The Audition · Part 1 (1/2)
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(Author’s note: Hi, this is something I have written as a stand alone story. For those of you who have read “Ingrid’s Proposal” I am continuing that story and will be posting more in a few weeks. You can contact me at maid2btied at gmail dot com if you would like to comment on either story. Enjoy, Gabriella.)
I check the address on the invitation again as the cab pulls away leaving me standing alone on a deserted street. The invitation was elegant; like one you would get for a wedding, black cursive script on a white card. It read;
You are formally requested to attend an audition for the position of sex slave.
Friday October 29 at 9 o’clock PM
#313 501 Broadway Ave. East
Business Attire.
The address turns out to be a large old red brick four storey warehouse probably dating back to the 1920’s. It is on the wrong edge of a section of downtown that was undergoing gentrification. The south side of the building borders an on-ramp to the elevated freeway that provided a gritty urban background drone of traffic noise. A railway spur ran down the east side separating the building from the murky water of the river. I look up and down the darkened street. All the businesses along the commercial strip are closed and locked with heavy steel shutters or grills. The lights of a new condo complex glow warmly a few blocks in the distance. They signal the boundary into the “good” part of the downtown. It is too far away for me to risk walking and there are no cabs around, any traffic in fact. I decide heading into the building to whatever awaits in Unit 313 is a better option.
It had been turned into a rabbit’s warren of studios and lofts mainly catering to the visual arts community. The occupant’s listing near the door is peppered with photographers, artists and a few seamstresses. I find the unit number and rang the buzzer. There is no response other than the clicking of the lock. I pull the door open quickly and step into the small dingy foyer, relaxing a bit as the door closes heavily behind me and the lock clicks home. Turning to see my reflection in the darkened window that ran up one side of the doorway I give myself one final appraisal. I want to make sure you will be pleased with my appearance.
I’d done research into what might be appropriate business attire for this sort of activity. Let’s face it; I am not going into a meeting with clients at the office. I felt I had done a reasonable job of duplicating the “sexy business woman” look from some porn sites I found with surprisingly little difficulty. Really the look should be called “slutty business woman”. The navy blue linen business suit is too tight on my tall curvy figure to be appropriate true office dress. A white silk blouse clings to my full breasts. I giggle nervously as I undo a couple of buttons on the blouse, exposing more cleavage than I normally would. My skirt is tight and short.
The round mounds of my ass are prominent as the tight linen stretches across my derriere. Standing the hem falls to well above my knees; when I sit the skirt rides up my thighs displaying a lot of leg. My 5’6 frame was boosted to almost 5’9” by the stiletto heeled black pumps I wore.
I lean in a little closer to the glass to check my make-up. I hope no one was standing out on the darkened street as I must look funny; apparently staring out into the blackness while making odd facial expressions. My olive complexion compliments the scarlet lip gloss. I wear no foundation or blush but did have on mascara and my brown eyes were outlined with a thin line of black eye liner. My dark brown hair is rolled into a bun at the back of my head. My neck looks longer as a result of my hair being swept up instead of falling around my shoulders in ringlets as I usually wore it. I wonder if you will put a collar me as I dab a tiny bit of perfume onto my neck. I nervously brush my hands over my suit to smooth everything out. I look as good as I am going to. Not for the first time I found myself hoping you would be satisfied.
Who are you? I think as I begin to climb the stairs to the third floor. You know so much about me from our e-mail exchanges but you had revealed nothing about yourself. You even had photos of me, nudes; ones that I had taken myself standing awkwardly in front the small digital camera with the self timer as you ordered. You obviously know where I live as you had mailed the invitation to my home address. The thought crosses my mind as I climb the staircase that I actually didn’t know if you were a man or a woman. Your e-mails were certainly written as if you are male but I didn’t know for certain. Your e-mail address gave no hint and you only signed your notes to me as “A”.
My trepidation grows as I get to the third floor. It must have been one large open expanse at some point but now it is split up in various units. The floor is heavily worn hardwood and the plaster on the walls bears the dents and scratches of years of use. Most of the doors are heavy steel that give no hint as to what was going on behind them. It was quiet now though. The only sound is the humming coming from a string of florescent lights that run down the center of the hall. Several tubes are burnt out and some flicker on the verge of going out. The floor creaks as I walk slowly looking for #313. I wrap my arms protectively around myself as butterflies take flight in my belly. It was hard to believe this was happening.
I am scared but I need this. I suggested bondage to some of my lovers and was surprised that the reactions ranged from tolerating to refusing altogether. While I enjoyed being bound by those who did indulge me, it never lived up to my fantasies. They were just too novice at it and were mainly interested in getting through the bondage part and onto the intercourse part. As one put it to me so sensitively; “All that tying up stuff takes too long”. Finding you through a locally based BDSM chat room gave me opportunity to experience bondage at the hands of a skilled dom. The months we’ve spent on line with each other led me to this dark and empty warehouse. This session is just a test, an audition. There was the promise of more if I passed. Finally I here I am standing in front of #313.
The door is open a few inches. I decide to knock.
“Enter”. It is a male voice. I step through the door. “Close and lock it” you order. I do and turn back to face the room.
There isn’t much to see. The space seems huge and largely empty. The ceiling is high with heavy exposed wooden beams. The wall opposite me was rough brick to waist high. Massive banks of led pained windows rose from there to the ceiling offering a view of the underside of the elevated highway. The only light came from a ring of halogen spots that were all angled to focus at one point on the floor. The rest of the space was shrouded in dark. My eyes are drawn to the far corner of the room, on the opposite side of the lighted circle from me. I see you for the first time, really just a shadow in the far corner. The black balaclava you are wearing masks your identity from me. I hug myself a little tighter as apprehension mingles with anticipation. I look back into the lights, unable to meet your stare.
A heavy wooden table and chair stand just on the edge of the pool of light. Several coils of thick rough hemp rope are laid out on the table along side a cat o’nine tails and a riding crop. There is also what looks like a leather drawstring sack lying there as well. This definitely looks serious. A hook hangs from a length of heavy chain that disappears up into the darkness. There are heavy rings bolted to the floor. I start to fidget with the strap of my purse and nervously tug the hem of my skirt, futilely trying to show less leg. I think I am supposed to be doing something but I don’t know what.
“Stand under the hook”.
I obey and step into the ring of light and stop under the hook which hangs about a foot above my head. Now I am blinded by the halogen spots and can’t see anything beyond the lights. Nothing happens for a while. I feel awkward, unsure of what I am supposed to do. Finally after what seems to be an eternity you speak again.
“Remove your jacket, blouse and skirt and place them on the chair.”
I hesitate for a second shocked at myself that I am quite willing to strip in front of an unseen stranger. I slip off the jacket and hang it over the back of the chair. As I do I see the strong wooden frame of the chair and wonder if you are going to tie me to it at some point. I fumble with the buttons of the blouse as I am trembling slightly. Finally the blouse joins the jacket on the chair. I have better luck with the zipper on my skirt and step out of it quickly. I straighten up and self consciously cross my arms over my breasts.
“Place your arms behind your head and lace your fingers together.” I comply and suddenly feel very exposed, very vulnerable.
“Push your elbows further back, stick your tits out and spread your legs” I move them shoulder width apart. “Further”
I move them as far apart as I dare wearing these high heels. Now I am feeling really exposed standing in my underwear. Again following the examples on the porn websites what I am left wearing has gone well past sexy and deep into slutty. The cups of the bra are red nylon covered with a web of black lace. It’s very low cut, designed to be worn under outfits with plunging necklines. The top edge of each demi-cup plunges in a deep arc across my breasts, just barely concealing the top edge of my areoles. The two cups join together deep in my cleavage, exposing a lot of skin. My dark and currently erect nipples push out against the sheer material. The position you’ve ordered me to assume forces my full breasts up and out. They threaten to spill out over the tops of the bra cups.
The black thong is really more decorative than functional as there isn’t much of it. It matches the bra; red form fitting nylon covered by black lace. The narrow waist band is also made of lace and rises in a gentle arc over the curves of my hips before disappearing into the cleft of my ass in a “Y” shape. Snaps on the waist band make it is easy to take off without removing the lace trimmed garter belt that holds up black sheer stockings. Now I wished I had chosen something more modest.
The sense of helpless exposure is made worse by the intense contrast of the bright ring of lights and the dark space of the warehouse. You can see me but I can’t see you. My world shrinks to be contained within the bright pool of light. Nothing exists beyond. The floor creaks and I sense you moving around me. I feel like a butterfly pinned under a microscope. My pulse is beginning to race now and my skin is tingly in anticipation of the unknown to come. A new wave of submissive desire washes over me. I chew on my lower lip.
“Are you ready for this?” The question is my last escape clause as we had agreed. I am scared but I nod my head and murmur yes.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes master?” I try.
“You haven’t earned the right to call me master. You will address me as sir until told otherwise.” You continue to move around me hidden in the shadows like a predator stalking a helpless prey.
I hear you stop and again nothing happens for a long time. I can’t see you but imagine you are staring at me from the darkness, appraising me. My mind wanders and I fantasize I am a slave girl on public display for perspective buyers. Or perhaps I am a political prisoner in a repressive regime and under trial by unseen judges for an unknown crime. My legs turn to jelly as I get lost in my fantasy coupled with the stress of their position. Your voice yanks me back into the present.
“Remind me of your details for the video I am making of this” I notice a couple of red blinking lights in the shadows and realize you are taping this from several different angles.
“My name is Gabriella Delbello. I am here willingly. I am 26 years old, 5’6” tall and weigh 130 pounds. My measurements are 36D-26-37. I currently do not have a lover. I agree to completely submit to you for whatever period you need to assess me. And I hope to be found pleasing to you, sir.” I add this last little bit on my own.
“Kneel and keep your hands behind your head!” you snap.
I sink to my knees on the hard rough wooden floor. My hands remain locked together at the back of my head as I settle down onto my heels. The position of my arms lifts and accentuates my breasts. It is as if I am offering them up to you. My arousal is building relentlessly. It’s obvious that I am at the mercy of an experienced and skilled master. I am scared and thrilled at the same time. I am breathing heavily now, my heart is pounding and I am getting wet.
I hear a coil of rope being removed from the table and turn to look. All I catch is a tight black leather glove pulling back into the dark shadows. You circle me slowly again and finally stop behind me. Leather clad hands grip my wrists and pull them firmly up so they are pointing straight up above my head. You slip a loop of the thick coarse rope over my hands and jerk firmly, welding my wrists together, palm to palm. The tails of the rope are looped in tight bands around my arms. When you are done a neat stack of coils forms a rope sheath from my wrists to halfway up my forearm.
Two long tails remain and are wound vertically around the coils cinching them off and ensuring that no amount of struggling would free me. The ropes are knotted off at the top of the sheath; just below my elbows. I am surprised to feel the ends of the tails dangling against my useless upper arms and wonder with a bit of concern what you intend to do with them. The ropes were tight before the cinching, now they feel like they will slice through my skin. I realize I have just been helplessly tied for the first time in my life. I struggle against the bindings to confirm what I already know, they are not coming loose. In fact struggling is painful as the ropes chafe my soft skin.
My stomach seems to drop like I am on a roller coaster as the reality of the situation sinks in. You’ve tied me and I am not getting free until you decide. This is what it feels like to be truly helpless.
I am kneeling, dressed only in sheer skimpy lingerie and spiked high heeled shoes. I feel dirty and wanton. I fight the urge to lie on my back, spread my legs and beg you to fuck me. Once again my desire shocks me as I struggle to accept that I want to lie bound on the grimy floor of a darkened warehouse and get fucked by a masked stranger. And so far there has been almost no physical contact between us. You are just playing with my mind. I am worried that I feel so overwhelmed when you have only bound my hands. What is it going to be like when you really start to work me over; could I take that? Despite it being a burning fantasy of mine I start to wonder if I’m in over my head. It doesn’t matter what I feel, I had agreed to total submission. You have tied me. I’ll not be free until you decide. My will means nothing.
You’ve moved back to the shadows. I hear the buzz of a motor and the rattle of chain. The hook hanging above me is attached to a winch. The motor stops and you step out of the shadows behind me. My arms are jerked up as you pull the loose tails up. I feel rather than see you tie them to the hook. When you are done I am left on my knees with my arms pulled straight up above my head. The symbolism of the position is obvious but effective; a nearly naked bound woman on her knees screams submission. A wave of passion rolls over me and another threshold of what I would willingly submit to is washed away.
I have no sense of time. How long have I been here? I must have been kneeling here for at least fifteen minutes. My knees hurt from being pressed onto the hard wood of the floor. My legs are starting to cramp from being folded under me. There is no sound. There hasn’t been since you stepped back into the shadows. Where are you? What are you doing?
Suddenly the winch starts again. Nothing happens for a second then the coils of rope tighten like a boa squeezing its prey. I’m pulled off my knees by my arms. I expect the winch to stop when I am standing but it doesn’t. It continues to pull relentlessly upwards. When it finally clanks to a halt only the balls of my feet and my toes are on the ground. Most of my weight is supported by the wrist bondage and as a result the rope is pulled so tight it feels like it will rip through the skin. I push up with my feet as best as I can. It doesn’t help that the heels of my feet have slipped out of my pumps but I do manage to relieve some of the pressure on my tortured wrists. After a minute or so I feel a burning in my calves. I last a little longer but then sink back down relaxing my exhausted calve muscles but renewing the strain on my arms.
My head is forced back as my arms are drawn so tightly together that I can’t push it between them. If I keep my neck up my face is pressed into my biceps. If I relax and let my head fall back my neck ligaments press onto my windpipe making breathing awkward. My entire body is stretched to the limit. My shoulders are pulled up and my breasts along with them. Each mound has pulled far enough out of the bra cup so my dark brown nipples are exposed. My hair brushes the skin on my lower back. This is what a medieval rack must have felt like. My stretched out muscles and tendons feel like they are about to tear. A dull pain emerges to wrap me entirely in its hold and with it comes a heightened awareness of my body. The aching is barely tolerable at this point and a quiet whimper escapes my lips.
“You are not marked in anyway; no tattoos, no piercings.” It is a statement not a question.
“No sir, but my ears are pierced.” I manage to pant out in reply.
Footsteps creak on the wooden floor. You are circling me again, unseen in the shadows, inspecting my nude and helpless body displayed for you. I hope you find me pleasing. I try to stand with a bit more grace but it is almost impossible to alter my position. So begins a relentless cycle of standing on my tip toes thereby sacrificing my calves and eventually my toes for a miniscule amount of relief on my wrists or hanging painfully by my arms to relieve my aching legs. Again time passes but I have no idea of how much. I’ve given up and let my head fall back. The lights are in my eyes and all I see is the rope, hook and chain that is the source of my misery. The pressure on my throat causes my breathing to come in quick gasping pants. My skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
I jerk in my bonds as I unexpectedly feel your leather gloved hands gently grasp my hips. The soft leather slides up my body and finger tips trace lightly up the sides of my rib cage. I squirm a bit in reaction to the gentle tickling sensation. Hardly making contact with my skin, your finger tips dance across the exposed mounds of my large breasts. You catch one of my dark brown nipples and roll it gently between your thumb and forefinger. The touch of your skilled hands makes it impossible for me to stand still. I writhe and sway in my bonds. Both nipples are trapped by your fingers and harden in response to your attention.
Suddenly you seize each breast in a talon like grip and pull me forward. My feet swing off the ground and I am held in a painful arch as my breasts are pulled up and away. I am whimpering and panting quickly trying to absorb the pain like a woman in labor. You hold me like that for a second, my tits feel like they will be ripped from my body and then you let go. I swing back down and my feet miss the floor. My chest burns painfully. The sensation is overwhelming and it feels like my entire being has been reduced to my tortured breasts as I am aware of little else. You just stand there and watch as I swing by like a pendulum. Eventually I regain contact with the floor and stop the swinging.
My head is pushed up as you move to hug me from behind. My face is pressed into my upper arms, blocking off what limited vision I did have. Your strong arms wrap around me, crushing my nearly naked body against your powerful chest. I sink into the feeling of your hug, surprised at the feeling of security your embrace evokes. You rest my breasts in the palms of your hands like you are assessing two melons. Your grip tightens and you begin to massage them, gently at first, then gradually building in pressure. Before long you are dragging them in circles, rotating the tender mounds of flesh in opposite directions; pulling them away from my chest, turning them into elongated cones.
I groan in protest but there is nothing I can do to stop your assault on my exposed tits. Despite the pain, I revel in the feeling of helplessness that I so desperately craved. A growing awareness dawns on me that the feelings of helplessness and submission are directly linked to the pain you are inflicting on me. I strain to thrust my breasts out, acquiescing and offering them up to your rough handling.
“Good girl.” You whisper into my ear as you feel the change in my body.
One hand slides across my flat belly will the other continues to massage my breasts. The hand in motion works its way across my pubic mound. I know the destination and try to spread my legs, offering you access to my moist and swollen lips. I can only spread my legs a few inches before I risk losing contact with floor and hanging by my wrists again. However it’s enough for you to slide you leather covered fingers over my pussy. You tease the blood engorged labia and I twist and writhe in your firm embrace, trying to increase the pressure of your fingers.
The strain in my wrists and shoulders builds with my struggles but the effort is in vain as you completely control me and move at your own pace. I am moaning steadily in response to your skilled touch. I feel like my body is a delicate instrument being skillfully manipulated by a virtuoso. I groan as you plunge a single finger into me. It slides in and out a few times. It is not enough to satisfy the passion smoldering in my belly but rather it stokes up the heat. Your finger pulls out of me and your embrace falls away as you step back. My head is jerked back by the hair and once again I am staring up into the blinding lights above me.
Something black moves across my vision and I feel your gloved finger press into my mouth.
“Lick it clean.”
I comply, the taste of my own pussy juices filling my mouth. I swirl my tongue around the digit and then suck gently on it, as if performing fellatio. The finger is suddenly yanked from my mouth. I hope you read my signal correctly. If I could, I would drop to my knees and take your cock in my mouth, pleasuring you until you explode, filling my mouth with your sperm. But I hang alone again, hot and bothered by your attention. The pleasure and the pain you have caused mingle together, each one made more intense by the other. I miss your touch already.
A loud cracking sound startles me and I jerk off balance, swinging by my arms for a second before I can get my toes in contact with the ground. I’d never heard that sound before but I know what it is; the cat o’nine tails striking the hardwood floor off in the shadows. It sounds like it will hurt if or rather, when the target will be my vulnerable body instead of the floor. Fear wells up inside knowing a whipping is imminent and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
I hear the first blow before I feel it. A loud crack on my back and then the pain erupts. It feels like scalding water has been thrown across my skin. A wave of intense heat spreads out from the path of the leather straps. Another loud crack, this time on my front and my breasts explode in pain. The blows follow a steady rhythm, building rings of searing flesh around my torso. I have gone from whimpering to sobbing to screaming. I try to twist away from the blows and lose my balance. I am swinging by my arms, legs flailing around trying to regain contact with the floor. You spare no part of my body. Blows rain on me from my calves to my shoulders: front, back and sides. Eventually I find myself flinching away from blows that never fall. The beating is over.
Finally I stop swinging and wind up standing stretched out tautly but at least stable. I am reduced to a quivering mass of flesh. My entire body is cocooned in pain. My skin is burning from the lashing. My muscles and tendons are on fire from being under such tension for so long. Sweat is carving little streams down my torso. My throat is raw. The pain begins to subside and I am left with an afterglow of tender and hypersensitive flesh. Now that is over, the beating doesn’t seem so severe.
What felt like crippling blows at the time turn out to be less permanent than I would have imagined during the height of the whipping. You are very skilled with the whip and know how to balance the trade off between inflicting pain and causing real damage. My skin still burns but with less intensity than before. I begin to think that I might be able to take another beating. But this first one was designed to give me an understanding of what being helpless under the lash feels like. It is merely a set up for what is yet to come.
I hear the winch start again and groan as it pulls upwards. I quickly lose what little contact I have with the floor and dangle painfully by my wrists. The chain continues to recoil into the darkness overhead until I hang several feet off the floor. My stiletto pumps fall to the ground. The ropes binding me dig more deeply into my tortured skin as all my weight is now supported by my wrists. The bones feel like they will be crushed from the pressure and my shoulders strain under the load. I whimper and moan in helpless agony. I spin slowly at the end of the rope, unable to stop the gentle turning. It affords me a quick glimpse of you stepping out the shadows with a long narrow white box that looks like those used by a florist.
I see that I am right as you toss the lid of the box aside to reveal dozens of long stemmed red roses. They look beautiful from the glimpse I catch and the dusty smell of the warehouse is replaced by their fragrance. I am surprised when you dump the gorgeous flowers on the floor forming a thick carpet beneath my feet. You disappear from view and I feel the winch rattle into motion again. This time I am relieved to feel it lower me as I anticipate reduced strain when I can touch the floor again. My sense of relief quickly evaporates as the soles of my stocking covered feet sink into the pile of rose stems. Sharp thorns poke the tender flesh.
I move around as best as I can to find somewhere to stand free of the thorns but to no avail. I don’t know which is more painful; to hang suspended by my wrists or to suffer the pain inflicted by these beautiful flowers. I know I will never look at roses in the same way again.
The table catches my eye and I notice the leather draw string bag is gone. It suddenly appears in front of my face as you stand behind me and pull it down over my head, enclosing me in a veil of blackness. The warm distinctive scent of leather fills my nose. The inside of the sack is lined with some soft velvety material. A wave of panic rises in me as the drawstrings tighten around my neck. I feel you jerking the knots home and relax slightly as I realize you are not going to strangle me.
Something cold and metallic touches my shoulder. My bra strap is pulled upwards and saws back and forth before suddenly separating. My left breast tumbles free. The right one quickly follows as you cut through the other strap. The bra cups now hang down across my belly as my breasts stand out naked, free from the ruined bra. The cold metal traces up my spine and then I feel the band of the bra tighten across my front as you cut through the strap near the clasps at the back. The brand new and relatively expensive bra falls to the ground. I didn’t realize how important the little coverage it did provide was to me until I stand, unable to see, with my full breasts exposed.
My hips are pulled backwards as you tug on the lace waist band of my thong. I realize with dismay that you are ignoring the hook and clasp and instead slice though the band at the “Y” join just above the cleft of my ass. I am reminded of the crude analogy of a thong as dental floss when you pull it back through my crotch causing the material to slip between the slick skin of my moistened pussy lips. I sense you move away from me. You are done stripping the naked helpless woman hanging from your ropes.
The Audition · Part 1 (1/2)
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