I had a live one.
I lightly ran my fingertip over her parted lips. Small, short hot breaths flowed around my hand. “C’mon,” I said, and led her back to the dance floor. All the while she never took her eyes off me; eyes of uncertainty, a little fear, but mostly curiosity, and hunger. A hunger that grew as I let down my long, ash blonde hair, and only increased each time I commanded a new, bolder dance move from her as the night wore on. Then, when the time was right and we stood at the bar, catching our collective breaths, I wrapped my hand around the back of that beautiful neck that was just made for a collar and whispered, “Come with me.”
Letting go and without looking back I made my way past everyone, past all those looks that told me Heather followed right behind. Outside I took in a lungful of cool, fresh nighttime air, cleared my thoughts, thought of little Heather now beside me, then directed her to climb into the passenger side of my valet delivered Porsche. I had left the top down and we sped off on deserted streets, my blonde hair flying in the wind.
Heather didn’t say anything, but those eyes hardly ever left me. I smiled, patted her thigh in reassurance. But I had to strike while the iron was hot, so I shifted gears like Danica Patrick and used every ounce of horsepower to get back to my downtown loft as fast as possible. Once there I tossed the car keys to the all night concierge and directed Heather to the refurbished freight elevator. I pressed the key code for my floor and we lifted away.
In the stark, overhead light shadows cast themselves from Heather’s eyebrows down her cheeks, past her cute button nose to her chin. It seemed she already wore a mask or blindfold with her mouth set in a straight line, neither frightened or elated; a blank canvas, waiting for the right color and brushstroke.
The elevator stopped at my floor. A series of presses on my combination electronic key and the metal door audibly unlocked. I stepped inside, then found out I was alone.
Heather lingered, half on, half off the elevator. This was a crucial moment. Once in a while, when I brought a slave back to my place, they bugged out at this point. But I was always honest with the ones I captured, they knew my lifestyle, knew what they were getting into. I didn’t spring any surprises on them with a sudden cuffing of the hands from behind. Usually, if they got this far, then all it took was a gentle nudge to bring them the rest of the way.
I stepped back, took one of her hands in both of mine. “Come on in, Heather,” I said. “Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want to, baby.”
That got her. She acted as if she had just awakened from a long sleep, eyes blinking. They grew ever wider as she crossed over the threshold. I usually made no secret about my kinky interests, but I didn’t broadcast about it either most times. Spread throughout were the usual tasteful chairs, couches, tables, lamps and artworks, but in my domain, in my home, there were other things that also provided hints as to my lifestyle. And little Heather got an eyeful.
The loft was a converted two story, with half of the old ceiling taken out and stairs added for the upper level. From my bedroom space upstairs I could lean on the chest high wall and look down on the huge open space, especially during parties, and watch all the slaves writhe in torture. In one far corner on the right, opposite the stairs stood a whipping post; I hadn’t tucked everything away from the last girl I had writhing there, and ropes and cuffs still hung from shiny hooks. Near the center of the floor was an X-frame. Right now it stood upright, but it also could tilt all the way back parallel to the floor and hide as a support for a table top or remove the table and it became a convenient rape rack. Along the wall under the stairs was my equipment storage, all my whips, hoods, cuffs, ropes and whatever else I needed hung neatly from drilled in hooks, all easily covered up with a specially made false closet cover. Over to the left, near the kitchen/breakfast nook area was a wardrobe closet that held costumes for different scenes while next to that was a sturdy bondage pole that allowed me to taunt a bad slave with some tasty food while I ate. But my favorite, my all time prized possession, that I never tried to hide, was the cage. Right now it stood on the floor, halfway between the door and tall windows, the downstairs bathroom just a few yards to the left. Its round base provided good stability, but wouldn’t allow anyone to lie down and stretch out. The painted black and red bars were strong and spaced narrow enough so that no one could just bend them and slip out. But besides that a heavy duty electrical winch was installed overhead.
Sometimes, while I worked at my desk in my room upstairs or sat up in bed reading it was nice to gaze across the empty space at whatever punished slave occupied the cage as they swung over the floor far below. Usually, I took the slave to bed, but sometimes I got a SAM that just didn’t know when to quit. So I threw them in the cage, hoisted it to the same level as my bedroom and left them there all night. It sure was a nice feeling, knowing they were just mere feet away, swinging in limbo. Depending on the situation I’d leave them untied so that they could carefully lower themselves to the cage floor in the dark and sleep. Often times I’d wake up and find them still exhausted, their arms and legs dangling in space. But usually I tied them up, arms overhead or behind their backs. Of course, no matter what, they always got a locked on gag. Listening to terrified shrieks was nice the higher they climbed, but after all, I did need to get my sleep. And in the dark the mewlings of a gagged slave are so soothing.
Speaking of soothing, I had to make sure Heather felt at ease – at least for right now. I wrapped an arm around hers, drew her further into my home. “So...What do you think?”
Heather kept looking up, down, all around. “Oh...my...god.”
“That’s good, for a start,” I said. I don’t think Heather heard me, her eyes had settled on the cage.
I led her over there; gently guided her inside, shut the swinging bars, but didn’t lock it. “See, you can get out anytime.”
Trembling fingers wrapped around the bars and Heather said in a small voice, “But then it’s not really a cage, is it?”
My eyebrows shot up. Oh ho! “No. No, it’s not,” I said, and shoved the latch bar across the front with a clang. I backed up to the equipment wall and retrieved a sturdy, golden lock and put it to use. The lock’s click echoed.
“Now it’s a cage,” I said. While Heather inspected her new, shrunken world, I paced around the cage. Oh, she was hot. That red hair when grown out would seem like a flame, the pale skin would mark so well, the delicious curves of her hips, the thin wrists and perky breasts that basically screamed out for restraint and torture. Already my pussy ran hot at the idea of her crawling to my commands. We weren’t there yet, but we sure were headed in that direction. But there was one last test.
“Do you want to get out?” I said from behind her.
Heather turned around. Her eyes looked deep into mine. “Yes. Please.”
Through a sheer act of will I forced myself to remain calm, to keep my hand from quivering in excitement as I reached through the bars and cupped her warm, flushed cheek in my palm. “You can come out, baby. After you take off your clothes.”
Heather’s eyes widened, but not that much. Still, she drew back what little distance she could before bumping up against the bars behind her.
“That’s the price,” I said. I returned to the equipment wall, grabbed a cat o’ nine tails and the lock’s key. “Your clothes for this key.” I held it up, draped it by its chain around my neck and allowed it to nestle between my breasts.
Heather swallowed, lowered her eyes. She kicked off her shoes and, with her tiny feet, pushed them through the bars.
“So far, so good,” I said and twisted the cat’s blades to form a tight braid.
Bang! They hit right across the bars. “Hurry up! I haven’t got all night.”
Heather screeched when the cat impacted the bars, but her hands frantically pulled her halter’s top string at the base of her neck. The halter fell away and revealed a strapless bra.
“Move!” Bang! Another hit, this one nearer her face and Heather shrank back. “I said move! Let me see those titties!”
Heather scrambled to comply, hands reached up to the center of her freckled back and the bra fell away to land near the shoes. Modesty took over and Heather tried to cover up those perky breasts.
“No!” I said. “I said I want to see them. And take off those pants.”
Heather hesitated, just the briefest moment, but when I readied the cat for another strike her hands flew to the pant’s button and zipper. She wriggled out of them, then her white, cotton hip briefs too. Before she could kick them out of the cage I reached in, grabbed them and flung them far away. “You won’t need those the rest of the night. Now, turn around. Slowly. Let me see you.”
Arms at her sides, Heather turned about. She kept both eyes spotted on me though, as much as possible, wanting to see my next move.