Mole Hunting

neck rope bondage

She came awake with the feeling of a hot breath brushing her earlobe and the hissing sound of a man’s calm voice reciting, “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. I think I made you up inside my head…Aha, I see Sylvia Plath has done it, you’re awake finally, you may however wish otherwise soon enough…”

She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and felt her teeth chatter as she lifted her muscle sore neck upright. Her ear felt that rush of blood and tingling sensation that only comes from extended pressure and she realized her head must have been dropped against her shoulder for some time. She opened her eyes and her eyelashes brushed against fabric: a blindfold. It was then that she pulled hard on her hands and felt the sting of the metal cuffs cut into her flesh. The voice in her ear came again, “I wouldn’t do that dear, you see I don’t have them set on safety, so you’ll just make them tighter, I’m afraid.” She jerked her hand again and the metal bit into her wrist more sharply so that she gasped under her breath. He chuckled and murmured, “Why do they never believe me?”

She shifted her weight against the cool chair and rattled the cuffs to hear that the chair was indeed metal. Her hands were shackled separately to each side at the back legs, she confirmed by reaching out with her fingers and being able to feel her own clothed backside. She shifted her numb legs slightly and could sense that they were free and she rolled her feet inside her heavy boots to awaken them. She moved her head from side to side and shrugged her shoulders to stretch them, trying to remember what had happened, how she had come to be in this position? “Yes, get more comfortable….this is going to take some time.” the voice stated. With a rush of memory, she recalled being at the bar, the music blaring and waiting…what had she been waiting for? It all seemed such a blur.

“Name, age, country of origin.” the voice stated simply. She paused, she didn’t think she was supposed to say, in fact she knew she wasn’t. The voice repeated itself very close to her ear, but this time slower and deeper. The blindfold was jerked from her face, snapping her head slightly to the side, her vision blinded by the sudden bright light. The entire room was out of focus and she realized it wasn’t just from a lack of adjustment to the light, but that in fact the light must be intensely focused upon her. She blinked repeatedly and squinted. The room started to assemble itself into some sort of order. She was sitting about a foot from a metal table. The room was dark beyond the intense round puddle of light in which she was at the position of central tenancy. Behind the table, directly in front of her, was a large black rectangle, a darkened window: a two-way divided view. As her vision became more acute, she saw the image of a man appear as a reflection: tall, short hair, square-jawed and broad-shouldered. He was wearing a severely creased, crisp dark shirt with the tie tucked in at the third button from the throat. He was staring at her and her gaze locked with his. “Name, age, country of origin,” he repeated softly. Her focus shifted to her own reflection, ignoring his voice as though it were not real. She could see herself from the waist up. She was wearing the black dress she’d left the house in with the red neck scarf. Her beret was gone and her hair was mashed to one side. There was a line of mascara streaking the right side of her face, fanning out to her ear. She seemed pale, but that could just be the light. Her eyes snapped back quickly to the man, just as her head was pulled back sharply by the hair and she was instantly staring into the intense blue eyes of the voice. He was there in the room, the sting of her hair twisted in his fist proved that. This was no dream. With a flash of realization, she realized she had been waiting for a man, an unknown man, only the code name, which escaped her now. “Jeg kanne ikke forstaar dig,” she mumbled in a husky, unused voice. He bent down slowly toward her face and carefully stated, “Jeg har ingen lyst til at leger denne med dig. Engelesk, nu!” Her eyes narrowed at the realization that he had understood her and she would not be able to delay with this tactic of being the misunderstanding foreigner.

She drew in a deep breath, held it and then spat in his face. He stared back down at her and let a strand of spittle fall back down onto her face. He released her hair. She watched his reflection as he reached into an upper pocket and pull out a handkerchief and then slowly wipe his face. She could feel the spittle slowly sliding down her cheek. He purposefully walked around her right side, turned slightly and then sharply slapped her face with the back of his hand, jerking her head hard to the left. The searing pain tore through her field of vision and before she could lift her head again, her face was being grasped firmly between his fingers, digging into her flesh. His face was mere inches from her own and he growled, “Do not suppose that the watchers are monitoring for some purpose of maintaining international standards or some propriety for your sex. They watch to learn: they watch for the entertainment of betting on how long you’ll last and they watch to see if there will be anything left over for them. They are the hyenas, waiting for…” he looked pointedly down the front of her dress, “…your entrails. Do not presume that I am anything but the only power here.” The force of his words caused him to splatter her face with his own spittle and she shuddered slightly at the cool, controlled intensity of his voice.

With a barely perceptible tremor through narrowly parted lips, she stated, “I am Jainey. I am 35 years old. I am Canadian.” He continued to hold her face firmly and then pushed it away, as he stood up. “Not so difficult after all. And nothing that I don’t already know,” he said as he slipped a manila folder onto the tabletop to her left. “Now then, now that we’re all friendly. I want to know who you were meeting and for what purpose?” She clenched her jaw and stated, “I don’t know.” He faced the dark window and laughed, “She doesn’t know…well then, let’s go home.” He walked around to her side again and leaned his arms straight against the table, elbows locked. Her nostrils flared and she raised her booted foot high to kick hard against the edge of the table, but he had been holding onto it and instead, he absorbed the impact and slid the table forward so that the edge pressed against her torso, just below her breasts. He pushed her head down with a flat, wide palm and pressed her cheek into the cool metal of the table. “Tsk, tsk…disappointingly predictable,” he remarked with amusement. “Who and why?” he repeated, grinding her cheek against the table before abruptly standing up.

He started to move around the room, outside of the light, into the darkness. She thought she heard the distinctive song of chain links. Sound didn’t seem to travel according to the laws of science in this room. It was as though he was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. One moment she couldn’t even see his reflection in the glass, but then he was there, right next to her ear. “What have you to say?” he questioned, as though he were making idle conversation on the bus. “Turkey dinner,” she replied. “Turkey dinner?” he responded puzzled and then he started to laugh. He leaned in and purred in her ear, “Oh, you may be amusing after all. No dear, no last supper for you, we don’t like the vomit here.” Then he bit her ear, making her cry out. In what seemed a flash of movement, she found herself suddenly tipped forward on the chair and leaning over the table at a forty-five-degree angle, perched on the balls of her booted feet. She was tipped just far enough forward that she remained upright but had to tense her thighs hard to remain in position. She could feel a strap being placed around her upper calf and then heard a chain sliding across and under the chair seat to her other calf. He pulled tautly upon the chain, forcing her leg outward, around the edge of the chair then pulled the chain across to attach to the strap around her other calf. He held her torso against the table with the weight of his body pressing against the chair and clicked his tongue. She could feel the pressure pulling against her cuffed wrists and then suddenly, one of her hands was freed from the chair and quickly brought up and outward, to be latched by the other end of the metal cuff to what she only now noticed was a closed hook on the outside corner of the table. He repeated this maneuver effortlessly with her other hand, as she was entirely trapped beneath him and the chair, such that each intake of breath further crushed her into the table. He lifted her up by the chair to deposit her hips and torso onto the table and then deftly pulled the chair out from the chain, leaving her bound to the table, feet on the floor with a chain between them. She attempted to bring her feet together but they were stopped and she recognized that the straps must have already been attached to the table. “Who and why?” he repeated calmly.

He slapped a thick leather baton against the table, “Perhaps this will help your memory, hmmmm?” She jumped involuntarily. The first strike caught her across the crease of her thighs and legs, just where her pulled skirt stopped. She gasped and closed her eyes. The next volley of strikes came in syncopated rhythm with his voice barking out, “who? why? who? why? Who? Why? Who? Why? WHO? WHY? WHO? WHY?” as each strike escalated by intensity and fervor. Each impact thrust her forward onto the table and she was on the tips of her boots, her chin close to the far edge looking out into the darkness of the glass to determine if there were any discernable shadows there, when she recognized that the screaming voice in the background was her own. She looked up at his reflection and could see his jaw clenching, lips pulled tight across his face, nostrils flared, eyes intent, as his arm raised higher with each successive stroke. He stepped back from the table and dropped the baton. He tipped back a drink from a bottle of water and raised an eyebrow at her reflected stare. He walked around the front of the table and lifted her head back by the hair and poured the cold water over her face. The water splashed down over her face briefly catching her breath before flowing onto the tabletop. She sputtered and coughed, then opened her eyes and shook her head. She glared at his reflection briefly and then with false bravado, lapped the puddles from the table. He watched with an amused look and then walked back around the table and bent over, effectively disappearing from her view.

She felt him unlacing her boots. He removed each boot carefully and set them aside as a pair. He affixed leather straps to each of her ankles. Slowly, he lifted one ankle up, exposing the bottom of her foot, and clipped it in that position to the chain held taut by her calf. He slid his hands up her inner thighs and across her ass and over her torso until he was lying atop of her. His face was cradled next to her ear and she watched as he cajoled, “You know….you know….just tell me and this doesn’t have to continue. It could be done. You’re just confirming what I already know. Don’t be a martyr.” She shivered and shook her head, closing her eyes when the tears started to sting. He moved back down to her other ankle and lifted her foot upwards, clipping it too into the chain. She began to sob quietly with anticipation. A cane whipped through the air with speed and accuracy and landed on the sole of her left foot. She arched upwards off the table and yanked hard on her right wrist, such that the handcuff tightened sharply, digging deeper into the flesh. He mouthed the word “Who?” in the direction of the reflection and she saw stars radiate around his head, as though they were coming directly out of his mouth and floating into the air. The second lash landed off-center onto her right sole and stars filled her field of vision. The cane landed across the same foot shortly thereafter and she gargled for air, her eyes losing all sight. The final cane stroke caught the tip of her left baby toe and her vision returned with psychedelic effect, swirling through the sound of her own blubbering sobs. She squirmed with little effect against the restraints and coughed and sputtered to breathe. From the corner of her eye, she saw his arm snaking away from his waist and the glint of shiny metal. He bent his belt in half and began to strap her back, shoulders and buttocks. It lashed out over her torso and stung her arms. It moved so quickly and so randomly, that she couldn’t prepare for each successive hit. Her brain could no longer register exactly where each pain message was coming from.

She leaned her head forward onto the tabletop and closed her eyes to escape. But there was to be no escape. He slipped the belt around her neck and tightened it back so that it lifted her head up and back forcing her to see the reflection of the glass. When their eyes met, he lifted her skirt and fucked directly into her ass in one quick, unyielding penetration. He fucked into her with steady and purposeful strokes, grunting out, “Tell me who the mole is….” She shook her head slightly in the negative and he pulled back harder on the belt, causing her vision to close in slightly with darkness. He thrust more aggressively and barked out, “Tell me who the fucking mole is!” She opened and closed her mouth, as though a guppy fighting for air and he relinquished tension on the belt slightly. She looked at him and she saw him faintly nod in affirmation and so she screamed with release “YOU! You’re the fucking mole!” She looked up at the glass and repeated, “He is the fucking mole!” He closed his eyes and shuddered in orgasm and then opened his eyes with a glint. He released the belt and lay across her body. He knotted his hand in her hair and whispered lovingly into her ear, “Good job baby, they’ll never believe it was me now…”

Last Updated on 5 months by pseudonymous