by Neglected2much
Unfortunately I haven’t been able to reach neglected2much for a few years and fear the worst. As he was the only one with the necessary access rights to keep the old site running, I have posted his stories here to save his incredible work.
— QexiQex
Disclaimer: This story is of the ‘naughty’ nature and intended for adults only. If you are not of legal age, are easily offended or not interested in kinky writings, please turn away now.
The Google Docs version (to download as ebook, pdf, etc.) is available here.
I’ve archived this story on DeviantArt for now and am not sure if I will resume working on it. If so, I’ll probably change the beginning and rework a lot of the the start.
— Neglected
Of course the Olympic rings are a trademark of the Olympics people. My little image is a parody, get it?
This story is pure fiction. No political statements. No real people. Real events are only used as a loose and broad framework.
The Recruit (Preface)
When you go to the Winter Olympics in a far away country, you go shopping for a gift for Aunt Rhonda.
When you go shopping for a gift for Aunt Rhonda, you start chasing exotic and rare figurines.
When you chase exotic and rare figurines, you go to places you were warned not to go.
When you go to places you were warned not to go, you end up staying too long and drinking too much vodka with a man named Ivan.
When you stay too long and drink too much vodka with a man named Ivan, you get careless and loose.
When you get careless and loose, you talk way too much about your secret fantasies.
When you talk too much about your secret fantasies, you end up naked, gagged and ball-tied in a nylon bag.
When you are naked, gagged and ball-tied in a nylon bag, you are easy to put in a trunk and haul away like so much luggage.
Don’t get hauled away naked, gagged and ball-tied in a nylon bag like so much luggage in a far away country. Be careful where you go shopping or you may be the one who gets sold.
The Hopeful
Hannah could still remember wearing layers of winter clothes while watching slopestyle snowboarding at the Winter Olympics yesterday with her hometown friend Allison. Today she was packed in a metal gym locker with no clothes on at all.
I was in some artsy village with a name I can’t pronounce doing vodka shots with Allison and that Ivan guy at some dive. I was dancing. They were talking alot…I don’t remember shit after that. This is bad.
She had managed to sleep jammed in an upright position with her bent legs scrunched against the sides of the locker, but now several varieties of discomfort, from the cold metal on her naked skin, to the coat hook digging into her left breast as she tried to breathe, were taking their toll. Her hungover head, terrible thirst and full bladder were the worst of all. Soon she would be forced to relieve herself inside the locker.
Traces of unnaturally white artificial light came through vent slits in the metal door, but she could barely turn her head, let alone bend at the appropriate angle, to look out the downward facing slits. She tried to feel around within her confines for a door latch, but it was pointless; her roaming fingers found nothing but smooth metal and bumpy rivets within her limited range of movement. She was trapped.
Should I yell? Probably not a good idea with no clothes on. Maybe I’m in a men’s locker room someplace — just the kind of cruel joke Allison would pull. This is worse than bad.
As she considered her options and continued exploring the inside of the locker for a way to open the door, other women were being removed from nearby lockers and taken away. Several times, she heard a metal locker door rattle open to be followed by an angry female voice, or sometimes a screaming and crying voice, then the sounds of a struggle. When Hannah realized what was going on, she made up her mind to fight the same way, even if just for her own edification. She listened closely; none of the voices sounded like Allison. The women used a variety of languages that she didn’t understand. She recognized Russian, Dutch and French, but not the others, oh, and Chinese — at least what she thought was Mandarin. Each of them was probably another stupid and careless woman from the Olympic crowd.
This is no joke. Whoever they are, this seems to have all been planned out —
Suddenly the door opened, and it was her turn. Two gigantic men that looked like wrestlers or weight lifters with dour expressions glared at her while they stood alert and braced for whatever she might try. A third thin, athletic-looking man wearing a hockey referee’s uniform grinned as he pointed a stun gun at her. Hannah was a gymnast when younger, but she knew that she was no match for the strength of these men, especially in her current condition. When the thin man motioned for her to come out of the locker she obeyed if only to move to a better position.
They seized her immediately with surprising speed — at least it seemed fast to her hazy, vodka-pickled mind. One of the big men grabbed her arms and took her by the wrists while the other grabbed her ankles. They lifted her between them and proceeded to carry her off like a sack of grain. Once stretched in the air, she realized she was yet another of the screaming and struggling women she had heard before. She never realized before how hard it is not to act like a damsel in distress when you are one.
I should have known Ivan was full of shit. I can’t believe Allison was so into him. This had to have been a setup, but for what? Charming, handsome, lying bastard. Can you say s-t-u-p-i-d?
“This is a nice one. Look at that nice round ass,” said the thin man as he grinned salaciously. He seemed to have a slight French accent, maybe French Canadian. “Blondes with big, firm tits and tight stomachs are my favorite. Nicely trimmed pussy too, not too much, not too little. I like innies with a tight slit. I wonder if her cunt is tight too. I like ’em nice and tight.” She felt his fingers touching her.
Hannah launched into an infuriated side-to-side thrash despite her splitting headache. She never felt so…degraded before. Her whole body rocked up and down as the two goons holding her laughed along with the thin man. She stopped struggling since it only seemed to encourage them to laugh more.
“Hold on, I’ve got the hood,” said the thin man as he approached her head. Hannah steeled herself for an epic struggle using every last bit of her strength, cornered animal style, but the thin man quietly brandished the stun gun and placed it against her right breast. “Capish?”
Asshole.
She had no doubt he’d enjoy squeezing the trigger. She also had no doubt that hundreds of thousands of volts arcing through her breast would hurt like a mother fucker and possibly do serious damage, so she just nodded in defeat.
The completely opaque, tight-fitting hood was made of heavyweight, black spandex which smelled like stale vomit. She hated it instantly. The smell triggered her own gag reflex, and she had to fight down a couple retches of her own. It was close, and the tight neck of the hood didn’t help matters. Meanwhile, the goons lifted her high then lowered her onto an exam table — there could be no mistaking the paper over pleather surface. The big man who held her ankles forced them high and apart into boot-like, padded, heel-to-knee gynecological stirrups — no mistaking those either. When he was done, she was strapped into the stirrups and could do nothing about her lewdly splayed open legs. At the same time, the other big man let go of her hands, but before she could try to take advantage, she felt the stun gun pressed against her breast again so did not resist. In short order, she was secured from shoulders to hips using a series of heavy leather straps. Her upper arms were strapped along with the rest of her body, but they did not strap her lower arms.
As soon as the stun gun was removed, she tested her bonds rather desperately, but at least this time she had the willpower not to make a fool of herself by screaming uselessly. She wanted to seem tough even though she knew it was a silly matter of pride. If she could hang onto some small sense of dignity, then she could hang onto a last shred of control — and hope. Her mind raced with the possibilities of what they could do to her in this position, helpless and exposed. A chill ran down her spine.
Even though they must have some kind of plan for me, they could just as easily make me disappear.
Just as she realized that she might be able to reach a buckle with her hands if she strained far enough, she felt two large hands wearing latex gloves force her left forearm onto something feeling like a hard plastic armrest. Someone else was slipping some kind of mitten over her hand while yet another person was taping her forearm to the plastic with some kind of self-clinging tape, and they weren’t being shy with it. When they were done, she found her forearm completely immobilized, palm up, with her fingers balled into fists inside stiff, rough fabric. Of course, her right arm immediately got the same treatment with the same efficient speed. She tried twisting her arms, but the rubbery tape threatened to rip her skin off rather than slip.
Hannah got a sick feeling to her stomach about what might be next. Her fears were justified, but not in the way she expected, as she felt a catheter being pushed into her. The firm and professional touch of the administerer was strangely reassuring. With her need to piss at the racehorse level, the relief was incredible, but her captors didn’t wait for her bladder to empty. Suddenly and forcefully, she felt an enema nozzle insistently pressing against her anus with an equally professional touch.
“No…please,” she heard herself say sounding pathetic to her own ears.
The pressure did not stop. She tried to relax, but it wasn’t necessary. The lubed nozzle had already slipped inside and was expanding on each side of her sphincter as someone pumped a rubber inflation bulb. With an involuntary reaction, she tried to expel the retention nozzle, but it was already fully inflated and going nowhere.
A new female voice with a Polish accent spoke softly near her ear, “No one will listen anyways, dear. Talking is not permitted.” A moment later, the voice continued, “Don’t worry hon, the cleaning fluid is warm.”
Not very fucking reassuring.
Hannah heard a metal switch snapped on followed by a low hum. At first she wasn’t sure if anything was happening, but within a few seconds it was obvious that her bowels were rapidly filling up. In less than a minute, the fullness was getting very uncomfortable. She struggled futilely against the straps in response. About the time she thought she could take no more and would burst, she heard a click and the pump stopped filling her even though the motor was still humming. A moment or two later she realized that the fluid was now being sucked back out of her. It didn’t stop there, however. No sooner did she feel drained than the machine started to fill her again.
Her captors didn’t wait and kept working on her while her insides were being pumped. She felt alcohol being swabbed on both her left forearm and her right forearm by, presumably, two different people. She realized now that her veins were upturned nicely for a needle and all of her struggling had only served their purposes by making her veins stand out better.
The female voice sounded a little more sympathetic this time, “Just hold still, dear, so we don’t hurt you, and it will all be over soon.”
Hannah froze out of pure phobia: blood! drugs! needles! From deep inside, a perfect damsel-in-distress whimper escaped. In response, an unknown hand pet her hooded head like a child. She had to admit it was reassuring. Just the thought of struggling while they jabbed at her veins made her queasy, not that she really could move her forearms enough to resist anyway. She closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths to keep from freaking out as both needles were inserted left then right, like clockwork. She wondered how many times they had done this before; they certainly had the routine down solid. She felt movement around the needle after it was inserted and just kept gritting her teeth until it was over. Eventually, they stopped and taped down each needle. She could feel plastic hoses fall against her arms. Next, she heard plastic being ripped open as well as something being wheeled over on each side of her. Listening closely and trying to figure it out, she had no doubt that they must have rigged her up for some intravenous treatment. As long as it wasn’t more needles, she could live with it — she thought.
Everything went silent, so much so that she wasn’t even sure if anyone was still in the room with her. The enema machine was dutifully filling her again. Was it the fourth time? She hated it. Not so much for the feeling of it, she could handle that. Instead, it was the humiliation and accompanying sense of violation. Under the hood, she was blushing with the societally programmed embarrassment associated with basic bodily functions. She was more embarrassed now than she was when displayed 98% naked for the Brazilian authorities.
At least 20 minutes went by, as she lay there getting filled and subsequently vacuumed on one end of her body while infused with unknown medications on the other. As it went on, she started to care less and less. She felt no traces of her hangover, thirst or hunger. She felt good, a little too good in fact…yes, very good indeed.
“Open your mouth,” said the Polish voice. At the same time, someone was removing the enema nozzle and catheter on the other end. She felt the lower end of her hood lifted long enough that a large cotton swab could be rubbed on the inside of her cheek. What is that for? DNA? Next, she felt firm fingers and cold metal between her legs. All she could do was brace herself as a surgical steel speculum was inserted, then opened wider and wider.
“Shit, shit, shit!” erupted from her lips unbidden.
“Last warning,” the unknown woman said in response, a bit of amusement evident in the tone of her voice. “All athletes must have a clean bill of health and be free from illegal drugs and banned substances so you must be in perfect condition. I will ask you a number of questions. You must answer to the best of your ability. Lies will not be tolerated. Do you understand?” said the voice.
Hannah nodded her head nervously. At the back of her mind, she was relieved beyond measure. The fear she dared to not think about, the fear that they were making her into some kind of junkie whore, was unwarranted after all.
She heard a swish only long enough to wonder what it was before her left foot erupted in stinging pain. They used some kind of rod or cane, and it hurt like 6 of the 9 layers of hell. Hannah repeated her performance as one of the crazy screaming women that she didn’t want to be. She thought she was tougher than this. She knew she was tougher than this. She had to be tougher than this.
“A verbal answer is required,” said the voice.
“YES!” growled Hannah angrily. Wish they’d make up their fucking mind.
“Heterosexual, homosexual or bisexual?” said the voice.
“Heterosexual,” she whimpered with a speed that surprised her.
“Have you engaged in sexual activities in the last 90 days.”
“Yes, but I don’t remember how many times,” Hannah tried not to answer, but realized too late that she already had. The euphoria she felt from the IV drips made her feel as if floating among clouds. She had always thought truth serum was more movie myth than real. Apparently, it was quite real.
The list of questions went on and on. They started with her travel arrangements, plans during the Olympics and her family back home, but then got much more personal. No intimate detail was missed, and no embarrassment left unexplored. She tried to resist some answers, especially when they asked about liking anal sex, a “no”; sucking cock, a “yes”; sucking pussy, a “never tried”; doggy style or missionary, “doggy”; bondage, a big fat “yes” — damn, no one else knew that except her ex-boyfriend Stan, the one with the magic fingers — until now. Each time she resisted giving an answer, the rod was used with ruthless efficiency.
As if her feet weren’t enough, they also used it on the insides of her raised thighs…then she tried to lie. “Do you consider yourself a slut?” What kind of question is that? She just couldn’t stand them pulling information out of her any longer, but her lie was obvious to them for reasons she still didn’t understand, and three punishment strokes across her breasts followed. She howled in pain like a wounded animal. That ended it. She could no longer bring herself to resist answering; it hurt that much. The pain she felt was a new high score played on her nervous system. She would never forget it just as she would never forget the strangely erotic afterglow in her body from that pain. The pain and pleasure relationship had always seemed like an exaggeration for cheesy erotic fiction, but she now knew better. They knew better as well, and they also knew how much pain could never be pleasurable.
During the questioning, Hannah was poked, prodded and probed in manners intimate and rude, but she barely noticed. She was too mentally disjointed and too focused on answering the questions; any hesitation in answering was punished. She didn’t even remember them pulling the speculum back out — that’s how much they bent her attention to their will. However, when the questioning was done, she wished something was back inside her, something masculine and meaty. The whole ordeal had left her longing for a good fucking. She briefly considered asking, or maybe even begging, but went back to playing tough. She didn’t want them to know just how much they had affected her. Whatever medications they were dripping into her bloodstream must do something to her inhibitions in general. She would never act like this or feel like this uninfluenced. The who-knows-what cocktail they were dripping into her bloodstream terrified her. Why did they continue even after she answered all their questions? She retested her taped and strapped arms pointlessly every couple minutes. She had to figure out something.
Everything was quiet again, but in her blind, legs spread wide, world, Hannah didn’t really notice above the din of her own strained, rapid breathing and pounding heart. Frustrations were also taking their toll. In particular, the mittens and the uselessness of her taped fingers were driving her crazy. Struggling and frustration was a huge part of the turn-on of bondage, then add to that the drugs and earlier caning — she couldn’t cool down. Her lust was only getting worse. She knew the vicious circle was all part of their plan, but knowing so didn’t help in the slightest. All she could do was wonder what else is in their plan?
Faintly, she heard something being wheeled in accompanied by the faint footfalls of at least two people; they must be wearing soft-soled shoes. She was bursting with things to say and ask, but knew it would simply bring another strike from the dreaded rod so kept her mouth shut and strained her ears instead. First she heard someone messing with a paperboard box. Snap. Plastic? No…latex. Yes, someone was putting on latex gloves. Nothing else sounds like that. Something near the floor, feet pushing down on pedals? Maybe. Strange shoe sounds regardless. Now a cord. An electric cord being run across the hard floor and plugged in. A plastic snap-on cap being popped open.
Hannah squealed a little, despite her best efforts, as the cold lubricating gel was dripped onto her swollen pussy, then her body tensed when gloved fingers smeared it around only to tense even more when she felt something stiff and rounded nudge her right there. Her imagination ran wild with what might be on the other end of the alleged dildo that was about to be inserted. Whatever it was probably was measured in horsepower and RPMs, and it was not exactly what she had in mind.
A male voice spoke out right next to her, “Sensor wires swapped, connections verified.”
The man’s voice startled Hannah causing her to jerk against the straps. What sensor wires? They must have attached them during the probing and prodding earlier. Most likely just some kind of medical sensors for heartbeat and things like that. Beside, what else could they be? She couldn’t feel them at all, probably those sticky pads things like on TV.
The female voice spoke, “Once I get the probe inserted, I want you to lock down all of the knobs so that the arm doesn’t come loose.”
Hannah waited to hear a reply, but there was none. Instead, she felt the very well lubricated dildo being firmly and deliberately inserted, but only halfway. She allowed herself a quick gasp. Deep down, she felt like a longtime dream was about to come true, a dark fantasy made real, except in her fantasy she was a captured Wonder Woman, maybe Batgirl, or sometimes she was on display, bound kneeling like a dog, at the Playboy Mansion, a little “Make the Bunny Hop” sign posted by a big red button. Regardless of the details, at that moment, she wanted to be fucked more than anything in the world.
The female voice spoke again, “Activating protocol.”
Hannah heard a plasticky snap which was immediately followed by the hum of a motor and penetration within her vagina. The dildo was on the thick side and ribbed. She hadn’t noticed the ribs before but could clearly feel the added friction as it was slowly and steadily thrust along a precise range of motion, deep inside then almost all the way out. She wished it was a little smaller, but it wasn’t painful. Compulsively, she tested the straps by trying to wiggle free of the dildo, but could not — perfect! No half-assed play bondage here. This was the real deal. She was going to be fucked, like it or not. “Like it” was the understated right answer, but they didn’t have to know. Thank you black hood.
After a couple minutes, she was ready to cum and to cum hard, but the machine was an incompetent lover with a pace too slow to push her over the top, and she was at its impotent mechanical mercy. She could not move enough to add to the sensations. Hannah liked to be loud and wondered if they would punish her if she groaned and grunted, but her inhibitions were turned off by the truth serum. Funny how that worked.
“Come on you stupid machine, fuck me! Do it, do it, do it! Faster, come on, faster! Oh, Oh, annnhhh, oh! Harder. Please turn it up! Oh, oh…. For the love of God, turn it up!”
About 15 minutes later, she was still no closer to cuming, but much more frustrated and a whole lot more angry.
“Come on you bastards! Turn it up! Fuck me harder you worthless piece of shit! Harder, harder, haaarrdddderrr! Un, Unnnn, ahhh. Asshole mother fuckers!”
She twisted and struggled the whole time fighting to take advantage of the centimeter of movement she could achieve, breathing hard and dripping with sweat from her exertions.
Click. The machine shut off.
“Son of a fucking bitch! NOOO! You’ve got to be kidding me. Come on, just a minute more! Assholes!” Zip…whack! “Ahhh!!! Mother fucking — “ Zip…WHACK!
“Enough!” said the voice, snapping Hannah back to the present moment and her predicament more than the stinging pain of being struck had. She just lay there limp like a dishrag dripping sweat, vaginal fluids and used lube.
Hannah was oblivious to the sound of the little cash register style printer creating its report over her heavy breathing. She wasn’t about to say another word — even when they pulled the dildo out and rolled the machine away. Her clenched jaw served both to make sure she didn’t speak and to help cope with the freshly renewed pain throbbing high up on the inside of her thighs.
“I have the results, sir,” said the Polish woman.
“Very good,” said a new male voice, deep and embodied with airs of authority. “Let me see…and the lab report?”
“Certainly, here, sir.”
The pain fading, Hannah just lay there frustrated, her body aching with inadequately satiated lust, and her clitoris engorged with pure need.
“Cool her off,” said the authoritative voice.
Hannah shrieked as three oversize buckets of ice cold water were dumped on her in quick succession. The water was directed along the length of her body, but the last bit of each bucket was deliberately reserved and emptied directly between her legs. The cold took her breath away after her initial shriek; otherwise, she might have earned herself another punishment for not staying quiet.
“How do you want to proceed, sir,” said the Polish woman.
“Let me see here. Lab report passes, no health issues. Penetration test results show very good responsiveness. Desire, eagerness and participation levels all excellent. Looks like we have a bonafide grade A slut here. Interrogation results…interesting. She’s not submissive enough, but her compatibility with bondage and cock sucking should make up for that; she’ll just be a little hard to break. Besides, a little extra spirit can be a good thing; the trainers would have a good time with her.
He paused to consider. “I think we’re good here. I don’t know how Ivan does it, but he sure can pick ’em. OK, she’s officially accepted. Sedate her and keep her on the fluid package overnight. Vaccinations. Birth control implant. Register her and have her suited up for tomorrow, and don’t forget to microchip her, no more flight risks.”
“How do you want her listed on the paperwork?” said the Polish woman.
“Put her down for felony prostitution. It’ll be easiest that way, no questions,” said the authoritative voice. “Oh, and give her a good waxing before you put the catheter back in. They all have to match for the qualifier, no pussy hair.”
Hannah heard them talking, but wasn’t entirely sure what they said. She could feel her body giving out with exhaustion — especially after the cold water. What did they say about prostitution?
The Qualifier
Round 1, The Beam
Hannah stirred when jostled from behind as she slept on her right side. With her deep sleep disturbed, she drowsily realized her arm was pressed uncomfortably under her, bent alongside her back and numb. As she started to roll over to her other side, realization cleared the fog of sleepiness and memories flooded back…she had been strapped down, legs wide open on an exam table… That’s when alarm bells went off all over her body with her mouth, arms and feet ringing loudest.
She bolted awake as if from a nightmare, her heart already pounding courtesy of a panic triggered adrenaline rush. A startled gasp turned into a bout of gagging and choking courtesy of a hard silicone gag ball plugging a mouth way too full of saliva. Straining most of her tongue muscles trying to force the ball out of her mouth did not work, so she instinctively tried to sit up and reach towards her face in one impulsive motion only to realize her arms were not simply numb and stiff from sleeping; they were restrained. What the hell? Without the assistance of her arms, she lost her balance during the abrupt movement so flopped backwards like a fish out of water. She continued to flop around, extending the performance of her impromptu fish impression, until she was finally able get the gagging under control. Letting drool drip down her face around the gag ball instead of trying to swallow it all was the only real way to get relief.
At first, she thought she was in some kind of armbinder, but quickly realized her whole body was compressed in a super-tight, spandex bodysuit — something sort of like the speed skaters and skiers wear during competition. This one, however, had sewn-in sleeves which pocketed her arms behind her back, close to her sides. Due to the tightness of the suit, the narrow sleeves and heavy fabric allowed little arm movement. Even though her wrists where positioned along the sides of her bottom in line with her arms, her hands were turned inwards effectively cupping her own bottom cheeks. For added measure her fingers were taped flat together with a stretchy, rubbery tape. Even her thumb was specifically folded and taped alongside her hand. She could fight the stretchy tape and move her fingers a few millimeters, but as soon as she stopped resisting the stretchy tape would return to shape as tight as before.
She understood why her body sounded those alarm bells now, but knew there was something else still amiss. A quick test of what could move and what could not provided an answer. Even though her legs were still free to move, her toes were forcibly pointed into high-heeled shoes — taller heels than she would normally consider wearing by the feel of it. She was much more of a sneakers and sandals girl. Regardless, she thought standing up was worth a try, but she needed to loosen up a bit first.
Her whole body was stiff from sleeping on a firm mat that smelled like new vinyl, old sweat and disinfectant. As she lay on her back looking up at the ceiling, in post-flop position, she recognized several attachments for apparatus and safe cables fixed to the white painted steel ceiling supports and knew she was on the padded floor of an practice room, not unlike she used to train in when she still did gymnastics. The familiar glow of sodium lights slowly warming up gave the whole room a softly lit early sunrise quality.
Hannah tried to flop onto her other side to get a closer look at her feet and to give her arms a rest. Even though most of her weight was not on her arms, they still felt pinned under her. Lying flat on her back with a ball gag in her mouth was also not good for drool management: it’s hard to swallow your own spit lying on your back. After some struggling, she managed a flop-twist-roll move which worked perfectly. Not what I normally think of as a floor exercise routine.
Oh, hello there. Another woman, most likely the source of the earlier jostling, was lying on her side less than a meter away staring back at her almost expectantly through tear-filled eyes. She was wearing the same kind of suit. Hers was orange with NED written on the front and a white sticker with a number “6” on the right shoulder. Hanna turned slightly and could see that her own suit was dark blue, probably with USA on the front. She looked to her shoulder and could see her own number was 12. Recognizing her suit as a uniform instantly got Hanna excited. Ivan had told stories about secret “adult” activities that went on during the Olympics — a dark, smutty, underground version for a privileged few in contrast to the wholesome and esteemed contests in the public eye. Apparently, Ivan wasn’t just boasting. She wondered how much he got paid for setting her up.
Both gagged, Hannah and the Dutchwoman exchanged looks laden with implied communication as they lay on the mat. They got you too? Sorry. I feel so fucking stupid. It is kinda sexy and hot, though, isn’t it? Well, except for the drool. I don’t know what this is all about either. I’m worried about what they will do to us next. Any ideas how to escape? There was a difference between them though. The Dutchwoman was clearly suffering and afraid, lying there spent and cried out. In contrast, Hannah was excited, even if worried and nervous. This could be quite an adventure — even if not what she had in mind when coming to Russia.
Whatever was in store, Hannah wanted to be ready. She used her emotionally defeated fellow captive as a model of herself, both suits should be the same. They were very similar to a long track speed skater’s uniform. The head of the suit was a snug, open-faced hood complete with a drawstring except in this case the drawstring was a strap running inside the hood around back her head at mouth level each end of which had a shiny chromed steel buckle. The short straps of the ball gag were neatly and securely attached to the two buckles. Hannah could tell from her own experience that the arrangement worked very well, and there was no budging the ball gag.
On the left side of the Dutchwoman’s face, the mouth strap had a curious steel ring dangling from it by a smaller attachment ring and a short, flat-linked chain. It was definitely not for decoration. The ring was fairly large, about 2.5 inches, maybe 6 centimeters, across and reminded Hannah of something on a bridle. She didn’t like the looks of it. Hoping her own headgear would be different, she shook her head a little only to feel the same kind of heavy ring slap her cheek as it dangled from her own mouth strap.
The front of the suit was seamless spandex with a heavy-duty zipper from neck to belly button. The Dutchwoman’s enormous breasts were sculpted into shape and well-rounded in defiance of the flattening tightness of the spandex, but there were no signs of a bra showing through her suit. Even so, Hannah felt as if she was wearing a punishingly tight sports bra; the twins were quite well secured. The suit had to be designed with some kind of built-in cups, but there was definitely no padding for modesty. The Dutchwoman’s erect nips brought Hannah’s own arousal to her attention, no doubt her own D cups had their high beams on.
The waist and hips of the suit were as skin-tight as anything she had ever seen, each suit must be custom made for it’s wearer. There wasn’t an off wrinkle, sag or slack spot anywhere, but what she noticed most was an added feature. A heavy-duty zipper ran right through the crotch of the Dutchwoman’s suit. It was orange and blended into fabric, but unzipped it would perfectly reveal…holy shit, that means I have one too!
Collecting her wits, she continued her examination with the most worrisome part of her Dutch counterpart’s suit: the shoes. They were pumps made of what appears to be orange leather with a spike heel somewhere around 5 inches/13 centimeters tall. A heel strap was secured to wide ankle bands to prevent removal of the shoes. The ankle bands were merely buckled and not locked. The lack of locks implied that an unwilling wearer’s hands would not be available to work the buckles. That implication, and the reality of her bondage, sent Hannah’s thoughts racing as a half-dozen of her truest fantasies screamed “pick me, pick me.”
The Dutchwoman was struggling stubbornly but with obvious frustration, gag suppressed grunts and groans replacing what were mostly likely curses. Hannah realized the woman’s rocking motions were an attempt to stand up. She heard more noises in the direction of her head, and looked “up” to see another woman in a black suit sliding her back up the wall in her own attempt to stand up. She seemed to be having problems getting her feet under her and looked like she could fall on her butt at any second. Hannah heard the flopping of a body to the mat accompanied by a pained grunt behind her. Someone else must not have made it to her feet.
Hannah was amused by their problems. She rocked up on her shoulders extending her legs back over her head, feet together and knees straight in perfect form, then with a smooth combination of snapping her feet under her into a squat and tightening her stomach muscles, she thrust up onto her feet. She couldn’t stick the landing in high-heels though. As her balance tipped forwards, she ran forward several graceless steps to recover before finally coming to a wobbly stop near another woman wearing a blue suit with GBR and a British flag on her chest, number 9. The British woman had quickly stepped out of her way, but both of them seemed to be struggling with balance a little on the soft mat. Hannah was already hating the heels. She only wore heels on dress-up occasions, and had never any this tall before. The added height really made a huge difference both in her balance and in her discomfort.
Looking around the room, about a dozen women shared her predicament, but she didn’t see Allison among them. Hopefully she was OK. Most of the women were finally making it to their feet except the Dutchwoman and an Austrian woman who were struggling and grunting on the floor looking angry and frustrated. The British woman looked like she wanted to help, but had no idea how she could.
A muscular woman, almost 6 feet tall with wide shoulders and strong, thick legs, also wore a USA uniform. Hannah couldn’t help but notice the woman’s breasts shift and move as she struggled to free her arms. Her underlying pectoral muscles must be quite strong. Still, as a strong as she was, the woman was not able to escape the tight spandex restraining her.
That woman could kick my ass.
Hannah was already getting into competition mode, sizing up her opponents and trying to move around to loosen up. Whatever her “hosts” had planned would most likely be some kind of individual competition, and she was determined to win. Hannah hated to lose at anything, like her coach used to say, “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.” Besides, there had to be some kind of cool reward for the winner, maybe even a gold medal.
Her competitive analysis was cut short as the door at the far end of the room swung open and several women entered. They were wearing the flowing white dresses with colorful designs of the “spirit maiden” characters from the opening ceremony. Three of them went over and helped the Dutch and Austrian women to their feet. As soon as the Austrian woman was standing, one of the maidens clipped a leash to her dangling mouth ring and proceeded to lead her off. The Austrian tried to resist at first, but stopped after the maiden gave the leash a sharp tug. Judging by the way the woman stumbled and her head snapped, it was no small tug.
Seeing the Austrian leashed, the Dutchwoman tried to get away, but she struggled trying to walk on the mat in the high-heels and never even made it four steps before one of the maidens grabbed her mouth ring with one hand and pulled on it harshly. The maiden then clipped the leash on with the other hand as the Dutchwoman fought for balance. Hannah could see earlier frustration combined with the new indignity reach a boil in the Dutchwoman’s eyes. She tried to pull away and was doing a fairly good job of fighting against the smaller maiden, but within seconds one of the other maidens produced a short white rod from within her dress folds as if was hanging from her waist out of sight the whole time. The rod was about the size of a riding crop, but instead of swatting the Dutchwoman with it, the maiden poked her in the back. Immediately, the Dutchwoman arched her back in pain. Hannah could hear her muted scream.
Hannah considered running for the open door, but the decision was made for her while she hesitated. Click. The maiden who leashed her was watching warily and on guard as she started to lead Hannah towards the door. She was right to be wary; Hannah reasoned that the smart approach would be to charge the maiden and attempt to take her out, but she knew that her hosts were too savvy for that, and the attempt would lead to some kind of serious punishment or perhaps something worse. No, she had no chance for escape and knew it. Even though she hated it, she let herself be led like a dog.
Beyond the door was a hallway of concrete block walls painted pale yellow with gray steel doors at odd intervals along its length. The clop of high-heels on the hard gray flooring resonated as the whole group of women was paraded down the hall in single file. Sounds of missteps told Hannah that she wasn’t the only one struggling to walk in the shoes. Her feet were not happy. As they rounded the first turn, Hannah saw a large glass entryway to the left. Beyond the glass was a naked man bound to the steel pole behind him by his neck and wrists. He was smooth-shaven from the neck down, muscular, well-endowed and erect as a telephone pole. A man in a suit was pointing at various parts of the naked man’s anatomy, including the snake tattoo on his left upper arm, while a group of 8 or so people with laptops were watching. Every so often one would hold up a small sign with a number. She could see lips moving, but couldn’t hear a word.
Her escort turned and nodded towards the naked man as she said softly, stumbling on her words and speaking with a strong Russian accent, “Man’s contest done. He not…qualify. Only one chance or you be there.” Then she jerked on Hannah’s leash as if to make a point.
Hannah hadn’t thought about consequences for losing. Normally losing was a bad enough consequence of it’s own.
What kind of auction could it be other than a slave auction? Could that be possible in this day and age? I can’t take a chance of that happening to me.
The thought sent a strange shiver down her spine and an exciting tingle up her body the other direction, but she didn’t want to think about it right now. She needed to stay focused for the competition, whatever it would be.
Now that I think about it, what happens to the winners after the competition? Do they let us go? I wish they’d say how this whole thing works. I must have missed Freshman Orientation.
The line slowed as they were led through a set of propped open double doors. Safety glasses and goggles were neatly arranged on a folding table near the door. Hannah’s escort stopped to pick up a pair of the clear safety glasses and put them on, then she picked up goggles and proceeded to put them on Hannah. They were a lot like snow goggles with clear lenses and an extra plastic shield over the nose. Hannah decided that cooperation was the still best bet, so she did not resist as her escort slid the goggles into place and carefully adjusted the stretchy head strap.
“OK?” she said.
Hannah nodded, dripping some drool in the process. Her jaw kept wanting to clinch down on the gag, and her mouth couldn’t seem to stop salivating over having something in it.
She was apprehensive about what kind of competition required such eye protection, but didn’t have time to think about it. Her escort gave her leash a tug to get her attention then led the way through another set of double doors into a full-sized gym that had been sectioned off. The setup reminded Hanna of a gymnastics competition, but the apparatus was definitely not the same with one exception: a long balance beam extended across the floor. It was composed of 4 official Olympic balance beams arranged end-to-end. Along each side of the beam were black wooden screens about 2 and a half meters tall with horizontal slots at intervals. Hannah had no idea what they were for, but she didn’t like the looks of them regardless. Maybe cameras?
Two large men in jumpsuits, maybe the same goons from the locker room, were standing in wait on each side of the beam as spotters. She realized it was important for her safety since she could fall and break her neck rather easily with her arms trapped, but she also knew the goons were there to prevent escape. Her hosts were thorough.
An announcement boomed over loudspeakers. She waited for the English version. Hannah with French at all the Olympic events she attended. “You must complete 3 qualification rounds to advance. The first round will test balance, concentration and pain tolerance. You must walk the length of the beam without falling. By random draw, number 12 will go first.” After the English version, the announcement was repeated in Russian.
Pain tolerance? What do they mean by that?
Hannah couldn’t believe she was first. What bad luck. Back when she went to gymnastics competitions, she hated going first and still did.
Calm down, it’s just a balance beam. You’ve done hundreds of them, and all they want you to do is walk it. Easy, peasy.
Her escort maiden led her up to the base of a short set of wooden steps which led up to the beam. Hannah paused at the bottom while the maiden held her mouth ring while she unclipped her leash. Hannah leaded in so that she could unbuckle the gag too, but she didn’t.
“Nyet.”
You have to be kidding.
After a harsh stare, Hannah’s escort started to reach for her white punishment rod.
Fine. Have it your way.
The steps were a bit of a wake up call. With her arms trapped behind her and the uncomfortably high shoes, balancing was certainly not simple. She paused at the top of the steps to get her breath, careful to pace herself since she could only breathe out her nose.
OK, here we go, focus, knees slightly bent, lead with the toe, one foot after the other.
Hannah stepped onto the beam and the rest of the world fell away just like it always did when she performed. The shoes forced her to take short steps, bend her knees deeper and to push her hips forward a little. Not being able to feel the beam under her bare feet felt really fucking unnatural to her, but she knew that was exactly the idea. The key problem was that she couldn’t feel the edges of the beam, and she knew that looking down would be disastrous. After a few tentative steps, she found that she could use her heel to tap along the edge like a blind person would use a cane.
Just as she was finding a stride, about 10 steps out on the beam, she heard a pop and hiss of air, then the back of her right thigh stung from the impact of something round. A half second later, accompanied by a second pop and hiss, the left rear side of her other leg was also struck.
That fucking hurt! What the hell was that?
Her training came into play, and she didn’t overreact. Regardless, the jolt and pain of the impact was almost enough to make her lose her balance, and she barely managed to stop teetering and re-center her weight. She wanted to look behind her for the source of the projectiles, but refused to be distracted further and risk a fall. Instead, she simply continued, one foot in front of the other, steady as a rock. About 8 more steps later, she saw movement to each side in her peripheral vision. The barrels of two air guns poked out of the slots in the black screens on each side of her. She recognized them as paintball guns.
Oh shit!
Now she knew what had struck her and wasn’t looking forward to more. For a second, she thought about jumping off the beam as the barrels were aimed at her, but she wasn’t about to give up that easily. She could handle their little pain tolerance part of the test — she thought. Again, it was a timed double impact for maximum effect, one shot to her right belly just below the ribs and the other to the left of her belly button a half second later. She never knew paintballs stung so much before. It was like getting punched in the stomach.
Hannah didn’t know how frequently they would shoot so picked up the pace as much as she felt comfortable doing while still trying to remain stable enough to handle being shot again at any time. Her care was a good thing since the next shots were from behind, and she never saw them coming. Each was right on her ass just above where her hands cupped her bottom cheeks from within their sleeves. She couldn’t help jumping forward with the pain of impact.
Bastards!
This time the impact was much stronger; someone must have turned up the air pressure on the paintball guns. The slippery sole of her front shoe slipped off the beam, and her weight tipped forward. Instantly, her body went into a tuck salto and effectively flip-rolled forward to get her feet back under her. She knew it was a very bad idea to try such a move, but hesitation would have been even worse. Her training had dictated her response.
Hannah couldn’t believe she landed cleanly in the high-heels. It was like some kind of miracle. She thought she heard some applause, but she tended to tune such things out. The landing hurt though. She really couldn’t tuck properly in the suit and strained her restricted her muscles, another move like that would almost certainly result in injury. As soon as she regained her composure, she was stepping again. Several steps later, she saw the paintball gun barrels again. She decided to just hold still and take it rather than risk losing her balance. The barrels elevated higher as she watched.
Holy shit!
The sting made her eyes water as her breasts were struck one, then the other. The pain made her want to gasp, but the gag prevented it. Thankfully the air pressure wasn’t as high as the other shots. Still, all she could do was stand still, left foot forward of her right, in agony.
She didn’t have much further to go and crossed onto the last beam, but cringed at each step. She could see two more gun barrels just waiting for her to get closer. She knew there was no point trying evade them by moving faster. Her only option was to move forward and wait to be shot. About 6 steps from the end, the barrels raised up towards her face making her flinch, but they quickly dropped lower, then lower, then….
“AAAHHHA!” Mother fucking son of a bitch.
Hannah almost fell off the beam as she doubled over from the pain. A sickening pain radiated out from where the paint balls struck her in the privates. Even hurting as she was, she couldn’t help think that it could have been a lot worse. The air pressure on the guns must have been precisely calibrated.
The next thing she knew she was falling down the wooden steps at the far end of the balance beam. One of the goons was there and had helped to guide her landing or it might have been far worse. Regardless, she hit the mat hard enough to almost knock the wind out of her.
“Just lay down. You do great,” said her escort, somehow by her side.
They left her lay there for a minute or two before large hands grabbed her sleeved arms and stood her back up. The throbbing was horrible, but seemed to be fading quickly. In fact, she was feeling a little euphoric after the shock was over.
Hannah stumbled in her detested high-heels to gain her balance on the mat, then took stock of the other competitors. The large American woman was being attended at the far end of the room. They were looking at her leg in such a way that Hannah immediately knew she had slipped on the beam and raked her shin as she fell.
The British woman was laying on the floor nearby recovering just as Hannah had done earlier. The large-breasted Dutchwoman was apprehensively approaching the place where they shot Hannah in the chest earlier. The remaining women were waiting wide-eyed in line.
Maybe going first was not a bad thing this time.
