The man returned from the counter and sat down on the lounge chair next to the girl. He was angry, shoving his ticket roughly into a paper folder. I could see from the color of the folder that he was in first class, same as me.

“Fucking airline,” he muttered " /> The Gamblers 2 by Diana | The Iron Gate

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The Gamblers 2

Author: Diana

Filed in: bondage, CELTs, series, future



The man returned from the counter and sat down on the lounge chair next to the girl. He was angry, shoving his ticket roughly into a paper folder. I could see from the color of the folder that he was in first class, same as me.

“Fucking airline,” he muttered to no one in particular. I could tell that he was fuming. Then he looked at the girl and a smile seemed to cross his face. Without a word, he sat forward on the edge of his chair and moved his leg to hide the girl’s body. Reaching into his jacket pocked, he extracted two round metal objects that looked like thick metal washers. Careful not to let him see me looking, I studied them; they had sharp triangular points on the inside rim and push-tabs on the outer edges. Discretely, he pulled down the girl’s dress, squeezed the tabs, and pushed one over her bare nipple.

I was horrified. Her entire body stiffened and her bare feet curled into claws. The first shock of pain lasted only a few seconds, but to me it seemed to go on forever. Amazingly, she still didn’t make a sound. Then he did the same to the other nipple with much the same effect.

Numb, I thought about what I had seen. Those “washers” were actually circular nipple clamps, bondage toys. The pain must be excruciating.

The man settled back in his chair, pleased with himself. It was as if the girl’s pain had absorbed his anger. He seemed unconcerned that his vicious act of pique would be noticed by anyone.

I watched her out of the corner of my eye, still pretending to be focused on my spreadsheet. Sheens of sweat now covered her body and two trails of wet ran down the side of each tightly closed eye. Appalled and still feeling ashamed, I hid my face behind my screen.

“Hey Pal,” he called to me casually across the aisle. “Would you mind watching my stuff while I go to the John?” He pointed with his thumb to his bags and the girl.

I looked up, trying to look innocent. “Sure, sure no problem,” I said much too quickly.

“Thanks,” he said smiling. “Want me to grab you a cup of coffee on my way back?”

“No thank you,” I said with the barest hint of a judgmental tone. He looked me over as he stood up. Then, with a bit of irritation, “don’t let anyone touch the girl, OK?” His meaning was clear. …and keep your fucking hands off her as well. Then he seemed to think for a moment and turned back to her to remove her neck strap.

Glancing down to my lap as he passed, he smiled and gave a friendly knowing nod. Embarrassed, I realized that the computer had slipped down and the bulge in my pants was showing. I readjusted the computer and once again starred at the keyboard as if searching for a missing letter.

I should have said something to him, I thought, as he walked away, but who was I to criticize this stranger? She was his legal property. It might not be very polite or appropriate to hurt her in an airport lounge, but he certainly had the right… nothing to get very upset about. Was I trying to provoke a confrontation? Again I had the sickening thought of trying to explain my involvement to the people at work.

When I finally looked up, the girl was staring at me again. The two wet streams drying on her face. “Don’t let him rattle you,” she said softly. “That’s what he does for a living—shakes people up enough so that they make mistakes. I’m sorry I bothered you before. Please don’t tell him.” She seemed frightened; apparently he was capable of a lot worse.

“No problem,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Do they hurt?” Idiot! I thought immediately. “Do they hurt?” What a stupid question.

She nodded. “He uses them a lot…” she paused as another wave of pain passed over her face. This explains the shape of the girl’s nipples, I thought insensitively. Frequent use of the clamps had trained them into hard-points.

I was totally unnerved and before I could stop myself, another stupid question had passed through my lips. “Why are you with him?” I was appalled; it was a totally absurd and inappropriate thing to ask. Her face froze and she was silent. Why was I being so incredibly dumb? In the back of my mind I realized that I was trying to defend myself in her eyes. This was stupid, I thought. She’s just a CELT; who cares what she thinks?

She remained silent and despite my rationalization, I felt terrible. One didn’t apologize to a CELT, but maybe in this case… Fortunately, she raised her eyes and started to speak very softly before I could put my foot back into my mouth.

“I didn’t contract directly with him, Sir. My obligation was transferred.” Then she looked up defensively, “My family needed the extra money; my brother was sick.”

I was surprised; not at her sob story, everyone had one of those, but that she had a “transferable” contract. Almost all CELT contracts were non-transferable. A transferable contract meant that you might end up with a very nasty stranger, like this one. Three years of legal bondage, the typical contract period, could feel like thirty in the wrong hands. Not only that, but transferable contracts were much more difficult to reverse. The courts had ruled a number of times that the consenting adults signing such contracts generally accepted greater risks, and that bad treatment by itself did not constitute grounds for reversal. (I had been interested in this subject and studied the Consensual Bondage Laws of the 2120’s quite extensively while in business school.)

Still acting the idiot and probably still trying to salvage my pride, I pursed my lips and shook my head. Then, with a critical air, my eyes shifted to the outline of the nipple clamps visible through her dress. The meaning was clear—this is what happens to silly girls who engage in such foolish behavior.

She looked at me for a moment and then bent her head in silence. We had both said too much. In a few moments, the man returned.

After a time, the first boarding call was announced. The man reached over, and removed her bindings. He left the nipple clamps on under her dress and she made no attempt to touch them. She was well trained, I thought. “Let’s go,” he said. Painfully, she got to her feet and slipped on her sexy heels. Her legs were as magnificent as I had imagined. Then bending down as modestly as she could, she picked up a leather bag and followed him to the ramp, never looking in my direction.

I was the last person in the lounge to board the plane—too embarrassed and ashamed of myself to take the chance of accidentally bumping into either of them again.


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