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Beauties in Bondage

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A slave club hidden away in the Arizona desert is the setting for an incredible tale of the Bondagers and their unfortunate victims. Sadistic acts performed on the young ladies of this modern-day harem soon tame the haughtiness of would-be slaves and total submission and degradation become a way of life. Sheila Andrews learns the hard way to become a cheerful, pliable, subjugated mistress for her sado-erotic fiance, and picks up a slave for her special kind of desires along the way.

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The Beauties in Bondage

Kenneth Harding

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.

CHAPTER ONE

Sheila Andrews indignantly twisted herself out of Granville Tomlinson's grasp, and slapped his face, her eyes blazing. “I don't ever want to see you again, Granville,” she scathingly declared, her breathing erratic as her magnificent closely-spaced round titties rose and fell with the vehemence of her shamed anger. “If that's all you want from a girl, you'd better find yourself a whore, because I'm not that sort. It's a good thing we came to understand each other before this got serious. Now please don't phone me or annoy me any more, or I'll put you under a peace bond.” With this, she slammed the door of her apartment, turned the lock, and walked back to the couch, trembling violently, in aftermath. Walking over to the sideboard near the bay window, she opened the cut-glass decanter of Scotch and poured herself a stiff drink, then downed it nearly at a gulp. She stood there a moment, fighting to regain her even breathing, and then sat down on the couch, still fuming.

She had never been so insulted in all her life, and she still couldn't believe that he hadn't been joking. Here they had been engaged for three months, and out of the clear sky this pleasant, brown haired, soft-spoken man who worked down the hall from her in the Chicago advertising agency of Porton, Davidson & Semmering had as much as invited her to join him in an orgiastic secret club in which she would be expected to give her body to any man or woman member who lusted for it. At least, that was the way she had interpreted his remarks. The audacity, the brazen, filthy nastiness of the man!

Sheila Andrews was twenty-three, with a magnificent, thick mane of coppery red hair which fell below her shoulder blades. Five feet six inches in height, delectably proportioned with round firm titties, a breathtakingly undulating, shapely behind whose round, tightly compact globes executed a suggestively lascivious, rhythmic shifting as she walked. Sheila Andrews had come to Chicago just eight months ago from a little farm town in southern Illinois, where she had been attending a girl's college and intended to be a teacher until the sudden death of both her father and mother at the same time from a contagious virus attack. Her father had left her enough insurance to tide her over for a year or two, but she had found a job as a receptionist in the advertising agency. A few weeks after that, Granville Tomlinson had stopped by her desk to tell her that he was going to lunch and where he was going after that, and had remained to chat a little and to discover that both of them liked books and old historical movies. From then on, the pattern had been pleasantly eventful, beginning with dinners at excellent restaurants, occasional movies or perhaps a play or a concert till finally he had asked her to marry him just two weeks ago. And she'd said yes. And now this!

Sheila was a virgin, but only technically. Back in high school, she had tasted love's dualistic pleasures just enough to realize that she was extremely passionate and that it needed only the right circumstance and partner to channel her emotions into fruition. There had been a very brief but exquisitely bittersweet episode with a young civics teacher named Evelyn Amston, a handsome brown-haired young woman of twenty-eight, who had asked her over to her apartment for tea and had wanted to discuss Sheila's term paper. During the serving of refreshments, Evelyn Amston had awkwardly tilted the teapot and wet Sheila's frock. She'd made a great fuss about how sorry she was, and had hurried to help Sheila out of the frock. Then, when the delectable red-haired teenager had stood there in just her slip, bra, and panties, Evelyn Amston had moved to her, her slim hands caressing the girl's sides and moving down to her bottom which she had begun to squeeze amorously. Then she had kissed Sheila, and delicately intruded the tip of her pert pink tongue until a wave of sensual wakening had swirled over the young girl's being.

Before that afternoon had ended, Sheila had found herself lying on the teacher's couch in just her stockings, elastic garters, and her bra, being gamahuched by the mature brownette lesbian, half fainting from the exquisite thrill of being drawn to a quaking, seething come.

She had yearned to go back to Evelyn Amston's apartment and renew that exquisite, lyrical lovemaking, but the very next week her civics teacher had been unaccountably missing and the principal had made a brief announcement during assembly that Miss Amston had been called back to the East because of the death of her parents and that there would be a replacement arriving in a few days.

And then, during her freshman year at the girls' college, Sheila had known what it was like to neck with a magnetic young man whose very touch and kiss made her pulse beat faster and the lips of her pussy twitch and moisten with a titillating anticipation that would inevitably lead to a good hard fucking, except that he had very thoughtfully held back from making her go all the way.

It had been Peter Blount, a twenty-one year old senior from a nearby men's college, who had met her in the little town one Saturday afternoon while she was out shopping, bought her a soda, and then persistently called her for dates until she had finally gone out with him in self-defense.

About two weeks after that, he had driven her down the highway to Springfield, turned off along a dirt road, and into an abandoned farm site, taken her in his arms, and begun to kiss her throat and titties.

Writhing and squirming in his embrace, she had felt his hand sneak under her skirt and caress her stockinged thigh until it encountered the satiny pale-white flesh and then on to the hems of her frilly little cotton panties until at last she had felt a forefinger just tickling the rims of her cunt hole. She had been drawn to as furious a come by that as by Evelyn Amston's Sapphic wooing.

There had been several torrid necking sessions with Peter after that, and she'd almost been ready to give him her cherry because the feelings that he aroused in her were just devastating. But he told her that he didn't want to take a girl the first time, that he respected her and hoped to marry her. And she had come to the point of learning how to take out his prick, use a handkerchief, and jack him off while he in turn frigged her pussy until they both had exquisite relief and yet avoided the involvement and possible risk of an unwanted child.

And then Peter's father had moved to the West coast and that had been the end of that romance. And that was all there had been for her until Granville Tomlinson.

This time she had really thought she could care for a man, and that Granville would be the one to lead her from excitement to the fulfillment of passion, to teach her all the mysteries, to make her feel at last what it would be like to have a stiff male prick burrowing into her tight warm cunt and wakening her to womanhood. She wanted to be a one-man woman, to belong to someone. And that was why his proposition, detailed to her over dinner at Maxim's, had been all the more incredible.

“I want to marry you, Sheila,” he'd begun, and of course she'd held his hand across the table while the headwaiter smirked knowingly and made a gesture for their waiter not to bother this handsome young couple for a little while. “But there's something else I have to tell you. I'm not going to be with the agency too much longer. You see, I've suddenly come into a lot of money very unexpectedly. I'll have a chance to do what I've always wanted to do. We'll have a chance to travel, and we won't live here in Chicago, Sheila.”

“I don't think I'd mind. Where would you go, dear?” she asked naturally.

“There's a place out in the Arizona desert, Sheila. And there's a sort of very special and private group of people living out there. We call ourselves the Bondagers. I'm going to join and I'd want you to come along with me.”

“That sounds very mysterious, dear. Who are they, and what sort of group are they?” she wanted to know.

“Well, the simplest way to tell you, Sheila, is that it's a sort of commune. They believe in doing what they want and having fun without the stuffy conventions that we have right here in our big city societies. There are men and women there who experience all the pleasures there are to know, and they are shared.”

“Are you suggesting that it's some sort of wife-swapping group?”

“Not quite that, dear, but the idea of sharing is implicit in their rules,” he had told her blandly as he had lit a cigarette.

“I think you'd better take me home. If this is your idea of a joke, it's not in very good taste,” she had flared.

He had shrugged, paid the bill, and then taken her home in a cab, dropping her off in the lobby of the North Dearborn apartment building. Seeing how handsome he was, and realizing how closely she was drawn to him she had relented a little and told him to come up for a nightcap so they could talk this over more seriously. Of course he'd come along with her.

And then when she told him, “Now tell me it was all a joke, darling,” he'd shaken his head and said, “It's not a joke at all. I'm going to be a Bondager, Sheila, and so will you if you marry me. Haven't you ever thought how exciting it could be if you were tied up and helpless, blindfolded in a sound-proofed room without any light, not knowing what was going to happen to you next?”

And then while she had stared at him speechlessly, he had gone on, “And then the door opens and you don't know who it is and you can't speak because you're gagged. Then you feel a hand touching your skin, but you can't tell whether it's a man or a woman, or perhaps even a boy or a young girl.”

And that was when she had slapped his face and told him that she never wanted to see him again.

It was a kind of fanciful nightmare and it just didn't make sense. She poured herself another drink, lit a cigarette, and sat staring into space.

Well, there would be other fellows, more normal, more dependable and maybe even more exciting than Granville Tomlinson. Naked and bound and blindfolded and gagged, indeed! He had better see a psychiatrist, she thought to herself, if that was the way his mind worked.

CHAPTER TWO

About forty-two miles southeast of Kayenta, near the ridge of the Carrizo Mountains and about a hundred and fifty miles from the Petrified Forest National Park, on the slope of a sprawling hill to the northeast, two new graystone buildings stood, anachronistic in this primitive desert setting, with yellowish ground and clumps of mesquite, yucca, and cactus almost as far as the eye could see. But the buildings themselves were concealed on one side by a row of dumpy spruce trees which had grown in wild profusion near this building site.

Just below them, along the plain ground, was a man-made airstrip and there was a hanger painted a dull yellow so that it would blend with the ground. In it were two planes, one a Piper Cub, the other a two-engine Beechcraft capable of riding six passengers.

One of the two buildings was rectangular, only one story in height, and here there were handsomely furnished rooms, soundproofed cells, and beneath, a kind of subterranean amphitheater with loge seats, a kind of miniature replica of the world-famed Colosseum of Rome.

The other building, close beside it, was two stories in height, and it contained luxurious quarters for the members of this singular, eccentric and extraordinarily wealthy cult who called themselves the Bondagers.

The acreage on which these buildings and the hangar were built had been acquired by outright purchase from the Land Bureau of the State of Arizona some twenty-eight months ago under the name of the “Borchard Air Freight Corporation.” Since this part of the desert was virtually wasteland so far as agriculture or urban development were concerned, there had been no problem in acquiring it.

The corporate name derived from Clement Borchard, the founder of the Bondagers, a man of thirty-six, with pleasant features, light reddish hair, whose father had been enormously wealthy and an aviation pioneer. Indeed, because of the reputation of his father's name, Clement Borchard had found it easy to negotiate for the tract of land which he wanted and which he had chosen after a studied and lengthy tour of such states as Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Montana.

Arizona seemed most logical; it was near the Mexican border, and there were almost no tourists or hikers or mountain climbers throughout the year, and those who did come, went mostly to the Painted Desert. Nor did Clement Borchard and his profligate friends care for intruders, which was exactly why he had chosen this particular locale.

For he, like Sheila Andrews' erstwhile fiance, Granville Tomlinson, was a devotee of flagellation and of bondage, of domination of the female, and his enormous wealth had enabled him to establish what amounted to a deluxe vacation resort not only for his friends and trustworthy associates, but also for clients who either wished to pay a fabulously high premium for the privilege of being guests at what he called “Borchardville” or to purchase a trained slave; or finally, to bring along a girl or young woman—usually a domestic or private secretary—who would, while they stayed there, undergo the pitiless and prolonged regimen of coercion and bondage to turn her into a submissive, humble, obedient slave-bitch.

It was the middle of April, and night had fallen over the Arizona desert. The rich purple and orange and dusky red of the sun had tinted the yellowish ground, dappled the spruce trees, made weird shadows on the mountains and hills and had its way with the gray buildings standing side by side and on the roof of the hangar.

Inside the main building, which might be called the “hotel,” dinner was just ending in a magnificent refectory hung with great tapestry-like drapes which ran from ceiling to floor and covered the opaque glass full-length windows which, during the daytime, were left undraped so that the filtered light of the sun would be sufficient to illumine the room.

The table was rectangular and made of teakwood from India, the dishes were the finest Sevres that money could buy, as were the silverware and the wine goblets. The table could seat forty, but tonight there were only eight present, three men and five women.

At the head of the table by natural right Clement Borchard sat, wearing a black dressing robe with red belt and sandals. He, like the two other men at the table, was naked under that robe, and stitched over the- left breast exactly over his heart was the insignia of the “Bondagers,” a pair of handcuffs through which the stock handle of a whip was thrust.

One of the other men was none other than Granville Tomlinson himself, who, after having been rejected by Sheila, had telephoned his good friend Clement Borchard and then flown out the very next day to enjoy the hospitality of “Borchardville.”

The third man was Magnus Fowler, a dissolute fifty-two year old Los Angeles industrialist, chairman of the board of a huge chemical manufacturing plant and now semi-retired, so that he might devote most of his time to the lecherous pursuits so dear to his sensual nature.

He was widowed, and had two sons enrolled at Stanford as engineers, and a fourteen-year-old daughter, who, with her governess, was attending a Swiss private girls' school.

He was nearly bald, his face fat and unpleasantly obscene, with broad nose, thick lips, a double chin, and beady little eyes with bushy eyebrows. As he sipped a pony of Grand Marnier, he shot covert glances at his latest mistress, who happened to be his latest private secretary as well, and whom he had brought from Los Angeles two nights ago, purportedly to aid him in recording the minutes of a directors' meeting.

He had quite another project in mind for Dorothy Selmers, and he could hardly wait to have the founder of the Bondagers announce an adjournment to the amphitheater building where her indoctrination into bondage and servitude were to begin.

The five women were all different and all intoxicatingly beautiful, beginning with Clement Borchard's own brunette wife, Jane, who sat at his left. She wore a silver lame cocktail frock cut low enough to expose the upper halves of her round, closely spaced, firm titties, high-heeled pumps, and black leather gloves to the elbows; all she wore under the frock was a nylon-elastic garter belt whose tabs hooked to the tops of gossamer smoke-tinted nylon hose. She was thirty-one, of medium height, with a sweet, winsome face. Her full red mouth, Grecian nose, rounded, dimpled cheeks, and dark blue eyes gave to the first-time observer an impression of candor and sweetness.

Conversely, she was as perverse and cruel a sadist as might be found under this roof on this warm July night. She had married Clement Borchard six years ago, and he found her such an indomitable spirit that, although he had mastered her physically and taught her to respect the whip and shackles of servitude, he had granted her a kind of equality with him in ruling this little select colony.

Then there was Mrs. Eva Perkins, a silver blonde, Amazonian beauty of thirty-two, five feet eight inches in height, wearing her hair in a coronet, with sumptuous pear-shaped titties set closely together and thrusting boldly against her gold lame frock, cut just as low as Jane Borchard's, and wearing red leather elbow-length gloves and pumps of the same hue.

She was naked too under that frock, except for garter belt and hose. Her husband had died of a heart attack two years ago, leaving her heiress to an eight million dollar estate in Detroit.

He had been an ineffectual, timid man in the bedroom for all his blustering ambition and ingenuity in the motor car business.

Early in their marriage, Eva had taught him how to be her maid-slave and had even trained him to wear lingerie and a maid's costume and to serve her at footstool, table, hammock, and to attend her at the toilet when she had to perform intimate and necessary functions.

With his death and the accumulation of his wealth, she had met Jane Borchard when the latter had visited an exclusive bordello in Paris, had been introduced to her by the sophisticated madame, and the two women had become fast friends. An invitation to join the Bondagers had subsequently followed, the fee for which was fifty thousand dollars, with annual dues set at ten thousand.

These funds, together with other sums raised by the charges to guests of members and proceeds earned from sale and training of slaves, were used by Clement and Jane Borchard in the rather risky and certainly expensive operation of sometimes abducting likely and attractive candidates for servitude. Also, in purchasing an arsenal of the most exotic and authentic flagellatory and bondage instruments and costumes and apparatuses.

The chef had been hired away from one of New York's most exclusive restaurants to work the year round at “Borchardville.” There was a hairdresser from Miami, a beautiful Swedish masseuse from Stockholm and elderly dressmaker from Paris who could design special bondage costumes, dresses, lingerie, and restrain garments and turn them out in a workshop that had every modern convenience.

In a word, it was a private little realm in which every possible desire could be catered to in the utmost luxury and comfort and with an absolute minimum of risk of blackmail or exposure.

There was a movie room where the latest Holly wood films were shown, another room filled with rare, out-of-print items which alone would have brought a fortune at auction to a discriminating connoisseur. There might be immediate enjoyment for the privileged guest or member making it unnecessary to leave his or her quarters to go to the amphitheater and the subjugation cells. Equipped with such devices as whipping benches, sawhorses, metal isosceles triangles, and other ingenious equipment on which the victim could be bound and posed in the most erotic and exquisitely painful ways.

It had everything.

Whipping benches!

Sawhorses!

Isosceles triangles!

Leather whips!

Chains!

Was there anything it didn't have?

Eva Perkins wondered.

Eva Perkins glanced casually at Dorothy Selmers, the unsuspecting private secretary of Magnus Fowler, and her thin lips tightened as her hazel eyes glowed with an endless desire. Although she was a dominatress over men, she had come here this weekend to buy a female slave who would gratify her in lesbian pleasures and serve her in all intimate things just as her own dead husband had once done.

She knew, however, that Dorothy Selmers was not for sale; Magnus Fowler had brought her here to break her in for himself. It could be true, of course, that all the guests present tonight would be able to enjoy Dorothy's subjugation, but only for the time of their stay. Next Monday evening, Magnus Fowler planned to fly back to his palatial home in Beverly Hills and he intended to take back with him a thoroughly submissive, dominated slave-bitch, who would be Dorothy Selmers herself.

Dorothy was twenty-six, with ash blonde hair set in a chic guiche bob. Her face was oval, with large, closely set gray-green eyes, a dainty aquiline nose with very thin, flaring wings and a soft, ripe mouth, perhaps a trifle small and denoting a certain selfishness of temperament. Her skin was a pale milky tint that, Eva Perkins knew, would mark deliciously under the whip. She was five feet six inches in height, willowy, with small, orange-like titties that were very firm and exquisitely proportioned. But her bottom was what most excited Eva Perkins, for it was spacious, comprising two broad, tightly set, upstandingly firm ovals, and her long, gracefully sculptured thighs and high-set calves, complemented this very exciting physique which was ideally tempting to a flagellatory instinct of a Bondager.

The other two women were sisters, both aggressive lesbians, the sole heiresses to a twenty million dollar estate left them by their doting father, who had been the living pillar of his church in New Hampshire and made his fortune in, of all things, cosmetics. He himself had inveighed against sinfulness and the idolatries of the flesh, little knowing that his two daughters in the room next to him spent their nights pussy-rubbing, sixty-nining, and seducing his own pretty young maids whenever they could.

The sisters, Melissa and Henrietta Lage, the former being thirty and a light brownette, her sister Henrietta being two years older and auburn, had come today for a female slave.

Clement and Jane Borchard had established a very exclusive coterie of thirty members of their cult, including themselves. Slaves for training and eventual sale often came through the auspices of the other members, as for example Magnus Fowler.

Indeed, only six months ago he had brought an orphaned girl, a pretty eighteen-year-old brunette whose guardian he had become, and callously turned her over to the Borchards for eventual sale to a Negro member of his cult, Lester Cowan, fifty-seven, a policy-racket king in the city of Atlanta. But since Cowan owned a ranch in a little Mexican province, his white slave was there under the supervision of his mistress and the foreman of his ranch, a sadistic Mexican who shared his Negro boss's penchants.

When members wished to procure slaves, they would make their desires known to their host and hostess, who would then set into operation an elaborate plan for the abduction of a girl who would fit the description desired. The cost of this operation would be borne by the eventual purchaser, to be sure. This evening, for example, there were just two slave candidates ready for display and sale, and they were awaiting presentation in the amphitheater.

Granville Tomlinson turned to his host and lifted his glass of Bristol Cream. “Here's hoping you can help me out this time, Clement,” he said eagerly.

Clement Borchard smiled as he lit a cigar. “It may be a little more difficult than our usual operation, Granville, but for the sort of money you're offering, I think it can be done. The girl lives by herself in an apartment on the North Side of Chicago, I understand.”

“That's right.”

“Of course, we'd have to kidnap her, drug her, package her, and get her out to her Beechcraft, which would probably land at Meigs in Chicago's lake. It would be touch and go, but I think it could be done. I have some contacts in Chicago, and of course our good member, Mr. Tanner, lives in Evanston and would be able to help us with the matter. You really have a crush on this girl, don't you?”

“When I offered her the chance to become one of us, she thought I was a queer. She as much as said so. She's a haughty redhead and, I suspect, extremely passionate.”

“But you're sure she's a virgin?”

“It doesn't matter whether she is or not. I want her as my slave now,” Granville Tomlinson said, his lips tightening.

“Well, I would need a deposit of at least ten thousand dollars before I would consider doing anything at all about...

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