The Couriers

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Learning Curve

“One of the great beauties of the human female body is that it has so many interesting places where things can be attached.” ...Graf Wilhelm Salmon

On this particular afternoon, Lisle was not only hurt and hungry, but also totally exposed. Her modesty long abandoned. She was stretched into a cruel X pattern with her shackled ankles pulled tautly to the iron rings on the floor and her similarly cuffed wrists chained to widely spread adjustable hooks in an overhead beam. A heavy steel bar served as a leg spreader between her lower thighs, just above her knees.

This was week number two for Lisle, but she had already lost all track of time. Her days were punctuated by painful subjugation and torture on the horrible impaling post. Sometimes it was in her ass and on other days it was thrust up her cunt. The result was always the same. She would sweat and struggle to find a bit of a foot hold on the greasy post, sliding slowly down the polished, elongated c**k until gravity was inhibited by either the upper body harness or the combination collar and head brace attached to the hanging chain and winch. These training sessions were annotated by different routines with her strapped to the operating table while Carlton or Caske worked on her body with tools and devices she had only faintly imagined in nightmares before she arrived here at The Town House.

In time, she too would learn. Lisle was an intelligent young woman. Her university education and life experiences at twenty-four had already taught her that most unpleasant encounters with other humans had some sort of reason behind them. After a few days with these people, she realized that they were not going to do any real damage to her, but that what they did do would hurt a great deal. She had decided that ransom as not their game and that most likely, based on the little conversations she had with them, they would groom her as a s*x slave and sell her. In the meantime, she would serve as pre dinner entertainment for The House and this included tonight’s corporate gala in the lavish and elegant dining room of the mansion. Lisle suspected this would involve something unpleasant.

She was right. Lisle was scheduled to be the first course, or, more likely the amuse bouche, that complimentary, pre-appetizer offering by the chef as a sample of his creative work. Never having been in a haute cuisine restaurant, she had no clue as to what this would entail. Surprisingly enough, Chef George, a master of fine cuisine, didn’t know about this either, but was at that very moment, fuming as he got his orders from the owner.

“I don’t want her on the menu, George,” shouted The Graf, Count Wilhelm Salmon, who owned and operated the facility that housed Lisle, three dozen other “trainees” and Lisle. “Just have the captains, (not the dolt servers), bring her out before the first course.”

“But I’ll need to know what you have in mind,” Chef George argued. “The table settings, the accompanying beverage, if any, and so forth. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Mine Graf, you always pull this and it makes my already troublesome life here even worse. You recall, I’m sure, the last time you insisted that one of your trainee bimbos accompany the flambé desert, chains, discipline hood and all. Christ, if my number three line cook hadn’t been there with the fire extinguisher, we would have all been toasted, and I do not mean with champagne. Putting the Baked Alaska and Bananas Foster between her legs was gross stupidity. The woman thought she was about to be set afire and she nearly was.”

“Yes, yes, Chef,” Salmon almost whined. “I know and again, I apologize for that misstep. I had been assured that she was to be totally restrained. It was a mistake. The i***t fools who allowed that to happen are now, I am happy to report, decorating the courtyard of a small Abbey in the Carpathians. Their tongues and other assorted accessory appendages have been slowly removed and they are being otherwise served and reminded hourly of their errors. The Bimbo, as you called her, nevertheless fetched a price that was equal to your annual salary. Again, I am truly sorry.”

“You think, my dear Graf,” Chef George continued, turning his back on his boss. “That I give a damn about how you punish your staff? I must admit that the occasional side show in the basements gets my c**k exercised and I certainly appreciate your allowing me, my Sous Chef and other key members of the kitchen brigade to pretty much have any one of the trainees we want, but I would greatly appreciate your leaving my kitchen out of your games.”

“Understood, Master Chef,” Graf Salmon said contritely. “This time it will go exactly as planned or heads shall roll and you will be cooking up soups from the remains of the miscreants if they f**k up,” Graf Salmon, who was the sole heir to multi-billion Euro fortunes he suddenly inherited soon after the downfall of the most recent Russian Empire, looked almost pleadingly at the Chef, knowing full well that if he lost this fantastic master cooker, life as they all knew it at the House and The Center would end abruptly and painfully. Salmon’s boss was a monster, but also an astute, picky gourmet who never tolerated anything that interfered with his colossal and lengthy dining engagements, so The Graf had good reason to be as cooperative and patronizing as he could be when it came to Chef George and his staff.

“Now,” said Chef George, his tone a bit more controlled. “What do you want to do with this cow and when will I get her. We will need prep time, you know.”