Our Only Hope - S01 E29

Story 9 months ago

Our Only Hope - S01 E29

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 29

After they set the basket down and left the stage, a familiar-looking green arm began snaking its way up from the basket. She had just begun to rise out of the basket when I noticed someone pulling the other chair away from my table. I turned my head slightly to see Walter Monty sitting next to me.

“So,” he said nodding his head at the stage, “is this the act you remember from Iowa?”

The fact that at least four security men in addition to his bodyguards were standing behind him told me that my answer was very important. In fact, my life could very well depend on what I said. Obviously, something was the same and something was different from the act I had watched in Iowa. I sipped my drink, trying to look relaxed while at the same time carefully examining everything I was seeing on stage. The basket was different from what was used at [/i]Colonel Boogie’s[/i], but Wyatt only had two people helping him so there was no way they could have brought in the basket hanging between two poles. Looking more carefully at the dancer, I could see that she seemed slightly different than the dancer I had watched in Iowa. She looked older and ... harder.

I took another sip. This was possibly a trap. No, this was definitely a trap. Master Walter was trying to somehow verify WHEN I had been at his brother’s club. I had no way to know the correct answer, so I just had to go with my gut and guess.

“Well,” I said, “the girl looks the same, but that is definitely a different basket.”

“They’re sisters,” Master Walter said. “I wanted to give her little sister a chance to break in someplace where it wouldn’t affect my club’s reputation, so I sent her off to Iowa. Big sister wanted to protect little sister and went out there for a couple weeks to make sure everything was safe. Little sister just started there last Friday.”

I looked over at Master Walter and put on my best concerned face. “Something bad happened to your brother, didn’t it?” I said. “And you needed to be sure I had nothing to do with it.” I paused and said, “I hope it’s not something you can’t help him get out of.”

“Not your problem,” he said flatly. “I’ll deal with it.”

He then turned to the men standing behind him and said, “He checks out. He’s just a dumb rich bastard from Ohio.”

I waited until he and his entourage had walked back into the darkness before again picking up my drink. I didn’t want him to see how badly my hand was trembling. One of these days, I’m going to guess wrong, but so far my gut hasn’t let me down.

I finally took a large sip of my drink and watched as Lady– big sister– Anaconda danced her way around the room, slithering from table to table. As she came past my table, I was able to get a better look at her. There was a family resemblance to the young woman who danced at Colonel Boogie’s, but this woman looked much harder and more... experienced than her younger sister. I wondered how many years of dancing in clubs like this it took before a woman acquired that hard, plastic shell.

I waited for her to dance her way back to the stage and then pressed the server call button in the center of my table. The scream from Mistress Tenesha reminded me that it wasn’t only my server who got “buzzed” when I pressed the button. My close brush with Walter Monty had distracted me and I forgot. Maybe that was for the best. Even if I knew what it would do, I would still have had to press the button. Harold Guthrie would enjoy hearing the bound woman in the metal globe scream. He might even push the button a couple extra times just to hear the sound of her screams.

My slave came running up to my table. “Do you have a menu?” I asked. “I might be in the mood to try something new.”

She replied, “I can recite the menu for you. Do you want food or beverage?”

“Beverage,” I replied.

“Beer, wine, or liquor?”

It was like using an on-line menu. “Beer, I think,” I said, wondering what she would say next.

What she did was start down a litany of every beer that they carried both on tap and in cans or bottles. I was trying hard not to laugh when suddenly I heard, “Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dark.”

“Wait!” I said rapidly. “Go back to the weird sounding one. That sounds different.” Actually I am very familiar with that brand. Weihenstephaner is a German dark ale that is imported into the United States.

“Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dark?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, “that one. Is it any good?”

“It’s a dark ale if you like that sort of thing,” she said. It was obvious it wasn’t her choice of drink.

“I don’t know if I’ll like it,” I answered, “but I’m trying a lot of new things tonight, so why not?”

Less than a minute later, a 1 liter bottle of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dark and an ice-cold, frosted glass were sitting on my table. I didn’t bother to tell her that German beer or ale is supposed to be served at room temperature or only slightly chilled. Harold Guthrie wouldn’t know something like that. The bottle felt like it was only slightly chilled, so I held the glass in my hand for a minute or so, warming it while I pretended to be trying to read the label on the bottle. Then I poured the ale into the glass. I slid the first part of the bottle down the side of the glass and then moved out to the center to create a proper head. When I was done, I had something to enjoy while I waited an appropriate time before leaving.

I had just taken my first sip when Walter Monty stepped out on stage. Lady Anaconda was gone. The four men with the poles had carried her basket back out through the club while I was futzing with my glass. I hadn’t seen how she ended her act, but I assume that she somehow actually dropped back into the basket since the lights had never dimmed.

“We need a volunteer,” he announced loudly. Then he laughed and said, “... or an unwilling participant.”

While he was speaking, two security men rolled a strange-looking device out onto the stage. It was about six feet long and had what looked like two small flatbed train cars on it. In the very center was a silver pole.

“Now, gentlemen,” Master Walter said sternly, “don’t make me draw membership numbers.

I heard a young woman loudly whine, “But I went up there last time we were here.”

“I know,” her Master replied. “That’s why we came back.”

A tall, willowy redhead stood up and walked slowly up to the stage. Except for her collar and leash, she was completely naked. Although she was devoid of all hair below the neck, there was no doubt that she was a natural redhead. Only true redheads have nipples that are that pink and only natural redheads are that pink between the legs. Her labia, as well as some of the skin outside her slit, was a bright shade of pink.

As she stepped up on stage her master called out loudly, “Show ‘em your pink little asshole, cutie-pie.” She paused and bend forward at the waist until her head was nearly on the floor. Her rosebud definitely looked like a rose bud shining out from between her porcelain white asscheeks.

There was a drunken cry of “I’ve got to taste that,” and a very inebriated young man staggered toward the stage. Six security men appeared from nowhere and grabbed him while he was still a good distance short of the steps. One of them said loudly, “Now, now, Frankie, you come with us and we will call your daddy. One more time, and he will revoke your privileges... or we will.”

The young drunk went with them willingly. He really didn’t have much choice. A security man was on either side of him tightly holding his arm just below the shoulder. Another was behind him with a solid grip on his neck. One of the other security men walked in front of them as they went to the back of the club. The other two walked behind them, heads swiveling back and forth in case he had any drunken buddies with him who might want to cause a scene. I was definitely impressed with Walter Monty’s security team.

Meanwhile on stage, Master Walter was saying, “The safeties are on,” as he took the naked slave by the hand and positioned her on the strange machine. He made sure that one foot was on each of the little flatcars and that the shiny pole was aimed directly up between her legs. A naked young woman– perhaps one of the waitresses– came up on stage and strapped the slave’s feet in place.

“We have to get this pole at just the right height,” Master Walter said as he twisted and raised the shiny spear and pushed it slightly into the slave’s cunt.

“Now we give you something to hold on to,” he said brightly as the naked helper lifted a chain and fastened a restraint on slave cutie pie’s left hand. She then repeated the procedure with the right hand. When she was done, the chains hung slack, but Master Walter held up what looked like a remote and said, “Let’s set the hand pulls.” He pushed a button and both chains pulled taut. Either they were spring loaded or, more likely, they were connected to an electrically-driven ratchet system of some sore.

“Here is how this works,” he explained to the obviously frightened slave. “Once I release the foot rollers, they will be free to slide all the way out or all the way back in.” He chuckled. “You don’t want them in either of those positions. What you want to do is to hold your feet exactly where they are now. Do you think you can do that? ... for ten minutes?”

Slave cutie-pie gave a very nervous nod. Then Master Walter turned to the crowd and asked loudly, “Do you think she can do that?”

There were several calls of “Yes,” but the majority called out, “No.” One very loud voice, which sounded like her Master, yelled out, “Hell no!”

Master Walter again turned to the now terrified slave and said, “Since so many of the people here think you can’t do it, we are going to give you some encouragement. Whenever the sliders come all the way in, you will feel an electric shock on your feet like this.”

The slave yelped and attempted to pull her feet together and lift her cunt off the silver pole. Master Walter laughed and said, “I think you have discovered that since both feet are riding on the same rail, we had to find somewhere else to act as a ground terminal for our electric current.” He laughed again and wiggled the shiny pole that was impaling slave cutie-pie. “Or maybe I should say we found a ground stake.”

He looked at slave cutie-pie who was starting to breathe hard and was looking like she was close to panicking. “Now that was an unpleasant shock, wasn’t it?” Master Walter asked her. Then he said, “But the shock is three times stronger if you let the foot sliders touch the outside stops.”

Master Walter now stood alongside the machine and once again held up his remote. “The controls are set for ten minutes” A digital display descended from above showing 10:00 minutes on it. “... and once the timer starts nothing can stop it... not me... not you... and definitely not slave cutie-pie.”

I doubted that was true. I was sure that a simple push of a button on the remote would shut down the machine, but Master Walter was making it clear to everyone– especially slave cutie-pie– that her safeword would be ignored for the next ten minutes.

“So that you don’t accidentally fall off the machine,” Master Walter said firmly, “we’ll need a safety support.”

A cable now descended from the ceiling. The cable was split in two about three feet from its end. The two branches connected to what looked like a steel posture collar with Frankenstein bolts extending out several inches from the sides of the neck area.

“This is one size fits all,” Master Walter said cheerily as he strapped the metal posture collar in place around slave cutie-pie’s neck. It was somewhat loose on her neck, with plenty of room for her own collar under it, but the flare which went under her chin and behind the back of her head seemed to be adequately tight to hold her head. Once it was in place, he used his remote to tighten the cable until she was just barely held upright by it.

“A drum roll please,” he said dramatically and the sound of a drum came over the speakers. On the final hit of the drum roll, he pressed something on the remote and slave cutie-pie’s legs suddenly slid wide apart.