Undercover Bondage

Chapter 1

She walked into the room exactly one minute late. She was five feet and fifty kilograms of sass, her cheeky smile peering out between neck-length curtains of silky black hair. Her profession demanded infallible stealth on a daily basis, and her jet-black locks and caramel skin tone allowed her to slip into shadows like a silk dress. Her petite figure had saved her hide on numerous occasions, for underestimating Isabella Winters was the last mistake anyone could make. What she lacked in stature she compensated for with speed, agility, and an unmatched proficiency in hand-to-hand combat.

But if all went well, it was merely her looks that this job would require. Fortunately this was another area in which Isabella was a gifted woman. Her curvaceous figure was perhaps her most well-used asset as a spy, and her round amber eyes had melted away many a hostile opponent's resistance.

In place of her usual form-fitting reconnaissance suit, she was dressed in a lewd approximation of what a fetish model might wear. Her slim waist was girded by a low-cut blouse several sizes too small, demanding no stretch of imagination to visualise her shapely assets in their entirety. A thigh-length stretch skirt hugged her rear, morphing to her wiry muscles perhaps a little too well—a real model probably wouldn't share the physique of an Olympic athlete. In any case, the attire was sexy and inexpensive, which was probably a good choice seeing as her garments would likely be ripped away in the course of the ensuing scene.

There was a man waiting for her—a middle-aged man with calloused hands and loose-fitting clothes. He smirked as he looked up, as if by her late arrival and audacious grin he immediately knew he'd enjoy their coming session.

They exchanged a few formalities and established that she knew roughly what she was getting into. Every word she spoke was a lie, of course, since her cover couldn't be traced back to her real purpose here. She was posing as a model named Scarlett Summers (somebody back at headquarters clearly had a sense of humour). Her background was the usual tripe, but she delivered the appropriate amount of detail with enough conviction to avoid raising suspicion.

Soon enough she was ordered to turn around and hold out her arms. As the man grabbed them and roped her elbows tightly together, it took every ounce of self-control she possessed to ignore her training and stop herself from retaliating. As much as she ached to put this lewd man in his place, she had to stick to the plan at least until she found out what was going on. So as he forced her shoulders back and bound her upper arms as closely as her strained muscles allowed, she merely grunted and clenched her fists. Even then she could have fought back and wriggled free were her nimble feet not buckled into a pair of glossy black stilettos—footwear she normally abhorred for how they chastened her effortless agility, but today a necessary accessory to her faux identity.

Having secured her arms to his satisfaction, the man pushed her to her knees and then to her chest, unceremoniously crushing her breasts inside her already-tight blouse. He then proceeded to bind her legs. Isabella groaned as he wrapped rope around her infernal footwear, passing the strands neatly between the spoke and heel to further prevent her from kicking them off. Then he pulled her ankles against her thighs and worked rope around and between each leg to glue calf and thigh snugly together.

At this point the secret agent was feeling somewhat less confident about her ability to escape. She was now effectively hogtied, a position notorious for reducing feisty women to struggling slaves.

But the devious rope master was just getting started. Over the next few minutes he worked her over like a butcher binding a slab of meat, inspecting her for any freedom of movement so that he could promptly take it away.

Her breasts popped easily out of her blouse and were each wrapped in several coils of rope which ran between her legs and to her wrists, rubbing uncomfortably against her crotch with every twitch. Her hair was interwoven with several strands of rope, natural and synthetic fibres entwined in an unbreakable cord that held her head back in an uncomfortable arch. The other end of the cord connected to a chrome hook that slid down her skirt and into her ass—Isabella threw her head back in shock when the cold intruder slipped through her clenched sphincter, which unfortunately only made it easier for the man to tighten the bond. A wide leather collar was placed around her neck, its numerous rings and buckles foreshadowing future torments. Her skirt was cut slightly to allow her legs to part, then with more rope her knees were pried apart and connected to the sides of her collar, leaving her crotch exposed in a wide split. Now only a scrap of lingerie separated model and rope master, and it was so thin that she could practically feel her pussy breathing through the fabric.

Yet more rope was attached to several points around her trussed form and looped through a fixture on the ceiling. Then she was yanked into the air, her breath leaving her with an involuntary gasp.

The final touch, it seemed, was to gag her. The man disappeared from view for a moment and returned with a vivid red ballgag, grinning profusely. What the hell, she thought, I've come this far...

Isabella obediently opened her mouth to take the large gag between her lips. It was as lustrous as her strawberry lip gloss and ten times as vibrant. There was no doubt she looked the part of a fetish model now, floating in the air with nearly every inch of her body on display and a shiny gag in her mouth—but was it worth it?

The man continued to move about her, preparing some predicament or another, but Isabella found her mind softly letting go. The rope was so snug and satisfying, her stretched muscles ached with warmth, her body swayed gently in the air... Without closing her eyes, she began to drift off into delicious fantasies. The world continued to spin around her, but the agent was soon oblivious to it, instead embroiled in her own private universe where life was simple and pleasure came easily.

***

Sunlight pierced the dense canopy of water-laden leaves, driving up the humidity of the rainforest below. Upon a large moss-padded rock a woman stirred, woken by the steadily rising temperature of the air around her. Her skin was tepid with moisture, though whether from perspiration or the sultry air was impossible to tell.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around, dazed. For a moment she was placated by the many beautiful sights and smells around her: the golden glow of the morning sun and the fresh aroma of a hundred species of flora all thriving within a stone's throw.

Then her mind woke up and tried to comprehend what her senses were telling her. She was in the middle of a tropical rainforest, but had no memory of how she got here. Come to think of it, she had no memory of anything besides... No, she couldn't even remember her name. A note of panic set in, the ubiquitous jungle overwhelming her. She also realised she was unclothed, her warm skin completely exposed to the elements.

A sense of self-consciousness kicked in and she began to rationalise her situation. Her hair was raven black and silky smooth, two qualities that marked her about as suited to the rainforest as a tiger to the city. So if she wasn't a native or a nomad, why was she here? Unless...

A nearby rustle interrupted her thoughts. She didn't have to wait long to hear it again—the rustle was growing in volume, getting closer. Something was lumbering through the underbrush towards her, smashing everything out of its path. Her heart racing, she leapt to her feet and dashed off in the opposite direction. Adrenaline surged through her, urging her onward. But her mind quickly filled with terror as the futility of her plight set in. She had nowhere to run to, nor was she in any state for a marathon. Even as she thought this, she stumbled. Glancing down, her brow furrowed in bewilderment. She was wearing a pair of black six-inch stilettos, their glossy finish strikingly out of place in the green vegetation carpeting the jungle. She could have sworn she was barefoot when she woke up.

A roar at her back pushed her forwards, limping on through the brush. Only, the brush was no longer whipping past her as she ran—instead it sort of rushed past in a blur. Wait a moment... A tiger wouldn't announce its presence before a pounce. There was something else going on here. Then the colours around her shifted, the lush greens darkening to a black gloom. The rustle of her footfalls became sharp raps against cobbled stone and a cold chill engulfed her naked form. But she was naked no longer: scraps of clothing hung off her, the torn remains of a shamelessly lewd attire.

The roar was closer still, but it had deepened to resemble a man's cruel laugh. Cursing her glamorous yet awkward heels, she stumbled on down the alley that had materialised in front of her. It was night time now, apparently, and she was running through a deserted city street to flee this mystery man behind her. But she could go no faster, and he was swiftly gaining on her.

In moments he was upon her, his rough hands grabbing at her midriff from behind. She spun and faced the predator, but a featureless black mask concealed his expression. His hands continued to subdue, her struggles rendered futile by his effortless strength. She was no helpless maid, but it was as though the man possessed boundless brawn, matching her defiance with unfailing tenacity. His body even seemed physically superior to that of an average man, with burly arms built like bronze pistons and the hardy legs of a tireless sprinter. By some unjust fate, she was simply no match for him.

Yet although her heart continued to pound in her chest and her skin crawled with perspiration, she realised it was not from fear, but excitement. The thrill of the chase, and more importantly, the capture. She might not have asked for this, yet somehow she needed it. She needed to be subdued, freed from her pride, and subjected to the ruthlessness she deserved.

Rope appeared in his hands as he proceeded to secure his conquest. Her flailing limbs were tamed and tied in short order, her contrary efforts serving only to tire herself out. She let out a silent scream as a pair of clamps mercilessly pinched her nipples and held fast to those tiny sensitive buds. Where did they come from?

Realising she was defeated, her mind wasted no time in analysing the situation. She began noticing small details around her that were just slightly off. Her bent knees were pressed hard against the rough pavement, yet she felt no scratching nor bruises. From her attire she appeared to be a working girl, yet she had nowhere to stash tips. Then there was the man's implausible strength, the oddly deserted street...

As if on cue, the street began closing in around her, solid walls zooming into place as a ceiling materialised and the floor became wood. In moments, a dimly-lit dungeon had taken the place of the city street. She also abruptly became aware that she was suspended some distance above the ground, explaining why she'd never felt the road beneath her. And finally her masked captor shimmered and changed before her eyes. He was no less menacing, especially given the power he currently held over her, but she now saw him for an ordinary man, if somewhat cunning with a coil of rope. No mask, no burnished muscles, and no superhuman strength. Just a man with an uncanny ability to work rope around a woman's body.

"Good morning, sunshine," grinned the man as he saw her eyes come into focus. "That was an impressive turn-around for a first-timer. Barely thirty minutes."

Upon seeing her confusion he laughed gave her a teasing slap. The sting brought her memory flooding back in a hot flush. She was currently modelling for a fetish entertainment company known as eSensual Studios. But she was no model—she was Agent Isabella Winters, a trained agent on an undercover assignment to investigate rumours of illicit activity at the company. And she'd just confirmed those rumours with resounding success.

If she wasn't mistaken, the hallucinations she'd just experienced were induced by a drug known as eroxide, an illegal psychedelic drug. If models were normally dosed by the hour, her disciplined mind must have been the only reason she'd fought it from her system in so short a time. She now understood why the studio's profits had skyrocketed in recent months: the drug was addictive. A model might not even realised she'd been dosed—she'd just be left with a pleasant rush of endorphins and an insatiable desire to return as soon as possible.

The drug was illegal because of its ability to deprive an individual of their free will. A small dose would leave the subject in a heightened state of euphoria no matter how extreme or painful the treatment that follows might be. There were similar drugs that made a person susceptible to suggestion—sodium pentathol, lysergic acid, alcohol—but each of these had their limits as to what that suggestion might entail. Not eroxide. It worked by giving its user an extrasensory experience derived from their deepest, darkest fantasies, simulating a deep satisfaction and emotional release no matter what foul reality they really inhabited. For a fetish model this meant they would appear to be laughing and enjoying their ordeal when really their true reaction might be to scream in protest. And when they awoke they would be left with only vague memories of what transpired and an emotional high that would ensure they didn't think too hard on it. Along with any physical evidence left on their body, of course.

That was why eroxide was illegal. In truth, many models might enjoy this sort of treatment anyway, but the drug ensured that those who didn't never got to express their discomfort and would even believe that they'd experienced pure bliss. Every model would become a regular, and word of mouth would inevitably draw others into the studio. Erotic entertainment was a booming industry to begin with; add eroxide into the fold and this company would have a monopoly on the industry before the average model's 21st birthday.

Isabella knew what was coming next. Her rigger would administer another dose and continue the scene. Trouble was, she didn't particularly feel like waking up in another rainforest, so he was going to have a hard time putting her back under.

Isabella wriggled experimentally, testing the ropes that held her. She had to admit that the man standing over her was no amateur—but then, neither was she. Escapology was a key discipline of every field agent, and she'd been top of the class.

First: identify the restraints. The rope was a three-strand weave of hemp fibres, evident from the strong aroma filling her nose and the rough texture against her skin. This was good, because the natural fibre held with more friction and hence required fewer knots for a secure suspension. The placement of those knots weren't going to be of any help—these people were far too professional to leave any loose ends near her fingers. If she had more time and wasn't floating in the air she could perhaps rub a strand until it became frayed, but as it was, her captor was already approaching with enough eroxide to have her fleeing from big cats for the better part of the evening.

Her mind raced to predict how the drug would be administered so that she could react in time. A needle would have the quickest effect, but the scar it left would be too obvious. Racking her brain, only one likely possibility presented itself—the drug was laced into the gag somehow. This would be nearly as effective as a chloroform-soaked cloth, but undetectable even by the model being dosed.

Sure enough, she heard him approaching from behind and felt him remove her gag to swap it with a new one. Quick as a flash, she jerked her head away and spun towards where he stood. At the last moment she rammed her skull into his, colliding with a satisfying thud that took him by surprise. As her hanging body swayed violently backwards in recoil, the rope master sank to the ground and began drooling, his eyes flickering briefly before they closed. That was the easy part. Now she had five, maybe ten minutes before he woke back up with a thirst for vengeance. If she was still bound in these ropes by that time, an illegal drug would be the least of her worries.

So, onwards to the second step in escaping restraints: identify the weakness. Her predicament was a cunning one, its purpose two-fold. Usually when a perpetrator tied up a victim it was to prevent them from escaping. While this was certainly true of her current bondage, there was also a second purpose: humiliation. That commendable andric desire to see a pretty woman rendered a helpless sex object had motivated more than just ropes to restrain; it had also demanded that each of her erogenous zones be flaunted and made available to any treatment the predatory man might desire to inflict. To that end, she was splayed like a whore, and a camera blinking silently from one side ensured the world would know it if she couldn't get to the footage first.

Unfortunately, knowing all this did nothing to aid her quest. The ropes were everywhere, her every limb bound with countless strands each woven into a lattice of masterful ropework.

Isabella thrashed in frustration, as if a violent enough movement could shake the bonds off. Any one of these ties on their own she could escape from in the blink of an eye, but together? There was just too much damn rope. Even dislocating a shoulder would be no help, because her shoulders were already strained so far back that it would give her barely any extra slack. Yet she was running out of time. She had to think fast, work fast—and failing that, come up with a sound backup plan if she was still stuck here when the man awoke.

Her goal now was simple: destroy the video footage of her session, grab some evidence of eroxide usage from the room, and exfiltrate the complex. There was just this small problem of a mile of rope keeping her in place. Agent Isabella Winters, thwarted by a sex worker. She would not let that be her legacy in espionage.

She glared at the blinking camera, fervently hoping there was no one currently watching her. When she joined the agency she'd known her body would be a valuable asset in this line of work—a female spy was rare, and one that could hold her own against a group of male agents was exceptional. She had long been comfortable with exploiting men with her sexuality—an innuendo here, a cutesy nipple slip there—but exposing her entire being at its most sexualised to the world at large was not something she was ready for.

But it wasn't long now until that was exactly what would happen. Adopting a stoic grimace, Isabella redoubled her efforts to free herself from the rope. Find the weakness. There's always a weakness. If only she had more time...

***

Chapter 2

The man stirred. Then he was on his feet, scowling at her with all the contempt he could muster.

"What? I don't like gags," Isabella pouted, shrugging off her attack as part of the role-play. With any luck he'd buy it. What else would he believe? That a trained agent had just slugged him but failed to escape his rope?

He remained silent as he moved around her. Isabella shivered, uncomfortably aware of her every vulnerability. If he wanted revenge, she was his on a silver platter, and there wasn't the slightest thing she could do about it. She'd tried every avenue of escape, every sleight of hand, every manoeuvre she knew, but the ropes had held stubbornly to her form. They'd dug corrugated grooves into her flesh now—it would be days before she could wear a bikini without burning with shame. Apparently that wasn't enough for the rope master, though, because he proceeded to tighten her bonds even further. If the crotch rope was chafing before, now it was rubbing her raw. He also added weights to her nipples, delivering a painful reminder of the clamps that had been applied while she was absorbed in a false reality.