The Extreme Bound Artistry
Copyright© 2024 by E. J. Bullin
Chapter 7: Reckoning
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 7: Reckoning - A young mother signs a contract for a second job. Forty dollars an hour. Three nights a week. The catch? She must remain naked forever—at work, at home, everywhere. No exceptions. Now her husband and daughter are hostages. And the gallery won't let her leave. Ever.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Blackmail Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Crime Horror Mystery Workplace BDSM MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Exhibitionism Lactation Pregnancy Voyeurism ENF Nudism AI Generated
Three days passed.
I spent them at Ms. Patricia’s house, hidden from Zara’s cameras, wrapped in the nightgown I had come to treasure like a second skin. The old woman fed me, sheltered me, and asked no questions. She seemed to understand that I was waiting for something: a sign, a message, a signal that the evidence had reached the right hands.
On the second day, Father Michael came to visit.
He brought news, some good, some terrifying. Diana Reyes had taken the evidence to her editor, who had taken it to the police. A task force was being assembled, a raid was being planned, and within the week, the gallery would be shut down.
“Soon,” he said, his hand on my shoulder. “Soon, this will be over.”
“And Pete? Daniela?”
His face tightened. “No word yet. But when Madam Curator is arrested, she will talk. They always talk.”
I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. But every hour that passed without news felt like a lifetime, and every night I lay awake in Ms. Patricia’s spare bedroom, listening to the silence, wondering if I would ever see my family again.
On the third day, my phone rang.
I had kept it off, hidden in a drawer, afraid that Zara would use it to track me. But Ms. Patricia had insisted I turn it on at least once a day, just in case.
Just in case.
The caller ID was blocked. I stared at the screen for a long moment, my finger hovering over the answer button.
“It could be a trap,” Ms. Patricia said from the doorway.
“It could be Pete.”
I answered.
“Nellie.” Madam Curator’s voice was smooth, cold, and controlled. “How nice of you to answer.”
My blood ran cold. “What do you want?”
“I want to make you an offer. Your family for your silence.”
“I do not believe you.”
“You should. I am a woman of my word.” There was a pause, and then another voice came on the line: familiar, beloved, terrified.
“Nellie?” Pete’s voice was ragged with exhaustion. “Nellie, do not”.The line went silent, then Madam Curator was back. “You heard him. He is alive. So is your daughter. They will remain alive as long as you do exactly what I say.”
“What do you want?”
“Come to the gallery. Alone. Unarmed. And bring the evidence you stole.”
“I gave it to a reporter. It is already out of my hands.”
A pause. When Madam Curator spoke again, her voice was different, colder, sharper, edged with something that might have been fear.
“Then you have made a grave mistake, Nellie. A grave mistake.”
The line went dead.
I sat on the bed, the phone clutched in my hand, my mind racing. Ms. Patricia stood in the doorway, her face pale.
“What did she say?”
“She wants me to come to the gallery. To bring the evidence. But I cannot give it to Diana.”
“Then do not go. It is a trap.”
“I know. But Pete and Daniela are there. I cannot abandon them.”
“You will not save them by getting yourself killed.”
I stood up, pulled off the nightgown, and stood naked in the middle of the room. The cold air raised goosebumps on my skin, but I barely noticed. My mind was already at the gallery, already walking through the labyrinth, already facing whatever waited for me there.
“Call Father Michael,” I said. “Tell him what happened. Tell him to contact Diana, to tell the police to move up the raid. I will stall as long as I can.”
“Nellie”
“I have to do this. For Pete. For Daniela. For everyone.”
Ms. Patricia crossed to me, took my face in her hands, and kissed my forehead.
“God be with you,” she whispered.
Then I walked out the door and drove to the gallery.
The building looked different in the daylight, less imposing, less mysterious. The ornate stonework was chipped and stained, the tall windows were cracked, the grandeur I had seen on my first night was revealed as a facade, a mask hiding the rot within.
The employee lot was empty. The west entrance was unlocked. I pushed through the door and walked into the labyrinth.
“Welcome back, Nellie.” Zara’s voice came from the ceiling speakers, but something was different. The warmth was gone, replaced by something cold and mechanical. “You are expected.”
“I know.”
I walked through the corridors, my bare feet silent on the concrete, my heart pounding in my chest. The lights were dimmer than usual, the shadows deeper, the air heavier. Something had changed. Something was wrong.
The main exhibition hall was empty.
No enclosures. No participants. No Sara, no Tina, no Marcus. Just a space, cavernous and dark, with a single chair in the center of the floor.
And in the chair, bound and gagged, sat Pete.
“Nellie “ H’s voice was muffled by the gag, but I could see the terror in his eyes, the desperation in his struggles against the ropes.
I started toward him, but a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
“Not so fast.” Gregor’s voice was rough, satisfied. “Madam Curator wants to see you first.”
“Where is my daughter?”
“Safe. For now.” He dragged me across the hall, toward a door I had never seen before. “Cooperate, and she stays that way. Resist, and...”
He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.
The room behind the door was small, windowless, lit by a single bulb in a cage on the ceiling. Madam Curator sat behind a desk, her silver hair pulled back in its severe bun, her ice-chip eyes fixed on me with an expression I could not read.
“Nellie.” She gestured to a chair facing the desk. “Sit.”
I sat.
“You have caused me a great deal of trouble,” she said. “More trouble than you can possess.”
“I do not care.”
“No. I do not suppose you do.” She leaned back in her chair, studying me like a scientist studying a specimen. “You are an interesting case, Nellie. Most people, when confronted with the choice between their family and their principles, choose their family. But you ... You chose both. And now here we are.”
“Where is my daughter?”
“Safe. As I said. Her location is known only to me, a few trusted associates, and me. Anything happens to me if I am arrested, if I am killed, they have instructions to ensure she never sees the light of day again.”
My blood ran cold. “You are lying.”
“I am not. I am a woman of contingency, Nellie. I plan for every possibility. And I planned for this.”
“Then why am I here? If you have Daniela, if you have Pete, why do you need me?”
Madam Curator smiled, and it was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen.
“Because I want to watch you choose.”
“Choose what?”
“Choose between your freedom and your family.” She stood up, circled the desk, and stopped in front of me. “I am going to offer you a deal. The same deal I offered you before. Silence for their safety. You walk away, you tell no one about what you have seen, and I release your husband and your daughter.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I release them anyway. But not to you. To the basement. To the permanent exhibits.”
I stared at her, my mind racing. She was lying. She had to be lying. But what if she was not? What if Daniela was already in the basement, already connected to tubes, already becoming one of those empty-eyed creatures I had seen in the clinical cages?
“I need to see her,” I said. “Before I decide.”
“No.”
“Then I will not decide.”
Madam Curator studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded slowly.
“Gregor. Bring the child.”
Gregor left the room. The minutes stretched into what felt like hours. I sat in the chair, my hands clenched in my lap, my heart pounding, waiting.
The door opened. Gregor walked in, and in his arms
Daniela.
She was crying, her face red, her tiny fists clenched. But she was alive. She was whole. She was here.
“Mama!” she shrieked when she saw me, reaching out with grabby hands. “Mama, Mama, Mama!”
I stood up, started toward her, but Gregor stepped back, holding her out of reach.
“Not so fast,” Madam Curator said. “You have not chosen yet.”
“Let me hold her. Please.”
“Choose first.”
“I chose her. I choose my family. I will do whatever you want. Just let me hold my daughter.”
Madam Curator nodded to Gregor, and he handed Daniela to me. I clutched her to my chest, feeling her warmth, her softness, her tiny heart pounding against mine.
“Mama,” she sobbed, her fingers curling into my bare skin. “Mama, Mama.”
“I am here,” I whispered. “I am here. Mama is not going anywhere.”
“Good.” Madam Curator’s voice was cold, satisfied. “Then we understand each other. You will leave the gallery. You will tell no one about what you have seen. You will return to your life, and you will forget that any of this ever happened.”
“And Pete?”
“Will be released once you are home. As will your daughter.”
“I want to leave with them. Now.”
“No.”
I looked down at Daniela, at her tear-stained face, at her dark eyes that were so like Pete’s. She was my world. My reason for everything. And I would do anything to protect her.
Even if it meant betraying everyone else.
“Fine,” I said. “I agree.”
Madam Curator smiled. “I knew you would.”
Gregor escorted me out of the gallery, Daniela in my arms, my body numb with shock and fear. The parking lot was empty, my car sat where I had left it, and I climbed inside and sat for a moment with my daughter on my lap.
“Mama,” she said again, her voice calmer now, her tears dried. “Mama home?”
“Soon,” I whispered. “Soon.”
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