.
“How does this grab you?” purred Rochelle Newman, teasingly.
The trench coat and purse hit the floor. Her body was nothing short of spectacular.
“Nice shoes,” I said dryly as I brought my right hand to my chin and smiled lecherously
“Well,” she reminded, “is Fanny Hall Pee Wee Herman, or what?” then grabbed her right wrist with her left hand behind her back.
A skin-tight, black-spandex, strapless teddy, slit and laced at the bodice in a ‘V’ to the navel, contained her exquisite figure in a most appealing fashion, bringing an unexpected rush of blood to my groin and a deep breath of satisfaction to my lungs. Rochelle turned slowly to reveal the exquisite subtleties of flesh and muscle tone through her sheer-seamed, dark-tinted nylons. The teddy was cut very high on the hips, making her long, sultry legs look longer and more enticing than they actually were. The six-inch Stilettos also added to Daisy’s overall effect.
“Freeze,” I commanded when her back was to me. “Did I tell you to turn around?”
She avoided the question by whining, “I’m waiting,” then doing a dumb blond impression. “Is there a problem?”
“Hands palm to palm behind your back, and don’t speak until spoken to.”
Rochelle again obeyed without hesitation and felt the grip if my left hand around her wrists.
“Last chance to back out,” I warned.
“Your concern is duly noted, Mr. R.”
Given the fact that we were standing in the middle of the workout room, with no binding material in sight, I don’t think she was expecting what happened next. Given the tightness of my pants, there was certainly no pocket room for a length of rope either, and if there were, Rochelle would have surely noticed it.
“Oh?” she commented when the feel of trench coat belt pinning her wrists together demanded her undivided attention. “Uh…”
I quickly wound four fairly tight circles up her forearms and used two turns to cinch a few more pounds of pressure into the bind. It soon became obvious she was not expecting to be tied up so quickly, and so soon.
“How very improvisational of you,” remarked Ms. Newman, just before both knees buckled a bit in the throws of her sudden and very surprised disorientation. A deep breath perfectly expressed her rattled concerns.
A sentence from the form she’d signed came to mind. ‘Once you allow both wrists to be tied together behind your back, protestations will be dealt with according to the intensity of your unwillingness.’
She lowered her head during the transaction and waited for the knots in a state of passive expectation, stretching and fisting her strong, expressive fingers in a most provocative fashion.
‘Oh-shit, now I’ve gone and done it.’
“Connie did your nails?”
She flared them sexily. “Yes. Do they please you?” Cockiness had all but vacated her tone.
The cellular in Rochelle’s coat pocket signaled.
“No talking.”
I ignored the phone and knotted the end of the slack.
“So, what’ll it be, door number one, two, four, seven...?”
“If I don’t answer that call, someone will be here in less than twenty minutes to find out why,” warned my very nervous and very aroused heroine, who thought she was playing her trump card, and that she still had control of the situation.
I grabbed her elbows and pulled them close together, bringing my lips to Rochelle’s left earlobe. She felt the teasing seduction of my tongue on its soft, pink flesh and tried to turn her head, hoping for a kiss, so I bit down on her lobe to deprive my captive of our first intimacy. It was obvious she was trying to buy some time for discussion.
“Did you hear what I said? …Answer the question,” I insisted.
She was nuts with anxiety and passion. “What question?”
I pulled her elbows closer together. They touched. The sight of her heaving breasts made some very serious demands on my self control.
She remembered the question.
“You mean I actually have a choice?”
The teddy lacing dug deeply into Rochelle’s exposed mounds.
“That’s right.”
The growing bulge in my pants pressed firmly against her ass cheeks.
“I’ll take door number one.”
I let go of both her arms and earlobe and steered her towards number seven. We walked quickly and strictly. Her resistance was half-hearted, but strenuous.
“But you said I would choose the intensity level.”
“You AND I,” I reminded.
Just before reaching the door, I took a sharp left and pulled her growing and very genuine unwillingness to number three. A little sign on its heavy metal door read, ‘THE FUN HOUSE.’
She read it as I reached for the hand grip and opened things up. She would not take another step, so I grabbed her feverishly writhing hard body by the lower torso, lifted her off her feet and walked into the dark vestibule within.
“Uh, listen John, I think we should do a chat on this.”
When the door closed behind us, an overhead light came on, revealing a small space and another door a half dozen feet ahead. The walls on either side of the gear room were loaded with bondage paraphernalia.
The look on Rochelle’s face inspired an appropriate line.
“This room better fits the specificity of the intensity level you selected on the form.”
I reached for a five foot length of 3/8ths nylon and tied her elbows together. She stared up at the wall in front of her and took note of the many ball gags at my disposal. Each was wrapped in transparent plastic. She wanted to ask a question, but thought better of it.
“Put your back to the room door,” I said after tying the last of three tight knots in the elbow cinch.
She did, and soon felt the smooth embrace of thick rope around her neck.
“Stand up straight,” I whispered with a blank expression.
Rochelle’s knees locked.
“Listen, if I don’t call my friends, they will be here in no time.”
“Sure-they-will.”
“No- seriously, they will.”
A hangman’s noose, fashioned from half-inch-thick, seamless, nylon rope, tightened around her neck. I positioned the knot under Rochelle’s left ear, pulled out the slack off a pulley above, and knotted it to a ring in the right wall.
In the meantime, the kinky side of her sensuality threw me a look that clearly said both, ‘Are you out of your mind (?)’ and ‘This is sooooooo hot!’
My hands and lips were all over her.
‘God- she’s as tight as a drum.’
I put my left arm between her legs and grabbed the belt buckle in back of Rochelle’s bound wrists. My other hand held her by the nape of the neck. She began to breathe heavily through lips quivering and passive. We closed our eyes to savor the moment. I lifted her off the floor. My forearm and her dripping wet crevice sustained the entire weight of Rochelle’s 115-pound bones. We kissed and humped passionately for a good five minutes, which was how long it took me to reach the edge of an orgasm. I was too preoccupied to notice whether or not she’d reached the edge of hers…
I let go and moved an inch or two away. The ejaculation would have to wait for the bind to be completed. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Rochelle’s legs wrapped hungrily around my waist, causing the hangman’s noose to tighten dangerously as she stared ravenously and opened her mouth to say something frantic.
“Did I tell you to do that?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
But she wouldn’t let go, so I backed up as far as I could. The noose tightened considerably. She let go and used her right heel to cushion the impact of her body bouncing back against and off of the metal door.
“Nice move,” I appreciated. “Now let’s make sure nothing like that happens again.”
After loosening the noose a bit, I reached for a thick, short belt, which I used to cross and very tightly bind Rochelle’s ankles together. Her body language suggested a pre-orgasmic spasm or three might have invaded her vitals.
I then stood and undid the bow in the leather stringing that drew the front of her teddy so perfectly together around and about her billowing breasts.
Rochelle took a very purposeful deep breath. The laces loosened as she rocked to and fro to open things up as far as possible.
I grabbed the teddy and roughly pulled it apart and down around her waist to discover two, rock hard nipples jutting proudly and upwardly in all their gorgeously wonton splendor. They begged to be touched as Rochelle jumped up and down as best she could to show off the solid foundations from which they protruded.
My tone was all business.
“Who’s the gal on the cellular?”
Her delivery was somewhat labored and sexy as hell.
“Gal?”
“There’s always a girlfriend or two playing backup.”
“…My secretary, Judith.”
“She knows you’re here?”
“Yes.”
My approach had completely lost its playfulness.
“What else does she know?”
Rochelle was starting to get very riled.
“…I can’t tell you that.”
I grabbed two nipple weight clamps off the wall and said, “I see.”
She looked down at her breasts and took another deep breath when I applied the first, five-ounce clip to her left nipple.
“Listen, I know what the form I signed says about my wrists being tied behind… oh-wow that feels incredible… But I was just playing with you when…”
The second clip went on, placing Rochelle into a fuzzy daze of bondage bliss. Her fingers flailed; her focus vacillated from physical to psychological to places she’d never been before or ever thought could exist within the parameters of her pedestrian experience with bondage.
“I do hope you know what you’re doing,” was all she could think to say.
“By the look in your eyes,” I assured, “it appears I know exactly what I’m doing.”
I pulled the spandex teddy down off her hips and legs until it collected just above Rochelle’s bound ankles. Red, Bikini panties could be seen through her pantyhose.
She watched carefully as I undid the ankle belt and removed the teddy from her now very hot-n-bothered, very fit physique. I stepped back a few feet to admire it in all its glory.
“Where do you work out?”
Her facial expression was pure seduction.
“I have my own gear at home.”
I plucked a fifty-foot skein of quarter-inch nylon from the wall and tied a tight knot eight inches or so into one of its ends. After threading it between the back of Rochelle’s forearms, just above the wrists, I pulled out about four feet of slack and passed it between her legs. It wasn’t long before she felt a tightly drawn and slip knotted lasso around her 22-inch, six-packed waist. The other end of the rope was then also passed between her legs and threaded up under the front of the waist circle. As I pulled out its 40-some-odd-feet of slack I asked, “Is Judith into bondage too?”
The question bounced around Rochelle’s thinking for a good five seconds.
“I don’t think so.”
When all but a few inches of slack remained in the crotch rope tether, I dropped the line on the floor and flipped a switch before asking, “Would you like to see what’s on the other side of the door in front of you?”
By the look on her face, I don’t think she fully understood the question, but something told her to say “OK.”
The room was, at first look, a large drainage pipe that started at the door.
“It’s one of those fun house cylinders,” I informed as I stepped back to the task at hand; “with one obvious difference.”
Rochelle focused on the stool down at the far end of the 25-foot, mahogany-toned, fiberglass pipe. She flinched with concern and passion when I pulled out the last inch of slack in the double crotch rope, thereby pinning her bound wrists to the top of her rear end. The consequential pressure between her legs was more than just appreciated.
“Oh-yes,” she welcomed, before immediately regretting the candid remark.
The line was again passed between her legs and up under and over the elbow cinch with one hand, while the other made sire none of the crotch pressure was lost.
While I pulled out the remaining slack, Rochelle noticed the stool was bolted to the floor of the cylinder and that four, thick straps, two with buckles, were dangling from its hard, dark leather seat.
‘Wow.’
“Do you think you know what’s going to happen next?” I asked as I moved around in front of my new trainee, with line in hand.
“Yes.”
The opposite wall of the cylinder room was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Rochelle’s reflection stared back at her as I wrapped three tight circles of rope around her arms and ribcage, just below her heaving breasts. Three more were soon circled tightly above them as well as an air of erotic incredulity and fear permeated our auras. Rochelle’s face radiated an expression only females into uncompromising bondage have been known to reflect.
She writhed provocatively with approval, but inwardly regretted having teased me in the middle of the workout room by bringing the palms of her wrists together behind her back.
‘Well, I guess I asked for it.’
I continued guiding the line down between her arms and out in front of her pleasurably struggling physique.
“Head down.”
She lowered it without hesitation and closed her eyes while I ran the line over her left shoulder, the back of her neck, down across the right shoulder, and back under her bound arms. I once again tightly repeated the configuration and led the line down, under and in back of Rochelle’s bound wrists.
“Oh,” she blurted when all the slack was taken out and the crotch ropes and upper chest circles tightened again.
The continuing footage was used to bind her forearms to her torso with four tight stacks and a cinch in back. The remaining four feet was then threaded between her legs and tied to the line I’d originally left dangling from the slip knot that secured the first turn of rope around her waist. Three knots was all the slack would allow.
“Perfect,” I noticed. “Now, let’s have a look at you.”
She watched as I undid the noose line from the wall and stared a bit…
“How about we move into the main attraction,” I indicated while removing the hangman’s noose from Rochelle’s gorgeous neck.
She hesitated, which was totally expected, so I grabbed an arm and pulled her into the cylinder before stepping back into the gear room and locking closed the door. A single, 150-watt bulb, midway up its gray-metal surface, illuminated the cylinder.
Meanwhile, behind the one-way mirror on the opposite wall, Rochelle’s safe pal, Judith, stood up from the console roll-around and placed her hands on her hips.
“OK, bitch, now it’s YOUR turn to dance for the boss.”
Of course, Rochelle could not hear Jude’s self-addressed determination…
I entered the control room and was immediately and vigorously hugged and kissed.
“I owe you one,” promised Judith Taylor before blessing me with a ten-second wet one and turning back to the matter at hand.
I responded in kind and asked, “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yeah, ball-gag her with a two-incher; we wouldn’t want Daisy May to hurt herself if she falls down, now would we.”
When I returned to the cylinder, Rochelle’s fuzzy-faced expression said all I needed to know. When she saw the ball gag dangling from my hand, the weirdest look she’d ever reflected upon her kisser gave the situation a quality all riggers of my ilk earnestly hope and seek to generate when dealing with damsels of Rochelle’s caliber. But before putting it in, I grabbed, kissed and rubbed up against her for a good three minutes, slapping her ass now and a gain and doing all sorts of semi-nasty things to her breasts and neck…
“I can’t stay any later than midnight ,” informed Rochelle between kisses. “My secretary is picking me up.” She was breathless with bliss and had given up on trying to convince me that ‘friends’ would soon be coming to her rescue.
I seized Ms. Newman roughly and tightly and threw her a menacing look that all but demolished what was left of her self-control.
“Wanna bet?”
The ball gag was a tight fit, and did much to inspire Rochelle’s bondage multiple to new heights of outrageous exasperation and over-the-top distress.
“Now, let’s see what you’ve got.”
After closing and locking the door, I turned off its 150-Watt bulb, leaving Rochelle in the dark, except for a dim light at the other end of the cylinder, just beyond the stool. It was then she also noticed the thin strings of red laser light emanating from the sides of the cylinder, every three feet or so. She squinted and took a first step in the brighter light’s direction, which triggered one of the laser switches in the wall and activated the stool tunnel’s first revolution.
‘Oh-wow,’ thought Ro when she realized that if she didn’t make the adjustment, something very stressful would land the executive on her perfect little ass.
She immediately regretted having chosen strap-ons, instead of pumps.
‘Shit.’
The only option now open to her was to reach the end of the cylinder to escape its dastardly intentions. But when she finally managed to regain her balance and take two more steps, another laser switch kicked the cylinder rotation speed into second gear, making the effort that much more hazardous.
‘Oh-my-God.’
Rochelle decided to step back; in the hope her returning to the door would stop the cylinder. But that was not how we’d set up the computer controlled program. The cylinder rotation speed remained as it was, adding yet another unexpected wrinkle to the ride a perfect reason for Rochelle’s libido to initiate another uncontrollable response under the tight confines of her crotch ropes.
It was then she decided to put an all out effort into escaping the bind. Judith and I stood and watched the attempt with uncommon delight as our latest damsel did her best to maintain a perilous balance and look for a flaw in the demanding rope work I’d applied to her very-easy-on-the-eyes, pumped up physique.
‘Geez!’ realized Rochelle when the nipple weights spoke to her frantically struggling body language and the multiple crept into redlining territory.
It was obviously time to put the icing on the cake of Judith’s long-overdue payback.
“Rochelle?” spoke Jude through the room’s intercom.
Newman immediately recognized her personal assistant’s voice.
“Uh?”
“Are you alright?”
“UHUH?”
“I’m parked out front of 325 East West Street . Where are you?”
Rochelle’s thinking hadn’t a clue as to what was going on. She also didn’t know what to say, given all the extreme fun she was having and the diametric, damsel-in-distress undertow of her impossible situation.
“UHN UHNN UHUHUHNNN!”
“What? You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”
“UHUHUHNN!”
“When you didn’t pick up before, I jumped in the car and came down here, just like you said. Why aren’t you talking to me?”
“NAUUHNUHUANUHUH!!!”
“I see,” jested Jude.
The cylinder stopped rotating, the fluorescents in the console room blinked on, and the full impact of Rochelle’s situation came to light with the sight of Jude and I standing with arms crossed behind the one-way mirror at the end of the tunnel.
“I suggest you run this time,” said Jude when the cylinder came to a complete stop. “It takes a while for the mechanism to gain momentum.”
Rochelle stood frozen in her disbelief as the possibilities dawned on her powers of deduction and she almost, but not quite believed the female figure behind the mirror was Judith Taylor.
‘What?’
Of course, what she didn’t know was that the end of the cylinder ran smack dab up against the mirror wall, making escape from its clutches impossible. Regardless, she somehow knew that the ‘fun’ would not end till all its rules and directions had been obeyed. So she took a deep breath and made a mad dash for the stool, breaking the laser circuits as she passed them en route. The cylinder began to rotate again.
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Regardless, she was able, with some effort, to reach its end, only to run into the glass wall and the sinister knowledge of the room’s inescapability.
A few seconds later, the spin cycle reached its maximum speed, giving Rochelle a major challenge to deal with and another reason to regret the underestimating of my quick-thinking resolve back in the workout room.
Jude and I watched and smiled from the other side of the mirror as Ro, after almost a minute of frantic running and struggling, finally lost her balance and fell against the current side of the cylinder, a few feet in back of the stool.
A good 30-seconds of flopping around the lower half of the cylinder went by…before Jude shut things down and waited for the perfect moment to say, “Stand up.”
The door at the other end of the tunnel opened as she did. It was me, with a fistful of rope in tow.
“Sit on the stool, facing me, knees together,” said Jude.
I helped Rochelle up from the floor and led her to the stool, where she sat as instructed.
I quickly bound her thighs and ankles tightly together before running a 3/8th-inch-thick line from the top rear cross bar of the stool, then under the bar directly in front of it, threading the rope between Rochelle’s ass and the crotch ropes before I pulled out all the slack and tied things off and to the rear bar again. The belts attached to the stool crisscrossed her lap, but not too tightly, securing her ass to the seat in the process. I then locked her heels into the second cross bar in front and tied the sky highs to it, which lifted her knees and caused her thighs to run parallel to the floor.
While I was doing all this, Judith filled her ‘boss’ in on all the particulars that brought us all to the gloriously erotic moment at hand.
“It was I who placed that copy of ‘The Neighborhood Star’ in your morning mail, making sure to slip a letter or two between the pages on which John’s ad was posted, to make sure it would catch your eye. It was a gamble, I know, but given some of the places you’ve been to online lately (I’ve been monitoring your bondage site exploits for months thru your ‘History’ window), I figured, what the heck. Did you notice it was the biggest ad on the page, and accessorized with an arrangement of your favorite flower?”
As Rochelle listened carefully to what sounded like a well rehearsed press release, each sentence was punctuated by the tightening of cinches and belt buckles, giving the surreal event a kind of scripted quality, as if Jude and I had been doing this sort of thing quite regularly for a good many years.
“I know-I know; how did I discover your screen name and password. Guess. And when we pick things up again at work on Monday, how about we pretend that none of what happened here tonight took place, and move on. Sure, you can fire me if you like, but if you do, you will never enjoy the kinky pleasures The Studio has to offer again. Think on these things while we introduce you to what THE FUN HOUSE has to offer in the way of third level entertainment.”
Rochelle looked down at her breasts to watch me secure the end of a thin chain to the bottom of her right nipple clip weight. I then threaded the other end under and through one of the lower thigh cinch circles, pulled out the slack, and opened the clip on its end. Another three inches of slack was needed to reach the left nipple weight.
“Lean forward,” I said, in as unemotional a tone as possible.
Rochelle looked at me, as if to say, ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ before deciding not to obey.
I grabbed the back of her neck and forced her forward to make the connection, which not only increased crotch rope pressure, thanks to its wrist tether, but made it clear she’d have to exert her six pack a bit to keep from placing a half-to-a-third of her torso weight from tugging on the nipple clips when upside down.
‘Oh-shit.’
“There,” I punctuated, “that should do you,” before turning and leaving the cylinder, which immediately rotated 180 degrees, placing Rochelle in an upside down position that did much to challenge her already rattled sensibilities. She immediately noticed why I didn’t tighten the belts to their last possible notches. The rope that shared the responsibility of securing her to seat with the belts answered that question to the max.
Jude took great pleasure in delivering her next press release.
“I’ve been your personal assistant for what, four years? I’ve put up with enough bullshit from you to fill the Grand Canyon . I’ve done everything but wipe your ass since the day I first sat behind my desk. You’ve used and abused my patience and fortitude; sent me on errands from here to Hackensack , and never once treated me in a way that would suggest the least concern for both my wellbeing OR my severely impinged upon social life…”
A cold sweat broke out on Rochelle’s forehead. ‘Son of a …’
“And never mind about the antics your insufferable mother keeps injecting into every twist and turn of your unrelenting, self-satisfying, self-centered agenda.”
Jude only raised her voice once and briefly during the tongue lashing, but the fierceness of her facial vocabulary, the increased crotch rope pressure, and the necessity of Rochelle having to seriously exert her abdominal muscles in order to lessen the tension on the weighted nipple tether configuration gave the payback aspect of her circumstance a tweak that was well off the map of her 15-year experience with light-to-medium bondage foreplay.
Just then, I popped back into the console room and stood next to Jude’s suddenly regained composure.
“Anything else I can do for you two?”
Jude turned, put her arms around my neck, and planted a passionate kiss on my gaping mouth…
“Yeah, baby,” she said, strongly, before pressing a button on the console and sending Rochelle into an escalating tailspin of cylindrical activity. “Anything you want…anything.”
I took a peek at the tunnel’s revolution-per-minute dial to notice it was on the highest setting.
Jude peeled off her sweater to reveal her gorgeous breasts to me for the first time. The distraction did much to take my focus off the speed dial. I was speechless with wonder and hornier than I’d been all month.
Without even realizing it, I pinned my partner-in-crime’s elbows together behind her back and kissed her madly for several seconds before asking, “And what door would you like to pass through this fine evening?”
“I don’t care,” whispered Judith Taylor, “just as long as when we’re through, I don’t owe you one anymore.”
It was then that Rochelle Newman realized, while doing a quarter-revolution-per-second in the cylinder, that unless she could find a social circle similar to the one in which she now found herself, she couldn’t possibly fire Judith Taylor.
“NUHUHU!!!”
John Roper
With Drawing By Synthean
04.01.06
story continues in The Studio - Chapter Two
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