Tough Girl

Sweet Kinky Reader,

As promised, a rowdy BDSM adventure from the M/f bondage-slut side of my imagination. Players are 18+ in age, certified STD free, and practice birth control.

Plus, they're a tad larger than life; so plzz suspend disbelief accordingly.

Warning: Intense Consent/Non-Consent. Also, naked slavegirls molested in bondage.

Have fun,

xxox Emm

#_#_#_#

TOUGH GIRL

by Emmalee_Strict

© 2024

In the wee small hours of a Friday morning, July 2011.

BREE HAD SENSED THE ABDUCTION COMING even before she locked up at the bar, which spoiled the fun of it. But only a little. When it actually went down -- a swift, overpowering tangle of hands, limbs and ropes -- the blood rush and the hot, juicy explosions of endorphins inside her jeans more than made up for the lost element of surprise. A dark alley, three on one,

fuck yeah.

As abductions went, she wanted to grade it on the high end -- although, who was she kidding? It was her first.

But even as awesome as the take-down was, in her twisted subspaces, she'd thought up much nastier ones.

Breanna Barber lay on her side in the padded trunk of the speeding sedan -- hogtied, stuff-gagged and half-stripped. The young brunette exaggerated her struggles, wriggled her hips, and bleated out grunts of fake protest into the gag.

"Mmff!"

A wet shop rag packed her cheeks, her lips sealed around it by multiple turns of packing tape. She was pretty sure her loudest screams wouldn't be heard outside the metal confines of the trunk. Not that it stopped her from trying.

"Mmmff!"

she repeated, even louder.

Useless. Helpless

.

Helplessness was Bree's thing. Specifically,

resisting

it -- fighting the loss of control tooth and nail all the way -- but giving in to it when truly overpowered. That was the way she felt, hearing the feebleness of her voice, and feeling the inescapable grip of the ropes.

"Mm-hm-hm-

HMM!

" she whimpered in frustration.

She flopped onto her belly and went on grunting and struggling.

She'd been at it for what seemed like a couple hours, ever since her ticket on the 'Slave-Abduction Express' had been punched. But still running on adrenaline and lust, the thrashing about hadn't worn her out. She knew it was futile, though.

She was expertly roped at the wrists, waist and crotch, knees and ankles, elbows and chest. Her denim jacket was back off her shoulders and bunched around the elbow ropes.

Her shirt had been ripped open and her bra was askew, leaving one tit covered and the other exposed, now smooshed into the padding.

Barefoot too, boots and socks pulled off as a finishing touch once she was loaded into the trunk.

Nice one.

She'd never thought of that before while fantasizing her ideal kidnapping, and she

liked

it.

Her jeans and panties were down at her knees. A knotted double-strand of crotch rope split her pussy and ass-cleft, a snug fit over the hard, fat rubber plugs that filled the two 'nether slave-holes.' The rope turned through her wrists and joined her ankles in a strict hogtie. Her bare soles touched her bare ass.

And for sure, she was struggling with

that

rope.

Fuck, am I allowed to get myself off?

she gasped.

Nice loophole for the helpless captive, that little bondage trick.

She knew it was intentional.

Girl's choice?

Her 'Smart-Ass Masochist,' the SAM persona who animated the 'Struggler,' chimed in,

Or a thing we'll be punished for on the other end? Ooooh ...

Bree, though, wasn't going to take the bait. She was going to wriggle and squirm and stimulate herself,

fuck yeah

, but not get carried away.

No. Anything my body gives up,

she decided,

they're gonna have to

take

it from me.

Along with helplessness, the things that really turned Bree's crank were manhandling, degradation, violation and pain. So far, so good. The manhandling, she'd gotten six strong, skilled, man-hands worth of that.

Degradation? The 'half-stripping' job the boys had done,

oooh

that left her feeling exposed in a sloppy, disheveled way, which felt more humiliating to her than straight-up nude.

Violation? The plugs and gag accomplished that. But she was looking forward to live, raw, hard cock plundering all three captive, helpless holes. She knew that was coming. She tried not to worry her mind wondering and wishing how soon.

And the pain? ...

Well, that was her rep, her 'Tough Girl' brand at the Spitfire Club, the reason she'd been recruited -- and the reason she'd signed up. If everybody held up that end of the contract, then ...

Oooh,

she juiced into the rope that cleft her pussy, thinking ahead to all the fun 'n games that lay in store for all concerned.

First, though, she had to get there. Awhile back, she'd already sensed that her ride had left the city based on the smooth and straight track it traveled. The freeway, she guessed. Taking her somewhere far from civilization.

Oh yes ...

Finally, the car slowed and Bree felt the centrifugal pull of a curving off-ramp; more twisting and meandering after that. She rolled around in the trunk, enjoying the powerlessness of that. Then an upward course ... heading into the hills?

After a while, she felt a hard swooping left, heard a scrunch of gravel under the wheels. No motion then, the engine shutting off, the E-brake pulled.

Bree rolled onto her back, best as she could given the hogtie. So that when they came for her, they'd find her facing them ...

tits up, exposed, vulnerable ... helpless.

The car jostled and the driver's door slammed.

Moment of truth. She felt overwhelmed (in a good way) by the anticipation of what she'd signed up for, and how close she was to its fruition. It simmered inside her crotch-roped belly, alongside the plugs, filling her with an electric, erotic dread.

The trunk lid swung open. A strange moment of calm followed. She heard crickets, overhead she saw tree branches, a starry night sky. The shape of her captor-slaver looming above her.

He didn't move, said nothing ... in no hurry to collect his booty from the boot.

"Hmmh?"

It briefly surprised her that it was one shape, not three. But it made sense: the strict way she'd been subdued, it would be a cinch for just one to control her now. The other two must've clocked out for the night.

Besides, if she had to pick one of them to be her handler at the destination end of her abduction into sex-and-bondage-slavery, she got the one she wanted.

It was Victor.

#_#

--> Big black dude comes around the bar, he's okay by me.

That text was the only thing Bree got from Kenny in the way of introduction, before said 'dude' darkened the doorstep of her establishment.

Of all the stinking gin joints in this town, this guy chooses mine.

It was a little after she opened at two.

But the message had arrived about an hour earlier. All of Bree's reply texts of

'?,' '????,' 'tell me more,'

and

'fuck you Kenny'

had been met with radio silence. Knowing him, it was Kenny's way of saying,

'Okay by me' is good enough for you

.

Kenny was her sponsor, mentor and sometimes-Master at the Spitfire Club, the local BDSM-society bar, lounge and play space where Bree was a rising star. More than anyone, he knew what she wanted, what she needed, and what she was capable of.

So she would just have to trust him. Still ...

fucking Kenny.

Bree watched the mystery man cross the slant of sunlight on the floor, approaching her as a bulky, 6'4" silhouette. Once he entered the muted lighting over the bar counter, she saw he was ... well, gorgeous.

Bree had a definite thing for Black men; this one was a sweet specimen of that. He was tall and brawny, with a strong jaw and a sexy mouth. He wore a white T-shirt, boots, black jeans and a light green mechanic's jacket.

His smile was flat. His eyes were all-business, but at the same time, soulful and magnetic. Instantly, she wanted them on her without any clothes between them and her body. Ideally, tied up ... at his mercy ...

"Breanna?"

"Bree," she replied. She realized she'd been holding her breath.

She regained her cocky calm. "Right. Kenny said to expect you."

Satisfied by that, the visitor took the barstool opposite her and slid a charge card across the counter. "Run a tab."

"What's your poison?"

"Johnnie Walker Black, neat, Corona back." This time, she noticed the slight French accent. "And whatever you're having."

What a charmer.

A dead Wednesday, no other patrons. Like he planned it that way; this wasn't going to be the kind of conversation you had around polite company.

As she turned to set the card by the register, she saw her phone come alive, the new text from Kenny.

--> He's from VSSA

Bree's pussy pulsed, she fought back a gasp. She'd been fucking wait-listed long enough.

Voluntary Sex-Slave Abduction.'

So her number finally came up?

After a few seconds of mild hyperventilating, Bree recomposed herself. Cool as a cucumber, she brought the beer, scotch and two rocks glasses, and set everything in front of the visitor. She poured two shots and left the bottle on the bar top.

She raised her leg and parked one Doc Marten on top of the beer cooler, drank before he did, making a point of holding eye contact. Wanting to look like the 'Tough Girl' she was. This being a nickname of hers, her

nom de guerre

and her rep, at the Spitfire.

"Roommates?" was his first question.

"No."

"Pets?"

She squinted at him. Jesus, did she need to give her favorite color, too, or whether she liked long walks on the beach?

He ignored her confusion. "Goldfish, even? Houseplants?"

"Ah."

She caught on. Anyone, or thing, that would miss her if she was gone from her apartment for a while. "No. I'm exactly the kind of 'quiet loner' you're looking for."

"Are you?" He looked up from his smart phone, smiling. He'd been filling in her answers on her sex-slave profile; apparently, there was an app for that.

The smile put Bree at ease. Which was sort of a buzz-kill. She liked him better the way he started off: mysterious and menacing.

"My name is Victor," he said. "You can call me Vic. So, assuming you intend to keep this job, can you arrange to get your shifts covered ... well, indefinitely?"

"Won't be a problem."

"Good. Do that right away."

Hi s next series of questions were like the vital signs for a medical exam:

Height, weight, DOB, shoe and dress sizes,

preexisting conditions, birth control (check; pill),

recent STD testing (check; labs in her messenger bag; planning to hit the Spitfire later),

kinks, fetishes ... limits.

"None."

He eyed her skeptically but took it down. "All holes available?"

"Readily."

"How old are you, Bree?"

He had her DOB; but he wanted to hear her say it. "Twenty-two. How old are you, Vic?"

"Same. But I'm not the one answering questions."

"You are now," she smirked, draining her glass. "Right off the bat, I thought you looked a little young to run an operation like this."

She poured herself a second shot and topped off his. The man was buying, after all. "Now I know you are."

Vic laughed, unfazed by her impertinence. Or at least, not taking the bait. She could tell he knew a SAM when he saw one. And he wasn't here to play.

He took a sip of spirits and a swig of beer, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and gave her a quick-capsule bio. His years in the lifestyle, the teachers he'd had, the skill sets he'd acquired.

He explained that he didn't 'run' the Syndicate. He was a VSSA recruiter, abductor and trainer, who answered to someone else, someone older and more experienced. "But as far as I'm concerned, I could run it better myself."

"Well, aren't you the cocky one?" Bree remarked, her eyes drifting down to the general area of his belt buckle.

"It's meant to inspire confidence," he replied. "And respect."

Vic pulled a folded document out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. Bree opened it and started to read. Her breath caught in her throat ...

Mutual Covenant of Voluntary Erotic Slavery.

She was a fast reader with excellent comprehension, having been an English major at college (hence the bartending she did for an actual living), and in this case, it helped that what she saw in the document was in a language she

really

understood.

Her eye fell on the 'Remuneration' clause. "The fuck? I get paid for this?"

"All our girls do. It's because you're whores."

Ugh, love the way he says that: stating the obvious.

She nodded happily, "True that."

"Listen, I know at the Spitfire they like to make a formal show of signing those master-slave contracts."

"Sure, it's a 'community' thing," she agreed, adding the air-quotes, "part of the club's 'brand.' But from what I hear, it's nothing really 'legal.'"

"No, it's 'ceremonial.' But

this,

" Vic replied, tapping the back of the document in her hand, "this is different. This is serious. This is

real

."

Bree shot him a level glare over the top of the page. "Real is

my

brand."

She took a pen from her messenger bag, placed the document on the counter and flipped to the signature page.

Vic's hand darted out and gripped her wrist. "I haven't given my permission."

Ooh!

She met his eyes.

He looked back seriously. "I'm obliged to ask. Have you read it carefully? That section there in particular," he pointed, "'Qualified Injury, Civil & Criminal Liability Waivers.' Sure you don't want to take it home, read it over, sleep on it?"

Eye contact unflinching, shaking loose her wrist, Bree replied, "No. I'm sure."

Vic pursed his lips and nodded in a way that seemed to say,

challenge accepted

.

"One more thing." He rose from his stool, looking around. "You got one of those 'Back in 5 Minutes' door signs?"

"Sure." Bree reached under the bar and handed it to him. He went to the door, closed it and latched the deadbolt. He hung the sign over the small, diamond-shaped window. Smiling flatly, he turned back to her.

"Strip."

Bree felt an electric current of lust pulse through her body. But outwardly, she just shrugged ... and she didn't hesitate.

She hopped over the bar counter and took the middle of the floor so that he would have an unobstructed view. She took off her boots and socks, then undid her jeans and slid them down her legs, careful not to take her panties with them. Her denim jacket and peach colored tanktop came off next, followed by her lacy black bra.

As trained, she neatly folded her clothes once they came off her body, and placed them in a tidy stack on the bar. While she disrobed, Vic walked slowly back to her. She looked up and met his eyes. Watched them turn down to her waist.

Coming to the

pièce de résistance,

Bree hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her pantie. She lowered the red satin thong slowly like a stripper, a move she'd practiced in the mirror a time or two -- or a hundred.

"Slut," Vic muttered.

Again, ooh, stating the obvious.

Demonstrating another practiced move, she picked up the thong with her toes, gave a graceful kick, and tossed it to him. He caught it. He ran his thumb inside the satin fabric. He smiled.

Without being asked, Bree took a slow turn to give him the full 360, then faced him, one hand on her hip. Vic nodded, appraising her goods.

While there was no accounting for tastes, she thought he liked what he saw. Bree was a petite brunette, lanky and athletic, a gym-rat with flat abs and good muscle definition in her arms and legs. She had a sweet, firm ass to go with her shapely hips and long waist. Like her stature, her breasts were a little on the small side for some tastes, but they were nicely rounded with a natural, youthful buoyancy.

Not counting the understated body art decorating her forearms, underneath one boob and along one hip, her skin was unblemished with a girlish glow. Her eyes were a smoky blue-gray and she wore her dark brown hair short.

"Like what you've done with your pubes," he gestured at her 'down-arrow' grooming job. "You're cute. Cute, but tough-cute."

She grimaced. Not exactly the compliment she hoped to hear.

So she fished for the one she wanted: Dropping to her knees, she clasped her hands behind her neck, elbows out, and straightened up with a graceful forward tilt of her pelvis and tits.

As trained. "Does this slave not please your eye, Sir?"

He didn't reply. Verbally. But he moved closer, a fire lighting up in his eyes ... and that was Bree's answer.

As he neared, she knelt up higher, adjusting her face to his crotch level. She looked up at him, doe-eyed. "Shouldn't this be part of the interview -- testing my skill sets?"

"Not really," Vic shook his head, his eyes briefly all-business again. "We train, that's our whole thing. All we want from our slave-whores to start off is willingness, experience, good health. Absence of inhibition or shame. Pain tolerance."

Oooh, check check check check check.

"Stamina."

"So like ... throat stamina?" Bree opened her mouth wide, licked her lips all around and lolled out her tongue like a thirsty suckslut, and gazed up longingly into his eyes.

The 'all-business' dropped out of them, replaced by the fire. "Never hurts to check."

He unzipped and let it all hang out.

Bree blinked and drew in a deep breath. "Wow."

"I know, I get it all the time."

"That reaction? Or pussy?"

"Both."

And that was the last coherent word Victor spoke for a while. Bree's hands came off her neck and seized his shaft, she opened wide and fed herself a greedy suckslut's helping of cock.

Swallowing the length and girth of him was a challenge, but she was known for rising to those. He rose in turn. Gurgling happily, she demonstrated her nearly non-existent gag reflex.

Lost in her cocksucking headspace, moaning and slurping and fixated on hoovering him dry, she was startled and annoyed when he pulled out of her mouth and drew her to her feet ...

Then happy all over again when lifted her ass onto the bar counter, and firmly packed her pussy with hands-down the largest cock she'd ever taken.

His first, steady thrust felt like a revelation on its way in.

"UGH-HHH!!" she answered with a full-throated groan. "Fuck me! Oh God oh God oh --

GG-NGH!!

"

Vic wadded her underwear into her mouth.

Fuck,

that turned her on.

Obediently she held the cloth there while his hands returned to her hips and he started drilling her.

"Ngh! Ngh! NNGH!"

Quickly gaining momentum as she juiced, spread and opened up to him, Vic fucked her with her back to the beer taps.

"Nguh-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh,"

her panty-gagged voice jittered.

Squealing and hyperventilating, she exploded like a sonic boom -- sooner than she wanted to, powerless to resist his jackhammer manhood -- and soon after, so did he.

Still naked, warm cum dribbling down her inner thighs, Bree signed the contract and initialed the waiver provisions. Vic took pics of her doing it. He countersigned and initialed where she had, 'VL.'

"We'll collect you at a time of our choosing. You don't get to know --"

"Wouldn't be an 'abduction' if I did."

"That's the spirit."

After she redressed (apart from her panties, which he kept as a souvenir, or a trophy), he settled his tab and left a big tip. Bree's cunt twitched a little watching him sign off. The whore in her took that as payment for her services rendered on the other side of the bar; and the

cheap

whore in her delighted in how little it cost him for a BJ and a fuck.