Chapter 2: To Be Frank: Part 1

By the time Karen had finished her wine, and Frank had drained his third bourbon, the house had grown impossibly still, the only sound of the grandfather clock. Bianca and Carmen, both still raw from the evening’s humiliations, were left kneeling side by side on the landing, wrists zip-tied behind their backs, foreheads pressed to the cool oak floor. Carmen’s trembling had only just abated; the streaks of mascara on her cheeks now webbed dry, leaving ghosts of old tears. Bianca, for her part, was locked in a silent, vibrating rage, the urge to break something or someone so strong she could taste the metallic tang of adrenaline in the back of her throat.

But there will be no break tonight. Not from her, and certainly not from Carmen.

Because this was only the beginning.

Karen and Frank loomed over them, Karen’s face flushed and shining with sweat, Frank’s jaw still tight with the aftershocks of his own release. They stood in silent appraisal, a queen and her executioner evaluating the newly acquired spoils of war. Frank was the first to move. He bent, grabbed a fistful of Bianca’s short hair, and wrenched her upright in a single, practiced motion. She grunted but did not protest. She would never give him the satisfaction. Carmen, meanwhile, tried to scramble upright on her own, desperate to avoid Frank’s touch, but the effort made her topple sideways, landing hard on her hip with a soft, aborted yelp.

“Good pets know when to stay,” Karen said coolly, her eyes resting on Carmen, then flicking to Bianca. “You need my lesson like your champion over there.”

Frank yanked Bianca to her feet and, with the offhanded cruelty of someone used to getting his way, marched her down the hallway toward the basement door. Karen followed, her heels click-clicking a steady metronome, and Carmen, her legs barely steady enough to carry her, scuttled behind. The basement stairs plunged steeply down, anchored by a scarred handrail that looked like it had been stolen from a condemned school gymnasium. Framed photos lined the walls: different people, all naked or degraded, most in some sort of bondage liked the walls, all trophies of the Mitchells. Bianca registered this with a kind of bitter irony. She wondered if, after tonight, there would be a new photo to add to the display. Maybe a security cam still of her and Carmen, naked and defeated, immortalized for future generations of Mitchell’s to sneer at.

The basement itself was a cavernous, echoing space, finished in cinder block and battered linoleum, a cross between a suburban rec room and a medieval oubliette. On the far wall hung a row of tennis racquets and a laminated bracket for last year’s club doubles tournament. But the main attraction, dominating the center of the room, was a stainless-steel bondage frame, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Next to it stood a workbench lined with implements some familiar, others terrifyingly alien in function. Bianca counted at least two impact toys, a set of heavy leather cuffs, an array of medical instruments, and something that looked like a power drill modified for sex, with a gleaming silicone shaft attached at the end.

“Welcome to the training room,” Frank announced, with the deranged pride of a man showing off a vintage Mustang, or a particularly rare gun.

Bianca felt Carmen tense beside her, could see her wife’s chest rising and falling with shallow, panicked breaths. She wanted to reach out, to squeeze Carmen’s hand, to offer some kind of comfort or solidarity, but her wrists were still bound uselessly behind her back. The best she could do was nudge Carmen’s bare foot with her own silent communication: I am here. I am not giving in.

If Carmen noticed, she gave no sign.

Frank wasted no time. He hauled Bianca to the center of the room, forced her to her knees, and unclipped the plastic ties with a box cutter. Her arms spasmed forward, stiff and numb, and before she could even flex her hands Karen slipped a heavy black hood over her head. The inside was padded and lined with sweat-soaked leather, and as Karen zipped it closed Bianca’s world narrowed to darkness and the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears. There was a small hole for her mouth, and two for her nose, but nothing for her eyes. Something pressed against her lips a ball gag, she realized, as Karen forced it into her mouth and secured it brutally tight at the back.

She could hear Carmen whimpering somewhere close by, the faint shuffling of knees on linoleum, then the wet, mechanical squelch of something being lubed. Bianca wanted to scream, to bite, to fight, but the ball filled her mouth and left her with whimpers to fight back with.

“Shhh,” Karen murmured, stroking the side of Bianca’s hooded cheek with surprising tenderness. “Good sluts, know how to be used. Be my good doll and I might give you a reward.”

A reward. The word echoed in Bianca’s mind, a taunt and a promise.

She heard the clatter of metal as Frank unlocked the main beam of the bondage frame. With the ease of someone who had clearly practiced this many times, he hoisted Bianca up, clamped her wrists and ankles into place, and spread her knees wide. The steel was cold against her skin, but the humiliation burned hotter than anything she’d felt upstairs.

Carmen was next. Karen had stripped her of the last shreds of dignity, fitting the stocks to Carmen’s neck and wrists, forcing her to kneel at a perfect ninety-degree angle, face pressed down onto a padded shelf. Her ass was naked, her cunt exposed, and Bianca could imagine the cherry-red flush that would soon blossom across Carmen’s skin.

Frank moved to the workbench, selected the power-drill contraption, and flicked it on. The machine whirred to life with a menacing hum, the silicone shaft spinning lazily in the air.

“BDSM stands for ‘better discipline, stronger marriage,’” Frank said, mock-pedantic, as he advanced on Carmen. “Isn’t that right my little fuckslut?”

He jammed the machine forward, and Bianca blind, gagged, helpless heard the obscene wet pop of penetration and Carmen’s answering shriek. The sound was primal, echoing off the cinderblock, a howl that started in terror and ended in ecstasy. The machine ramped up, its rhythm unrelenting, and Carmen’s voice rose to match it, a high, keening wail that shuddered through Bianca’s bones.

Bianca tried to brace herself for her own turn, but she was denied even the luxury of anticipation. Karen’s hands were everywhere, roaming over Bianca’s body, mapping her flanks, her stomach, her thighs. The hands were clinical, almost impersonal, but the words whispered in her ear were anything but.

“You’re going to come for me,” Karen said, her breath hot against the leather of the hood. “You’re going to do it with your wife’s screams in your ears and that gag in your mouth, and when I unlock you, you’ll thank us. Understand?”

Bianca shook her head, or tried to, but the frame held her immobile. Karen’s nails grazed her inner thigh, then her mound, then the slick, shivering heat between her legs.

The machine started on her barely a moment later. She felt the cold, viscous lube, and then a hard, relentless pressure as another shaft larger than anything she’d ever dared use rammed into her, the angle perfect and merciless. Bianca’s moan was strangled, half-choked by the gag, but she could hear Karen’s delighted laughter, could sense the growing excitement in the room as the two machines found their rhythm.

Carmen was sobbing now, a wild, animal panic that bled seamlessly into pleasure. Every time the machine bottomed out, she let loose a string of curses and prayers, some in English, some in Spanish, all of them raw and unfiltered. Bianca felt a surge of pride Carmen had always been the more submissive, but there was something heroic in the way she endured, the way she refused to be reduced to a whimpering mess, even as the machine forced orgasm after orgasm from her.

Bianca arched her back, a futile attempt to clench against the machine’s invasion. <FFTWACK!>

A sharp crack echoed Karen’s favorite switch landing hard across her thigh. “My sluts moan for me,” Karen hissed, her voice low and commanding.

She ran a smooth palm up Bianca’s trembling leg. “Don’t you want to moan for your goddess? Don’t you want your reward?” Her other hand traced circles around Bianca’s nipple, teasing it to a stiff peak.

Karen’s fingers dug into Bianca’s hip, nails biting crescents into the skin. “Louder,” she purred, voice dripping with mock concern. “My naughty whore doesn’t sound nearly horny enough.” She twisted the gag’s strap, tightening it until Bianca’s jaw ached.

“Moan for me like the desperate little slut you are. Let me hear how much you love being used.” Bianca obeyed, the gag warping her cries into wet, animalistic grunts. The machine’s rhythm never faltered, pistoning into her with merciless precision. Her thighs trembled, her cunt clenching around the silicone shaft as pleasure coiled tighter, tighter until she shattered, her scream muffled into a broken, guttural keen. Karen’s laughter rang out, triumphant.

“That’s it. Cum for your goddess, you filthy fucktoy.”

Frank, having finished with Carmen, returned to the bench and selected a thick, rubber plug. He lubed it up, then pressed it to Bianca’s ass, working it in slowly, methodically, like he was mounting a new set of tires. Bianca screamed into the gag, the sound swallowed by the hood, but the pain was oddly clarifying. She felt herself lifting free of her body, floating somewhere above, out of body. Then sensation brought her into body with a vengeance.

Eventually, the machines did what they were designed to do. Bianca came again, her whole-body convulsing in the frame, her knees threatening to buckle against the steel restraints. Frank returned with a smaller device, its motor purring rather than roaring. “Backup model,” he said, patting it like a pet. “Carmen gets this one. The industrial stays where it is.” Hours later, after Karen had blown them each a mocking kiss goodnight, the basement fell silent.

Across the yard, through Bianca’s bedroom window, firelight flickered. Karen held up a pair of tailored slacks, examining them with theatrical disdain before tossing them into the crackling flames. Frank sat cross-legged on the carpet, scissors flashing as he transformed a pair of Levi’s into something that would barely cover a millimeter. A mountain of sensible cotton underwear smoldered in the fireplace while a lone drawer of fishnet and lace remained untouched. In the corner, a garbage bag bulged with practical flats and sneakers, only the two pairs of stilettos surviving the purge.

The next morning...

By the time the clamps and straps were unfastened, Bianca’s world had shrunk to greasy darkness and the taste of leather and drool. She was not sure how long they’d been down three hours, probably, because her muscles throbbed with the hollow ache of overuse, and every shift of her body made her nerves spark with fresh outrage. She could hear Carmen, too, somewhere off to her left, panting in short shallow bursts that Bianca recognized as both panic and aftershock. When the hood came off, Bianca squinted against the glare of fluorescent lights, her eyelashes matted with sweat. Karen stood over her with a surgical calm, cowl of honey-blonde hair neat as ever, the zippered bodysuit now gaping openly to the navel. She reached down and, with a single decisive motion, unbuckled the gag from Bianca’s mouth. The relief was almost as sharp as the pain had been.

Karen didn’t bother with the sleeve. Instead, she lifted one high-heeled foot and pressed the sole still warm from the basement floor against Bianca’s lips. “Thank your goddess,” she said, voice low and honeyed.

“Properly. For letting that little body be fucked so good.” Bianca’s jaw throbbed, her tongue thick with the taste of leather and salt. She parted her lips, pressed them to the cool underside of Karen’s heel, and whispered, “Thank you for fucking me so good.” The words scraped her throat raw, but the heel pressed harder, grinding into her mouth until she could feel the faint vibration of Karen’s pulse through the thin sole.

Carmen, in the stocks, was sobbing quietly. Frank, at least, had the decency to hustle over and unfasten her with something approximating tenderness, though he ruined it by immediately gripping Carmen’s face in both hands and making her look up into his eyes.

Frank’s thumb lingered on Carmen’s cheek, then traced the line of her jaw slow, deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of her. His fingers slid down her throat, pausing to feel the flutter of her pulse before continuing their descent. The absence of fabric made everything more immediate: the heat of his palm against her bare collarbone, the way his calloused fingers mapped the slope of her breast, the rough pad of his thumb circling her nipple until it tightened into a hard peak. He squeezed just enough to make her gasp, his grip possessive, unhurried. “You are too damn pretty to be this unused.” he murmured, voice a low rumble. His other hand found her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, leaving crescent-shaped imprints. “Last night was just the start. I’m going to teach you every way there is to please me. Every hole, every position, every little thing that makes you whimper.” His fingers dipped lower, tracing the sensitive skin just above her pubic bone, teasing the fine hair there. “And when I’m done with you, Karen’s going to take her turn. You’ll be so full of us, you won’t remember what it felt like to be empty.” He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “But don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll fucking love it, you will never experience pleasure like us again.”

Carmen’s face was bushing deep red, and her lips trembled as she formed the words: “Can I please go home?”

Bianca’s heart broke at the sound, but she could do nothing.

Karen, meanwhile, had moved behind Bianca and gripped her by the elbow, steering her toward the stairs. Bianca realized, with a kind of detached horror, that she was still naked from the waist down. The only thing between her and total exposure was the sweat-soaked sports bra clinging to her ribs. She tried to cover herself reflexively, but Karen slapped her hands away.

“Hands behind your back,” said Karen. “You’re not done yet.”

Bianca obeyed. She had no choice. She kept her focus on the stairs, counting each tread as she went, careful not to trip and send herself sprawling. Karen marched her up with military precision, Frank and Carmen close behind. When they reached the landing, Frank gave Bianca a little shove, and she found herself standing at attention in the kitchen. The linoleum was cool on her feet. She could smell the faint trace of burned coffee, something acrid and chemical.