Nowhere Man

Chapter 7

I've been working for all kinds of people in the past 20 years. The only thing those fuckers had in common was that they were all rich. And - you may never have heard this one, but hear me out - I realized early that money can't buy style.

I can help a bitcoin-millionaire to finally get the girl of his dreams into his hands. Maybe she made fun of him when he was a whimp in highschool. Maybe she is the cute influencer who rejected his advances or the socialite who rebuffed him in front of his friends.

I once managed to obtain that young actress, Sofia Ellis or what her name was, for one of her, uh, biggest fans. I did it by faking her death by suicide on a cruiseship, at night, in the middle of the northern atlantic. This project involved a doppelganger, two drones, some falsified sattelite connection data and a small, electric submarine. I am not shitting you.

What I am trying to say is this: My clients can have him or her, whoever he or she is. And afterwards, once the subjects are under the control of their new owners, I can stay a while, set up whatever needs to be set up, design a training regimen, help chose implements, tools, restraints. I can teach them how to use the technology they bought, I can provide them with psychological profiles, drugs and the newest techniques of brainwashing or -wiping. I can get them everything else they might ever need to achieve exactly what they are dreaming of. If they can think of it, I can help them make it happen.

What I can't help people with is to develop some fucking imagination.

You know what the saddest thing in the world is? To tail a woman for months, plan and execute her disappearance, conduct a perfect operation... and then hand her over to some fucking dimwit whose idea of creativity is to keep her chained in his basement and piss on her once a day.

Half of the people I worked for have been morons. About a third were decent and knew what they wanted. Only a select few had really put thought into what they wished to do with a captive human being, how they wanted to transform it, what their longterm goal was. Those people, I respected.

But none of them came close to Agatha Bernadotte. She just had this way of working with materials, shapes and themes, like no one else did. She had an overarching vision, but she transformed each of her slaves in a different way, according to their character and past. Agathas goal was always shining through: At her core she loved to achieve the complete dehumanization and destruction of her victims. But she always surprised me, always made me recognize how what she did was an art form.

Just look at Bianca Obutu, a woman who always had desired to be seen, to be recognized and valued. A woman who had prided herself of being great in bed, a sensual lover, someone who could make other women orgasm violently with her fingers and tongue.

Now Bianca was completely encased in black latex, kept in strict bondage, gagged and voiceless, blind except for the vision the small camera lenses in the hood granted her. She was a nothing now. Even a ponygirl was being seen, on tournaments and gatherings. Even a fuckdoll was recognized as a mouth, maybe a face, a woman who was tuned into a sexual outlet for others.

But Bianca was completely gone, vanished and erased. I would have loved to know how Agatha had kept and trained the poor woman in those past years, but one thing was obvious: Her bondage and encasement were constant or nearly constant and her isolation was complete. If anyone fucked her, it would just be lousy Pascal who was occasionally allowed to stick his inconsequential dick into her rubber-lined throat or pussy, and maybe she did not even realize anymore what that meant, because it felt like nothing to someone who had been as thoroughly transformed and modified as she had been. If there was anything left of her Bianca Obutus old self, no one would ever know about that. And that was exactly Agathas point.

And now, my sweet Ivy. Agatha had only had a few ours to work with her, and without knowing the girl too well, she had already achieved something remarkable. I could only stare at Ivy in utter admiration as I entered the room.

I think I described Ivy at some point, but let me recap: She was young and sparkly. She was petite but quite fit, proud of her body and physique. She had strong arms and thighs, and the broad shoulders of a girl who went bouldering at least twice a week. Her blonde pixie cut gave her a fierce appearance despite the cute face. But she also had a dark side: Thin white scars on her thighs and forearms showed that she had been cutting herself in the past, and the greenish-blue tattoo of ivy and vines that now covered her arm like a sleeve showed that she was trying to make the best she could out of that past.

So what kind of girl was Ivy? Well, she was a girl who was not afraid of pain, who even had actively sought out pain in the past. She was wrestling with dark tendencies, but at the same time she wanted to be independent and in control. Even though a part of her longed for the exact opposite. Ivy was a living embodyment of someone who is struggling with her place in life.

Now, she was hanging above the table like an art installation, struggling in a much more literal way. She was constantly twitching, moaning, gasping and sobbing. Agatha had turned her into something beautiful, and at the same time had provided her with unending suffering.

As I stepped closer to the dining table - the food smelled delicious by the way - I studied Agathas work more closely. All the restraints which I had improvised for Ivy had been removed, except for the collar. Then, Agatha had replaced them with a much more sophisticated setup. There was a new harness on Ivy, and this one was made from a pearly-white material that looked a lot like rubber, but had to be an advanced polymer, more elastic than other materials, extremely durable, highly versatile. Agatha had put cuffs and straps that were made from the same stretchable material around Ivys wrists and elbows, upper arms and ankles, and she had hoisted her up, far above the table.

The bondage that Ivy was caught in was exceptional: It was not symmetric, like one would expect. Instead, it reflected Ivys character and the way she was a chaotic, struggling, fighting mess. The bondage kept her tangled up in a meshwork of straps and strands, like the web of a disorganized spider. One arm was half behind her, the other pinned to her side, while her left leg was bent backwards and her right leg more tilted outwards. Her hands and fingers were constantly fumbling for a release, a lock, some way to free herself. She would never find one.

It looked like a cruel and helpless position to begin with. But whenever Ivy tried to ease her plight, the pull on one strand or strap would result in another part of the bondage tightening, wrapping itself around her even more cruelly. The white straps dug deep into her belly and thighs, but as she tried to change this, her whole figure suddenly flipped to the side and now her arms were forced behind her with a force that nearly pulled them out of their sockets. She groaned and gasped and used all her strength to roll around again, and it was beautiful to see her muscles work beneath her light skin. Suddenly she was drifting upside down, her arms had a little more freedom now but her back was arched cruelly and her legs spread very far. It had to feel to Ivy like she was wrestled into a new shape by a gang of boa constrictors. She produced a weak, agonizing, exhausted moan and tensed again, managed to pull one leg towards her. But that was not really a victotry, because the meshwork of bonds now adjusted again, pulled her into a new position that was just as cruel as the one before that. NOw she was in a semi-frogtie and one of her arms was pulled into a reverse-prayer position while the other got pinned against the small of her back.

While I studied this eleborate, artful setup I noticed that a tight crotch strap secured something inside Ivys ass and pussy. I could easily guess what this had to be. Moisture was visible around it, and silvery slime was also smeared against the insides of her thighs. Agatha loved forced stimulation, and I knew that there would be large plugs inside the cunt and anus of my slave, plus a sybian clip with additional electrostimulative abilities secured to her swollen, desperate clit.

Ivy was wearing a hood of the same pearly white material, and it covered her head and face completely. It seemed rather thick and there was an exceptional bulge where her mouth would be. But even with a gag so massive, I had expected her to be louder when she started to rock in an orgasmic way. Then the crotchstrap zapped her cunt with a light electric shock, robbing her of the orgasm and beginng the process of stimulating the helpless girl from anew and she still did not manage to produce more than some very subdued groans.

Poor, dehumanized Bianca Obutu produced a gargling barking noise and crawled to Agathas feet. She folded herself up right next to her former lover and nowadays owner and cowered there like the good little rubbercreature that Agatha had broken her into.

But Agatha had no eyes for Bianca. She looked upwards and studied the quivering, struggling, twitching form of Ivy.

"She is a girl who likes to talk a lot. She could not shut up while I prepared her", Agatha sighed. "She tried to build up some sort of... sisterly rapport between us. And she got even more noisy once she was up there."

"She does have a mouth", I said grinning. I realized that Ivys blue eyes were half-visible through the material of the white hood, and that she now stared at me in utter desperation while her struggling increased. "But you seem to have found a way to shut her up. Is there a tube in her throat?"

"Exactly. The gag was not enough, so I intubated her", Agatha said, slightly annoyed. "The good thing is that this way, I can also control her breathing. The program is set to give her just as much air as she needs to stay conscious."

I sat down and looked up. It was inevitable that sooner or later, droplets of Ivys sweat and cuntjuice would fall on the table. I moved my plate out of the danger zone with a chuckle.

"Like I said, Agatha, you are an artist." I meant every word I said. I looked into her eyes and recognized that she knew I was honest. Her features softened up a little. "You are exceptional, and always have been exceptional, Agatha. No one else could have created something so unique."

"Some things never change. You, for example, were always great at flattery", she said and gestured for me to eat. So I did, and for a few minutes we dined silently. I tried the soup first. It was okay. There was also a fantastic filet mignon waiting for me. Above us, Ivy groaned, sobbed, twitched and struggled. The first drops were beginnng to fall now.

"I have come to you because I..." I started.

"Because you want to get Agatha into massive trouble!", Pascal cut the sentence short, snorting. "You are being hunted by some very influential people, you useless grunt! Agatha can not offer you shelter, or she might end up on their hitlist as well!"

How I hated this mean-spirited, cowardly little fucker. I kept my eyes on Agathas face.

"You have enough enemies already", I said with honest respect. "Half the people in the Club have been feuding with you, one time or the other. Many of them want you gone, but you never cared. For old times sake you could help me, and no one even had to find out."

Pascal was nearly spitting at me. "It's not worth getting into more trouble for a mere... handyman!", he squawked. "You mean nothing to Agatha, don't you see that? She is in love with me, you buffoon. And she will never...  AAARRGH!"

He cramped, grabbed his stylish metal wristband and slid sideways from his chair, taking his wine glass with him. Agatha looked annoyed. She took her finger off her own wristband. Hers was made from dark, sturdy leather with a magnetic locking mechanism. It seemed like she had just used it to administer a punishment to poor Pascal.

"I can talk for myself, you worm. And I do not want you - ever - to talk as if you know what I am thinking!", she hissed. Pascal was white as a sheet and his eyes were wide and scared. Drool was dripping from his lower lip. Jesus Fucking Christ how I hated that guy. "Have you understood what I just said, you disgusting weakling?"

Pascal nodded, heartbroken, with tears in his eyes. He was still sitting on the ground, and now he got into a kneeling position.

"I'm glad that I am not wearing one of these", I said with a smile. I cut off a piece of the filet and tasted it. It was delicious. Above us, Ivy was rocked by her fourth (or fifth?) would-be orgasm until another electroshock hit her clit and ruined the climax, as it had all the others.

Agathas eyes were flaring. "You fool, Hoffman! How could you come here? How could you think I would help? I am so utterly disappointed in you."

I shrugged. I tasted the wine. It was delicious too.

"I did not have that much of a choice, Agatha. I knew it was risky, but I hoped you would still harbour some affection for me. I need equipment and money, and if I get those things, I can solve this whole... clusterfuck. You and I were a great team once. We could be a great team again. I have a plan."

She looked at me nearly impressed, her smile growing.

"You just need my money and my time, and you need me to take the risk of making even more enemies than I actually have? You have some balls, Hoffman! At least you do at this moment. Who knows what the future might have in store for you."

She took a sip of wine too. She did not look happy with her decision, as if it was not easy for her. But she was adamant. And I looked down at Pascal, that whiny little prick, and then at Agatha, and I knew that I had lost her. A few years ago she might have been adventurous enough to help me. But some of her fire was gone, and now she was playing for keeps. It was sad to behold.

"I get it. I really do." I got up and wiped my mouth with the linen table napkin. "I respect your decision, Agatha."

"I have not yet dismissed you", Agatha growled. "Sit! You are in my house, and this place is under my complete control, Hoffman. You know how many automated systems are ready to stun and subdue you. All I need to do is move one finger." Her eyes were gleaming. Her fingertip was already hovering above the display of her command wristlet.

I shrugged and took a step backwards, hands raised in a gesture that communicated capitulation. The door through which I had been led in was right behind me. But it was an automated door, and of course it was sealed now. A guest like me would not allowed to walk out of this room.

"Agatha, I should leave. Please remember how well we worked together. Don't betray our friendship. If you don't want to help me, that's fine. I just want to take my slave and leave this place in peace."

"She will... never let you go", Pascal said, slowly dragging himself up and climbing back on his chair. He looked as if he hated Agatha just as much as he despised me.

"Indeed, I never will", Agatha gloated. "You are naive Hoffman. I always had a weak spot for you, but it was not that weak a spot! I will improve my reputation by delivering you to the Club. And I will keep your slave. She is wild, and delicious. I wonder how much rebellion she will still have in her after a few weeks under strict breath control."

I nodded. So that was it. I had tried everything I could and I had failed.

"So you have made your choice", I said.

Then I touched my own wristband, and I activated the automated doors. With a hissing noise, they opened. I stepped through and stood in the corridor again. I turned to Agatha and Pascal. Both stared at me, momentarily speechless.

"How could you...?" Agatha glared at her wristband and began to type commands into it. "Hoffman, why does the door obey you?"

I was so fucking disappointed. By her choice of men, by how slow success had made her and - last but not least - by her bad choice of a security system. I was just tired.

"Ivy is still wearing the collar I put on her", I said. "I built a transponder into it, combined with a high frequency transmitter and a small but powerful jammer. The device just needed a little time to read, infiltrate and modify your network and security protocols. Your login credentials and user profile have been overwritten by mine about half an hour ago."

Agatha stared at me. She was beginning to shake, and I could not tell if it was from fear, humiliation or rage.

"Punish her!", Pascal screamed at me, hysteric. What a fucking little moron he was, indeed. "Punish that bitch, make her pay! I'll help you! I'm on your side. I love you, Hoffman!"

That was a bit too much. As Agatha got up from her chair, she looked pale and beaten, shellshocked and despaired. She knew that she had lost. But she still had enough fire in her to slap Pascal very hard. So hard, indeed, that he stumbled to the ground a second time during a single dinner.

I ordered the system to close the automatic door and I activated a security drone. Agatha and Pascal were both hit by electrified tranquilizer darts 5 seconds later. And then the room was silent, except for Ivy, who was moaning, half-cumming, suffering, jerking and wheezing above them, and Bianca, who was still kneeling where she belonged, clueless about what was going on.

I afforded myself a tired, melancholic smile. There was indeed no rest for the wicked.