EXTRACT FOR
Corporate Sex Slaves
(Ted Edwards)

    They worked together, forming a remarkably effective partnership for so disparate a pair. One of the chests was dragged into the centre of the room. Mitchell stood on it and threaded fine hempen rope through pulleys, tying it of to an anchor point, while Kaplan threaded it through his big hands to prevent it from twisting, at the same time standing close enough so that Mitchell could use his shoulder for support if needed.

      The bald man seemed to have time on his mind, because he glanced at his watch several times while the operation was in progress.

      "Okay," he said. "That'll have to do for now. Here." He thrust a pair of handcuffs at Mitchell as he jumped down. "Stick those in your pocket. Know how they work?"

      Mitchell checked them. "A combination lock?"

      Kaplan grinned, though his manner was becoming a little impatient. Clearly time was pressing. "Yeah, nice and easy: 1776, the year we kicked your Limey butts." He checked his watch again. "You awake?"

      Mitchell was very awake and more than half aroused at the prospect of what was coming. He didn't know what it was, but women had been mentioned, while he had a pair of handcuffs in his pocket and two sets of ropes dangled from the ceiling, their ends high enough not to be immediately noticeable, the free ends tied off to hooks in the wall. Yes, he was awake, all right; awake and eager to see what was coming. "I'm fine. Intrigued, though."

      "You won't be disappointed. Just don't freak out on me, okay?"

      "Sure." There wasn't much else to say.

      "Right, they should be here in any time now. I'll go to get them. While I'm doing that, shove that chest back against the wall. Oh, and get a couple of lengths of that soft cotton rope, will ya?"

      "Okay."

      "And smile, Limey: you are about to get your clinker raked!" He looked at his watch again. "They should be waiting outside in the ante-room. When I let them in, follow my lead. Say nothing, do nothing, but be ready to jump if I say 'frog'. Okay?"

      He forced a grin, made weak through mystification and a hefty dose of wary anticipation. "Yes," he replied.

      "Go take a seat; you're making the place look untidy. But don't fall asleep."

      Mitchell wandered to the box they'd just used to stand on. "This all right?"

      "Fine." Another glance at his watch. Light gleamed on that bald dome as the head moved down. He straightened. "I'll go get them."

      He was gone for several minutes, leaving Mitchell kicking his heels and wondering just what he'd got himself into. Just who was this man Kaplan? And what the hell was a torture chamber doing in the basement of a corporate office, even if that corporate office was in the centralised administration department that serviced the Big Six: Transport, Communications, Entertainment, Food, Industry and Clothing, all that was left of the millions of small business that had once flourished in the free-enterprise centre of the world? It just didn't make any sort of sense. It still wasn't making sense when the door opened again and two women walked in.

      His experienced, avid eyes took them in at a single glance. Young, neither more than twenty-one; one a pale blonde, the other nondescript mousy brown; the blonde a little taller, perhaps five-seven or a bit over. Both in the semi-uniform of secretaries: white, long-sleeved blouse, suitably opaque, but not so baggy that the breasts were hidden. Good pairs on both, especially the mousy-haired one, who seemed to be very well equipped. They'd be real, too: implants were still done, but it was relatively rare; they'd been common once, he'd been told, back in the old days. Now no self-respecting woman would be seen with them now: they were reserved for whores; of whom there was a high-priced multitude, all the province of Entertainment. The less you paid the greater the risk: why should Corporate America care when workers were two a penny?

      They both wore skirts ??" trouser suits were forbidden ??" cut to regulation length, an inch above the knee. Good figures and particularly nice legs on the blonde, despite the regulation low heels. Typical secretaries; he'd have spotted that even before he saw the white badges they wore, these ones with the large, central grey spot that identified them as coming from the pool. Fairly new employees, then, only partly trained. In the past - in Mitchell's not-so-distant past - they'd have been prime targets for people looking for an easy conquest. He'd even hooked a couple himself when he was between the upper-crust tarts he preferred. But that didn't happen any more: every office and room in every corporate building was subject to video recording and sexual harassment was a very definite no-no; even stopping a secretary on the way to an assignment was an infringement. The punishment was instant transfer to something hard and physical, like the production lines in Industry. And Kaplan had brought them in here to...

      Sweat popped as a wave of panic swept him. The place would be bugged, had to be! Which meant that... For an instant, he had an almost uncontrollable impulse to jump to his feet and make a run for it. What stopped him was Kaplan coming in and swinging the door closed behind him. It thumped with a heavy and, to Mitchell's ears, ominous finality. Then he glanced across at Mitchell, gave a half-smile, settled his back against the door, folded his arms over his chest and leaned back, looking at the two women with and expression of amused indifference.

      That thump had had an effect on the women very similar to that it had had on Mitchell. They had noticed him sitting there, but now they both swung, just in time to see the big, bald man cross his arms and gaze at them. With those particular eyes, thought Mitchell, that must be a pretty awful experience, especially for them. But the big man's appearance had the opposite effect on him: it calmed him. After all, he reasoned, the man had a black badge. Perhaps the rules didn't apply to them; certainly everything else seemed to be organised so that they could live lives of pleasure, comfort and indulgence while the rest sweated. Reassured, he settled back to watch, anticipation rising.

      "S... sir? W... what is it you want?"

      It was the blonde. Good face, Mitchell, thought, working from the memory of it, since she was now facing away from him: high cheek-bones, straight nose, firm chin; just the way he liked them. Good arse, he saw; not as full and rounded as the other's, but well-shaped, tight, complementing those superb legs. He imagined them wrapped round his waist and lust quickened.

       Kaplan's shoulders hunched as his head moved forward, peering at her breasts. "Margaret, huh? Margaret English; now there's a coincidence." A quick glance at Mitchell, another half-smile. Not the breasts, then: the name tag.

      "S... sir?"

      The two women moved closer together, though Mitchell wasn't sure that they were aware that they'd done it. It was probably entirely instinctive, driven by some inner instinct warning them that they were in a dangerous situation. He almost laughed; how right that instinct was going to prove! Then something caught his eyes, something swinging; he tensed, then relaxed as her recognised it: the little shorthand bag that secretaries carried on a strap round their wrists, a mark of their status as clear as the white badge. He'd never heard of them being used as weapons, but then he didn't think that they'd been carried in this particular situation before. Be worth watching that.

      "Never mind, Margaret. I'll tell you later," Kaplan replied, his eyes flicking to the other woman before coming back to the blonde. Those eyes were having their effect, Mitchell saw: both women's feet were shifting uncomfortably and he had the feeling that they were both trying to avoid meeting Kaplan's look; he couldn't blame them for that. He saw the blonde's back straighten, her shoulders come square and admired her immediately. There was courage there; she was going to fight.

      "S... sir, I don't think we should be d... down here," she said, the tremble in her voice not entirely due to the inner feelings she was having. She was actually questioning the orders a black badge executive and that took a lot of doing.

      Kaplan's head moved, the half-smile faded, but with his thick lips still curved, giving his face a look of slightly sardonic amusement. Now he looked at the other woman, again peering. "And what do you think of that, Pauline?" he asked.

      They moved yet closer. Any further and they'd have to join at the hip, Mitchell thought.

      "I... I don't know, sir."

      Back went the head and shoulders, the eyes moving back to the blonde. Now a hand moved from where it was tucked into the folded arms. Just a fraction, the index finger coming out to flick at the badge pinned to the lapel of the jacket. It made a pinging noise; for the first time Mitchell realised that the thing was made of some sort of ceramic, not common plastic like his. Another mark of difference.

      "What's this thing, Margaret?" asked Kaplan, voice mild.

      "Y... your tag, sir." Mitchell could hear the swallow before she spoke. He could see the knees trembling, the flesh between the tendons behind them twitching. Bells were ringing in her head, he knew. And there was nothing she could do about those warnings, because the man in front of her had that black edge to his badge and she was in terrifyingly unknown territory.

      "And what does this tag," Piiiing! as he flicked it again, "tell you, Margaret?"

      "T...that your name is Kaplan, sir. A... and that you're a V... vice-president."

      "How long have you worked here, Margaret?"

      "T... three months, sir."

      "You've learned well. Are you a good secretary?"

      "I... I want to be, sir. We both do."

      "Very good. And how are you at sucking a cock?" The voice hadn't changed a fraction in tone.

      Perhaps for that reason the words didn't seem to sink in for a moment, but when they did it was the smaller of the two, the mouse-haired Pauline who gave a whimper, taking a step back. Margaret, by far the bolder and more courageous, stiffened, her head coming back and up so that her chin tilted, the shoulders setting, though her feet did move back a fraction. Breath sucked in sharply. "Sir! That is... is sexual harassment! You can't do that! I must insist that you allow us to leave. And...," she swallowed again. "And I will report this."

      Kaplan smiled, his eyes moving to Mitchell. "You like this one, Limey? Got the right name for you."

      He saw the women turn as he started to speak. White, strained faces, full of growing fear. Any thoughts of retribution were long gone, vanished as he sat and listened to Kaplan playing with them. Now the lust in his was as thick as his voice. "I think she's absolutely bloody perfect," he said.

      "Then help yourself. Me, I fancy the tits on little Pauline, here. Why don't you..." 

      As he spoke, the blonde's face had changed. She looked at Mitchell as if he was some sort of reptile while what was left of the blood in her face drained away. "You caaaaaan't!" she wailed, hands coming up and balling into fists. Her head twisted, her body following it as she searched for another door. Finding none, she whirled again, this time to face Kaplan, her body rigid with fear and outrage. "You can't!" she shouted again. The other had turned again, was facing Kaplan. She was staring at him, apparently frozen in place.

      "... take care of her while I handle this little mouse?"

      "Noooooooo!" yelled the blonde. "Please!" Her eyes were on Mitchell, who had stood and was advancing on her. "This... this isn't..... it's a joke, isn't it?" But she knew it wasn't a joke: she could see the heat in his eyes. "Get away from me! I'll report you!"

      From the corner of his eyes he saw Kaplan moving, a white bulk shifting, moving fast for a man his size. There was a piercing scream, quickly muffled as he grabbed and clasped his victim. Then something else flickered at the edge of his vision. That bloody wrist-bag! Plastic, but with edges and corners. He ducked, grabbing her wrist as it whistled past his nose.

      "Nooooo! Let go!"

      He pulled her to him, hard. She stumbled, off balance, fell against him. She smelled fresh with just a hint of perfume and the faint underlying acridity of fear. That was going to grow, he knew. His arms encompassed her, a hand going to cup a breast. Firm, young.

      "Get off meeeeee!"

      She struggled, but she was no match for him, increasingly desperate though she was. He wanted to stay like this, letting his hands rove, ripping the clothes from her slowly, savouring her growing panic and desperation as the inevitable grew closer and closer. He wanted to hear and see the change in her as she experienced the preliminaries to and then the actuality of rape. Kaplan's voice broke that spell.

      "Hey, Limey! Fasten yours to the wall for a while and come and give me a hand here, huh?"

      He was holding the girl in a bear hug, Mitchell saw. He'd got the cuffs on to her wrist, shackling her hands behind her and was reaching up for the one of the ropes dangling from the ceiling. Unfortunately, it was out of reach, even for someone of his size; they'd forgotten to drop it before they removed the chest.

      "Please! Oh, please! Have you no decency?" pleaded the blonde, who had twisted to looking into his face. 

      She was a classic: fine features, blue eyes. Gorgeous. "You can," he snarled, dragging the cuffs from his back pocket while he held her with his free arm, "tell me how to spell it when we have a quiet moment." The thought of it made him leer; a gesture that had her face changing to a mixture of terror and disgust as she recoiled as far as she could within his grasp. It also distracted her long enough for him to find her wrist and snap one side of the cuffs on to it before she knew what was happening.

      "What are you doing?" she shrieked, looking down at the shiny metal on her wrist with new horror. "Don't! Please!"

      "Save your breath! You'll need it later!" He dragged her by the cuff to the wall. She tripped, fell to her knees, but he hauled her upright, drawing a cry of pain as the metal bit into skin. Pain, inflicted by him, the first time for ages. He felt the old, familiar surge of power. Up a little, another cry. Snap. She was tethered, going nowhere.

      He wanted to dally, play for a while. But Kaplan was waiting. The man he'd been cursing and dreading through the long hours of yesterday afternoon and evening and during the past night had suddenly turned into someone very important in Mitchell's life. Now he hurried to where he stood, the terrified woman tiny in his arms, her wide eyes panic-stricken, little mewling noises coming from her mouth. The top buttons of her blouse had opened, revealing the top of her breasts, or enough of them within the utilitarian bra to show that his first impression hadn't been mistaken: they were big.

      "Bring the chest over, willya?" asked Kaplan.

      Mitchell did so, noting that the girl's hands were still fastened behind her back. She was crying now, the tears spilling down her cheeks. She'd found her voice, too. Now it joined with the blonde's in an increasing volume of protest and plea.

      "Some of that soft rope would be good," said the American. "But hold on to it for a moment."

      Mitchell retrieved it and then decided to chance his arm. "You have her hands cuffed at the back," he said.

      The big man glanced at him. "I know."

      Mitchell looked up at the hanging rope. "But how...?"

      "Watch and learn, brother. Watch and learn." Mystified, Mitchell went to hand him the rope, but it was waved away. "In a moment, buddy. Take hold of her, will ya? And watch her; she's stronger than she looks."

      He waited until the Englishman had hold of the sobbing woman then moved away, positioning himself at her front. He was right: she was strong; Mitchell had to exert a considerable amount of force to control her.

      Kaplan didn't waste any time; he simply took the blouse in both hands and pulled, hard. The rip and scream were simultaneous, the latter a sound of surprise, outrage and terror all mingled.

      "Hey! Look at them babies! Like melons in sacks!" crowed the bald man, taking a breast in each hand and squeezing them through the bra. That earned another shriek from the girl, echoed by her companion on the wall, whose vocal contributions were becoming louder and louder.

      "Stop it, you beasts! Leave her alone! Swine! Help us, someone! Heeeeeeeelp!"

      Kaplan glanced at her then Mitchell. "I hope she's worth it, Limey."

      "I should have gagged the bitch," Mitchell snarled, a comment, or possibly the manner of its delivery that earned him an appraising look but no more. "You want the bra unfastened?"

      "Nooooo! Stop! Please!"

      "Fuck that. I hate fucking bras," said Kaplan, digging into his pocket and bringing out a flick knife from which an eight inch blade snapped at the touch of a button. The blade was shiny chrome, but the edge was dull, showing that it had been honed to sharpness. And Kaplan looked as if he knew how to use it, a fact not lost on the panting woman, who had gone silent except for the odd hiccupping sob as she gazed at the thing with horror. Or that's what he assumed, because he couldn't see her eyes; he just knew that if it was him standing where she was and had that thing waving about in front of his face, that's how he'd look.

      The blade flashed in the lights, a quick movement. There was a shriek as she felt the steel; for a moment she froze, then there was another scream as the bra, cut between her breasts, burst open.

      "Hey!" cried Kaplan, closing the knife. "Look at that! Three pounds of tit in a two-pound bag! That I like!"

      "Aaaaaaaaaaaagh! Dooooon't!" wailed the woman. "Leave me alone!"

      The American was right: that bra had held a lot more than seemed likely. They must have been crammed in there, because unfettered, they'd ballooned out as a pair of melon-sized beauties. They sagged, of course; anything that size simply had too, but her relative youth made them firm and resilient-looking. Something which, to Mitchell's unconcealed envy, Kaplan put to the test with both hands, mauling them as the girl sobbed and moaned in shame.

      "Now that," he said, licking his lips. "Is what I call a pair of tits!" He removed his hands. "Have a feel, Limey."

      Mitchell needed no second invitation. Making one arm free, he snaked his hand round and took one of them, finger and thumb automatically going to the nipple as her weighed and lifted the breast. She moaned. Only with reluctance did he move his hand back.

      Kaplan grunted. "Good, huh?"

      "Nice."

      "Don't get too excited, will you? Fucking Limeys." There was humour in the insult. "Let me have some of that special rope, willya?"

      Mitchell had tucked the loops into his belt when he'd taken over control of the woman. Now he handed a length to Kaplan. The woman seemed to have shrunk and was back to making tiny mewling noises of abject terror.

      Kaplan grinned into Mitchell's face. "Look and learn," he said again. Then he put out a hand, out it under the girl's chin and lifted her head. "Good tits, girlie. You proud of them?"

      "Please," she whispered. "Please leave me alone."

      Kaplan laughed. "You must be joking, honey! Tits like that are just begging for it!"

      "Please... please... what are you going to do?"

      "Wait and see, honey; just like the Limey. But I'll lay bets that you'll be wishing that those tits were half as big as they are in a few minutes!"

      "Noooo! Oh, please! Don't!"

      "You don't know what's going to happen yet. What's the fuss about?"

      "Oh, please! Please let me go!"

      Kaplan chuckled. He reached forward as if to fondle a breast, but instead of squeezing or fondling, he took a handful of flesh and pulled.

      "Aaaaaaaagh! You're hurting me!"  

      "Wait." So saying, he brought the rope forward and wrapped it round the stretched skin at the base of the breast, looping it over and pulling it tight.

      Panic flared. "What are you doing? Stop! Ow! Oh, stop!"

      Mitchell held her as she struggled. What was the man up to? He watched as Kaplan took the other side and repeated his actions, using the same length of rope, looping it over and round both breasts in a figure-of-eight pattern. With their bases constricted by rope, the breasts now looked like grotesquely distorted balloons. It wasn't lost on the unfortunate woman, who looked down at what was happening to her with stark horror. She couldn't know that that was very special, very expensive cotton rope imported from Japan precisely for this purpose. She didn't know that it wouldn't cut or burn, but even if she'd known all of that, nothing would have stopped the screams of horror that erupted when she saw what had been done to her breasts.

      "Aaaaaaiiiiieeeeee! Stop! Oh, God! What are you doing to me! Stop! Stop!"

      From the wall, the blonde, face white with shock and her own horror at the scene that was unfolding before her eyes, added her own screams.

      Now Kaplan, working with complete absorption, began to tuck the rope up, between her breasts and over the loops that crossed between them. He did it several times, pulling tight every time so that the whole web of rope was pulled tight, the breasts pulling together. The misshapen orbs were flushed a deep reddish-purple, the nipples prominent. One more pull accompanied by more babbles and screams of panicked terror and he lifted the rope, pulling it up from the point where it emerged from between her breasts, at the same time looking at Mitchell.

      "Look and learn, Limey," he said with a triumphant grin.

      Mitchell knew his mouth was hanging open, that both women were screaming uncontrollably, but all he could see was that wonderfully soft rope held high and the bald man's beaming smile. The intent was obvious to him, if not yet to the howling women. "You... you'll rip them off," he said.

      The grin broadened. Kaplan's broad shoulders shrugged elaborately. "So what? The place needs a splash of colour." If she'd heard she didn't show any sign, but then she was already howling. "Here, tie it off up there, would you?"

      It was simple enough to get up on to the chest, which meant leaving the woman just standing there. But she was so preoccupied with yelling and howling that she didn't seem to notice that she wasn't being held. Then just as he tied the rope to the one coming from the ceiling, she looked up.

      The blonde had seen what was happening, of course. Her cries had become demented several seconds before her companion's eyes saw what had been done: that her breasts were now connected to a rope that went over a pulley in the ceiling. Which could have only one purpose. There was a moment while she stood there, eyes up, mouth open, completely rigid and utterly silent. Then she let rip with a series of whooping shrieks that made her previous efforts seem like peeps on a penny whistle.

      Grinning, Kaplan strolled to the wall, untied the hoist rope and stood there while those screams filled the room and Mitchell got down and walked over to join him. The Englishman looked at the woman then Kaplan.

      "Are you really going to do it?"

      "Sure. I've always wanted to, so why not?"

      "You'll kill her!"

      "Don't think so; she's built small. Besides, who cares? She'd only a bimbo, after all." He pulled the rope, taking out the slack, paused while the screams seemed to re-double in volume, then heaved.

      Mitchell, standing at the side of the man he had hated, but for whom he had begun to develop a very healthy respect, stood and watched in growing amazement and throbbing, pulsing excitement as the rope tightened. The breasts, bulging like over-sized, obscene, purple fruits were pulled upwards, the skin at their base stretched tightly into narrowing necks of flesh. The mousy-haired woman was on tiptoe, her bulging eyes looking down at what was being done to her with her gaping mouth now uttered such piercing shrieks of panic and pain that Mitchell wondered just how so much noise could come from so small a body.

      He shifted his gaze to 'his' woman, whose hand was cuffed to the ring in the wall: she was rigid, her every muscle tight as she gazed with utter horror at what was happening to her friend. Tears were streaming down her face while her mouth, also gaping, uttered scream after scream.

      "Just a touch more," muttered Kaplan.

      Mitchell had the impulse to stop him; the woman's toes were only just taking her weight now. Surely another pull on the rope would lift her off the floor entirely! She would be suspended by her breasts, hanging there with her entire weight taken by those two elongated necks of flesh that already seemed on the point of ripping free from her body. But he didn't do or say anything: he was completely within the power of his lust, driven by his dual desire for and contempt of women. He loved what was happening as much as he dreaded the possible consequences. Above all, he knew that this was just the preliminary, the 'persuasion' that Kaplan had alluded to: when that woman was lowered, she'd do anything... anything to prevent it happening again. And the one against the wall ??" Margaret, 'his' Margaret ??" would do anything not to take the place of her unfortunate companion. Anything. His penis surged into near-full erection.

      Kaplan pulled. The toes left the floor, accompanied by a howl so demented that it wasn't human. Suddenly, it cut off as the head lolled: she'd fainted, but the other still screamed as her companion hung there, turning slowly.

      "Now that," said Kaplan, his voice thick, "is what I call keeping them hanging about!"

      Mitchell laughed, a sound so wild that he knew it was his nerves, bordering on hysteria. He cut it off with an effort, glancing sideways at Kaplan, shame-faced. But the other was looking at him grinning. "What d'ye think of that, Limey? Good persuasion?"

      He had to moisten his mouth, so dry had it become. He gazed at the unconscious figure, rotating slowly, suspended by those grotesquely-stretched breasts. He wanted, desperately, to make it an understatement, but was entirely unable to do it. "I... I think it's absolutely bloody fantastic!" he managed.

      The American seemed hugely pleased with himself. With good reason, thought Mitchell; he'd knocked women about, even indulged in the odd bondage game, but he'd never dreamed of anything like this. This man, it seemed, was a master. And Mitchell wanted to learn. As he thought that, Kaplan lowered the woman, letting her slide to the floor, where she dropped into a limp heap.

      "I'm going to get that one to suck me now," he said. "Why don't you go over there and persuade yours to give you a good time? Take a crop or cane with you if you want, but don't do anything permanent. I've got plans for these two." He grinned again. "Go on, Limey: help yourself."