Retaliation

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Curt

A few blocks away in a far less luxurious setting, former professional football star and boringly redundant TV sports commentator Curt Centrum was having a similar experience, but for totally different reasons. Typical of the all brawn and no brain set that Curt belonged to, he had accepted a blatant invitation for a one night stand with a gorgeous woman half his age. At the time, with a dozen shooters of Patron Gold under his broad belt, Curt walked out of the Celebrity Bar and only stumbled slightly as the woman helped him into a black Hummer limo. They rode with Curt’s sweaty head pressed into the woman’s lap, with her already short skirt up around her waist and Curt’s mouth buried in her pantiless crotch, his alcohol-numbed tongue lapping her perfumed cunt enthusiastically. About ten minutes later, the young woman, whose professional name was Martine Vagner, escorted Curt out of the Hummer, across fifteen feet of carpeted parking garage floor and into an executive elevator that took them to the basement of the high rise condo.

At his professional best, Curt had trouble learning any plays more complicated than the “you go left, run, quarterback throws to you,” play. Drunker than usual, and slobbering over this newly acquired admirer, he thought nothing of this series of seemingly random events. By the time they arrived at the black, unmarked metal door, Curt was on the edge of consciousness. Staggering, with one arm around Martine’s narrow shoulders, into a candle-lit underground room, he was only partly aware of what was happening.

Two athletic-looking women met them in the foyer. They both had ink-black hair, cut short so that it framed their face with bangs just above their eyes; black leather cat suits carefully tailored and tightly fitted so as to emphasize their breasts, waists and asses, motorcycle boots and weighted black leather gloves with concealed lead pellets in the back and palms. They offered to help Curt into the adjoining windowless room and assisted Vagner in cuffing Curt’s ankles and wrists to a cement wall barely illuminated by the candlelight. Curt struggled, but after two or three backhand blows from the cat-suited escorts, he slumped in their grip and allowed them to do what they wanted. Without energy or success at escaping, Curt offered no resistance as the three women removed his shirt, trousers and bright red thong jock. His size 14, Jet Jock, custom made, slip-on loafers and socks followed.

“Now, Mister Smart Ass,” Martine barked at the hanging former football star’s limp form. “You will stay here for a few hours and sober up so that when we come back, you will be more fully aware of what we’re going to do to you and why.”

One of the other women moved to Curt and tried to fit a thick p***s gag into his gaping mouth, but Curt kept his slobbering pie hole shut until the escort slapped him several times with her loaded gloves.

“Easy on his eyes,” Martine said. “Hit him where it hurts most. His pathetic c**k and balls.”

Both escorts then punched Curt several times in his gut and hammered at his s*x until his mouth was hanging open and the gag slipped in unimpeded.

“That’s better,” said Martine. “We want him to be able to see what’s in store for him tomorrow and swollen eyes will not help.”

Curt’s full cooperation was then forthcoming and both escorts giggled as they pulled an extreme leather discipline hood over his nodding head, making sure that the gag was fully inside his mouth and tightening the hood’s back laces until the edges met. The heavy duty zipper was then slowly closed and locked to the leather collar they buckled around his nineteen-inch neck. To complete the fitting, five straps were secured around Curt’s enclosed head, pressing the thick leather against his face and skull. One strap went around his eyes, unnecessarily emphasizing that he had no sight. Another redundantly covered his already stuffed mouth, driving the rubber prick gag a bit deeper. A third strap went under his chin and over the top of his skull, forcing his jaw to embrace the interior c**k gag. Another Y shaped strap rose from his chin, split around the bulge of his nose and crossed the top of his head, mated with the other straps and joining the collar at the rear. Strap number five was nothing more than a head-squeezer, designed to act as a base strap for the others and to provide unrelenting pressure on his enclosed head. Inside the sealed leather hood, Curt gurgled and blew a clot of bloody snot out the nose holes, but was otherwise unresisting and silent.

“There,” said Martine, sweating a bit from the exertion of almost dragging her drunken burden into the cellar lair. “That gag and hood will give him a few things to think about overnight.”

Indeed, the gag/hood combination on Curt’s head was not your ordinary hood and mouth plug. Some clever designer had outfitted the soft rubber imitation c**k with a center tube that not only could be opened to allow easier breathing, but also permitted liquids to be pumped into the plugged oral cavity. The base of the device was equipped with a thick crop of real public hair surrounding the area that as pressed against Curt’s split and bloody lips. Even if he hadn’t been drunk, Curt probably would have been a bit puzzled by the hair and realistic set of Teflon balls in a hairy latex bag that completed the package now jammed into his mouth and face. The hood accommodated these additional features easily, but aided in creating the sensation that Curt was giving head to someone with a lot more luggage between his legs than Curt could ever boast.

“These creative details,” Martine said as she and the escorts sterilized the room in case it was discovered by anyone searching for the lost football wizard, “are intended to remind him that he, or she, is a cocksucker of the first magnitude. They function as a clue to future activities... that is that he’ll most likely be engaged in similar real time activity like this for an extended future period.”

The hood had a small bulge in the frontal area to contain this bizarre arrangement, pressing the plug deeper into the wearer’s mouth and the balls against his chin. It had a small breathing hole in the front, but no mouth or eye holes. When it was fully fitted with all five wide straps secured and the lace-up and zipper closure locked and tight, Martine, who stood next to him, spoke loud enough so that the drunken former tight end could hear:

“That should keep you entertained when you come around, Curt Baby. Suck a little fat, hairy d**k for awhile and get used to it. You will soon be getting f****d in your two most accessible holes. The paid in advance line to f**k you has already formed and it’s about five miles long,” Martine said as she whacked the side of the leather enclosed head with her crop.

Martine continued: “Those cuffs are thickly lined with leather, so you won’t be cutting your wrists, (which you might want to do if you knew what was coming), so just nod off now and get a few zees and we’ll be back later to saw your nuts off with a very dull filet knife like the one you used on Katie a few days ago. Bye now.”

The reference to Katie rang a dull bell in Curt’s foggy brain.

My God, how did they know? He thought dully. How did they find out? I covered my trail perfectly, even if I was smashed.”

He shook in his chains as he recalled the initial stand-up f**k in the bathroom of a cheap hotel in another city that he couldn’t even recall. He easily remembered the rest as well. Katie had been a typical groupie who wanted an autograph and a quick f**k with this former NFL hottie and Curt obliged because, (1) he was horny, (2) Katie was better looking than most camp followers he knew, with a fine set of boobs, a tiny little cheerleader waist and a firm, tight ass and (3) because it didn’t look like anything else screwable would develop that late at night. He also remembered slitting her throat with a cheap steak knife as they lay in the motel’s squeaking bed and she wouldn’t stop screaming while he drove his tool deeper into her ass. During his glory years, Curt was used to being sought out by celebrities and groupies and having his pick of the best. As his fame faded, he could never get used to the idea that as a third tier pre-game talking head who could barely read the tele-prompter’s network-approved comments, he was no longer on anyone’s must f**k list.

The female trio left the chamber, locked the double combination steel door and activated the motors that slid a false wall over the doorway, making the entrance to the chamber invisible. They took the lift back to the garage floor, climbed into the waiting Hummer and left the area. One of the cat suited women, removing her leather hood and face mask, asked: “how did you find this place? Perfect for this action, but whose is it?”

“Mine. All mine,” Martine said with a smirk. “It was originally a hide where the local cops took perps they wanted to interrogate outside of their official headquarters. Some local big shot gave them the space and they sold it to me when things got reorganized at PD HQ.”

“Nice,” said Lois, the third member of the team. “Can I borrow the keys sometime? I have this annoying stalker who just won’t take ‘no’ for an answer and he needs a reeducation. Want to help?”

“Sure,” Martine replied. “But this shitbird is going to be the only resident for awhile and we still need to pay attention to keeping this quiet. Lieutenant Chambers knows we are doing this and will cover any unanticipated cops discovering the place, but we have to be careful. Make no visits here without letting the rest of us know and never, never park any vehicles nearby. Use them for drop-off, then head for the central parking garage, then walk back when you leave.”

“Right,” said the two cat-suited companions.

As things will happen, Curt stayed where he was until the missing person search for him was dropped for lack of new leads and the police and public attention span reached its normal end-of-the-line-and-move-on position. The media paid little attention after Curt’s initial disappearance. At that point, Martine and her girls offered Curt to Melinda and the offer was accepted, providing it was totally open-ended, meaning that Melinda had carte blanche to do with him as she wanted.