The Control Strap Read online

  As tears began to spill down her face, she felt him ease up slightly, and then abruptly he completely released his grip. To Brenda, it seemed that her taut flesh snapped back like a stretched balloon. She gasped as another violent shudder overwhelmed her body.

  He stood and she lost sight of him again. Was he grinning now? Enjoying the effect his torments had on her helpless body? Through tear-filled eyes, she glanced down at her unmolested right breast. Incredibly, she found herself wishing he would repeat the harsh treatment with that one. Even though her left breast throbbed in pain, she realized that her right ached as well, with need.

  But achieving symmetry in his torment was evidently not his goal. Long minutes ticked by. Though she couldn't see him, she knew he remained nearby, his eyes no doubt roaming along her nude body. In the silence, she became aware of his breaths. They quickened and slowed, probably in response to his own perverse imaginings, with her as their unwilling object.

  Then, all at once, his breathing became harsher, raspier. She heard a faint grunt followed by a sigh and the sound of several thick drops plopping to the floor.

  Oh my god, she thought in disgust, as she realized what he had been doing.

  Then she heard him mutter something about “Twelve cleaning that up laster.” She saw him next to her again. He petted her hair for a moment, before gathering it carefully to one side. Then he leaned over and guided a band of leather around her throat. He started to buckle it, then stopped.

  Slipping the collar off, he turned it around and held it where she could clearly see what he was about to strap around her neck. To her surprise, the leather was pink. In fact, in another context she might have even said it was a pretty shade, flattering to her complexion and hair.

  Besides the color, she noticed the rings attached to the front and to both sides. In addition, a polished chrome tag was riveted to the front of the collar. On either side of the tag one of the now-familiar Haller Airline wolf silhouettes was engraved. Like bookends, the wolf-shapes faced the middle. And between them, in large fancy script, it read, “#10."

  Brenda's eyes brimmed again as she realized she was about to be labeled with her numerical identity. Sanders gave her a few seconds to drink it all in before he resumed buckling it on.

  As soon as she was collared, he released the short chain attached to her gag. She stood hesitantly, feeling weak and unsteady, and let him turn her to face him. He regarded her with a pleased smile. “You look incredible like that. Such a delicate throat. Truly made to be collared."

  He paused and his smile gradually became a frown. “Thank you, sir,” he prompted.

  "Oh! Um, fame coo, fir,” she mumbled around the ball.

  "Don't forget that, Number Ten. Especially with a client. Whenever someone comments on your appearance or performance in any way, positive or negative, you are to thank him for it. Is that clear?"

  Brenda nodded. “Yeffir."

  "Good. Now, we'll start with a tour of the cabin.” He took her by the arm and began guiding her further into the fake fuselage. “All our planes have the same basic design,” he explained.

  She nodded and hobbled along, trying to keep her mind on what he was saying instead of the band of leather around her neck. Or the tight binding that still secured her arms. Or the control strap between her legs.

  Even for a luxury cabin of a private plane, this one was unusual. For one thing, this was no tiny “corporate” or even commuter jet. It was a full size commercial plane. Probably a Boeing 737, thought Brenda, based on her familiarity with various aircraft.

  With all that space, however, there were only eight seats. All were plush first-class style, four in back and four in front, and each was mounted on a pivoting stand, with plenty of legroom and elbow room all around.

  Toward the back of the cabin, along the port side was a bar, and opposite the bar was a couch. The rest of the vast interior was empty, but Brenda did notice several places where other furnishings could be attached to the floor, presumably to allow for optional layouts.

  Besides these fittings, she also noticed numerous recessed rings and tie-downs throughout the cabin. Brenda had little doubt as to what, or who, would be attached to these.

  Glancing up, she noticed one more unusual feature: a slot in the center of the ceiling that ran all the way from the front of the cabin to the rear. From about the middle of the slot's length, a chain dangled loosely.

  Sanders led her to the chain and hitched her to it, again using her gag ring. He was careful to leave enough slack in the chain for her to stand firmly on the floor, but he also made sure it was taut enough that she had no choice but to tilt her head upward.

  As she stood there huffing at this latest indignity, she saw Number Twelve approach. The other young woman was again dressed in a man's suit. She carried a small tray with her. She strode up and paused in front of Brenda. “Looks like she's ready,” she said.

  "Yes,” replied Sanders. “Go ahead."

  Twelve nodded, and proceeded to attach the tray to Brenda's belt. A clip of some sort in the middle of one edge snapped right onto the belt buckle. Number Twelve next took a lightweight chain and attached it to one of the far corners of the tray. She guided the free end of the chain through the front ring of Brenda's collar and then attached it to the opposite corner of the tray.

  When she was finished, the tray was cantilevered out from Brenda's waist, with the chain supporting the far edge.

  As Twelve got the tray into position, Sanders explained its purpose. “On your first flight you will have just one simple responsibility, Number Ten. You will be the hors d'oeuvres girl. You will be stationed in the back, and whenever your strap buzzes, you will walk, or shuffle as best you can, into the middle of the cabin, guided by your tether to the ceiling track. You will stand perfectly still as the clients help themselves to the items on your tray. When the strap buzzes again you are to return to the back. Is this much clear?"

  Brenda swallowed nervously. “Yeffir,” she mumbled.

  "Of course, for takeoff and landing, you will be safely strapped into a standard flight attendant's seat. But as soon as the plane reaches five thousand feet you will be on duty. The other attendants will help you get ready, and will replenish your tray as needed. All you need to do is walk and stand. And of course ... be beautiful."

  Brenda felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Why, she wondered, was she blushing at his offhand compliment? The very notion seemed absurd, standing there naked and helpless before him.

  She saw his wry grin as he regarded her inexplicable discomfort. He lightly caressed her upturned face. “Yes, you are quite a beauty, Brenda. Don't you agree, Twelve?"

  "If you say so, sir.” The other girl's words arrived at Brenda's ears coated with icy contempt. Brenda's blush deepened. But wait! she thought. Did he just call me by my name?

  "In fact,” continued Sanders, “I'd say this one may be the most beautiful girl we've employed yet."

  Twelve huffed loudly. “I've seen better, sir."

  "Really, Number Twelve? I don't detect jealousy, do I?"

  "N—no. Sir."

  "Good. So tell me how beautiful this Number Ten is."

  "She's ... very beautiful, sir."

  "The most beautiful."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Say it, Twelve."

  Brenda heard the other girl choke back a sob and realized that Sanders was taking a break from tormenting his new girl in order to torment his “old” one.

  "She is ... the most beautiful girl. Sir."

  "Good."

  Abruptly, he turned away from Brenda and snatched Twelve against him. She resisted him weakly, for only a fleeting moment, and then threw her arms around him and kissed him, hard and long.

  Brenda's head swam. What was she in the middle of? Whatever it was, she didn't want to be there.

  Sanders broke off the kiss and turned to Brenda again. “So,” he said as if nothing had happened, “let's give it a dry run. You'll follow Number Twelve to the back
while I take my place as a passenger."

  Brenda took a hesitant step behind the other girl and found that whatever held the chain to the slotted track rolled along smoothly and effortlessly. It allowed her to move from front to back with ease, while preventing her from wandering to either side.

  When the two women reached the back of the cabin, Number Twelve arranged some fake snacks on Brenda's tray, announcing, “All set!” when she was done. Then she added in a menacing whisper, “If I ever get you alone, bitch..."

  Leaving the threat unfinished, she smiled wickedly, smacked Brenda on the ass, and hurried forward.

  Brenda immediately tried to put the encounter out of her mind and concentrate on the task at hand. As she waited, the entire mockup angled slightly upward as though their “flight” had just taken off. It also vibrated and rocked slightly, simulating very mild turbulence. Then it banked to the side, making a “turn".

  Instinctively, she shifted her weight to keep the tray level. With her head tilted upward, she could only see the tray with her lower peripheral vision, but she was pleased to note that nothing had moved.

  Just then, the control strap buzzed. The jolt caught her by surprise even though he'd told her it would happen. She squealed and jumped, but luckily not enough to spill the tray's contents. Gathering her wits, she turned and headed forward.

  CHAPTER 8: CLOSE BUT NO CIGAR

  Every few seconds the control strap pulsed its cue to Brenda that she and her tray were needed up front. She was grateful it didn't buzz constantly, but even so, the periodic jolts were no help to the already tricky task of walking with hobbled ankles.

  As she started forward, she heard vaguely familiar, classical music emerge from the main cabin. But whatever curiosity the music roused was quickly overshadowed by the scent of cigar smoke that greeted her next. Her instincts about smoking onboard an aircraft were powerful and she actually began to quicken her shuffle to tell Mr. Sanders to—

  To what? she thought with a muted giggle. To demand that he put it out? Bound and gagged as she was? The very thought of it turned her giggle into a snort of amusement.

  When she emerged from the galley, she was still laughing behind her gag. Sanders and Twelve were both seated on the couch, looking like a pair of businessmen. Well, one businessman and one woman dressed like a businessman. Brenda was surprised to see Twelve puffing on a cigar along with Sanders.

  Brenda positioned herself in front of them and stopped. She must have done what they wanted, as the jolts from the strap ceased. Despite her relief that the shocks had stopped, she couldn't help one last giggle.

  "Something amuses you, Number Ten?” said Sanders, looking up at her.

  His stern words only made her laughter rise again. And the shocked expression on his face added even more to the effect. On her tray, the plastic snacks rattled and jiggled about.

  She stood there for a moment and tried to get control of herself. She reminded herself of her predicament. Her arms were still bound tightly behind her. Her ankles were still hobbled. Her face was still tilted upward by the short tether attached to her gag.

  But no matter. She turned as best she could and glanced down at him. Then, in her most authoritative, flight attendant voice, she said, “Mo fmoding!"

  Sanders narrowed his eyes. He set his cigar in an ashtray and stood. Stepping toward her, he said, “No smoking?! Did you just tell me, no smoking?"

  Her mirth dissipated abruptly with the chill in his voice. “Yeffir!” she squeaked.

  "I see...” Slowly, his lips curled into a smile. “Well, that is pretty funny. You trying to tell me not to smoke on my own plane. Only one other girl ever dared to do something like that."

  He glanced meaningfully toward Number Twelve, then back at Brenda. “You'll have to be punished for your insubordination, of course."

  "Yeffir,” she mumbled. Her case of the giggles was gone for good. It didn't seem funny anymore.

  "For now,” he said, “we'll continue with your training.” He began to reach for one of the fake hors d'oeuvres on her tray. But instead of picking one up, his hand bypassed all of them and landed on her breast.

  Brenda whined and tried to step back, but she couldn't budge the chain along the ceiling track. It was stuck!

  Sanders chuckled. “Now that's funny,” he laughed. “Your expression that is, Number Ten. But this is an important lesson. You see, a client can lock the chain in place if he wants to.” He reached up and jiggled it as if to demonstrate its immobility.

  "Now, some clients don't mind if the hors d'oeuvres girl is able to move around but most prefer it if she's stationary. Obviously, there's nothing you can do about it, either way. What's important to remember,” he said as his hands returned to her breasts and his fingers flexed into the soft flesh, “is that you are presenting not just a tray of food, but your body as well. Clients are free to touch any attendant at any time anywhere on her body. In fact—"

  Just then, his cell phone rang. Scowling, he pulled the phone from its belt clip, checked the display, and then answered.

  "Hello? ... Yes ... No, that's not what we agreed to ... Look, we—Um, hold on a sec."

  He looked at Number Twelve and said, “Take over here. Give her a good sample of the types of things she can expect."

  "Yes, sir. Of course."

  Speaking again into the phone, Sanders said, “Now, as I was saying...” He strode quickly out of the simulator and his voice faded along with his footsteps.

  Number Twelve stood and approached Brenda. Unlike Sanders, she did not set her cigar down. “Well, well, well...” she cooed. “I was just saying how much I'd like to be alone with you. And now here we are. What a co-inky-dink, ya think?"

  Brenda whimpered and tugged pointlessly at her tether.

  "What's the matter, Ten? You were having a good chuckle a minute ago. A regular laugh riot. Or are you still concerned about the big bad cigar?” She took a puff and blew the smoke in Brenda's face. “Get used to it, sweetie. Now ... I'm supposed to pretend to be one of them..."

  Using the same hand she held the cigar in, she reached across the tray for one of the fake snacks. Brenda glanced down and held her breath. The red-hot cigar tip extended from Twelve's fingers and hovered only an inch or so from Brenda's left nipple. As she watched, it slowly edged closer and closer. Twelve seemed unaware of it, her attention focused on the items on the tray.

  "Uhmph!” whined Brenda as the heat became alarmingly intense.

  Twelve gasped. “Oh dear! Was that getting a wee bit close?” Her tone was filled with sarcasm. It was obvious that her surprise was feigned. As if to emphasize it, she deliberately guided the glowing tip even closer to Brenda's nipple.

  "Too hot for you, Number Ten?” she taunted. “You know what they say ... If you can't stand the heat ... Oh. That's right. You can't get out of the kitchen, can you, sweetie?"

  "Pweez,” begged Brenda.

  With a look of obvious disappointment, Twelve snatched the cigar away at the last possible instant. She took one more puff and again exhaled the thick smoke into Brenda's face. She flicked the ash onto Brenda's breast, then turned and stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray.

  When Twelve looked up again, she was glowering fiercely. “I'd do it, you know,” she said. “I'd burn you in a heartbeat if I thought I could get away with it. But it would leave a mark on your perfect little body. Personally, I think it would be an improvement. Break up the monotony of all that flawless skin."

  Suddenly, she grabbed Brenda's left nipple, still simmering from its close encounter with the cigar, and twisted it violently. “You really think you're so special, don't you, bitch?"

  "No!” cried Brenda.

  "He sure thinks so. ‘She's so beautiful!'” Twelve said, imitating Sanders’ baritone voice as she continued tweaking the nipple. “'Look at her, Twelve. Isn't she the most beautiful girl you've ever seen?’”

  Brenda could only shake her head and protest weakly, “I never claimed—"

  "Ho
w do think it makes me feel when he goes on and on about you like that? I mean, I'm not so bad to look at. Lots of men find me pretty damned sexy, ya know."

  Brenda nodded and tried to agree. “You're very attractive,” she mumbled around the ball crammed into her mouth.

  "What's that? I'm hairy and massive?! Is that what you said? Why, you egotistical little cunt!” Twelve grabbed both nipples now and pinched them hard.

  "No, no! I said—"

  "Shut up!” After one last hard squeeze, she released Brenda's tits and took a step back. “Just because he makes me wear men's clothes you think I'm not feminine, don't you? God, I hate dressing like this. It's so humiliating! Which is why he makes me do it, of course. Got the idea from that stupid book he's always going on about. Apparently, Harry Haller falls for the girl at a masked ball while she's dressed as a man. Gender bending in one of the classics. Who knew? So this fictional bitch, Hermine, dresses up as Herman, and I end up having to put on a suit and tie. It sucks."

  Brenda could sense the other girl's anger dissipating as she ranted. She kept quiet and let her go, lest her own attempts to say anything else backfire again.

  "And I hate this wig, too,” she added, pulling what Brenda had thought was her natural hair off. She was surprised to see that beneath the dark wig, Twelve was blonde, just like herself. “And I'm sick of Mozart, too! Eine Kleine Boring Music!” she shouted, and switched off the sound.

  With that, it seemed Twelve had calmed down completely. Her angry scowl softened. “Well...” she said with a shrug. “I guess you are kinda pretty. Not any prettier than me when I'm made up properly. But not too bad, either."

  "Fank coo,” mumbled Brenda. Then, to her surprise, Twelve reached around her head and unbuckled the gag. It took some doing to pry the ball from her mouth, but when it finally popped out, Brenda said again, “Thank you, Number Twelve."

  "It's Lindsay."

  "Huh?"

  "My name. It's Lindsay. We girls can call each other by name when we're alone."

  "Oh. Okay."

  "My friends call me Lin."

  "Well, thank you again, Lin."