The keeper - illustrated bondage story, part 68
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The frst cop looked away, distracted. “If she’s gonna soothe the savage beast,” he said, remembering. “She hasta be ready.” Barbara was crying so hard by this time she was doubling over her lap then falling back to stare out the back window, tears blinding her bright blue eyes. The memory of them fucking her on the cement foor, on a cot, and against cell bars, while, just on the other side of a padlocked door hidden behind a false panel, the place was crawling with oblivious honest cops, was almost too much for her to bear.
And every day; police issue handcuffs, prison issue shackles, EMS restraints, outfts they got off arrested hookers, and bondage equipment they secured as evidence. Then, every night; left at a different gang’s house, stashed in the boss’ bed, gang banged, viciously molested by the woman, used as a prize in sick contests, then left bound and gagged in a garbage can or dumpster for the cops to retrieve in the morning. The only kickback? A videotape of the previous night’s festivities stuck between her tits. The partners would watch it together during her forced enema and feeding, then dress her up in that day’s outft before reliving some of the inspiration for themselves.
“Looking pretty feisty for all that,” the old woman commented as the young blonde grieved. “Well, we’re keeping her to the diet.”
Finally the old woman looked back to them, thinking of the paste that fortifed, sustained and stimulated them, even during the worst of the captivity. “Well, you know, that brew won’t work forever,” she mused.
The frst cop shrugged. “The program is working so well, there’s some talk of putting it to use elsewhere.”
“On the road,” explained the second.
The old woman looked at them quizzically. “There’s a lot of prisons throughout the country that have some serious interpersonal issues,” the frst cop said carefully. “Dissatisfed wardens...guards...pow- erful prisoners with demands...you know....”
The old woman looked back in wonder at the beautiful blonde girl in the back seat...imagining her wonderfully strong young form on a warden’s desk, in a guard’s barracks, or secured in a connubial visit bed. Or running—hands tied with sheet strips behind her back—panic stricken, her blue eyes huge above a handtowel tied over a washcloth stuffed in her mouth, through the laundry as workers chased her.
Or being led by a collar from cell to cell, naked save for handcuffs and a leather bit.
Or simply left in solitary confnement, handcuffed and ball gagged, as a different felon was thrown in with her every night....
The three were distracted by the honking of a horn. Pulling into the driveway was a motorhome, driven by a squat, solidly built, balding man, who sat next to a plain middle-aged woman.
“Well,” said the frst cop briskly. “We best be heading back to the station.” They began to walk to the front seat as the girl craned to look behind her, out the back window, her blue eyes huge and pleading.
Without so much of a pause, the second, smaller cop got into the back seat with the bleating blonde and calmly embraced her in a choke hold.
The taller cop got behind the wheel and revved the engine as Barbara gasped, choked, and writhed in his partner’s expert, unremitting grip.
She stayed that way as they pulled out into traffc. The old woman watched carefully as they drove away. Did the blonde slump? Did she slide over, out of sight? Did the cop’s hand move, settling someplace at chest level? It was hard to say.
She turned around as the man got out. “Howdy,” he said.
“Heading south?” the old woman inquired, admiring the well built vehicle.
“You bet,” said the man. “Winter’s coming soon, and all our older friends want some young blood down there.”
The old woman smiled thinly at his double meaning. “You really think so?”
“Now, now darling,” he said, leaning in and whispering. “You know it for yourself. Little beach bunnies strutting around, ignoring ‘em, treating ‘em like crap. Somebody’s gotta pay And, in this age of viagra, all fair in love and war. Right?”
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