Thursday, August 23, 2018

The Getaway by Anonymous

The Getaway

He raced along the corridor, the tiles cold against his bare feet, the linen wall-hangings, depicting whippings and tortures, a blur as he ran past. He had two problems: he did not know where he was and he would not get far on bare feet once outside. He reached the outer door, and both problems almost magically resolved themselves. Someone had left a cell phone and car keys on a table just inside the door. He swept both up as he ran past and crashed through the door into the freedom of a dark tarmac-covered  car park. Outside, he shuddered momentarily as he thought of what he had just escaped. The two anonymous female guards with their bullwhips, the ones he called The Blonde and The Brunette. But worst of all, The Mistress. She came to him in a flash of memory – gleaming patent boots, tight corset, long leather gloves, the unending pain mingled with his cries for mercy. His thoughts leapt to the present as he heard a door bang. He saw The Blonde and The Brunette run towards him. He clicked the car key fob feverishly. A welcome ‘bleep’ and he was running towards a black car in the far corner of the car park. He threw himself inside, and with a roar of the engine was out onto the road beyond the gate. The two guards wheeled around, found their own cars and then were in pursuit, the headlights of their cars bouncing as they raced after him.

Where to go? He picked up the cell phone, found the route-mapping app and keyed in what he guessed was the nearest town. Almost immediately the mechanical voice of the app said: ‘In 2 miles, take the next left’.  Just before that first left turn, he let one of the pursuing cars come alongside him. He swerved into it violently and grinned as the car slewed off the road while he clung to the left-hand turn.  ‘In 2 miles, take the next left’, the mechanical voice said. Two miles later he had to slow to make the next left, and his rear mirror filled up with the headlight blaze of the other car. He slammed on his brakes, and there was an enormous, screeching howl as the pursuer behind him crashed into his rear bumper and bounced off, sliding sideways into the ditch alongside the road as he made the turn. ‘In 2 miles, take the next left’, the mechanical voice instructed. Two miles later he took the left as instructed and found himself in a dark square of tarmac. At that moment, the car coasted to a stop, its engine dead. He cursed – what were the chances of running out of fuel just then! He got out and found himself looking at a tall wall with a plain metal door at the centre.  He grabbed up the phone and headed for the door – if there was no one home, he could still call the police. He tried the door handle, the door swung inwards, and he stepped inside.

 He found himself in a long corridor. He felt cool tiles beneath his bare feet, and the dim lighting showed up what appeared to be tapestries hanging from the walls. His heart began to race. At that very moment, he heard the metal door behind him swing open. The Blonde and The Brunette entered, their heels clicking on the tiled floor. He suddenly realised:  ‘Turn left … Turn left … Turn left’ … he had gone in a circle! But how could that be? The Blonde and The Brunette approached. He eyed their bullwhips, and fell to his knees, mute, the cell phone dropping from his hand. The Blonde and The Brunette bent over him. The wrist and ankle cuffs were clicked back into place, the familiar dildo gag forced into his mouth, the metal collar padlocked again. The Blonde smiled at him as she wiped away a drop of blood from a cut on her forehead caused by the slide into the ditch. She reversed her bullwhip so that the handle made an ugly billy-club in her upraised hand. Just then, a door at the other end of the corridor opened. The Mistress entered, the light catching on her patent boots, illuminating the soft nylon glow of her stockings, and reflecting in the lace of her corset before vanishing as a dull sheen in her leather gloves. She spoke into a cell phone: ‘You have reached your destination’. He gawped as the phone on the floor beside him repeated her message in a tinny, mechanical voice. He looked up, the Mistress smiled at him, the billy club in The Blonde’s hand fell, and all was darkness.


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