From: Bosch <psychoz@cosmos.net.au>
Subject: Story: 'Amazonia'
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
'AMAZONIA' By BOSCH [First published in alt.sex.bondage - 3rd August 1996]
(click)
"Good morning, Starz Travel, Alex Voight speaking."
"Alex, it's Carrie."
"Oh, hi. Where are you?"
"Rio. I'm on a payphone at the airport. I'll be catching the 231
Qantas flight to LA, Honolulu, then to Melbourne via Sydney."
"Flight 231. So you'll arrive . . ."
Carrie checked her ticket. "I'm leaving here at 11:45am, and I'll
arrive at Tullamarine at 1am, your time."
"Cool -- I'll pick you up. How did the presentations go?"
"Excellent. You'd think that the Brazilians had never heard of
Australia. The koalas got them every time."
"Yeah, the koalas, and your world-class legs."
"No, I didn't wear the mini-skirt after all, even though it's like a
sauna here. I'm wearing it now, though."
"And getting plenty of appreciative glances, I'll bet."
"Alex, you're not horny by any chance, are you?"
"Moi? Listen, just get those fabulous legs of yours back here ASAP."
"Only my legs?" She enjoyed teasing him when he was all worked up and
frustrated: so easy to bait.
"Stop being bloody coy," he said. "You know what I mean."
"What if I stopped over in Hawaii for a few days to catch some sun?
You'd have to punish me, wouldn't you? Maybe tie me to the kitchen table,
rub baby oil all over my naked body, and drip hot wax onto my shaved --"
"Carrie! I know what you're trying to do, and it's not working."
"Oh no? That's not what your tone of voice says." She giggled.
"Remember, I did that body language course last year."
"Well when you get home Miss Nelson, me and Mr. Cat-of-Nine-Tails are
going to teach you another sort of lesson."
"That's Mr. Nine-Tails and I, Alexis. Watch your grammar."
"Bitch. See you in 30 hours, or else." he said through gritted teeth,
playing along with her game.
"Hmm, maybe," she said, and hung up before he could retort.
Great, now *I'm* horny, she thought -- horny and at least 30 hours
away from my next orgasm!
After checking in, Carrie found a quiet corner of the Gate 14
departure lounge and melted into a seat. While it was a ground-breaking
success, doing the five-day trip while trying to cope with jetlag and the
tropical heat had left her totally exhausted.
Left with nothing to do for the first time in a week, Carrie let her
eyes wander aimlessly around her bland surroundings as she imagined
herself at the mercy of Alex's favourite whip, the
"Cat-of-Nine-Inch-Nails" as she jokingly called it. She closed her eyes,
savouring the memories of punishments he'd metered out on her prone and
helpless body over the years; tied so many ways, teased and tortured so
expertly. Hot wax, flailing leather, the compromising positions, and at
the end of it all those oh-so-powerful climaxes . . .
Carrie was snatched out of her reverie by a thirst only a lake of
Evian water could quench. She reached down to her spare Tosca carry bag
and -- found nothing.
Stolen? No. She'd left it in her hotel room. With her mind's eye she
could see it clearly: sitting uselessly under the window, partly hidden
by the drawn curtains. At least there was still plenty of time before
final call to collect it; she'd just have to catch a taxi to and from the
hotel instead of walking. Still flushed from her day-dreaming, she
reluctantly strode out of the air-conditioning and back into the
jungle-like humidity.
Upon arriving at the curb, a hideous-looking maroon and yellow taxi
darted out of the rank and stopped in front of her before she could raise
her hand. A black leather mini tends to have that effect, she mused.
"Airport Hilton Hotel, please", Carrie said, pointing to a beige
high-rise shimmering in the middle-distance.
"Ci, Hilton," the balding driver grunted, watching her climb into the
back seat, watching her long legs. "Hilton, Hilton," he muttered,
dragging his gaze forward again and putting the car into gear.
As they cut through Rio de Janeiro's perpetual peak-hour traffic, a
clinking sound drew Carrie's gaze to the cab's floor. Two heavy steel
rings lay bolted to the metal near each back-seat door. She thought
nothing of them until the Airport Hilton sailed past her window a few
minutes later.
"Stop here! Hilton! Stop!" she shouted, her throat even drier than
before.
The middle-aged driver only laughed drunkenly. Carrie tried to open
the doors but they were locked, and the iron grill separating the front
and back seats prevented her from tearing the driver's jaundiced eyes
out. She looked down again at the rings, her panic mounting.
Speeding now, they made a sharp right, then a left, and drove straight
off the street and through an opening in the wall of a dark abandoned
warehouse. The outside door had already slammed shut before the driver
had turned off the taxi's engine.
Within seconds Carrie was wrenched from the car by a multitude of
silent but strong hands, then ball-gagged and blindfolded. Next they
wrestled her back into the rear seat of the taxi and stretched her out on
the floor face-up, using ropes to bind her wrists and ankles to the rings
so tightly that she thought her hands and feet would turn blue.
A few heartbeats later Carrie heard someone settle in the driver's
seat and soon they were mobile again, this time with less urgency.
"Hilton, Hilton!" the man said mockingly, letting her know her Prince
Charming was back. "Heh, heh. Americanos."
Two or more hours seemed to pass before the car finally slowed and
stopped. During the trip Carrie had to endure the driver's free hand
caressing her bare legs. She was able to ward him off when he became too
intimate with his fingers by thrashing as much as she could, but she
figured that he shied away each time more to patronise her, rather than
out of any thought for her displeasure. After all, bound like that, she
was at the complete mercy of her chauffer -- he could have done anything
to her, and they both knew it.
They'd pulled into a small village nestled in a clear zone deep within
the eastern outskirts of the Amazon jungle, Carrie guessed. Standing
stiffly outside the car without the blindfold, all she could see, except
for the shelters in the clearing, was a riot of dense vegetation. In the
middle of the compound stood a large rectangular bamboo frame mounted on
a low dais. A broken bicycle leaned against one of the supports, all of
which seemed to be festooned with vines and creepers.
The villagers, alerted by the sound of the taxi, spilled from their
huts to inspect the new arrival. A tall man dressed in black passed
through the throng and introduced himself to Carrie; her hands and feet
still tied, mouth still gagged.
"My name is Kennedy. Welcome to Neo-Rio, an unofficial outer suburb of
Belo Horizonte, you might say." Carrie was struck dumb -- his voice
sounded exactly like Alex's, but filtered through a mild Portuguese
accent.
Kennedy turned to the taxi driver, who was sitting on the bonnet of
his cab chewing tobacco. "You've done well, Andreas," Kennedy said. "Take
this gift and begone. The sight of you makes my eyes itch." He tossed the
driver a dirty envelope full of Brazilian notes. Andreas shot back an
appreciative smile, albeit yellowed by years of tobacco chewing, climbed
into his taxi and disappeared into the jungle.
"My child," Kennedy said, addressing Carrie. "Believe it or not, this
here," he swept his arm over the village, "is a movie studio, and you are
going to star in our next bondage feature. It will be called AMAZONIA.
Marvellous title, don't you think?"
Carrie kept her face blank. My god, a bondage movie? What was going on
here? In spite of her wariness, she was intrigued -- this must be
something Alex had organised, it was too much of a coincidence otherwise.
"Our clientele have exotic tastes, and from the looks you they are
sure to be delighted by this next film. Still confused? Never mind.
Actions speak louder than words, I've always said."
Kennedy barked a command in Portuguese to the crowd. Two burly,
dark-skinned men came forward and dragged Carrie towards the rectangular
frame she'd spotted earlier. As they drew closer, Carrie could see that
the vines were actually crude strips of tanned leather, and the 'bicycle'
was mounted like an exercise machine and rigged to an axel hidden under
the bamboo floor of the platform.
More of Kennedy's helpers set up three video cameras on tripods at
various points around the frame which, seen up close, had the brooding
presence of a gallows scaffold. Carrie swooned at the thought of being
tied to that thing -- her panties were already damp from struggling for
three hours in the taxi, but this new possibility was positively making
her knees tremble. Her heart throbbed as she cast her eyes over the long
leather restraints and the thick bamboo poles. Alex had gone to a lot of
trouble for this, so I'd better play along.
Once the cameras were running Kennedy said, "Strip her." Three young
women undid Carry’s bonds and took away her shoes, mini-skirt, jacket,
red blouse and bra, which were all quickly shredded with knives and
disposed of. Trembling, Carrie stood covering her bare breasts and crotch
with her arms for a few moments before two men hauled her to the frame.
Her wrists were lashed together with a dozen or more turns of a thick
leather cord, the end of which was thrown over the cross-bar. With her
arms above her head, Carrie was lifted and suspended so that her toes
were a foot above the platform. After tying her elbows together the men
pulled each of her kicking feet to one of the upright posts, which were
set so far apart her that legs were spread almost horizontal.
Looking up and down the length of her splayed naked body, Carrie
sucked in a breath and heaved against her ligatures, checking for any
weak spots in her bondage. A deep warmth blossomed in her chest as she
realised that escape was utterly impossible.
"Look at those legs," said Kennedy, watching Carrie's attempts to
struggle free. He stepped forward, as if hypnotised, and stroked his hand
along the lengths of Carrie's tensed thighs, all glossy with the sweat of
her exertions. "Magnificent."
Standing closer, he reached up and undid the ball-gag, savouring the
involuntary little contortions such helpless victims of bondage always
made. His long tongue lapped the perspiration from Carrie’s swollen
nipples, igniting a blaze in breasts and genitals. She jerked and threw
her head forward, then racked her body even harder when Kennedy inserted
two fingers deep into her vagina and swirled them around, stimulating
every starved and aching nerve. At last she cried out -- the sound a
cross between a scream and guttural moan.
Kennedy kept circling his fingers as he ground the thumb into her
clitoris and plucked at her nipples with the other hand. In response to
this, Carrie bucked and rotated her hips in a desperate attempt to apply
more pressure to the hand buried between her legs, where she could feel a
delicious orgasm gathering like a storm-front.
“No, don’t do that”, she said, not really meaning it.
The last time she was this turned on was at Mistress Stern's, a
dungeon in Melbourne. Alex had cuffed her to the stretching rack and
raped her with a dildo as a reward for not coming during the previous two
and a half months. She made up for it by climaxing five times through-out
the session, with Alex's permission of course.
Thoughts of Alex gave her the extra spur she needed. For a few moments
it was Alex who was standing there massaging her twitching genitals to
the approaching orgasm. Kennedy, noticing Carrie's shortness of breath
and arched back, doubled the vigour of his ministrations.
As the convulsions struck, Carrie's suspended body snapped and bucked
against the unyielding leather cords. Her feet pointed and her legs
flexed uselessly as her mind absorbed the waves of blinding pleasure
rolling along her spine . . .
When it was finally over Kennedy stepped back from Carrie’s limp body,
his right hand glistening in the Brazilian sunshine. He gave a curt nod
to one of his helpers, who ran to a nearby shed and returned with a long
assembly of hinged steel rods. He stooped to the spot on the platform
directly under Carrie's body and lifted away a square section of the
bamboo floor. He then placed the rods into the hole and fixed them there
by tightening some wing-nuts. When he stood back the gadget's purpose
suddenly became clear to Carrie: it was a piston, and the pumping action
would be supplied by peddling the bicycle.
No sooner had she thought this that Kennedy was handed an enormous
black rubber dildo equipped with two phalluses and a clitoral stimulator.
Carrie whimpered at the size of it -- surely it was too big for her! He
smeared it with a slick substance from a small plastic container. It
looked like K-Y Jelly but as far as Carrie knew it could have been
anything.
As Kennedy attached the dildo to the piston a muscular teenaged boy
broke from the crowd and mounted the bike. Carrie felt the protrusions
slide into her vagina and anus simultaneously, giving her the glorious
sensation of being filled and spread open. But that was nothing compared
to the vertical motion of the twin dildo. The youth peddled slowly at
first, allowing Carrie's anal passage to accommodate the intruder.
With her eyes half closed, Carrie purred, “Oh, god, whip me. Please, I
need to be -- Alex, are you here?”
“There’s no Alex here -- but don’t worry, captive one, you’ll get your
wish,” Kennedy said.
As if on cue, the villagers went to their respective huts and returned
carrying all manner of belts, canes and make-shift floggers.
"A bit faster," Kennedy said to the boy, and he obeyed. Carrie closed
her eyes and writhed.
Gradually she learned to anticipate the rise and fall of the piston,
relishing the steady rhythm: up, down, up, down, pumping and plunging.
Relished too the tight constriction of her wrists and ankles, pinned into
place by the coils of leather as if she were a butterfly caught in a huge
spider’s web.
When she opened her eyes she saw that one group of villagers had
formed in front of her and another group had formed behind. The cameras
had been repositioned and Kennedy was standing at the edge of the
quadrangle under a palm tree. He raised his left arm dramatically, then
let it fall.
Each group of villagers organised themselves into a circle. The two
people nearest the platform, in front and behind, walked onto it and
slapped Carrie once with whatever flogger they were armed with. One belt
sliced her across the groin just above her pubic hair; it felt as though
a wasp had dragged its stinger across her skin. The other landed in the
small of her back, momentarily shifting her attention away from her
smarting belly. The next pair of villagers in line did the same, and soon
the blows landed steadily, each one a little harder than the previous
one. They struck her all over her body: legs, arms, back, torso, breasts,
feet and bottom. No location was left unscathed.
"Faster, go faster!" Kennedy yelled.
This time both the piston and the whipping increased tempo. To Carrie
it seemed as though her whole body sang with the pain of overlapping
welts. She pulled and heaved in a vain attempted to dodge the relentless
blows, especially the cane that landed with a harsh sting on her bottom
once every thirty seconds or so.
“No -- stop! Hmmm . . .” Carrie moaned, bitting her lower lip.
Beneath the glaring pain she remained aware of the dildos pumping
away, steadily delivering her inexorably to another shuddering climax.
Only a matter of time now, she thought.
Kennedy shouted, "Faster" once more, and the jump in tempo took
Carrie's breath away. Blows were landing front and back in an unbroken
procession of whacks while the piston, pumping madly, caused her to grind
her hips and twist her entire body in a lewd mid-air ballet. Rills of
excess lubrication coursed down her reddening legs from her impaled
vagina, and beads of sweat dotted her brow and slicked-down her hair. The
assault of the dildos and the floggers and the tropical heat merged into
one envelope of sensation which Carrie felt in every pore of her skin --
a roar of white noise so exquisite that she lost all sense of time, place
and self.
Briefly, deep down in her rational mind, she knew an endocrine rush
was flooding her system with painkillers and mild hallucinogenics, but
that part of her consciousness soon shattered under the force of the
imminent orgasm. She had time for one last erotic summation of her
predicament: tied naked to a frame in the jungle, brutally whipped and
raped against her will -- the torment and the ecstasy: one a synonym for
the other.
All at once it exploded behind her eyes, between her legs, and in
every muscle and fibre in her body. Her limbs tensed and her breathing
faltered, boosting and prolonging the spasms racking her bound and naked
form. Her senses heightened: the phalluses seemed to swell and she even
imagined them spurting jets of semen into each moist cavity. Meanwhile
her outer flesh registered each beating in harsher and ever escalating
levels of magnitude, punctuating the seemingly ceaseless undulations of
her spine.
When at last she caught her breath and relaxed her tingling limbs, the
villagers slowed their onslaught to halt. However, a fresh surge of
warmth entered her veins as the piston continued to pump, it’s speed
undiminished. The feeling of sensual violation and bondage returned --
Carrie once again found herself fighting the cords that held her captive
for the thick rubber knobs imapling her, splitting her open.
Before she knew what was happening, another climax gripped her body,
sending it into another chain of convulsions. This time she let loose
with a wail that sent a flock of toucans perched in the nearby trees
spiralling up into the sky, squawking in alarm. That was the last image
Carrie saw before she blacked out.
"Final call for passengers on flight 231. Now boarding at gate 14."
Carrie jerked awake. For a moment she didn't know where she was, then
it came back to her like a slow fade-in. First the picture, then the
sound.
Rio de Janeiro. The airport -- her flight! Had she dreamt all of that?
She couldn't believe how vivid it had all been -- the after-shocks of
that last orgasm still lingered, and she felt pleasantly wasted. She
looked down and was relieved to see that the Tosca carry-bag was there,
as was the bottle of Evian water.
After tiding herself up in the restroom and discarding her soaked
panties (she was looking forward to surprising Alex by turning up
'natural') Carrie boarded the 747, turning heads as she walked down the
aisle. She took her seat -- buckling the belt as tight as it would go, as
she always did -- and reflected back on the sweet little misadventure
that wasn’t.
>> Yes, I have this thing for the female orgasm, which is a problem >> because it means I am forced to describe it in stories. How on earth >> can an amateur writer do such a words-can't-describe-it sensation any >> justice?
>> BOSCH.
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