Description
by John Savage
Blaze Lane was an inexperienced yet lovable secret agent who made her first appearance in “Tortured Spies”. Stella Walters was a professional escape artist, as readers of “Escape Artist” will know. CIA agents, like Blaze, need many skills, not least how to escape from difficult situations. Stella is the ideal instructor, and soon forms a close friendship with Blaze. When Blaze is sent to London on a mission no more complicated than to interview a Chinese spy being held by British Intelligence, it seems there may be much more to be learned much closer to home. Conveniently ignoring the CIA rules about not operating within the USA, Blaze and her partner return to investigate a ranch where it may well be that international secrets are being exchanged. Blaze being Blaze, it is not that simple, and when it all goes horribly wrong and Blaze has the opportunity to make a single telephone call, she has completely forgotten all the emergency CIA contact numbers. All she can remember is Stella’s number, and manages to call it and leave just a brief message before she once again finds herself a prisoner in tight bondage and pain. The owner of the ranch is, as one would expect in a John Savage novel, particularly interested in using and abusing women, and putting them in as much sexual agony as he can possibly devise. He can hardly be expected to change his ways when presented with a body as desirable as Blaze’s – or Stella’s, after her unsuccessful rescue attempt.
Published: 10 / 2010 No. words: 37400
On the Boss’ orders, she was pushed up against a post and her arms pulled behind it. It was then that the Boss admonished his men to bind her extra tightly. Two of them eagerly began the process of binding her arms together behind the post, then wrapping a great deal of rope around her body and the wooden post. One had smarts enough to bind her ankles together before her legs were wrapped, to make it harder for her to work her way out. Not that any of them believed she could do it; the ropes were cruelly tight, especially around her chest where the tightness made her breasts stick out like ripe melons.
Under his orders, some more rope was wrapped around her head, through the mouth, effective gagging her as well as locking her head against the post. Had the men been looking a little higher than they were, they would have seen fear in her eyes, but their vision was lower down and they missed that.
“Now,” began the Boss walking back and forth before the captive woman, “I am going to ask you some questions. Give me truthful answers and you won’t be hurt.” He paused dramatically. “But lie or refuse to talk, and you will experience great pain.” He smiled wickedly as she grimaced.
He snapped his fingers and one of the men handed him a whip. Not much in size, but it was mainly a thin, stiff metal rod covered with leather. The end was very thin and would act almost like a knife when it hit female flesh. He took the whip, made a few preliminary swishes through the air before her, and then asked, “Who do you work for?”
Blaze could hardly say a word, both from fear and from the ropes through her mouth holding down her tongue. She managed to force out something that sounded like, “Mummphle Loon Shhir.”
“What?” the Boss said, then, angrily, “Get that rope out of her mouth!”
One of the men jumped to obey, thinking to remind the Boss that he had ordered the gag in the first place, but had just enough smarts in his tiny brain to realize that the Boss probably did not want to hear that. He took off the rope gag.
“Now, again, who do you work for?”
“Mayfair Loan Service,” she said. It was partly true. That was the small company she had worked for before being recruited into the CIA.
“Wrong!” exclaimed the Boss. Then he swung the whip across her breasts.
A surprisingly loud scream echoed off the wooden walls.
All eyes were drawn to the thin red line crossing the front of both breasts. Blaze’s body shook and strained against the ropes holding her. Her head tossed from side to side a few times as she sucked in air. “That hurt!” she informed loudly. Looking down at her breasts, she could just barely see the red line of swelling up flesh. It had scored her breast just above the nipples.
“Now,” the Boss continued calmly. “Who do you work for?”
“I told you, Mayfair Loan…”
Her statement was cut off by another scream as the whip swept across her breasts again. A thin red line was forming, this time just below the nipples. Blaze’s eyes were wide open with fear. The pain shooting into her body from those abused breasts was more than she had ever known.
“I…” she began but nothing more came out.
“I can continue this all night,” he told her. “Now, who do you work for?”
Blaze tensed. Her eyes closed as her body braced for another painful blow to her wonderful breasts. But that did not happen. Instead a burst of fire shot across her upper thighs between two windings of the rope. He had cut a fresh line across her thighs and the pain was almost as bad as the first two strokes. Blaze gasped and whined loudly, trying to keep the scream in.
Her head was moving back and forth in denial. “Please, no more! That hurts so much!” she pleaded.
The Boss smiled. The men watching licked their lips, and bulges in their pants increased in size. There is nothing like inflicting pain on a gorgeous woman to arouse a man.
“Once again, who do you work for?” he said.
Blazes’ eyes opened wide as she shook her head. But then she remembered who she was: a secret agent for her country, and bravery overflowed in her. “I can’t tell you. No matter how much you torture me, I will not tell you. Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me!”
He delivered the next cut right over her pussy.
“The CIA!” Blaze howled. “Oh, that hurts! Ohhhh…”
She began sobbing, with big tears flowing down her cheeks to fall on the injured breasts.
“See, boys, a little incentive and she’s signing like a nightingale.”
The boys were nodded agreement, looking much like a line of three bobblehead dolls.
Behind the post, her hands were twisting around frantically in response to the pain being delivered on the other side.
“Now we go to the second question. What are you doing here?”
Blaze looked around frantically but saw no chance of rescue. “Nothing,” she blurted out. “Nothing. We are on vacation!”
With a chortle, the Boss cut the whip across her thighs again, this time between two other windings of the rope. Again she howled in pain and tried to thrash about. Her body, however, moved only slightly despite her straining against the ropes. Her head tossed from side to side, but that was all.
“Like I say, I can continue this all night,” the Boss said.
At that point two things happened. The newlyweds, having heard Blaze’s scream, came into the stable. Instead of looking shocked at what they saw, they smiled. “Oh, goodie, he’s torturing the bitch!” said the blonde wife. “Can we watch?”
“Of course,” Silverman said graciously.
They walked closer to get a better view.
At that moment, the second event occurred. From a distance there came a man’s scream rushing in through the open stable door. It sounded as if he were in terrible agony to judge by the long, drawn out cry.
Blaze heard it and her heart skipped a beat. That had to be Mark! What was being done to him? Later, she realized that if she heard him, then he probably heard her screams as well.
The man with the Middle Eastern appearance walked in, took one look at the naked, bound and whipmarked Blaze, and smiled. He got as close as he could and leaned against a stall door to watch.
The Boss saw him but said nothing, returning instead to his bound beauty. “Again: what are you doing here? And I don’t believe you are on vacation. Vacationers don’t carry Glocks.”
Blaze swallowed hard and tried desperately to think of a convincing lie.
The whip swished and fresh pain appeared on her abdomen just above her pubic patch. Again she howled; she could not help herself.
At that point, she did the logical thing. She fainted.
