Situation Vacant

Madam Becaud hurried purposefully along the narrow corridor which linked the musty cellar rooms of the Chateau de la Croix. It was 7.50 pm. She must not, on any account, be late. The passageway was cold and bare. Swiftly she moved through the few dim pools of light thrown down by a naked row of bulbs. Tonight, as always, as she bustled along listening to the hard and spikey echoes of her heels, she was struck by the dark, forbidding atmosphere of this hidden underworld. Above her head, in violent contrast, every room of the old house was the very essence of opulence and glamour, each one a distillation of countless generations of inbred elegance and the product, of course, of  unimaginable wealth.

The young Count and his beautiful new wife were clearly from this ancient mould, filling the chateau  with the greatest of  treasures, trawled from the world's finest salerooms. How she loved them. Together they bore the family name with the greatest pride and and an aura of flawless respectability. Cultivated with meticulous care, it seemed to glow from the very stones of the old family home. A smile flickered around the edges of Madame Becaud's mouth as she reached her destination  - a locked door, swathed in darkness, at the far end of the passage. She was so proud to be one of  the "Inner Circle" ... one of the honoured few who knew the secrets of the house and this nether world deep below.

For nearly half a century she had served the family and now she was valued as part of it herself. It was her moment of deepest satisfaction when the Count and Countess had turned to HER - Madame Becaud - when the 'darkness' had fallen upon them, so soon after the wedding. Within days of the honeymoon the fighting had begun - the halls had rung with their jibes and stings. "Pervert ! " ... " Pig ! " She shivered at the thought. More than once, the young Countess had fled the house in tears. Madame Becaud was proud to be a " Woman of the World ". She understood these signs. It came as no surprise when the pair confessed a certain "small imbalance" in their marital affairs - a certain "disparity of taste", unspoken in their courtship.

Her advice had been wise and eagerly accepted. A new position would be advertised - an "Assistant" to the Count. It was agreed at once and tranquility returned once more. The chateau was at peace. She fumbled a key into the lock and stepped inside. Only a dull glow from the passage spilled into the chamber but Madame moved quickly through the darkness. Her confidence was born of long experience.

A desk lamp snapped brightly into life, casting a small arc of light across a polished table, itself of great antiquity. On its surface lay a single sheet of parchment, weighted by an ornate column clock. Madame liked her creature comforts, especially down here. Unearthly light, green and ghostly, weakened by the lamp's translucent shade, probed into the darkness but she could see nothing of the bizarre display which lay, she knew, beyond the desk. There was no sight ... but there was sound. She could hear it very clearly. Set against the ticking of the clock there was a lower note, a quiet, unsteady wheezing which hissed out of the gloom. Madame cast down her eyes and scratched a scarlet fingernail across  the paper on the desk, tapping gently at the first name on the list.

" 8pm. Dupres. 21 Years. Blonde. References Impeccable ... " She glanced at the clock.

7.55.
Motionless, she listened, ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. In this house, punctuality was paramount. The Count pursued his life with ritual precision and would tolerate nothing less from others - particularly his staff. It was a simple fact and total accepted.

7.59.
As the second hand swept upwards through the last remaining seconds of the hour  a faint but rapid squeaking grew louder on the boards outside the door.

8 pm.
Ritual precision indeed.

Satisfied, Madame Becaud smiled briefly and turned to look into a young and handsome face, slightly flushed with exertion. He stood slightly swaying in the doorway, his long rubber riding boots twittering again on the polished floor. Cream jodhpurs hugged him tightly from knee to waist, where they disappeared into the folds of a crisp white linen shirt. Long whisps of blonde hair were pulled tightly back into a pony tail, held by a simple leather thong. So simple. So imposing. Cultured elegance flowed easily from every pore.

A riding crop dangled from one strong hand, the metal tip of its woven grip flashing in the lamplight. From the other hand hung a battered Gladstone bag, creased and wrinkled by great age and frequent use. Madame Becaud gazed at him with glowing admiration as she listened to the striking of the clock behind her. No greetings were expected on either side and words were not exchanged. It was the custom at such times.  As the final sharp rings died away, the housekeeper cleared her throat. Her statement was as loud and clear as it was precise. She spoke into the darkness.

"8 pm. Candidate Number One. The terms and conditions of this appointment have been made clear to you. The ... er ... "  She paused. "The requirements of His Excellency the Count and of this examination have been made known to you. Your consent and oath of silence have been signed."
She moved to the side of the door, her hand seeking out a light switch high up on the wall.
"I will return in 50 minutes. The ... interview ... begins with my departure ... "

In one practiced movement, she stepped out into the corridor, drawing the door closed behind her and flicking on the light. The key turned firmly in the lock and the muffled clatter of her heels grew fainter, slowly fading into silence. In the beam of a single spotlight, the secret of the chamber was revealed ...

A slim black figure stood alone on the bare floorboards, wheezing gently. Like a burnished ebony statue it reflected the planes and curves of brilliant light which betrayed the form of a beautiful young woman. Suddenly the lights began to twist and sparkle as her polished skin stretched and puckered with her first tentative movements. Gentle flexing of the shoulders was was matched by equal and opposite twisting of a strangely contoured head. Her hips rotated slowly, in perfect rhythm with her bending knees. The figure swayed in an hypnotic trance, like a slender black serpent writhing to the music of an invisible flute. No magic held her captive but some very real and cruel restraints. A web of wide and powerful rubber straps bit deeply into her arms, wrists and ankles. Others were formed into a tight harness, buckled snugly around her neck, her waist and thighs.

From her bound wrists, which ground and twisted vainly at the bottom of her spine, a short tether ran to a strong ring bolt, deeply embedded in the wooden floor. Periodically, the captive raised herself to the tips of her crinkling toes and tottered precariously across the boards, testing the range and power of her leash. Muffled groans marked the end of every painful journey. The thick rubber, firmly anchored, stretched by only a fraction of its length. Then, in what seemed to be a deliberate and wicked attempt to reduce her to a bound and helpless heap, it jerked her sharply backwards.
She staggered, squealed and snorted her frustration.

Even if she managed to stay upright, this squeaking, grunting prisoner was destined to go nowhere. She would inch her way round and round in small and painful circles. She could struggle to exhaustion. She would not escape. The girl began to squirm with growing urgency, white lights flashing from the folds and wrinkles of her flawless, shiny flesh. A man-made suit of thick black rubber, designed and cut with such precision that it followed every curve and crevice of her young body hugged her closely and relentlessly from her neck to the tips of her toes. Haute Couture. A tailoring triumph.

Only her breasts were free. They swelled wantonly from the suit through two small apertures, perfectly positioned. Pinched by tight, thick rubber rings, they stood out like pink balloons against the blackness of the latex. Gold nipple rings, sparkling in the spotlight, made them all the more embarrassingly conspicuous. The more she squirmed in her humiliation, the more inviting she knew she would become. Perched above the high neck of the suit a strange black mask was clamped by heavy straps against a pink and glistening face. The thick, black rubber, pungent and heavy, was moulded into wide, round eyes and an open, pouting mouth - a cartoon of the captive girl beneath. It dangled with buckles and straps. A military respirator, it was intended for a distant field of war. Now, sealed against a pretty female face, it was halo'd by a mane of honey blonde.

Muffled female noises hissed from its jutting mouthpiece. Unseen behind the mask, behind white teeth, she dribbled past the cruellest of her torments, a tightly buckled ball-gag deep inside her mouth. She gurgled like a baby around her strange red rubber dummy. Tremors of shame engulfed her as warm saliva  pooled up at her chin. As her head tossed and twisted to fight against these twin discomforts, two eyepieces flashed and twinkled in the hard glare of the light. Behind each glass circle, pleading eyes struggled in vain to say what her stoppered mouth could not.

Every futile bid for freedom forced creaks from the straining harness. Rubber massaged squeaking rubber and weak, frustrated wails bounced around the cold stone walls. Droplets of perspiration dripped from her tousled hair, splattering on the floor and the tops of her  rubber feet. Suddenly she was still. She stared with concentration at the darkness. A slender figure was emerging from the shadows, his silhouette fringed with brilliant light as he broke the single beam. Tall. Broad. Rubber heels twittered on polished oak as he moved across the room. With a muffled moan she raised up on her toes and, with tiny hobbled steps, inched perilously forwards, hissing through her mask. They stopped ... inches from each other.

He could smell the rubber perfume of her breath. Coldly and clinically he watched her straining at her leash, desperate for another inch of ground. Desperate to press herself against him ... Her breasts were jutting from the suit, inviting, firm and pale. The hard brown nipples flashed their tips of gold. The contrast between these players was complete. Slave and Master, perfectly combined. The Master ... so relaxed, so confident and free. His prize so very different. Frantic, vulnerable and so expertly secured, she was a living fetish dream ...
Helpless in her glistening suit of rubber ...

Slowly he began to circle her, stepping neatly over the straining tether at her back.
Once.
Twice.
The wooden boards shifted and creaked with every measured step.
She struggled to follow his progress, twisting her head over each shoulder in turn, as far as the thick rubber would allow. He stopped, one leg each side of the long leash, facing her bound arms and hidden from her view. Reaching upwards, he gently pulled at the strap which held her above the elbows, sliding the free end carefully from its  keeper. The rubber was very strong. It was pulled very tight. He stretched it back against the buckle. Another hole rattled over the silver roller and was pinned securely into place.
Another hole tighter.

 The girl craned her neck, desperate to see him. She could only feel his movements and the sharp bite of the strap. A strange cry, half surprise, half horror, all female, echoed around the mask as the rubber dug still deeper through her skin. He reached around her, cupping one breast in his hand, gently polishing the metal ring between a thumb and finger. She relaxed against him, savouring this reward.
A brief reward.

He turned back to his work. She braced herself. Second strap. One notch tighter. Elbows touching now. A breast softly caressed.
Third strap. Wrists crushed together.
Both breasts ...
Pain and pleasure came in equal measure as cries and moans were squeezed in turn from the depths of the hot cocoon. He stepped around her, pausing to admire his work. She was in constant motion now, twisting and writhing, the golden piercings flashing in the light.
He was not finished. He was far from being finished.

Reaching behind her head, he entwined his fingers in the clumps of damp, blonde hair which poked through the web of rubber straps. He made a fist, pulling at the captured strands and freezing the girl like a kitten, clamped in her mother's jaws. Strong fingers gripped the first long shiny tendril which hung freely from the hard rim of the mask. He pulled. Rubber stretched and clicked loudly through its keeper. Every millimetre drew the mask even more tightly against her face.
Second tendril.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
Through the mouthpiece came loud groans.
Through the round glass eyes came pleading stares.
All were futile. All were ignored.
He squatted.

His hands went to the ankle strap which welded her legs as one. This time, and unexpectedly, she felt its grip release. The rubber fell away - her legs, for an instant, were free. He stood again. With hands placed gently on her hips, he walked her slowly backwards until she stood astride the ringbolt in the floor. Strong fingers clamped her ankles, pulling them apart to left and right. Wide apart and straining. A metal spreader bar, dangling with rubber straps, clattered through the gaping jaws of the battered leather bag. He secured her feet in place, stretching the rubber of suit and strap to the limits of their tolerance. Stoically, she stared ahead as again he stepped behind her. Balance was paramount now. He stopped and clawed at the ringbolt, slowly untangling the knotted leash. Then, suddenly, he pulled ... taking up the slack and working the rubber downwards, then upwards through the metal ring. It tugged on her bound wrists, hauling them down, centimetre by painful centimetre. He continued working the rubber steadily through its anchor. As the strain increased it arched her slowly backwards.
She gasped.

Her breasts thrust even more brazenly through the suit, her nipples jutting skywards, rings jiggling. Instinctively, she pushed her hips forwards to counteract this new position, desperate not to topple. The latex stretched like a perfect mirror across her pubic bone. It seemed at the point of tearing ... of exploding into shreds. With a final tug he tied off the leash again, looping the rubber into a tight, hard knot. The girl stood swaying slightly, her body taut as a crossbow string, desperately she fought to balance the web of strong forces which began to rack her slim frame, pushing, pulling, crushing and stretching her but combining perfectly to fix her in position. She quivered visibly, barely able to contain their latent power. She stood like a longbow, drawn and ready. She groaned ... there was no prospect of relief.

Now, he was at her side, feet firmly planted, slightly apart. His arm was across her back, fingers deep in the rubber at her waist. Her body, stretched and bound, was now his to enjoy, to torment and to tease.
He began ...

He pinched and pulled at each hard nipple, massaging each of the little breasts. Low whimpers escaped from the depths of the mask, the blonde head rolling and twisting, responding to every torment and caress. At last he stopped, reaching upwards with his free hand to dig impatiently into one deep pocket of his shirt. Without expression he produced a glittering metal pendant which he swung before her face like a hypnotist's pocket watch. A golden teardrop, large and clearly heavy, it hung bouncing from a hook and thin, elastic thong. A simple ornament, beautiful and terrifying. She shook her head wildly, the rubber mask straps thrashing loudly with her fear.
He was unmoved.

He reached across her and gently rolled one pierced nipple in his fingertips. With practiced skill he linked the hook and ring. For a moment he held the weight. He felt her shiver. He tipped it from his palm and watched it fall.
"Nnnnnnnnghhhh !!"
A high shriek ripped through the mask as gravity took its painful course. The little strap jerked tight and lengthened quickly with the weight. Longer and thinner it grew, then shrank and grew again as the teardrop bobbed against her, up and down. She bucked and twisted in desperation, violently shaking her head, but with her struggles the little weight bounced once more. Gradually her writhing slowed and stopped, her chest heaving with her laboured breath. He reached into his shirt again and dangled a second little treasure before her round glass eyes.
"Nnnnn. Phhhh ... !!"

Her words were muffled and meaningless. Hook and ring were joined. He hesitated, savouring the moment. The weight fell free and plummeted while the rubber grew thin and long. Her nipples, tortured and distended, flashed crackling volts of hot pain from her scalp to her painted  toes.
"NnnnnPhhhh ... !!"
She shivered this time, motionless, absorbing the stabs of pain. He spread a large hand on the rubber stretched below her breasts and felt her muscles tighten beneath the glossy skin. Slowly his fingers traced a downwards line, bouncing lightly on the mirror surface of the suit.  For a moment he toyed with the runner of the short zip which ran from the smooth dimple of her navel, down and out of site between her parted thighs. He could wait no longer.

Slowly and tantalizingly he teased the runner downwards, slashing the rubber skin as cleanly as a scalpel blade. A narrow pink line grew in its wake, the flesh bulging quickly downwards as he relentlessly progressed. Peeling her. Revealing her. She oozed onto his hand. As his fingers dragged the runner out of sight, two glistening lips erupted from their hot captivity. Red, swollen and succulent, they grew before his eyes, bursting out like a scarlet jungle bloom. A rare, exotic orchid, smeared with shining nectar.

Her warm juices, freed from their hot confinement, dripped from the jagged teeth of the silver zip. One small rivulet ran like molten lava down the inside of her thigh. He wiped it upwards, scooping a twinkling droplet with a fingertip. He raised it, smiling, to his lips. He held it in his mouth, savouring it at length. A connoisseur. It was musky. Salty.
A favourite aperitif.
Essence of Captured Woman.
Essence of Slavegirl.
Briefly aged in rubber, sweet and aromatic on the tongue. From the hot new gash in the suit the same heady scent floated upwards in warm waves. He sucked it in greedily, pulling it deeply to the depths of his lungs.

For a while he teased her, flicking the golden weights across her chest and delighting in the muffled shrieks as they tugged roughly at her nipples. A small bead of moisture, clear and viscous, now dangled by a thread between her legs. Suddenly she cried out, shoulders arched, breasts jutting. Her fingers clenched and stretched in the tight skin of her gloves. His fingertips had touched her and the pleasure had sliced through her like a laser. Slowly he ran a finger along the valley between her thighs and trailed a line of wetness upwards, deep within her lips. The probing finger stopped and slowly retreated downwards, sliding through the enveloping flesh, spreading the sticky trail close to the little opening which was hidden far below. Backwards and forwards. Higher and lower. His fingers travelled onwards on their slippery, oily path. Inside the rubber suit, inside the girl, waves of pleasure blended seamlessly with shattering needles of pain.

Restrained and helpless, his fingers glided through her, dipping and diving, up and down, spooning up thick moisture to lubricate the pink slit in the suit. At last the time was right. She bucked and wriggled against his arm, stranded in this cyclone of sensations. Instinctively she thrust against his fingers, abandoned to the torment at her breasts. A thick male finger, slick and strong, slipped down beyond her lips and on below. She knew his mind and shook her head, imploring, the rubber mask straps flailing in the air. The intruder continued, determined and irresistible. It nestled against its tiny target, pushing and rotating, patiently and slowly. Millimetre by millimetre it disappeared from sight ...

The gasps grew ever louder in the mask. He pulled out from her briefly and gathered beads of female honey from the inside of her thigh. Slippery again, he plunged once more. Deeper still and deeper, sliding freely down this intimate dark path. With practiced ease he ran a thumb upwards through wet flesh, searching and probing as it passed. He felt it ... tiny and erect, warm and rubbery against the hardness of his skin. A smooth and secret button, the key to her release, hiding below its fleshy little hood. Now the girl was lost, shuddering and moaning as the waves of pain and pleasure broke around her. Her brain reeled, flooded by sensations never dreamed of, unimagined. The heady smell and tightness of the rubber. The sweet humiliation of its grip. Bound, suited and masked, nipples seared with pain, she stood alone, impaled, in the eye of a raging storm.

There were no pauses in her struggles now, only smooth and sinuous writhing which grew faster and more urgent by the second.  Her rubber fingers closed and flexed as though groping for something, anything, to cling to.  Ten painted toes curled inwards inside their shining skin. Her Medusa's head thrashed wildly, side to side and snorts of pungent air, mixed with cries and gasps, erupted from the pouting rubber muzzle. Suddenly she slowed, then stopped, as her climax welled inside her,  growing and expanding in the confines of the suit. Relentlessly it grew, billowing and swelling,  threatening to inflate her rubber skin like a balloon. A surge of pleasure bubbled upwards through the circling web of straps  and exploded like a thunderclap through the mouthpiece of the mask. A wild, ecstatic scream, more animal than human, echoed through the Chateau de la Croix ...

" Enough ! Monsieur ! ENOUGH !! "
The unmistakable silhouette of Madame Becaud had appeared, once again, in the doorway.
As always, she was commanding and precise. " Your time is up ! Please leave us ! "
Silently he squatted, nimbly removing the ankle straps and bar. He gently unhooked the bobbing weights from their golden anchors, tenderly licking and sucking at each tender nipple in turn.
She shivered.
With a final flourish he ran his finger upwards, sliding once more through her swollen lips and lifting a sticky droplet to the tip of his outstretched tongue. Wide eyes, huge with disbelief, glittered in the hot, damp depths of the mask.
He swallowed and smiled.

" Monsieur !! PLEASE !! "  Madame had grown impatient. Without a backward glance he strode briskly from the chamber,  leaving the rubbery figure to shudder in the spotlight. Only a deep and knowing look passed from his bright eyes to those of the housekeeper as he brushed past her and onwards to the corridor. Madame Becaud clicked slowly across the floor and stood to admire the bound girl and the young man's expertise. He was, indeed, a Master - and a master of his craft. Exhausted by her orgasm, the strain of merely standing showed in each of her trembling limbs. Her chest still heaved under the tight latex of her suit and rubber scented gasps still hissed loudly from the mask. Between her legs, another single thread grew slowly longer. The housekeeper stepped behind her and slowly released the tension of the leash which still held her tightly bowed. She straightened her aching back and blew out an audible, whistling sigh. Madame moved around her and, reaching up, one by one released the clasps which glued the mask so tightly to the younger woman's features.

She pulled it outwards and upwards over the tousled, captive head, freeing a red and sweating, lovely face. Revealed at last, deep between white teeth and framed by glistening lips, a red rubber ball, slick with bubbling saliva, shone brightly in the glaring light. Madame struggled to release the strap which clamped the gag in place. She had secured it, perhaps, a notch too tightly this time. She pulled hard to free the buckle and the two ends fell away. Taking one in each slender hand she slowly eased the slippery ball out of its wet nest, drawing out gossamer threads of silvery saliva and a long and heartfelt sigh ...

The older woman strode to the table and returned with cool bright water, twinkling in a crystal glass. She raised it to the young girl's lips. Taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, she dipped it in the tumbler and gently wiped the flushed and sweating face. Another welcome drink. Finally, and unexpectedly, she reached down .. tenderly wiping through  the parted thighs and mopping up the captive's glistening juices. The girl gasped and shuddered as her zip was slowly closed, sealing her again within her hot and wet cocoon. The two women stood in silence, gazing intently into each other's eyes. The bound girl, at last, was the first to speak a word.
" Madame Becaud !! " she croaked, " He was magnificent ! MAGNIFICENT !! "
" You may tell the Count I have made my choice ! Release me, Madame ... and dismiss the others ! Thank them for me, please ! "

The housekeeper stood in silence, her face a frozen mask. She was fighting to find appropriate words to use. The hoarse voice grew insistent. 

" Madame Becaud ! Release me now ! This INSTANT !" She turned to offer her pinioned wrists. Madame Becaud sighed. This was going to be difficult. It went against her instincts to disobey.

" Young lady, I am sorry ... truly so. I have had the honour to serve this house  for almost all my life and I have done nothing to harm the good name of the family.  I cannot ... and I will not ... do so now. "

" Madame Becaud ! I warn you ! If you don't ... Mmmmmmmph ! Nnnnnggg ! "

The young woman's swelling anger was cut short as the wet rubber ball was pushed back firmly between her teeth. Still slippery with her saliva, it plopped easily and neatly back into its rightful place. Soon it was buckled firmly in position, plugging her growing rage like a tight cork in a bottle. Her threats became wet gurgles, her eyes furious and wide.
" There are eight more candidates, Madame. Some of them have made great efforts to be with us today. Some at great expense !  The family la Croix will NOT turn them away ! "
Madame Becaud picked up the rubber mask and poured a cocktail of juices on to the floor.
" I will not turn them away ! The Count would not forgive me ... It would be so very ... RUDE ! "

Grunts and snorts dammed up behind the rubber ball as Madame Becaud skillfully arranged the tangle of straps around the girl's now thrashing head.
"Forgive me ... "
Daggers of hatred, mingled with disbelief, flashed behind the rounds of glass as the long tendrils were stretched, crackling through their ratchets. The rubber sucked ever more tightly against her forehead, chin and cheeks, sealing her face and silencing her protests. Satisfied, Madame Becaud turned away, leaving the black Medusa to twist and wriggle in the lamplight.
She paused briefly at the desk.
9 pm. No appointment.
10 pm. Candidate Number Two. Francoise Malherb ... 19 years ... 'Strict' ...
'Excellent', she thought.

She turned off the desklamp, flicked the switch on the wall and, stepping into the corridor, turned to lock the door. One free hour ! Bliss ! The coffee pot called invitingly. Behind her, swathed in rubber and the blackness of the night, a young woman chewed vainly on her gag.  In her hot and slippery rubber skin she felt the warm tickle and trickle of liquids trapped between skin and latex. She stared into the darkness, eyes straining through the misty glass for light to return at the door.
Quite alone and totally helpless, she began to acknowledge her fate.
Eight more candidates ! EIGHT !!
Relief, she knew, would come only with the dawn.

On the table, in the darkness, the little clock struck nine. Madame Becaud would pay for this ! How that woman would pay !
But not just yet ...
For the young and lovely Countess de la Croix, the night had barely begun. Mentally and physically, as she strained and struggled and cursed ...
 ... she slowly began to stew ...

02.07.07