Tigress in a bind | illustrated bondage stories


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Claw Cross thumbed idly through the battered photo-album. It was stained with the passage of years and what had once been a pink ribbon was now grey and frayed. As soon as it was opened, however, the album took on a new dimension in Claw’s eyes. The inside looked fresh, clean and, yes, pure. Claw’s sensuous lips curled into a harsh sneer as the inscription on the first page came to light. As clear almost as the day they were written were the words “Mary-Joe’s Photo-Album, with Love from Mom and Dad.”

Page after page followed of a little girl with long blonde braids playing with a fluffy white dog, bouncing a ball on the beach, blowing out nine candles on a birthday cake, smiling in front of a sign that read, “Welcome to Yosemite National Park, Do Not Litter,” swinging fearlessly on a gym-set, and many of the other poses that are to be found in millions of albums all over America. But the album and the gentle little girl with blue eyes were unusual in one respect. They had both survived the Great Upheaval, and Mary-Jo Cross had become Claw Cross, the ruthless Claw Cross who now stalked her quarry—men—with all the relentlessness of a jungle beast.

It was the Great Upheaval that had changed everything. If it had never come, Claw would probably still be Mary-Jo, executive secretary. She had graduated from high-school with a bright, sparkling sense of optimism about the world and her future. Indeed, by most standards she had been exceptionally lucky. She had just completed secretarial training when the Great Depression struck.

From that point on, the only girls who could get work as secretaries were the ones who were both efficient and sexy. Mary-Jo had no experience to show the former quality, so she was dependent on her body to get herself the job that she needed desperately to survive. Her first job interview had been an absolute nightmare. The prospective boss was a large, balding man with horn-rimmed glasses and a Pancho Villa mustache. He spent more time looking her up and down than checking her paper qualifications.

“You seem to be quick enough at typing and stenography, Miss Cross, but your services will involve other duties. Are you a virgin?”

“Of course!’’ Mary-Jo was shocked at the question. The permissive sixties and seventies had given way to an era of renewed purity, and Mary-Jo, who was lucky to have parents who had been by-passed by the mainstream of permissiveness of their gener-tion, had been taught to save herself for marriage.

“Good,” said the man with a moist grin, “you can take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“Take off your clothes, I want to check you out.”

“But all I want to do is work as a secretary. What do you want to check? It all seems very improper to me.”

"Look kid, haven’t they taught you anything at secretarial school? The days when you could get a job just on your secretarial skills are gone. If you want to work for me, you’re going to have to do everything I say, and that means fucking and sucking and anything else I may think of.

“There are fifty chicks out there waiting to be interviewed. Now I like your style—you’ve got real nice boobs—and I’m prepared to give you a break, but I’m not about to hang about waiting for a decision. These are hard times,” he smirked at the pun, “and if you don’t get this job, there may not be another one, even for a girl with a bod’ like yours.” Mary-Jo ran crying from the interview.

Three interviews later, Mary-Jo Cross abandoned her principals for the sake of survival, and when the personnel officer of a large corporation told her to strip, she slowly and shyly began to pull her clothes off. When she was down as far as her bra and panties, he came around his desk pulling down his pants.

When his prick and balls burst free, she wanted to scream. She had no brothers and had never seen a prick before. True, she had seen greek sculptures and classical paintings, and knew what happened when men got turned on, but what was being waved in front of her now was twice the size that she was expecting. Her fear was no longer of shame, but of pain— surely a staff like that would burst her open.

“C’mon, get those off too.” He was now sweating with excitement.

“No, I can’t. You’ll hurt me.”

“I’m not waiting any longer!” And he grabbed at her, throwing her onto the couch and ripping at her bra to release her large, fruitful tits. As the flimsy fabric that protected her most private parts was pulled off with one harsh jerk, Mary-Jo lay completely helpless and naked before her assailant.

“Don’t fight it, Baby, you’ll like it.”

Mary-Jo knew she couldn’t fight him even if she wanted to, so she tried to relax, opening her legs and letting him do whatever he wanted to her tender lower mouth that now lay exposed to his pulsating prick.

It did not hurt as much as she had expected, but she was so frightened and stunned that she could only lie there and let him pump himself out. When it was over he pulled his pants up and returned to his desk.

“Well, you’re not that fantastic in the sack, but perhaps practice is all you need. You can have the job, starting in the typing pool, and then we’ll see where you go from there. Now get dressed and report back here on Monday at 8:00.”

The pool had been hell, with all the junior executives considering themselves a mixture of Cas-sanova and Big Foot. They all loved to have her big, sensuous lips on their pricks, and soon she earned the reputation of giving the best head in the office. This meant that she ended up spending more time on her knees under their desks with a prick in her mouth than typing.

It was not long, however, before she came to the attention of a senior vice president, and was promptly promoted to the carpeted privacy of his fifty-third floor office. So when the famine arrived and the city garbage trucks did their rounds every morning to collect the dead bodies up off the streets, Mary-Jo Cross was grinding her way safely through life almost half a mile above those scenes of despair.

Then the race wars started, and the blacks, their faces drawn with starvation and hatred, rampaged through the cities of America, killing all the whites they could find. The National Guard fell before their shere numbers, and the army was trapped in Indo-China fighting a thirty-year-old war there.

The gun clubs organized themselves into makeshift regiments and, with the remains of the National Guard, swept across the nation and virtually succeeding in their intended genocide of the black race. When the crises was over, the National Guard decided to disarm their former allies, and fighting broke out once more.

In three months sixty percent of the American population was wiped out and all government had totally collapsed with the execution of the president, his cabinet, and all members of Congress, the Senate and the Supreme Court. The Constitution was burnt before a cheering crowd, and anarchy ruled over America.

Mary-Jo Cross did not miss the wars entirely. In the later stages, the San Clemente Coyotes, a rifle club turned revolutionary regiment, raided her office building. All male employees were tied up at the end of the hallways and used for target practice, and the girls were herded into one of the larger offices where the Coyotes settled down to enjoy three days of rape and murder.

Mercifully Mary-Jo’s memory of those days was blurred into a constant cacophony of screams and guffaws. She did remember one moment—a .45 colt was stuck painfully up her cunt and a prick up her ass—when it suddenly flashed on her that she need not always be the victim of men. From that moment on she retained her sanity by thinking forward to the day when she would get her revenge.

When the Coyotes finally moved on in search of new pickings, there were only forty-four souls left alive in the building. Blood-stained and battered, they dragged themselves back into a life that hardly seemed worth living.

By now, however, Mary-Jo Cross had a plan. Men had perpetrated these wars for their own gratification, but now the time had come for the women to rise up and turn the tables on them.

Her initial army of forty-four soon swelled to hundreds and finally thousands. They were committed to the physical and emotional destruction of men, and their uniform was unlike any that had ever been seen in battle. They flaunted their sexuality in such a way as to drive men crazy with fear and frustration. They wore the flimsiest of panties, high black stockings supported by firmly stayed garter-belts that ended just beneath the swell of their breasts, which swung free for all to see. Black elbow gloves contained sharpened steel claws which were only just visible at the tips of their fingers.

They all took new, un-feminine names to forget the years of oppression, and their leader became known and feared throughout the West Coast as Claw.

The rifle-club regiments soon collapsed under the savage onslaught of these fierce amazons, an9 men dared venture out of their burrows and penthouse sanctuaries only after dark, for fear of being sighted by a band of vengeful women. Pockets of resistance were few and far between, and only the Leathermen maintained any sort of offensive. These wore nothing but leather jock-straps, hooded masks and gloves, and were dedicated not to the slaughter of women, but to their rape and abuse.

They must be really sick, thought Claw as she turned to a picture of herself at seventeen with her bland-faced boyfriend, but then men always were. Anyway, we'll soon have them sorted out and then this will become a better world to live in.

At that moment the big doors of her penthouse apartment burst open and in rushed three terrifying apparitions.

“Speak of the Devil!” she muttered, diving for her .45, but the large photo-album was diving right alongside her, flying right between her and the gun and delaying her just long enough for the three masked men to be upon her before she could get a shot off. As they piled down on top of her, Claw’s face hit the photo-album, doubling back the pages so that she could see through blurred eyes a little girl with a cuddly white dog smiling shyly back at her.

“What a pad!” exclaimed one of the men as he took in the massive bay windows, sparkling chandelier and jumbo-sized water-bed, “But what’s this?” He walked over to the foot of the bed where there was a wooden pole with chains and padlocks dangling from it. “A whipping pole. This lady is just too much!”

“Nice of her to supply the equipment,” grinned one of his colleagues, restraining her attempts to break free.

“Where are my bodyguards? How did you pigs get in?” Claw snarled, her face still pressed up against the photo-album.

“We’ve spent three days climbing the unused elevator shaft, and you won’t be seeing your bodyguard again, so you may as well get used to the idea of our company.”

“O.K., enough polite talk. Bring her over here and chain her to the post. We’ll give her some of her own medicine.” They dragged her, kicking and clawing to the foot of her bed. where they wrapped the rough chains around her body, pulling them so tight as to draw blood from her ravaged breasts. Her hands were chained high above her head, where her steel finger-nails could claw only at thin air, and her legs were pulled out to the corners of the bed where they were firmly manacled.

“On the authority of the San Diego Chapter of Leathermen of America, we sentence you, Claw Cross to the punishment we deem fit for your crimes against mankind.” As he ripped her pan-ties from her, his companions unstrapped their leather jock-straps and exposed the most enormous pricks Claw had ever seen.

“They call us the Special Squad,” said one stepping between her legs, “because some of the girls we have done have never recovered from the damage.”

As his staff forced its way relentlessly into her strained orifice, a solitary tear spilled from her left eye, and Claw Cross became Mary-Jo Cross once again.




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