MY NAME IS AMY. ~ Part Two
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. MF/F, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
It took a while for me to decide what to do. No, I knew I wanted to go, but I couldn't decide what to wear! I know it sounds totally retarded, but, I mean, what does one wear to a first time ever BDSM encounter? Slutty? Formal? Studious? I mean... seriously. So I went with normal, knock-around jeans, sneaks, and a tee. Casual. And in case I needed to bolt. Heh.
I Googled the address and it was a Public Storage yard on a lonely stretch of a back highway. But it was a legitimate national company, and I was sure it was well-lit and had security guards. All the better. I called my boyfriend and left a message that I was going to such and such storage to help a friend move and I would call him by midnight to check in. I thought then if anything happened, they'd at least know where I was going at what time. I was awash with fear, paranoia, and oh so hopeful of a fantasy. Like I said, my heart was pounding the whole way there.
When I pulled up to the storage yard the gate opened like they were expecting me and, I swear, I almost backed out... but I drove in and started looking for the bay number. The whole way I was cussing myself for being "stupid" and my mind played the news reports of my body found in a storage unit on tomorrow's news. But there it was. I pulled up to Bay S-9 between its bright orange garage and the little windowless door next to it. The yard was well-lit and there was a dude riding around in one of those little golf-carts. A rent-a-cop to be sure... but I felt better.
I knocked lightly on the door and for a minute I thought I was played. There was no sound from inside, (but then again, what the fuck was I expecting?) The door popped open and Steve smiled at me warmly, then ran an eye over my shoulder as if to make sure I was alone. "Hi! C'mon in!" And he retreated inside as if he were pleasantly interrupted. I only took one step inside, just so I could size up the place and make a hasty back-peddle if I had to. But it was plain and also well lit. No chamber of horrors, just a small built out room with a desk, a chair, and a secondhand couch that had seen better days. Some small t.v. monitors, a tiny fridge, and a harsh, industrial fluorescent light over head. Steve was on his cell phone and smiled at me to sit down, before turning back to his conversation. I chose to stand. Noticed an old poster for auto tools and the sleazy bitch that flaunted them. An aluminum flight case by Steve's desk. His laptop, open and screen-saving. And another plain door; steel with locks. Obviously it lead to the rest of the bay...
My heart was pounding in my neck.
Steve's conversation was indeterminate. "Yes." "Right." "Of course." "We'll get it done." "Thanks." And he hung up and turned to me. "You made it!" he smiled. Then he said, "OH!" as if he surprised himself and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the biggest roll of cash I'd ever seen, unsnapped the ridiculously undersized rubber band and started counting out one fifty dollar bills. He then motioned for me to hold out my hand and he smiled as he leafed them into my palm one by one; he paused at two fifty, smiled and winked, and continued to five hundred. Then he pocketed his roll and sat back a safe distance to give me my space as I considered.
"See?" he smiled, "Now don't freak out. Sometimes business is business and there's nothing weird about it."
"I don't know. I mean..."
"Wait, just to show you that I have to protect myself too, I need to see your driver's license."
"I'm 28, Steve. I told you that the night we met."
"I know. Just humor me."
He took my license and looked it over, then, he took a hand-scanner and ran it over on the desk.
"There. For my records. Now we're both safe."
"I don't get it?"
"I'm going to explain. Want to meet the woman?"
"Uh? Yeah, I guess. Is she coming soon?" I was awkward. I wanted some wine. I wanted to leave. I wanted to stay.
"Here. Come with me..." And he motioned to the other door where he flipped some dead-bolts. Inside was an even smaller room with a large window on the back wall. It was dimly lit; mostly from the light of the window. There were electronic gadgets and a microphone by the window. Another laptop.
"Come on. Don't be shy. You can see her through that window. It's a two way mirror, that's why we keep it dark on this side. It's okay, she can't see or hear you. It's like I told you, "discretion rules here" Its the most important rule." He walked casually to the large window, me following a nervous two steps behind.
Beyond the smoky glass is a woman in what looks like her mid thirties, smartly dressed in a designer silk blouse, trim black skirt, and strappy heels. She was buckled to a table with bands of nylon or something. She was obviously nervous; but laid motionless, her eyes darting this way and that. The room is really dark but for one large operating light hanging over her. It must have been blinding. Steve picks up a small mic and clicks it on, "We are going to start soon," he says curtly and professionally, then clicks the mic off abruptly. The woman mouths something we can't hear and tries to crane her neck but she is strapped down at her forehead. The whole scene is terrifying yet, I feel a twinge see her in so tightly bound. Steve smiles and pulls me away. "Here, sit down, I'll explain."
I was paralyzed with intrigue and fear as Steve laid it out with all the smooth frankness and nonchalance I had come to expect from him. It was frightening, but as he spoke, it was somehow perfectly acceptable in a twisted way. I had no fear of Steve. He commanded a sly kind of respect, and a weird kind of trust.
This was not a BDSM club or a private encounter. He and his unseen partners were in the business of extortion. They called what they do a "Catch and Release" They target wealthy women who have, or who's husbands have, a lot of money. They prefer corrupt wealthy folks with dirty money, because they are less likely to report the encounter. The wife is monitored and trailed for her weekly habits, then, is "caught" and brought here to be encouraged to give up her bank account and PIN numbers, which are then accessed electronically and cash is transferred to an untraceable account. The woman is then boxed up and released in another location and advised that it can happen again if she says anything. Mostly the woman never say anything, but even if they do, they have no idea who took them or where. They are also less likely to report money that the IRS does not know they have. Steve smiles again.
"So... this "encouragement"?" I asked slowly.
"Yes. That's what we do here. This is what we do. We encourage them to be cooperative... we use torture."
"Like cuttin' off fingers n'stuff? Forget it!"
"Ha! No. Nothing like that. And we can't risk any permanent damage or else someone might take it too personally. We need them more fearful of the IRS than us. Rule three: No permanent damage or maiming. We want the experience to be dreadful enough that they are scared and never want it to happen again... but thankful that they are released and too humiliated to tell the tale. As far as hubby is concerned, she just blew her bank account on a wild shopping spree. The wife usually lies about it."
"What's rule One and Two?"
"Rule one we covered. Discretion at all times. Rule two is, 'No names.' For now on, you will never call me Steve while we are here. You will call me 'Mr. A'. And I will always call you, 'Ms. B'. That is, if we need to address each other at all. For the first few sessions, you should just listen and watch, and only do as I instruct."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, that's why you are here. I'm going to make you into my apprentice torturer."
I swallow hard. Wanting more but wanting to run.
"But.. I don't know..."
"I'm going to teach you. I will teach you how to bind a victim. How to insight psychological fear. How to incite panic. How to bring the senses to the brink. How to..."
"Oh my god!"
"How to whip and slap. I will teach you how to induce utter helplessness. How to run electricity. How to sexually torture, tease, and humiliate. I'll teach the you the art of tickle torture.
My mouth was hanging open at "sexual torture" but I involuntarily smirked when he said "tickle torture."
"No," He moved closer, "Don't think for a minute we're fooling around here."
"No. I'm sorry. I know you're your serious. But... tickling? Really? That's like, for kids and teenagers."
Steve smiles but then awash with seriousness about his craft. "This is not friendly boyfriend girlfriend tickling, this is extreme tickling. Forced laughter. Involuntary torment of the nerve endings. When applied to a victim that is susceptible, and there are ways to make someone susceptible, it is an inescapable, unrelenting torment that leaves no marks. Ask anyone in the BDSM community what they would rather endure. Tickling is not one of them. We take pride in applying it here in long, slow, sessions that produce results. Coincidentally, I found out that woman in there is very ticklish. I was saving her for you."
My pussy was wet. It could have been all the excitement, but it was seeping for sure at "I was saving her for you."
So now I have this dilemma. A moral crisis of conscience. Here I am stuck in an awkward and insane situation. My sexual fantasy has come to life in the seemingly caring and benevolent hands of mobsters. Who, I'm sure, would have no qualms about putting ME on that table. They have a copy of my driver's license, and they now know where I live and everything else about me. They want to pay me a wad of cash to become an apprentice in an extremely illegal activity which breaks probably every Federal Law there is.
"Steve... I mean, 'Mr. A'. What do I have to do?" I stutter. Fear and excitement both.
"It's like I told you. You will go in there with me tonight, and we, together, under my instruction, are going to torture that bitch until she talks," he smiles, "But first, as I promised, I want you to step outside and mull it over. Keep the money I gave you. And if you don't come back, keep your mouth shut." And he smiled a different kind of smile.
I walked out to the car and lit a cigarette.
I called my boyfriend.
"Hi! We're all done here, just wanted you to know she's moved in fine. I'm going over her friends house for girls night. My phone will be 'off'. Bye!"
I recount the wad of bills in my pocket, snuff my cigarette, and walk back inside.
~ To be continued.
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. MF/F, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
It took a while for me to decide what to do. No, I knew I wanted to go, but I couldn't decide what to wear! I know it sounds totally retarded, but, I mean, what does one wear to a first time ever BDSM encounter? Slutty? Formal? Studious? I mean... seriously. So I went with normal, knock-around jeans, sneaks, and a tee. Casual. And in case I needed to bolt. Heh.
I Googled the address and it was a Public Storage yard on a lonely stretch of a back highway. But it was a legitimate national company, and I was sure it was well-lit and had security guards. All the better. I called my boyfriend and left a message that I was going to such and such storage to help a friend move and I would call him by midnight to check in. I thought then if anything happened, they'd at least know where I was going at what time. I was awash with fear, paranoia, and oh so hopeful of a fantasy. Like I said, my heart was pounding the whole way there.
When I pulled up to the storage yard the gate opened like they were expecting me and, I swear, I almost backed out... but I drove in and started looking for the bay number. The whole way I was cussing myself for being "stupid" and my mind played the news reports of my body found in a storage unit on tomorrow's news. But there it was. I pulled up to Bay S-9 between its bright orange garage and the little windowless door next to it. The yard was well-lit and there was a dude riding around in one of those little golf-carts. A rent-a-cop to be sure... but I felt better.
I knocked lightly on the door and for a minute I thought I was played. There was no sound from inside, (but then again, what the fuck was I expecting?) The door popped open and Steve smiled at me warmly, then ran an eye over my shoulder as if to make sure I was alone. "Hi! C'mon in!" And he retreated inside as if he were pleasantly interrupted. I only took one step inside, just so I could size up the place and make a hasty back-peddle if I had to. But it was plain and also well lit. No chamber of horrors, just a small built out room with a desk, a chair, and a secondhand couch that had seen better days. Some small t.v. monitors, a tiny fridge, and a harsh, industrial fluorescent light over head. Steve was on his cell phone and smiled at me to sit down, before turning back to his conversation. I chose to stand. Noticed an old poster for auto tools and the sleazy bitch that flaunted them. An aluminum flight case by Steve's desk. His laptop, open and screen-saving. And another plain door; steel with locks. Obviously it lead to the rest of the bay...
My heart was pounding in my neck.
Steve's conversation was indeterminate. "Yes." "Right." "Of course." "We'll get it done." "Thanks." And he hung up and turned to me. "You made it!" he smiled. Then he said, "OH!" as if he surprised himself and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the biggest roll of cash I'd ever seen, unsnapped the ridiculously undersized rubber band and started counting out one fifty dollar bills. He then motioned for me to hold out my hand and he smiled as he leafed them into my palm one by one; he paused at two fifty, smiled and winked, and continued to five hundred. Then he pocketed his roll and sat back a safe distance to give me my space as I considered.
"See?" he smiled, "Now don't freak out. Sometimes business is business and there's nothing weird about it."
"I don't know. I mean..."
"Wait, just to show you that I have to protect myself too, I need to see your driver's license."
"I'm 28, Steve. I told you that the night we met."
"I know. Just humor me."
He took my license and looked it over, then, he took a hand-scanner and ran it over on the desk.
"There. For my records. Now we're both safe."
"I don't get it?"
"I'm going to explain. Want to meet the woman?"
"Uh? Yeah, I guess. Is she coming soon?" I was awkward. I wanted some wine. I wanted to leave. I wanted to stay.
"Here. Come with me..." And he motioned to the other door where he flipped some dead-bolts. Inside was an even smaller room with a large window on the back wall. It was dimly lit; mostly from the light of the window. There were electronic gadgets and a microphone by the window. Another laptop.
"Come on. Don't be shy. You can see her through that window. It's a two way mirror, that's why we keep it dark on this side. It's okay, she can't see or hear you. It's like I told you, "discretion rules here" Its the most important rule." He walked casually to the large window, me following a nervous two steps behind.
Beyond the smoky glass is a woman in what looks like her mid thirties, smartly dressed in a designer silk blouse, trim black skirt, and strappy heels. She was buckled to a table with bands of nylon or something. She was obviously nervous; but laid motionless, her eyes darting this way and that. The room is really dark but for one large operating light hanging over her. It must have been blinding. Steve picks up a small mic and clicks it on, "We are going to start soon," he says curtly and professionally, then clicks the mic off abruptly. The woman mouths something we can't hear and tries to crane her neck but she is strapped down at her forehead. The whole scene is terrifying yet, I feel a twinge see her in so tightly bound. Steve smiles and pulls me away. "Here, sit down, I'll explain."
I was paralyzed with intrigue and fear as Steve laid it out with all the smooth frankness and nonchalance I had come to expect from him. It was frightening, but as he spoke, it was somehow perfectly acceptable in a twisted way. I had no fear of Steve. He commanded a sly kind of respect, and a weird kind of trust.
This was not a BDSM club or a private encounter. He and his unseen partners were in the business of extortion. They called what they do a "Catch and Release" They target wealthy women who have, or who's husbands have, a lot of money. They prefer corrupt wealthy folks with dirty money, because they are less likely to report the encounter. The wife is monitored and trailed for her weekly habits, then, is "caught" and brought here to be encouraged to give up her bank account and PIN numbers, which are then accessed electronically and cash is transferred to an untraceable account. The woman is then boxed up and released in another location and advised that it can happen again if she says anything. Mostly the woman never say anything, but even if they do, they have no idea who took them or where. They are also less likely to report money that the IRS does not know they have. Steve smiles again.
"So... this "encouragement"?" I asked slowly.
"Yes. That's what we do here. This is what we do. We encourage them to be cooperative... we use torture."
"Like cuttin' off fingers n'stuff? Forget it!"
"Ha! No. Nothing like that. And we can't risk any permanent damage or else someone might take it too personally. We need them more fearful of the IRS than us. Rule three: No permanent damage or maiming. We want the experience to be dreadful enough that they are scared and never want it to happen again... but thankful that they are released and too humiliated to tell the tale. As far as hubby is concerned, she just blew her bank account on a wild shopping spree. The wife usually lies about it."
"What's rule One and Two?"
"Rule one we covered. Discretion at all times. Rule two is, 'No names.' For now on, you will never call me Steve while we are here. You will call me 'Mr. A'. And I will always call you, 'Ms. B'. That is, if we need to address each other at all. For the first few sessions, you should just listen and watch, and only do as I instruct."
"Excuse me?"
"Well, that's why you are here. I'm going to make you into my apprentice torturer."
I swallow hard. Wanting more but wanting to run.
"But.. I don't know..."
"I'm going to teach you. I will teach you how to bind a victim. How to insight psychological fear. How to incite panic. How to bring the senses to the brink. How to..."
"Oh my god!"
"How to whip and slap. I will teach you how to induce utter helplessness. How to run electricity. How to sexually torture, tease, and humiliate. I'll teach the you the art of tickle torture.
My mouth was hanging open at "sexual torture" but I involuntarily smirked when he said "tickle torture."
"No," He moved closer, "Don't think for a minute we're fooling around here."
"No. I'm sorry. I know you're your serious. But... tickling? Really? That's like, for kids and teenagers."
Steve smiles but then awash with seriousness about his craft. "This is not friendly boyfriend girlfriend tickling, this is extreme tickling. Forced laughter. Involuntary torment of the nerve endings. When applied to a victim that is susceptible, and there are ways to make someone susceptible, it is an inescapable, unrelenting torment that leaves no marks. Ask anyone in the BDSM community what they would rather endure. Tickling is not one of them. We take pride in applying it here in long, slow, sessions that produce results. Coincidentally, I found out that woman in there is very ticklish. I was saving her for you."
My pussy was wet. It could have been all the excitement, but it was seeping for sure at "I was saving her for you."
So now I have this dilemma. A moral crisis of conscience. Here I am stuck in an awkward and insane situation. My sexual fantasy has come to life in the seemingly caring and benevolent hands of mobsters. Who, I'm sure, would have no qualms about putting ME on that table. They have a copy of my driver's license, and they now know where I live and everything else about me. They want to pay me a wad of cash to become an apprentice in an extremely illegal activity which breaks probably every Federal Law there is.
"Steve... I mean, 'Mr. A'. What do I have to do?" I stutter. Fear and excitement both.
"It's like I told you. You will go in there with me tonight, and we, together, under my instruction, are going to torture that bitch until she talks," he smiles, "But first, as I promised, I want you to step outside and mull it over. Keep the money I gave you. And if you don't come back, keep your mouth shut." And he smiled a different kind of smile.
I walked out to the car and lit a cigarette.
I called my boyfriend.
"Hi! We're all done here, just wanted you to know she's moved in fine. I'm going over her friends house for girls night. My phone will be 'off'. Bye!"
I recount the wad of bills in my pocket, snuff my cigarette, and walk back inside.
~ To be continued.
