Chapter 11: The Bondage Club

“Grunt ... Grunt ... Arrghhh! ... Take that, Slut!” cries the stinking leather clad biker as he shoots his load into my well lubricated cunt.

A mind-blowing orgasm wracks through me as he thrusts even harder, draining every last drop of his cum into my innards. His gift joins those of his two predecessors, who, along with other patrons of this sordid nightclub, are watching my ravishment intently.

The scene opening is familiar territory for me, confirming that I’m the one wanting this rough treatment as a prelude to whatever might follow. He called me a slut and I can’t argue with that description of my wanton desires.

“Bring the gimp over here,” laughs the biker as he puts his cock back into his trousers. His two companions comply.

A hooded man clad in an odd assortment of bondage gear is dragged over to where I’m lying on one of the club’s tables. The man is unable to see and, judging by the gurgling noises he makes, he must be gagged under the hood.

“You two!” calls the biker to two of the nightclub’s hostesses. “Come and prepare the gimp!”

Two of the club’s several hostesses come over to where we are. Between them they extract the gimp’s cock from inside his pants and massage his balls. His cock is locked inside a cock cage so he has no ability to fuck me. But that doesn’t stop him becoming aroused in response to the expert ministrations of the hostesses. After a while it becomes obvious that despite his cock’s cruel imprisonment, the gimp is going to come.

Just before the gimp comes, the biker shoves him forward so that the tip of his cock touches my wet pussy. Seconds later he succeeds in squirting his cum so that it joins the bikers’ semen oozing from my cunt. I can’t see how much he manages to ejaculate through the cage, but I can feel the added deposit on my inner thighs. Mission completed, his cock is promptly thrust back into his pants by one of the hostesses and the two bikers drag him away.

“That will do for starters, slut,” growls the biker. “Now for the main course.”

The biker unfastens the restraints on my wrists which were keeping me bound to the table. He hauls me into a standing position and allows me a moment to steady myself. More of the bikers cum trickles from my cunt, but I refuse the offer of a dirty rag to clean my thighs. The biker in charge doesn’t realise how aroused I am at the moment. The gooey mess slowly working its way down my legs and onto the floor is only increasing my lust for more.

“Got a name, slut?” demands the biker.

“Paige,” I reply.

“Right, slutty Paige. You, me and the boys are going to have some fun in the basement. Now, follow the gimp and the boys.”

The main room of this sordid club isn’t the sort of place any right-minded person would willingly enter. These scruffy leather clad bikers are among the club’s more respectable members. As impossible as it seems, there is an even worse section of the club in the lower basement. In the dimly lit cellars deep under this building the club members can satisfy any sexual perversion and depravity which they want to fulfil. The victims of their sport are equally depraved, since few of them ever choose to leave their pseudo-captivity when they are allowed their hour of freedom each morning. I’m just such a sexual deviant and my six months of servitude at the club have been the best six months of my life. Before I started working at the club, I’d be lucky to have sex once a week. Here, it’s never less than three times an hour, and usually much more. I’m paid a pittance but the sex is fantastic.

The biker’s two companions are marching the gimp towards the stairs leading down to the lower basement. I wind my way past tables where club members of both genders are amusing themselves with the club’s hosts and hostesses. The biker follows a few paces behind me.

The dim red lights of the lower basement guide our way through one of the several twisting passages. This part of the building is much older than the building upstairs, suggesting it originally belonged to a different structure, the upper levels of which were demolished and rebuilt a long time ago. We catch up to Flasher’s two ‘boys’ who are waiting with the gimp at the entrance to a dungeon-like area known as the ‘games room’. The games room isn’t a pleasant place to be unless your sexual tastes lean towards the bizarre and perverted. I’ve spent numerous sessions inside there, and I still bear the mental scars of more than a few.

The five of us enter the room, which is empty of people at the moment. To my surprise, Flasher and his two comrades guide the gimp and I towards a small door in one corner. I’ve never seen what’s behind the door, which I’ve always assumed to be a disused store cupboard.

“Open it,” commands Flasher to me, pointing to the door. I try the handle, but the door is locked. “Use your key, you brainless slut.”

A key! Not another scene where I’m asked to provide a key! Why does this keep happening? However, Flasher shows me the solution to my immediate problem. Around my neck is a steel collar which is my constant companion. It identifies me as one of the club’s hostesses. The collar is welded rather than locked in place. Fixed to the front of the collar is a stout ring which member’s can use to attach a chain or anything else they desire. At the moment, the ring has a large key on a short chain padlocked to my collar. I don’t recall the key being placed there or why.

To fit the key into the door lock requires me to kneel down and twist my head into an awkward position. After a short struggle I succeed in getting the key into the lock. Turning the key requires more acrobatics on my part. All this amuses the bikers immensely. The door opens with a creek and releases the stink of sewage. I perform more acrobatics to get the key out of the lock which earns me a hard swat on my arse as a reward.

Flasher holds me back as his two comrades push the blindfolded gimp through the door. Once they are through, Flasher pushes me forward. All of us need to crouch to get through the door and along the short tunnel beyond. Fortunately one of the bikers has brought a lantern so we can easily find our way into the tiny stone walled room on the other side of the tunnel. The room is only just large enough for the five of us to squeeze in.

We are standing around a metre wide circular grill in the floor which covers a deep shaft below. Judging by the smell, the shaft must lead down to the old sewers. A leftover from the days when all forms of waste were simply flushed into the river. Looking up I notice several small holes in the stone ceiling, confirming my opinion that this room was once part of the original building’s waste system. The foul smell and sound of running water far below the grill implies that the old sewer system isn’t entirely shut down. Now what?