The Gamblers 1
Author: DianaFiled in: bondage, slavery, anal sex, CELTs, series, future
The style was called “Anguish.” It was the latest fashion rage—dress your woman in haute-couture, bind her in some minor way, and then hurt her …just a little …just enough to draw out her beauty. It looked sophisticated when it was done properly, with a light touch.
This definitely was not the case for the contract-girl across the aisle. Her look simply wasn’t working. She was just a CELT of course, which allowed for a more daring presentation, but even so, one could only get away with so much skin, so much pain. In my opinion, the mark of a real sophisticate was subtlety.
Not that this girl wasn’t beautiful, quite the contrary, she was extraordinary—light brown skin, a face that could launch ships, shoulder-length chestnut hair, a long graceful neck; and tall, maybe five-ten, with an athlete’s perfectly sculpted body, one that came with hard, consistent exercise. Someone had really worked this girl to get such a figure.
It was difficult to nail down exactly what was wrong with her look though. Every part of her presentation was correct if slightly overdone; maybe that was it; maybe it was all just too much.
Pleased with my sudden insight, I studied her more closely over the top of my computer. She was sitting back on her heels, wearing a white sundress. This was his first mistake—a sexy sundress wasn’t appropriate for an airport waiting lounge. It just barely contained her full breasts and revealed more of her well-rounded ass than it hid. That dress would have worked fine in one of the island’s beach bars, but not here, not in the semi-formal stiffness of the first-class lounge.
And those shoes! She had worn expensive fuck-me heels that had been removed and were now at her side. I imagined her long legs mounted on those platforms, yum. This was definitely a rich man’s sex-toy…but why advertise it, I thought. Why, for instance, did he need to spread her knees? A demure knees-together position would have been much more effective—a modest counterpoint to her natural sexuality.
I could see a black thong between her legs. It barely covered the mound between her legs. I did have to admit thought that this was sexy, especially the way it slipped into her crack, creating a pair of, well …lips. I looked at her mouth then back to her cunt then back again to her mouth and smiled. Both set of lips were exceptionally round and full. Just right for warming somebody’s cock at both ends, I thought rudely.
Maybe someday I’ll buy my own CELT. I wonder what that would be like to own someone? This was a just a dream of course—people like me didn’t traffic in women; we didn’t have anything to do with the CELT business. Not only that, I didn’t have the personality for it. As much as I denied it, even to myself, I wasn’t comfortable around girls. That’s just the way it was, I thought sadly.
But I could still dream… I could feel myself getting hard as I studied her long, almost prehensile toes. People said that this was the problem with CELTs, they brought out the worst in men.
Not that this aspect of contract-girls bothered many people anymore. Consensual bondage was practically an institution now and CELT contracts were common. Didn’t I just read that 5% of the women in the U.S. under thirty were CELTs? Legalization made sense, I thought, with today’s overpopulation. People needed a way out of their poverty. After a few years a CELT, which stood for Contracted Escort-Long Term, could earn enough money to make a new life for themselves and often for their entire family. This made sense to a lot of people, despite the moral issues.
Of course, only a tiny fraction of the world’s billions, just the most beautiful, the healthiest, the smartest made it out this way. Natural selection, I thought. Maybe this was why there was so much prejudice against CELTSs?
But still…even with a CELT good taste was important. Just sitting there, his girl was giving half the room a hard-on. That wasn’t right. Most sensible people tried to avoid trouble by downplaying the sexual aspect of CELT ownership. This girl’s attire and her bondage were much too risqué for the lounge—more appropriate for a private men’s club or a bondage bar, I thought prissily.
Nowadays, it wasn’t that unusual to see CELTs bound, even hard-bound in public. (Although it was still shocking to some, it was fairly common in Manhattan for example to see a girl being walked on a leash with her arms bound. It was chic, fashionable…)
This girl’s owner seemed to be trying for that look. He had tied her wrists and elbows together behind her back with narrow strips of soft white leather. Another strap had been wrapped twice around her neck, almost like a fashionable choker. The leather was so supple that the ends were simply tucked in, giving her that perfect no-knot look. I wondered if this leather tightened when it dried, like rawhide; that would be something to watch on this one, I thought evilly.
Despite the appropriateness of it all, I grudgingly acknowledged that she looked incredible in her bondage—every man’s fantasy slave-girl. As I said, it was just…too much. Her sexy bindings were supposed to create an illusion, I thought. The “chocker” for example was making her pant like a dog and the elbow tie was pulling her shoulders back much too far. This wasn’t pain for fashion’s sake, it was torture.
Was I being too critical? The girl did look valuable—something you would see in a French fashion magazine. She also looked a little dangerous with that sleek, muscled body. Maybe the unusually harsh bondage and all that bare skin were intended to create an altogether different look—punishment for her haughtiness? Whatever, she was certainly stimulating a lot of fantasies.
Unconsciously, my mind started to drift. I imagined her with me in my shower. She was on her knees, wrists tied behind, looking up at me with frightened glances as I deep-fucked her soft mouth. Her luscious full lips gripped my cock hard and I could feel her throat muscles moving rhythmically, swallowing to take me more fully inside. In my dream, I reached down and pushed her away. She moaned in protest.
I shifted in my seat and surreptitiously repositioned my cock.
Back in the shower, the girl looked up at me confused, her mouth and tongue still moving, memory-fucking my cock. Fighting the urge to reinsert myself, I reached behind her and lifted her bound wrists. She scrambled to her feet, bending forward at the waist. I hooked a chain hanging down from the shower’s ceiling to her wrists and then expertly tied her forearms together.
I ran my hands along her back and flanks as I moved to her rear.. She was up on her long toes, the ridges of her leg muscles sharply outlined. I watched her struggle. The oversized mound between her legs darkened as it filled with aroused blood.
I moved in from behind, pushing my cock lengthwise between her pussy lips. I didn’t want to enter her just yet. By instinct she inched forward on her long toes until she was over my cock and then she pushed herself down. I heard her moan from the new pain in her arms. Cruelly, I laughed and started to pull out. Her cunt tightened. It was a delicious sensation, but I had another hole in mind this morning.
Squirting shampoo into her ass, I pointed my cock and pushed. She cried out, squirming. But the pressure was unrelenting and slowly I worked my way inside. In a few seconds she was fully impaled. Laughing again, I grabbed a leather paddle hanging nearby and paddled her wet flanks. Immediately, her squirming settled into a steady rocking motion—a gait. I enjoyed this for a time and then gave her a single sharp whack. She responded immediately, increasing her fucking speed to a slow trot. I waited a bit and then did it again and again. Each time she went a little faster. When she reached a full gallop, I exploded inside, triggering her orgasm. Quickly, I shifted my hands to her stomach to enjoy the contractions of her rock-hard abs.
Glancing around the lounge, I shook off the daydream. Even though no one had seen it, I was embarrassed. My cock was like a piece of wood and I thought about going to the men’s room to jerk-off. No, I thought, someone might walk in on me, but there was no going back to my computer now.
Instead, I resumed my furtive examination, focusing on the outline of her bullet-like nipples pushing through the dress. How did she get such large, hard points, I wondered? I didn’t think they were artificial, she just looked too young and fresh. But was anyone really born with such perfect nipples? What would it be like to grind them a little between my teeth? …stop it, not again!
This was all just too much, I thought. No wonder I’m sitting here getting off. This outrageous display was pushing me beyond my limits. I could tell from their shifting eyes that the others in the lounge, mostly vacationers and a few businessmen, had the same feelings.
In fact, the only person looking directly at the CELT was a plain-looking newlywed a few seats away, and her gaze was pure hate. Apparently, her new husband, a mousey man who was now studying his golfing magazine with way too much intensity, had been caught looking. I wondered what his married life was going to be like.
I shrunk down a little lower behind my laptop. Where did such a perverse dream come from? There should be limits, I thought, even for a fantasy. It wasn’t exactly my fault, though. The man who owned this girl was the culprit! In another airport in another country, someone in authority would have already spoken to him about their decency rules and about public punishment of CELTs. But this was the Caribbean. Things were done differently around here. Most of the time officials acted only when someone complained.
Maybe the plain girl will say something, I thought. Then again, why would she? She was probably enjoying the girl’s suffering, which now appeared to be quite intense. Her neck strap was way too tight.
Yes, she was definitely in trouble. I glanced around. Maybe some bystander will intervene? Unlikely I thought the CELT’s owner was an aggressive lout. This was obvious from the heated argument he was having at the counter with a petite, but determined ticket agent, something about a seat. Getting involved would probably result in an ugly confrontation and for what? Technically, the man wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was just a CELT.
Not only that, this was a public place. If she was in real trouble, all she needed to do was to ask for help, just give us a sign. Someone would help her. But uninvited, no; people in crowds just didn’t act that way. No one wanted to interfere, to look foolish. Certainly not me; I’d spent my entire life hanging back to avoid public mistakes.
This was really unusual though, I thought again. Despite her distress, she wasn’t making a sound. Normally, a contract-girl would be whimpering like a puppy by now. One of the people nearby would then warn the man in the same way someone would tell him that something was leaking from his luggage. Not a criticism, just one traveler helping out another.
As I watched, I could see that she was actively resisting this. She just wasn’t going to ask for help. Strange…typically the last thing a CELT wanted was to attract negative attention especially from strangers. They prized their lucrative contracts and went to great lengths to avoid even the hint of a serious problem. Problems might lead to a formal complaint, maybe even a legal action, maybe even contract nullification. This was extreme rare of course, but the threat was real. I was glad I had decided to stay out of it.
I’m a respectable banker for heaven’s sake, I told myself, here on business. How would it look if I actually got mixed up in something like this? I hadn’t even gone to the beach on this trip although I had secretly watched the woman and the hard-bound, half-naked CELTs from my balcony.
Maybe one day I could afford a discretely hidden-away contract-girl of my…
Our eyes met! She was staring at me. She was begging for my help, my personal help! I panicked and for a second I couldn’t think. It was as if someone had touched me with a live wire. Maybe I should notify the desk? Then again, she wasn’t really asking for help, not in the right way. She’s supposed to whimper, whine; maybe cry a little. This would allow someone to report her distress in the right way. What could I possibly say, “Ah, excuse me, Sir; I’d like to talk to you about the way you’re treating your CELT.” I’d look ridiculous. CELTs don’t just flash their eyes at someone and make him their champion. Not only that, it would embarrass and insult her owner, and no matter how big a jerk he was…
Anyway, the rules were different for her. It wasn’t as if a normal person was in trouble. Legally, she wasn’t much more than a pet. So what if she suffers a little. I broke eye contact and starred down at the keyboard. Maybe she will get someone else’s attention if I ignore her. I really don’t want to get involved in this. I started to work feverishly on my spreadsheet. I had no idea of what I was typing. I just didn’t want to get involved.
I typed gibberish for almost a minute then I looked up. She was still watching me as she worked to suck air into her lungs, but no longer pleading with her eyes. Clearly, she had given up on me as her champion. I felt relief then, without warning, she started to swoon; I could see her struggling desperately to take in more air. After a few seconds, her color returned. There was perspiration on her upper lip. She looked at me defiantly with her nostrils flared. Then she turned away.
This was totally ridiculous. What could I do? Let the bitch suffer! This fucking CELT had too much pride for her own good. She was bringing this trouble on herself. I could feel myself getting angry. How dare she drag me, a total stranger, into her problem?
No, it was definitely better to just stay out of this. I resumed my nonsense typing. In the back of my mind, however, I could hear a small voice repeating one word softly over and over—coward—and deep inside I knew it was true.
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