Adventures of Simon (m/m) - The Mummy's Moment - Halloween 2022
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
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- Joined: 6 years ago
Hey people. Thanks for taking the time to say you enjoy the stories. There are more in store, though they will be posted in the adult section. Simon is always a great character to imagine in dire situations, it's fun to write about his adventures. He'll have more, don't worry.
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blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1105
- Joined: 6 years ago
OMG. Yeah!
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 575
- Joined: 6 years ago
Hey people. BC sent me an outline for a Simon story, just fit for Halloween. So here it the first part of three.
Simon and the Haunted Castle
1. On Top of the World
“What a sight! We’re lucky the mayor allowed us to come up here, it’s a perfect place to practice,” Simon told Stilo.
The view from the tower top was breathtaking indeed. The moors rolled down from the hill the castle they were in stood on in all directions. The circus camped on the other side of the moat for a couple nights; they were in the Scottish part of their tour. Simon found the large medieval stone castle fascinating; he had never seen one as old in Kansas, and he’d developed a keen eye for old buildings since they’d landed on the other side of the Atlantic.
They’d lived in the shadow of the fortress for two days and he was impressed by its massiveness; the black stones irradiated a strange power; was it the weight of history? When the city mayor had met Simon and Stilo backstage the day before, Simon asked if they could visit the place. The site was closed to the public, but the young escape artist’s performance had earned him the local official’s good grace.
He’d sent them the key at noon, brought by a man who’d opened the smaller gate at the back and showed them the court. The public employee had other things to do and convened to get the key back the next morning. Stilo wasn’t used to such trust from locals, but he’d found out that Simon’s show got them the favors of the audience; and he himself didn’t mind the spectacular setting for a rehearsal. The man told them the room at the top floor was accessible, and advised them to go on the roof to experience the sight.
They had to practice, especially with the new number they were to perform next month for a big magic show in London. They had received the equipment the week before and it was the first time they could try it. They’d brought the case along, and left it in the room at the top floor, before coming to the tower top. The lush greenery surrounding them was lit by a bright, vivid sun.
“Can we do the warm-up session here? We’ll rehearse the trick later on,” Simon asked.
Stilo agreed. The escape artist took his clothes off. Practicing outdoors meant avoiding tan lines. It was the second sunny afternoon in a row, and even though this didn’t match the stereotype about Scotland and its constant pouring rain, it was much appreciated by the escape artist. He had a leather pouch to cover his genitals and remain decent while tanning. Stilo had wondered whether he really wanted to be almost fully in the nude. Simon replied he had no qualms about nudity and it made his job easier.
The rope session proved it again. Simon wormed his way out of a hogtie, a ball tie and a frog-tie. There was even a flagpole to bind him to; he got out of it in record time. He never stayed bound long enough to get tan lines! After almost two hours, the initial exercise was done, they could move to the room one floor down.
They went down the spiral staircase; the room was right behind the door. It was large and devoid of furniture, except for a large table. A wide window let the sun in; it was warm.
They rehearsed their dialogues, which got them in the right mood for the number. The big try-out was next; Simon lifted the case’s lid and took out all the gear. It was cast iron: rings that could be used as cuffs, with a bigger one meant as a collar and chains and padlocks to go along. Even the ball gag had metal rings and the leather straps covered a much more solid metal strip, making it impossible to cut it. Simon was to be chained up with his hands behind and walked on a leash.
They had brought only one case, but they had two identical ones for the number. The set they’d brought was rigged and Simon could use his skills and flexibility to trigger the release mechanisms and break free from his chains in ten seconds. At least, that’s what the guy who’d peddled it claimed.
They’d tried it out upon receiving it; the mechanisms worked. Of course, the set of equipment had an unrigged twin: real padlocks and a collar and cuffs that would take hours to get out of, if one managed . It was the one that would be inspected by the audience members before Simon was restrained. Both cases were kept together in a trunk stored in an animal cage, to prevent anyone to see them together; the substitution that would take place on the trolley cart was a well-guarded secret.
Simon was eager to test his skills and the hardware’s quality. He snapped the bracelets around his limbs. They were tailor-made and felt right. The chain hobbling him was short but he could take small steps. He put the ball gag in, locking it on his nape. It could be removed by biting on it, which freed the strip from the padlocked buckle at the back.
He signaled Stilo to give him a hand with the arms’ restraints. Two short pieces linked his arms, below his shoulders and below his elbows. Chains going under his armpits and wrapped around his waist could receive his cuffed wrists to hold them close to his body. Short vertical chains made the set-up stricter; they were mainly for looks, but they added rigidity nonetheless.
The sound of the last padlock snapping on his collar triggered Simon’s struggle. He needed to twist his wrists and press a small pin on the side to get the bracelets to open. The left one didn’t budge; he moved and tried the right one, but it was stuck too. Stilo frowned. Simon felt a shiver, like cold air whirling around him as he realized he could be trapped for real.
“Can you remove the gag?” Stilo asked.
Simon bit into the ball but felt nothing. It was large so he tried to push it with his tongue, but the straps were too tight to allow this. The magician inspected the restraints, and it became clear this wasn’t the rigged set.
“It isn’t the tricked gear. I’ll get the key.”
The sets had their keys held in the case’s secret compartment. Stilo pressed the three small pins to open the lid, which snapped open.
“No keys! It means someone switched the two sets. What a dumb prank. Now we’ll have to go back to the camp.”
This was an unwelcome delay. Simon figured it was still early and they could come back; it felt great practicing in this location. Stilo grabbed the front chain’s end so it wouldn’t drag on the floor and they went out the room.
The spiral staircase felt wider than when they’d climbed it, and the stones looked darker; could it be the sun going down? They reached the ground floor. Stilo opened the door to the courtyard. It opened on the room they came from. He entered with Simon in tow. The door slammed shut behind them, causing the magician to jump. He was shaken by the trick; Stilo had performed magic long enough to know there always was a trick.
He spun on his heel and they stepped outside again. Stilo headed upstairs, to check the roof for any machinery or construction that could explain what happened. He pushed the door, but it was the large room on the top floor again. Stilo entered again. He’d find a clue inside.
The walls were smooth but the fireplace attracted his attention. There was a cast iron plate at the back; he saw cobwebs floating, betraying air going through. The armory concealed an entrance. It didn’t take long to find out that by pressing the eyes of the griffon and its left wing, he unlocked the door.
The five-foot-tall plate turned on its hinges, revealing a narrow wood spiral staircase. It was dark but he’d spotted an oil lamp on the chimney. It didn’t have lots of oil, but their journey would be short. He took matches out and lit it. He bent down to go through the entrance.
“Follow me, Simon! Look out, it’s steep.”
Simon was in the dark, the lamp casting a faint glow over the darkened wood walls; he focused on climbing down the stairs, which were steep indeed. Stilo counted the steps, as the descent seemed to never end. They had to be underground by now.
At last, they found a door. Stilo turned the knob and went through, Simon enjoying the end of the stairs that had him contortion. The passage they walked through was carved in granite, which glistened faintly in front.
The bowel turned and spun, seemingly never ending either. Stilo saw the lamp’s light dim; he hoped there would be enough oil so they’d find their way out.
“I’ll switch the light off to save oil, Simon. It’s narrow enough I can find my way touching the walls.”
“Mmrgrm,” Simon agreed.
They went on moving forward for an eternity when, at last, Stilo spotted a glow in front. He hurried.
“We’re on the right track!”
TBC
Simon and the Haunted Castle
1. On Top of the World
“What a sight! We’re lucky the mayor allowed us to come up here, it’s a perfect place to practice,” Simon told Stilo.
The view from the tower top was breathtaking indeed. The moors rolled down from the hill the castle they were in stood on in all directions. The circus camped on the other side of the moat for a couple nights; they were in the Scottish part of their tour. Simon found the large medieval stone castle fascinating; he had never seen one as old in Kansas, and he’d developed a keen eye for old buildings since they’d landed on the other side of the Atlantic.
They’d lived in the shadow of the fortress for two days and he was impressed by its massiveness; the black stones irradiated a strange power; was it the weight of history? When the city mayor had met Simon and Stilo backstage the day before, Simon asked if they could visit the place. The site was closed to the public, but the young escape artist’s performance had earned him the local official’s good grace.
He’d sent them the key at noon, brought by a man who’d opened the smaller gate at the back and showed them the court. The public employee had other things to do and convened to get the key back the next morning. Stilo wasn’t used to such trust from locals, but he’d found out that Simon’s show got them the favors of the audience; and he himself didn’t mind the spectacular setting for a rehearsal. The man told them the room at the top floor was accessible, and advised them to go on the roof to experience the sight.
They had to practice, especially with the new number they were to perform next month for a big magic show in London. They had received the equipment the week before and it was the first time they could try it. They’d brought the case along, and left it in the room at the top floor, before coming to the tower top. The lush greenery surrounding them was lit by a bright, vivid sun.
“Can we do the warm-up session here? We’ll rehearse the trick later on,” Simon asked.
Stilo agreed. The escape artist took his clothes off. Practicing outdoors meant avoiding tan lines. It was the second sunny afternoon in a row, and even though this didn’t match the stereotype about Scotland and its constant pouring rain, it was much appreciated by the escape artist. He had a leather pouch to cover his genitals and remain decent while tanning. Stilo had wondered whether he really wanted to be almost fully in the nude. Simon replied he had no qualms about nudity and it made his job easier.
The rope session proved it again. Simon wormed his way out of a hogtie, a ball tie and a frog-tie. There was even a flagpole to bind him to; he got out of it in record time. He never stayed bound long enough to get tan lines! After almost two hours, the initial exercise was done, they could move to the room one floor down.
They went down the spiral staircase; the room was right behind the door. It was large and devoid of furniture, except for a large table. A wide window let the sun in; it was warm.
They rehearsed their dialogues, which got them in the right mood for the number. The big try-out was next; Simon lifted the case’s lid and took out all the gear. It was cast iron: rings that could be used as cuffs, with a bigger one meant as a collar and chains and padlocks to go along. Even the ball gag had metal rings and the leather straps covered a much more solid metal strip, making it impossible to cut it. Simon was to be chained up with his hands behind and walked on a leash.
They had brought only one case, but they had two identical ones for the number. The set they’d brought was rigged and Simon could use his skills and flexibility to trigger the release mechanisms and break free from his chains in ten seconds. At least, that’s what the guy who’d peddled it claimed.
They’d tried it out upon receiving it; the mechanisms worked. Of course, the set of equipment had an unrigged twin: real padlocks and a collar and cuffs that would take hours to get out of, if one managed . It was the one that would be inspected by the audience members before Simon was restrained. Both cases were kept together in a trunk stored in an animal cage, to prevent anyone to see them together; the substitution that would take place on the trolley cart was a well-guarded secret.
Simon was eager to test his skills and the hardware’s quality. He snapped the bracelets around his limbs. They were tailor-made and felt right. The chain hobbling him was short but he could take small steps. He put the ball gag in, locking it on his nape. It could be removed by biting on it, which freed the strip from the padlocked buckle at the back.
He signaled Stilo to give him a hand with the arms’ restraints. Two short pieces linked his arms, below his shoulders and below his elbows. Chains going under his armpits and wrapped around his waist could receive his cuffed wrists to hold them close to his body. Short vertical chains made the set-up stricter; they were mainly for looks, but they added rigidity nonetheless.
The sound of the last padlock snapping on his collar triggered Simon’s struggle. He needed to twist his wrists and press a small pin on the side to get the bracelets to open. The left one didn’t budge; he moved and tried the right one, but it was stuck too. Stilo frowned. Simon felt a shiver, like cold air whirling around him as he realized he could be trapped for real.
“Can you remove the gag?” Stilo asked.
Simon bit into the ball but felt nothing. It was large so he tried to push it with his tongue, but the straps were too tight to allow this. The magician inspected the restraints, and it became clear this wasn’t the rigged set.
“It isn’t the tricked gear. I’ll get the key.”
The sets had their keys held in the case’s secret compartment. Stilo pressed the three small pins to open the lid, which snapped open.
“No keys! It means someone switched the two sets. What a dumb prank. Now we’ll have to go back to the camp.”
This was an unwelcome delay. Simon figured it was still early and they could come back; it felt great practicing in this location. Stilo grabbed the front chain’s end so it wouldn’t drag on the floor and they went out the room.
The spiral staircase felt wider than when they’d climbed it, and the stones looked darker; could it be the sun going down? They reached the ground floor. Stilo opened the door to the courtyard. It opened on the room they came from. He entered with Simon in tow. The door slammed shut behind them, causing the magician to jump. He was shaken by the trick; Stilo had performed magic long enough to know there always was a trick.
He spun on his heel and they stepped outside again. Stilo headed upstairs, to check the roof for any machinery or construction that could explain what happened. He pushed the door, but it was the large room on the top floor again. Stilo entered again. He’d find a clue inside.
The walls were smooth but the fireplace attracted his attention. There was a cast iron plate at the back; he saw cobwebs floating, betraying air going through. The armory concealed an entrance. It didn’t take long to find out that by pressing the eyes of the griffon and its left wing, he unlocked the door.
The five-foot-tall plate turned on its hinges, revealing a narrow wood spiral staircase. It was dark but he’d spotted an oil lamp on the chimney. It didn’t have lots of oil, but their journey would be short. He took matches out and lit it. He bent down to go through the entrance.
“Follow me, Simon! Look out, it’s steep.”
Simon was in the dark, the lamp casting a faint glow over the darkened wood walls; he focused on climbing down the stairs, which were steep indeed. Stilo counted the steps, as the descent seemed to never end. They had to be underground by now.
At last, they found a door. Stilo turned the knob and went through, Simon enjoying the end of the stairs that had him contortion. The passage they walked through was carved in granite, which glistened faintly in front.
The bowel turned and spun, seemingly never ending either. Stilo saw the lamp’s light dim; he hoped there would be enough oil so they’d find their way out.
“I’ll switch the light off to save oil, Simon. It’s narrow enough I can find my way touching the walls.”
“Mmrgrm,” Simon agreed.
They went on moving forward for an eternity when, at last, Stilo spotted a glow in front. He hurried.
“We’re on the right track!”
TBC
Always love to see what Simon's getting up to! (Especially in a Halloween-tinged story, which I'm an absolute sucker for.) Thanks for sharing, [mention]Bondwriter[/mention]; never been to Scotland, but you're making me itch to do some traveling. Looking forward to see what's lurking around in this castle...
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 575
- Joined: 6 years ago
[mention]Charmides[/mention] Thanks for the comment. Scotland appears dangerous in this next chapter.
Simon and the Haunted Castle
2. Deep Underground
Stilo didn’t expect an answer but the chains’ rattle confirmed Simon kept up with him. The light grew and the bowel led him inside a large chamber, with bright-burning torches lighting up the space. A big gate at the end had to lead outside. He turned to share the good news with the young escape artists. He froze, his mouth agape. The chain he held floated in the air, all ten links of it, but no boy was at its end.
He didn’t have time to think. Behind him, the wind came with a roar. He spun around to face small clouds swirling around, like the tornadoes he’d seen in the Midwest, but on a much smaller scale. The motion and sound decreased, and he started seeing human shapes in the floating cotton-candy. Wails and cries replaced the storm’s noises. Stilo counted seven ectoplasms, for lack of a better word. Their features appeared slowly.
“Welcome stranger,” he heard the figure in the middle say, “We’ve been waiting for rescue for centuries, will you help us?”
The voice didn’t sound real; Stilo wondered whether he was under some hallucinogenic that he’d breathed in. It was a boy with a very strange accent. His companions were boys too; he could now see their shapes better.
“Who are you? What do you want me to do?”
“Jasper,” “Adam,” “Norman,” “Charles,” “James,” “Duncan,” the apparitions introduced themselves, leaving the central character decline his identity last.
“I’m Patrick. I’m glad you may communicate with us and that you’re not afraid.”
Stilo could feel deep hope and gratitude coming from the group. It didn’t matter that it could be a prank, he needed to hear from them. He shook his head approvingly.
“We’ve been trapped down here for five centuries, and we’ve had visit only twice. And both times they ran away from us.”
“We’re ghosts, that’s why,” Jasper sighed.
“And our curse can only be broken by burying the remains our killer took from us and used for a curse!”
“Our hearts!” James explained, “Held in a box on the top floor of the castle, in a box sealed with an evil spell.”
Stilo looked at the shapes; he’d seen feats performed with smoke and mirrors, but this was top notch.
“Our hearts need to rest in hallowed ground. Our bodies will rest forever trapped behind these stones,” Patrick said pointing to the wall.
Stilo didn’t want to antagonize the person pulling the illusion’s strings.
“So you’ve all been slain in this castle? I can help you, but you have to help me.”
Patrick was now an almost normal human figure, this of a smiling boy.
“As much as we can. We can tell you the way out, which you’ll need to go get the cursed box anyway.”
“This will help, but I have another issue; I had my assistant Simon with me, but he disappeared,” he said, pointing to the chain he’d let go but that was still floating in the air. A murmur grew among the seven boys.
“Oh! No!” “What a pity!”
But then Patrick said, loud and clear: “Lord Angus!”
“Is he the one who murdered you? How could he kidnap my assistant? He must be a ghost too,” Stilo remarked.
“Lord Angus practiced dark magic and his powers allow him to interfere with the quick. We can’t! All we can do is find your assistant and guide him, if he isn’t kept in the forbidden parts of the dungeon.”
“They’re forbidden to us, not to our guest. We’d better hurry; Lord Angus’s ghost is as dangerous as his living self.”
“There is no time to waste, Sir! Your assistant is in deadly peril if Lord Angus took him. He’ll torture him for a while, but even if he survives, he’ll end up walled-in just like we did!”
Simon was still trying to process what was going on. One moment he was following Stilo in the dark, the chain pulling him forward. They went through damp tunnels. He spotted a glow forward and Stilo exited the narrow passage into the large cave where three torches burned and cast a yellow glow.
Simon opened wide eyes and his ball gag muffled the curse he shouted when he saw the chain pulling him floating six feet in front, with Stilo having vanished! The leash pulled him forward and he felt a blanket of cold air wrapping itself around his almost totally nude body. He felt a hand slapping his face harshly, then he heard the smacks that resounded as his buttocks were spanked in turns.
“Grmmph!”
Simon saw a cloud of light in front of him. It spun and whirled. The chain tugged him forward, now following a moving fog. They reached the end of the cave. Simon got two more spanks. A human’s body outline appeared in the cloud. Simon saw an arm reach the door, which opened. He had to hop down four wooden steps to find himself in a real nightmare. It was a medieval torture room. The light was dim; he could only guess what some of the implements were, but enough to send a shiver down his spine.
He heard fingers snapping in front of him and he got swallowed inside a vortex. He regained his senses perched upon an evil contraption. A bony man in a brown cloak came into sight, his eyes blazing and an evil grin distorting his lips. Simon could see through him. He was terrified.
“Good evening, boy. I am Lord Angus, welcome to my lair, which is going to be your doom! I haven’t tortured such an appealing youth as yourself for a century and a half, so don’t worry, you won’t die quickly, I’ll take my time with you … How do you like the Judas’ Cradle? Is it a nice seat?”
Simon had become well-versed in torture implements; they’d used many horrific devices for their numbers–rigged ones, of course–and he had read whole books depicting the Inquisition methods and various medieval devices. So that’s why he felt a pyramidal shape up his butt. He was impaled, or he would be when his legs, bound together in ropes would be lifted by the rope in front of him going up to a pulley.
There was a rag under his ball gag filling his mouth, and his arms were trussed up in a devilish chest harness that would take him at least three minutes to get rid of.
“Mrrgrmmph!”
The shape in front had yet more consistence and the smile had Simon sweat. A hand pulled the end of the rope upwards. Simon would have the iron end pierce him quickly; at least, his tightly bound thighs would give him a little extra time … He braced for the ordeal, focusing on extricating himself from the ropes binding his arms and holding his wrists between his shoulder blades. .
“Crack!” He felt the device crumble under him. One of the stool’s moldy legs broke off. Simon fell but he didn’t touch the ground. He heard the bony fingers snap again and he was pulled inside a tunnel of light and motion; when he came out of it, one second or one day later, he was spread-eagled on a torture rack. His wrists and ankles were held in tight iron bracelets, linked to wheels at both ends. The ghost stood by, leering at Simon.
“Too bad the cradle broke down. The rack is fun too, especially with the brank you’ve got on.”
Simon’s head was encased in an iron helmet, with a leather pear in his mouth. A chain was linked at the top of the head. Lord Angus’ ghost turned the wheel, pulling on his wrists and his head. The ratchet clicked every time he’d made progress in pulling Simon apart. The tension was high and painful. Simon heard a metallic clang and he felt his chains loosen. The ratchet broke!
The evil fingers did their magic snap and Simon was pulled back in the flowing stream out of space and time. He didn’t land in a better predicament, though.
“The Iron Maiden! The crown in my collection. And lined with restraints, which makes it easier to enjoy your victim’s final moments without unwanted motion or noise. I’ve opted for the leather helmet; some of my friends like screams and pleas, but I’d rather be able to make myself heard without any pitiful begging.”
Simon was pinned inside a vertical coffin. Leather straps at every joint, a large leather belt and a wide strap on his forehead immobilized him. He felt a weakness in the straps holding his left arm; if he could be fast enough ... His tormentor kept gloating and taunting, maybe he could release himself and jump out before this evil spirit closed the lid: it featured spikes that would pierce his whole body. Death would be swift, at least.
Simon didn’t surrender and fought his bonds; the old equipment was dried and worn: his right elbow ripped off the leather strap. He then managed the same with his left knee. More leeway, more opportunities to break free from the other restraints …
TBC
Simon and the Haunted Castle
2. Deep Underground
Stilo didn’t expect an answer but the chains’ rattle confirmed Simon kept up with him. The light grew and the bowel led him inside a large chamber, with bright-burning torches lighting up the space. A big gate at the end had to lead outside. He turned to share the good news with the young escape artists. He froze, his mouth agape. The chain he held floated in the air, all ten links of it, but no boy was at its end.
He didn’t have time to think. Behind him, the wind came with a roar. He spun around to face small clouds swirling around, like the tornadoes he’d seen in the Midwest, but on a much smaller scale. The motion and sound decreased, and he started seeing human shapes in the floating cotton-candy. Wails and cries replaced the storm’s noises. Stilo counted seven ectoplasms, for lack of a better word. Their features appeared slowly.
“Welcome stranger,” he heard the figure in the middle say, “We’ve been waiting for rescue for centuries, will you help us?”
The voice didn’t sound real; Stilo wondered whether he was under some hallucinogenic that he’d breathed in. It was a boy with a very strange accent. His companions were boys too; he could now see their shapes better.
“Who are you? What do you want me to do?”
“Jasper,” “Adam,” “Norman,” “Charles,” “James,” “Duncan,” the apparitions introduced themselves, leaving the central character decline his identity last.
“I’m Patrick. I’m glad you may communicate with us and that you’re not afraid.”
Stilo could feel deep hope and gratitude coming from the group. It didn’t matter that it could be a prank, he needed to hear from them. He shook his head approvingly.
“We’ve been trapped down here for five centuries, and we’ve had visit only twice. And both times they ran away from us.”
“We’re ghosts, that’s why,” Jasper sighed.
“And our curse can only be broken by burying the remains our killer took from us and used for a curse!”
“Our hearts!” James explained, “Held in a box on the top floor of the castle, in a box sealed with an evil spell.”
Stilo looked at the shapes; he’d seen feats performed with smoke and mirrors, but this was top notch.
“Our hearts need to rest in hallowed ground. Our bodies will rest forever trapped behind these stones,” Patrick said pointing to the wall.
Stilo didn’t want to antagonize the person pulling the illusion’s strings.
“So you’ve all been slain in this castle? I can help you, but you have to help me.”
Patrick was now an almost normal human figure, this of a smiling boy.
“As much as we can. We can tell you the way out, which you’ll need to go get the cursed box anyway.”
“This will help, but I have another issue; I had my assistant Simon with me, but he disappeared,” he said, pointing to the chain he’d let go but that was still floating in the air. A murmur grew among the seven boys.
“Oh! No!” “What a pity!”
But then Patrick said, loud and clear: “Lord Angus!”
“Is he the one who murdered you? How could he kidnap my assistant? He must be a ghost too,” Stilo remarked.
“Lord Angus practiced dark magic and his powers allow him to interfere with the quick. We can’t! All we can do is find your assistant and guide him, if he isn’t kept in the forbidden parts of the dungeon.”
“They’re forbidden to us, not to our guest. We’d better hurry; Lord Angus’s ghost is as dangerous as his living self.”
“There is no time to waste, Sir! Your assistant is in deadly peril if Lord Angus took him. He’ll torture him for a while, but even if he survives, he’ll end up walled-in just like we did!”
Simon was still trying to process what was going on. One moment he was following Stilo in the dark, the chain pulling him forward. They went through damp tunnels. He spotted a glow forward and Stilo exited the narrow passage into the large cave where three torches burned and cast a yellow glow.
Simon opened wide eyes and his ball gag muffled the curse he shouted when he saw the chain pulling him floating six feet in front, with Stilo having vanished! The leash pulled him forward and he felt a blanket of cold air wrapping itself around his almost totally nude body. He felt a hand slapping his face harshly, then he heard the smacks that resounded as his buttocks were spanked in turns.
“Grmmph!”
Simon saw a cloud of light in front of him. It spun and whirled. The chain tugged him forward, now following a moving fog. They reached the end of the cave. Simon got two more spanks. A human’s body outline appeared in the cloud. Simon saw an arm reach the door, which opened. He had to hop down four wooden steps to find himself in a real nightmare. It was a medieval torture room. The light was dim; he could only guess what some of the implements were, but enough to send a shiver down his spine.
He heard fingers snapping in front of him and he got swallowed inside a vortex. He regained his senses perched upon an evil contraption. A bony man in a brown cloak came into sight, his eyes blazing and an evil grin distorting his lips. Simon could see through him. He was terrified.
“Good evening, boy. I am Lord Angus, welcome to my lair, which is going to be your doom! I haven’t tortured such an appealing youth as yourself for a century and a half, so don’t worry, you won’t die quickly, I’ll take my time with you … How do you like the Judas’ Cradle? Is it a nice seat?”
Simon had become well-versed in torture implements; they’d used many horrific devices for their numbers–rigged ones, of course–and he had read whole books depicting the Inquisition methods and various medieval devices. So that’s why he felt a pyramidal shape up his butt. He was impaled, or he would be when his legs, bound together in ropes would be lifted by the rope in front of him going up to a pulley.
There was a rag under his ball gag filling his mouth, and his arms were trussed up in a devilish chest harness that would take him at least three minutes to get rid of.
“Mrrgrmmph!”
The shape in front had yet more consistence and the smile had Simon sweat. A hand pulled the end of the rope upwards. Simon would have the iron end pierce him quickly; at least, his tightly bound thighs would give him a little extra time … He braced for the ordeal, focusing on extricating himself from the ropes binding his arms and holding his wrists between his shoulder blades. .
“Crack!” He felt the device crumble under him. One of the stool’s moldy legs broke off. Simon fell but he didn’t touch the ground. He heard the bony fingers snap again and he was pulled inside a tunnel of light and motion; when he came out of it, one second or one day later, he was spread-eagled on a torture rack. His wrists and ankles were held in tight iron bracelets, linked to wheels at both ends. The ghost stood by, leering at Simon.
“Too bad the cradle broke down. The rack is fun too, especially with the brank you’ve got on.”
Simon’s head was encased in an iron helmet, with a leather pear in his mouth. A chain was linked at the top of the head. Lord Angus’ ghost turned the wheel, pulling on his wrists and his head. The ratchet clicked every time he’d made progress in pulling Simon apart. The tension was high and painful. Simon heard a metallic clang and he felt his chains loosen. The ratchet broke!
The evil fingers did their magic snap and Simon was pulled back in the flowing stream out of space and time. He didn’t land in a better predicament, though.
“The Iron Maiden! The crown in my collection. And lined with restraints, which makes it easier to enjoy your victim’s final moments without unwanted motion or noise. I’ve opted for the leather helmet; some of my friends like screams and pleas, but I’d rather be able to make myself heard without any pitiful begging.”
Simon was pinned inside a vertical coffin. Leather straps at every joint, a large leather belt and a wide strap on his forehead immobilized him. He felt a weakness in the straps holding his left arm; if he could be fast enough ... His tormentor kept gloating and taunting, maybe he could release himself and jump out before this evil spirit closed the lid: it featured spikes that would pierce his whole body. Death would be swift, at least.
Simon didn’t surrender and fought his bonds; the old equipment was dried and worn: his right elbow ripped off the leather strap. He then managed the same with his left knee. More leeway, more opportunities to break free from the other restraints …
TBC
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blackbound
- Millennial Club
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That was legit unexpected and creepy (in a good way). I didn't know about the Cradle but yikes.
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
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- Joined: 6 years ago
[mention]blackbound[/mention] Thankfully for Simon, ghosts are notoriously bad at maintaining a dungeon in working conditions over the centuries.
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Risperdaltied
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Love that Simon is back!
Great story!
Great story!
Bikinis + bondage = perfect combination
Feel free to PM for RP - to be tied or to tie...
Feel free to PM for RP - to be tied or to tie...
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
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- Joined: 6 years ago
[mention]Risperdaltied[/mention] Glad you enjoy Simon's return. More in store!
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Risperdaltied
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 176
- Joined: 6 years ago
Can’t wait!!
Bikinis + bondage = perfect combination
Feel free to PM for RP - to be tied or to tie...
Feel free to PM for RP - to be tied or to tie...
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 575
- Joined: 6 years ago
Thanks, Risperdaltied. Here is the conclusion to Simon's first supernatural adventure!
Simon and the Haunted Castle
3. Unexpected Allies
The spooky creature droned on and on about his favorite torture methods. Simon stood his gaze, glad the ghost hadn’t spotted he was breaking the straps one by one. To Simon’s dismay, he stopped talking and slowly closed the panel bearing the pikes. Simon screamed through his muzzle as the blades moved towards him. One touched his forehead and fell to dust.
He felt small pokes; the pikes were so eaten by rust that they crumbled too. The now familiar sound accompanying Lord Angus’ failures ran outside the coffin and Simon traveled again, to end up just as he’d been when he entered the dungeon. The ghost was angry.
“I’ll have to store you away so I can find some other way to torture you. I haven’t had such a fine captive for one hundred and eighty-two years, I won’t pass the opportunity.”
The evil being pulled Simon to the end of the chamber where another small door led to a maze of staircases and corridors. Simon hopped and tried to follow; the ghost wasn’t as well intended as Stilo, and the pace he demanded tested the boy’s balance and stamina. After going down, they went through a corridor with puddles of a liquid Simon hoped was water. His abductor emitted a light glow, but not enough to see around. He could feel walls, the floor changed under his feet, from stone to wood to mud and water.
Angus’ ghost yanked the chain to bring his captive to a halt. He lit torches mounted in the wall. They stood in a hall, in front of two piles of four cages carved in the rock, much like the rabbit hutch where his bunnies lived. He got a malevolent smile from the ghost, whose fingers he now saw distinctly. They snapped: off was Simon.
Though he’d expected the outcome, he still was surprised at how tight and stringent the restraining was. His arms were pulled tight behind him. The bracelets were held together by short pieces of chain. Others linked them to the walls, where D-rings were planted. He lay face down, his legs folded under him, his heels in his butt, his chest touching his knee. A foul-tasting rag filled his mouth, the leather helmet encased his head, then the brank on top was also linked to the walls above and at his sides to keep his head immobile.
“It’ll take time, but I’ll find something to play with you and submit you to long hours of pain and misery. For now, enjoy my hospitable ways!”
The ghost vanished, snuffing the torches out. Left in the cold and damp environment, Simon felt despair. This place was evil; his mind reeled with visions of tortured boys. He tried to focus on something else, as he’d practiced the many times he’d been put in restrictive bondage, but it didn’t work.
Simon was in a nightmare he couldn’t get out of. He started feeling tired and dizzy, but the horrific displays kept invading his mind.
He thought he was going mad when he heard and felt a strong wind blowing. Light grew and he heard voices, one of them Stilo’s.
“He’s here! Simon! We’ve found you! You’re rescued.”
“Mrgrmmgrmmbkkllmmrph?!”
“Angus chained him tight,” he heard a boyish voice say.
Stilo pulled the barred grid open, snatching it off its hinges. He reached to Simon’s helmet.
“The padlocks hold. I’ll pick them.”
“No need for this, Mister. Now you’ve helped us to defeat Lord Angus, we got his power. Using it to help an innocent living person is within it.”
“His name’s Patrick, Simon. He was killed by the man whose ghost abducted you. This Angus fellow was disposed of.”
Simon grumbled, but his rescuers were hell-bent on telling of their clever plan to lure the malevolent ghost and trap him inside a magic mirror. The effective gag prevented the escape artist to express his growing indifference to the feats of the gang of ghosts Stilo had befriended, and how five centuries of experience and knowledge had led them to plan their revenge for over a century, and this plan has at last come to fruition.
“If we use his power for good, we will be freed at last!”
Simon heard fingers snap and he felt drawn into a stream again. Next he stood outside the castle, in front of the gate. Stilo turned around and locked it.
“Ghosts use real magic but they don’t pull escape artistry tricks,” he smiled.
Simon looked around; it was dawn and he was alive. The fact he was still cuffed and chained tightly with the genuine set didn’t bother him. Stilo hugged him.
“I was so worried when the ghost boys told me of Lord Angus’ wicked ways. They told me of the gruesome things that happened to them. I helped them to defeat the monster, as I’ve told you already. He’s now trapped in a block of wax. Old medieval curse, they said. There’s one last thing I have to do … ”
He had a large clay jar with him.
Simon followed him down the long stone staircase. There was a church at the bottom, with a graveyard behind. He let the chain go, the jar held tight against his chest.
“I’ll bury the remains this wicked man kept of these boys he murdered. You should stay out, considering how you’re dressed.”
Simon realized he still hadn’t recovered his clothes. He waited for Stilo, who came back fifteen minutes later.
“Their remains lie in hallowed ground as they asked.”
A ray of sun shone on the castle and its surroundings. Simon saw a flock of doves soar. He counted seven of them.
“Let’s get back to the circus and real, alive people. Not that I’m going to tell anyone about what happened. They’d think I’m crazy. Now, we need to get these keys back and free you. I want to hear what the ghost did to you.”
The walk to the camp was short, thankfully. Stilo headed straight to the menagerie. Making sure no one saw him, he greeted the chimpanzees and entered the cage, case in hand. He grabbed the other one, with the rigged set. Its secret compartment held the key!
Simon was free in no time.
“At last! I’ve never been so afraid as when I was in this cage, Stilo. From what you said, it’s like I relived these boys’ tortures. And the ghost was so evil!”
“He no longer will hurt anyone.”
There was another hug and comforting words.
“Anyway, we’ll have to find a better way to store the cases. Maurice and André are far too clever, though it’s easier to retrieve them from their cages than from the tiger’s.”
Epilogue
No one asked questions about their overnight stay in the castle. They talked it out together for the following days, though: Simon understood that his nightmares while in the cell mirrored the boys’ fateful ends. Stilo still doubted the reality of their experience. They settled on coming out of the adventure alive, and knowing they’d gotten the castle rid of its malevolent ghost–and released his innocent ones.
Rehearsals and shows got their attention in the following days. Their next stop was a small seaside village. On the morning of their departure, Stilo and Simon rehearsed with the rigged set of bracelets and chains again. They were now stored in the magic props’ wagon where Stilo made space for them.
He’d stored them himself and had decided the genuine stuff would be on top, the rigged case underneath, veiled with black satin in case of a meddler’s visit.
Simon stuck the ball gag inside his gob and locked it shut. He put the bracelets on, as well as the chains within his reach. Stilo helped with the final pieces.
Simon realized it wasn’t the proper set as soon as he started struggling. He was now familiar with the equipment. The three times they practiced, he checked them before, but he hadn’t on this day. He regretted it immediately and gurgled through his gag.
“What? It can’t be the real stuff! I’ve stored the gear myself yesterday. It’s the same one we’ve used today!”
He rushed inside the caravan for the keys, but none were in either secret compartment!
“Someone’s playing a prank on you, Simon. Stay here, I’ll go find out who!”
Stilo wouldn’t have won a popularity contest that morning. They were to leave by noon and everybody was busy folding canvas or putting trunks away. No one seemed aware of a joke played on Simon. The clouds on the horizon grew darker and lightning fell on the sea, followed by thunder a little while later.
“Leave us alone, Stilo, and pack your stuff, it’s going to be pouring soon!”
Stilo was almost ready, so he went to see the clowns last, but they denied any involvement in the mischief. When he left them, big drops of rain started crashing on the ground. He hurried: Simon was outside.
When he arrived next to their caravan, he saw Robert, the strongman, who’d picked up Simon. If he put him inside, it was great.
He saw the seven-foot and three hundred-pound hunk lay Simon down in a large open case. The lid shut off.
“No!” Stilo screamed. The case couldn’t be open from the outside with as little as ten pounds on the bottom, pushing on a plate that locked the lid.
Robert apologized, but the harm had been done. Stilo asked Simon if he could reach the mechanism in the upper right corner, but chained as he was, it was out of the question.
The circus was leaving, as they had to cross a ford to get to their next venue and they couldn’t wait if they didn’t want to be trapped.
They reached the new camp site in the evening. Throughout the journey, Stilo talked to Simon, who replied with grunts to his questions and comments. The magician went for another search mission. He couldn’t believe his eyes; the two cases now both had keys in their secret compartment.
The trunk Simon was in was still closed: he drilled a small hole above Simon’s wrists. He let the key down at the end of a string and Simon caught it on the third try. Five minutes later he was stretching, released from the chains and freed from the trunk.
He spotted a glimmer next to the cases.
“What’s this?” he asked, picking it up. It was a large medal, featuring a raven’s head. There was a small hole on the edge, so Simon threaded a string through it and used it as a necklace.
The circus’s activity didn’t leave him much time to think. They set up the flagpole tent, had dinner and went to sleep.
It was only after the show the next day that he thought about the medal again. A local priest was praising the artists’ talent. Simon had his shirt and pants back on, and his new necklace. The man of the cloth looked at the medal.
“Are you from around these parts, young man? Are you a heir of the Angus family? Lord Angus is quite infamous around these parts, but of course, no one will ever know for sure whether he really murdered all these children as the legend has it … “
The End
Simon and the Haunted Castle
3. Unexpected Allies
The spooky creature droned on and on about his favorite torture methods. Simon stood his gaze, glad the ghost hadn’t spotted he was breaking the straps one by one. To Simon’s dismay, he stopped talking and slowly closed the panel bearing the pikes. Simon screamed through his muzzle as the blades moved towards him. One touched his forehead and fell to dust.
He felt small pokes; the pikes were so eaten by rust that they crumbled too. The now familiar sound accompanying Lord Angus’ failures ran outside the coffin and Simon traveled again, to end up just as he’d been when he entered the dungeon. The ghost was angry.
“I’ll have to store you away so I can find some other way to torture you. I haven’t had such a fine captive for one hundred and eighty-two years, I won’t pass the opportunity.”
The evil being pulled Simon to the end of the chamber where another small door led to a maze of staircases and corridors. Simon hopped and tried to follow; the ghost wasn’t as well intended as Stilo, and the pace he demanded tested the boy’s balance and stamina. After going down, they went through a corridor with puddles of a liquid Simon hoped was water. His abductor emitted a light glow, but not enough to see around. He could feel walls, the floor changed under his feet, from stone to wood to mud and water.
Angus’ ghost yanked the chain to bring his captive to a halt. He lit torches mounted in the wall. They stood in a hall, in front of two piles of four cages carved in the rock, much like the rabbit hutch where his bunnies lived. He got a malevolent smile from the ghost, whose fingers he now saw distinctly. They snapped: off was Simon.
Though he’d expected the outcome, he still was surprised at how tight and stringent the restraining was. His arms were pulled tight behind him. The bracelets were held together by short pieces of chain. Others linked them to the walls, where D-rings were planted. He lay face down, his legs folded under him, his heels in his butt, his chest touching his knee. A foul-tasting rag filled his mouth, the leather helmet encased his head, then the brank on top was also linked to the walls above and at his sides to keep his head immobile.
“It’ll take time, but I’ll find something to play with you and submit you to long hours of pain and misery. For now, enjoy my hospitable ways!”
The ghost vanished, snuffing the torches out. Left in the cold and damp environment, Simon felt despair. This place was evil; his mind reeled with visions of tortured boys. He tried to focus on something else, as he’d practiced the many times he’d been put in restrictive bondage, but it didn’t work.
Simon was in a nightmare he couldn’t get out of. He started feeling tired and dizzy, but the horrific displays kept invading his mind.
He thought he was going mad when he heard and felt a strong wind blowing. Light grew and he heard voices, one of them Stilo’s.
“He’s here! Simon! We’ve found you! You’re rescued.”
“Mrgrmmgrmmbkkllmmrph?!”
“Angus chained him tight,” he heard a boyish voice say.
Stilo pulled the barred grid open, snatching it off its hinges. He reached to Simon’s helmet.
“The padlocks hold. I’ll pick them.”
“No need for this, Mister. Now you’ve helped us to defeat Lord Angus, we got his power. Using it to help an innocent living person is within it.”
“His name’s Patrick, Simon. He was killed by the man whose ghost abducted you. This Angus fellow was disposed of.”
Simon grumbled, but his rescuers were hell-bent on telling of their clever plan to lure the malevolent ghost and trap him inside a magic mirror. The effective gag prevented the escape artist to express his growing indifference to the feats of the gang of ghosts Stilo had befriended, and how five centuries of experience and knowledge had led them to plan their revenge for over a century, and this plan has at last come to fruition.
“If we use his power for good, we will be freed at last!”
Simon heard fingers snap and he felt drawn into a stream again. Next he stood outside the castle, in front of the gate. Stilo turned around and locked it.
“Ghosts use real magic but they don’t pull escape artistry tricks,” he smiled.
Simon looked around; it was dawn and he was alive. The fact he was still cuffed and chained tightly with the genuine set didn’t bother him. Stilo hugged him.
“I was so worried when the ghost boys told me of Lord Angus’ wicked ways. They told me of the gruesome things that happened to them. I helped them to defeat the monster, as I’ve told you already. He’s now trapped in a block of wax. Old medieval curse, they said. There’s one last thing I have to do … ”
He had a large clay jar with him.
Simon followed him down the long stone staircase. There was a church at the bottom, with a graveyard behind. He let the chain go, the jar held tight against his chest.
“I’ll bury the remains this wicked man kept of these boys he murdered. You should stay out, considering how you’re dressed.”
Simon realized he still hadn’t recovered his clothes. He waited for Stilo, who came back fifteen minutes later.
“Their remains lie in hallowed ground as they asked.”
A ray of sun shone on the castle and its surroundings. Simon saw a flock of doves soar. He counted seven of them.
“Let’s get back to the circus and real, alive people. Not that I’m going to tell anyone about what happened. They’d think I’m crazy. Now, we need to get these keys back and free you. I want to hear what the ghost did to you.”
The walk to the camp was short, thankfully. Stilo headed straight to the menagerie. Making sure no one saw him, he greeted the chimpanzees and entered the cage, case in hand. He grabbed the other one, with the rigged set. Its secret compartment held the key!
Simon was free in no time.
“At last! I’ve never been so afraid as when I was in this cage, Stilo. From what you said, it’s like I relived these boys’ tortures. And the ghost was so evil!”
“He no longer will hurt anyone.”
There was another hug and comforting words.
“Anyway, we’ll have to find a better way to store the cases. Maurice and André are far too clever, though it’s easier to retrieve them from their cages than from the tiger’s.”
Epilogue
No one asked questions about their overnight stay in the castle. They talked it out together for the following days, though: Simon understood that his nightmares while in the cell mirrored the boys’ fateful ends. Stilo still doubted the reality of their experience. They settled on coming out of the adventure alive, and knowing they’d gotten the castle rid of its malevolent ghost–and released his innocent ones.
Rehearsals and shows got their attention in the following days. Their next stop was a small seaside village. On the morning of their departure, Stilo and Simon rehearsed with the rigged set of bracelets and chains again. They were now stored in the magic props’ wagon where Stilo made space for them.
He’d stored them himself and had decided the genuine stuff would be on top, the rigged case underneath, veiled with black satin in case of a meddler’s visit.
Simon stuck the ball gag inside his gob and locked it shut. He put the bracelets on, as well as the chains within his reach. Stilo helped with the final pieces.
Simon realized it wasn’t the proper set as soon as he started struggling. He was now familiar with the equipment. The three times they practiced, he checked them before, but he hadn’t on this day. He regretted it immediately and gurgled through his gag.
“What? It can’t be the real stuff! I’ve stored the gear myself yesterday. It’s the same one we’ve used today!”
He rushed inside the caravan for the keys, but none were in either secret compartment!
“Someone’s playing a prank on you, Simon. Stay here, I’ll go find out who!”
Stilo wouldn’t have won a popularity contest that morning. They were to leave by noon and everybody was busy folding canvas or putting trunks away. No one seemed aware of a joke played on Simon. The clouds on the horizon grew darker and lightning fell on the sea, followed by thunder a little while later.
“Leave us alone, Stilo, and pack your stuff, it’s going to be pouring soon!”
Stilo was almost ready, so he went to see the clowns last, but they denied any involvement in the mischief. When he left them, big drops of rain started crashing on the ground. He hurried: Simon was outside.
When he arrived next to their caravan, he saw Robert, the strongman, who’d picked up Simon. If he put him inside, it was great.
He saw the seven-foot and three hundred-pound hunk lay Simon down in a large open case. The lid shut off.
“No!” Stilo screamed. The case couldn’t be open from the outside with as little as ten pounds on the bottom, pushing on a plate that locked the lid.
Robert apologized, but the harm had been done. Stilo asked Simon if he could reach the mechanism in the upper right corner, but chained as he was, it was out of the question.
The circus was leaving, as they had to cross a ford to get to their next venue and they couldn’t wait if they didn’t want to be trapped.
They reached the new camp site in the evening. Throughout the journey, Stilo talked to Simon, who replied with grunts to his questions and comments. The magician went for another search mission. He couldn’t believe his eyes; the two cases now both had keys in their secret compartment.
The trunk Simon was in was still closed: he drilled a small hole above Simon’s wrists. He let the key down at the end of a string and Simon caught it on the third try. Five minutes later he was stretching, released from the chains and freed from the trunk.
He spotted a glimmer next to the cases.
“What’s this?” he asked, picking it up. It was a large medal, featuring a raven’s head. There was a small hole on the edge, so Simon threaded a string through it and used it as a necklace.
The circus’s activity didn’t leave him much time to think. They set up the flagpole tent, had dinner and went to sleep.
It was only after the show the next day that he thought about the medal again. A local priest was praising the artists’ talent. Simon had his shirt and pants back on, and his new necklace. The man of the cloth looked at the medal.
“Are you from around these parts, young man? Are you a heir of the Angus family? Lord Angus is quite infamous around these parts, but of course, no one will ever know for sure whether he really murdered all these children as the legend has it … “
The End
OMG! INCREDIBLE. A new adventure of Simon. I loved it. It was so exciting.
Quite different from the other Simon stories, really enjoyed it. Well done!
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 575
- Joined: 6 years ago
[mention]kankuro10[/mention] [mention]Canuck100[/mention]
Thanks for the comments. Glad you enjoyed it. Once again, credits to BC for the story, I only reworked his detailed outline.
Thanks for the comments. Glad you enjoyed it. Once again, credits to BC for the story, I only reworked his detailed outline.
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blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1105
- Joined: 6 years ago
A spooky Halloween tale well told. Horror movies, especially the shitty modern slashers/torture porn ones, should return to these roots.
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
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- Joined: 6 years ago
Thanks for the comment, Blackbound. Glad you enjoyed this old-school tale of horror!
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blackbound
- Millennial Club
- Posts: 1105
- Joined: 6 years ago
There isn't a tale of yours on here I haven't enjoyed!
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
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- Joined: 6 years ago
BC had an idea for a Simon Halloween story, and I wrote it. I hope the Simon fans are happy.
It's a Halloween story, so there's some graphic violence.
The Trees Have Eyes
Chapter 1 – Practice Makes Perfect
“We have to, Stilo! You know the number needs to be ready for the show in Scotland. I can perform the stunt, but I need to practice regularly. You said so yourself.”
“It’s late October. It’s damp and cold, and we’re in northern England, not in Florida! At least you could put on some warm clothes.”
“I’ll be in my blue underwear for the trick on the big day, so I’d better get used to it. It’s just the pouch underneath. I’ve got the shawl and a coat, plus blankets in the bag for when we’re done. A month from now, I’ll be hanging down on top of a hill and above a cliff. I’ve got to be ready for the cold, snow, or hail.”
Stilo knows Simon is right. His reluctance comes from tales he heard at the local pub. Two horribly mutilated bodies have turned up in the surrounding woods since August. It is the talk of the town, and there is no shortage of patrons peddling vivid folklore explanations. Ghouls, leprechauns, and werewolves make for entertaining stories to impress the American circus artists.
Three old men tell Stilo of a centuries-old werewolf legend: the young owner of a large farm had been accused of lycanthropy and of devious, wicked murders of villagers.
The story is embellished for the visitor, and of course, each man has a different speculation for the killings and the remains torn by wild animals, which made autopsies a guess and let the mystery live on. Their tales justify strangers paying drinks.
Stilo isn’t superstitious, and he understands the importance of the Inverness show, which will gather the cream of worldwide circus performers. He mustn’t hamper the plucky escape artist’s will to train for the performance of a lifetime.
Not one to hang out in pubs, Simon is blissfully unaware of the creepy stories, but his act requires privacy against potential competitors. The mayor’s son told him of the best spot for a discreet practice session, a clearing not too far from the camping grounds where the circus has settled.
Simon and Stilo turn at an indicated crooked tree and go through thick shrubbery and patches of forest featuring huge old trees. The path goes up, down, and around. They pay attention to the layout so they find their way back. Eventually, the duo and its bags of gear reach the clearing.
They waste no time and set up the equipment: Stilo threads a rope over an oak’s horizontal branch and helps Simon to prepare. He puts the performer in the straitjacket and binds his legs before he wraps the rope around his ankles. Stilo then helps Simon lie on a tarp and hauls him up by his feet, pulling on the other end of the rope running over the branch.
Simon rises in the air and Stilo binds the rope to the tree. He takes his watch out.
“The gag, Stilo!”
Stilo puts the red rubber ball inside the young artist’s mouth, buckling it tight with the leather strap that’s threaded in.
“Go!” he says, launching the timer. Simon first tackles sliding out of the straitjacket to gain the use of his arms. The contraption is rigged, allowing the release of the arms with concealed buttons. After undoing the strap holding his arms, he pulls himself up to grab the rope above his feet and releases himself from its grip.
He’ll be hidden by a screen when he performs, but it’s small and he’s got to keep compact while performing the routine. They redo the number and focus on putting the straitjacket dramatically to ensure the audience believes it’s genuinely restraining.
They repeat the number several times. It’s early in the afternoon, and even with leafless trees, the area is not very bright. They have another hour or two before they can’t see well enough. There’ll be fog too, if it’s like the day before.
On their last tries, Simon starts feeling confident on its success one month away. He’s hanging by his feet when he picks up on a change in Stilo’s demeanor. A whiff of cigar smoke is in the air; Simon knows something is afoot. The magician tightens the straitjacket. Stilo is out of reach of his apprentice’s gagged pleas.
Even if he could speak, Simon would be ignored by the bewitched magician, who comes and adds ropes around the straitjacket. He wraps each coil taut and knots it tight. Soon, five extra pieces of rope are cruelly biting in Simon’s tender skin—the canvas being welcome to protect some of it.
Once Stilo has wrapped his package tight, his intoxicated brain has him flee the scene. Like a bug caught in a spider’s web, Simon is trapped. He’s been in the situation before and doesn’t panic. Keeping his cool is crucial. He’s glad the rope isn’t on fire like it’ll be on the day of the show.
The maniac Stilo is brutal but not particularly good with knots. After ten minutes, Simon may only rejoice the fit was sudden. Stilo didn’t block the release mechanism, at least, and Simon gets out of the straitjacket soon.
Chapter 2 – Hidden Menace
Simon is working at freeing his ankles, having successfully freed his arms and grabbed the rope above his ankles, when he feels a presence. A veil covers his eyes—someone slid a leather sack over his head.
“I love picking fruits from trees!”
Fours hands seize him and start binding his ankles. They grab his wrists, bring them behind his back, and encircle them with cuffs. A hand slides inside the hood and places a fabric under Simon’s nostrils. A sickly sweet smell assaults them. The men hold him tight until he fades away into unconsciousness.
He comes back to his senses in a dark room. It’s warm, at least. He’s chained to a wall: iron bracelets surround his limbs and pin him to the damp, smooth stone surface. He assesses his predicament while recovering from the narcotic, becoming aware of his plea as his mind gets back to working as usual.
He takes in his surroundings and spots a fireplace a few feet away in the wall perpendicular to the one he’s chained to. Torches light up the underground room. A box of cigars lies on a table near the chimney. The attackers must have brought him right under the clearing where the practice took place, he figures.
Simon tests the strong restraints and the heavy gag. He’s got massive packing inside his mouth. Then it strikes him: there is someone who knew where he and Stilo would practice.
The door across the underground hall opens and Aloysius, the mayor’s nephew, enters. His grin shows his canine teeth, worrying the captive. The young man crosses the room, his eyes glued to the chained and spread body.
“I’m sure a professional like you appreciates how cleverly I abducted you. No witness, no scream. You vanished after practice, and now you’ve been picked for a new number. When the old fool you entrust your safety with recovers from his madness bout, you will be gone. And when you’re found eventually, it’ll be too late.”
Simon feels Aloysius’s malevolent intents; he pleads with his eyes and moans.
“Ha! You’re trying to soften me, but why should I?”
The man walks up to Simon and lays his right hand on the boy’s chest.
“I’ve got you for my convenience. I’ve seen you practice and perform. I’ll need to be up to the task of keeping you my prisoner and ensure you can’t warn anyone of your presence. It would spoil the fun!”
Aloysius goes on describing the many ways he intends to restrain Simon. Having fallen in the clutches of tie-up-obsessed men before, Simon doesn’t hear much new. The amount of equipment the man describes and the size of his facilities promise a long, arduous captivity.
“Try and escape, but my men are behind the door,” he says, preparing to leave. “You won’t get too far. But we’ll treat you better if you succeed.”
The door slams shut and the barrel rattles inside the lock.
Simon feels the twenty iron bands surrounding his limbs and locked to the wall; alas, without any accessories—he’s grown to keep a hairpin in his hand at all times, but it’s gone—he won’t be able to defeat the steel locks. He feels a weakness in the right wrist’s restraint, nevertheless. He sets to exploit the defect and gets his wrist free after some minutes. He’s covered in sweat from the effort and wonders how to make progress, since nineteen more steels bands stand between him and freedom.
The door opens.
“So, you feel completely helpless?” Aloysius mocks him. He spots the wrist freed from its bracelet.
“Maybe I shouldn’t joke. I didn’t expect you to get out of any of these fetters! I think I need to get you to a more secure location. I have just what you need in store.”
The man undertakes to release him from the wall.
“I must tell you about this place. It’s a room worthy of your abilities. We’ve had the secret brewery for three generations, and it has remained a secret all these years. We make absinth, you see, which is forbidden in this part of England. Prohibition makes our trade even more profitable. And we don’t give the treasury too much work, keeping everything off the book!”
The man chains Simon and tugs the scantily glad performer along; they walk outside the dungeon and cross the narrow, dimly lit hall to another room.
“This cell will prove a better choice for a difficult customer like you. Not to worry, I’ll keep you muzzled and shackled so you remain in a familiar environment.”
Aloysius leads Simon to a chair; at first, he thinks it’s a dentist chair, but looking closer he recognizes with horror the contraption used for capital punishment in his country: an electric chair!
The man toils to strap Simon to the seat. He starts with the legs: a footrest and steel bars hold fixtures to link the limbs to, and despite a valiant struggle when he takes care of his arms, Simon ends up pinned to the huge, sturdy seat. Aloysius knows his trade: the mooring points are as adequately picked on this armchair as those of the chains on the wall. The headrest and helmet make Simon’s head still and lock his jaws. His fingers are kept under custom-made gutters screwed in the chair’s arms.
“You can sit down for a while. And you’ll benefit from all the modern comfort.”
The abductor goes behind to a control panel and pulls a lever. Simon feels a tingle along his arms and legs. The current runs through his body.
“You should feel something, but let me make sure you get the gist of this device.”
Aloysius turns a dial and the tingle makes Simon shake.
“Mmmmrmmph!”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you say. You’d better listen. I’ll get the dial down and I’ll leave you to enjoy some rest after this trial. If you pull another escaping stunt, know it’ll fail and that I barely moved the dial.”
Simon screams and writhes for an eternity before the sadistic man turns the power down. The escape artist breathes slowly and savors the ordeal’s end.
“It got you properly calmed down. Don’t give me an occasion to repeat this treatment. You said in an interview escape artistry requires lots of energy, and we’ll drain it out of you if you leave us no choice.”
Simon gasps behind his thick gag.
Chapter 3 – On Display
Simon is left alone, which starts his captivity. The thorough contraption manages to keep his efforts futile. The threat of getting shocks also hampers his enthusiasm. All he can do is hope that someone finds Stilo and sets up a rescue party.
The man comes back every two hours or so to check on Simon. He gets fed and watered, but the kidnapper has him gagged as tight after each of these lenient moments.
On the second day, Simon sees the door to his cell open, telling of Aloysius’s coming. His adrenalin surges when he sees a shape bearing a wolf head and waving arms that end in shiny steel claws.
“I fooled you, didn’t I?” the man brags as he removes his fake hands and pulls the head off. “If the costume works on you, it’ll work on the peasants who will come to see the werewolf is real. If they see him slaying a foreign escape artist, the legend will live on. It has kept people away from our facilities, and it helped when competitors came to make us an offer that we had to refuse. We worked on these two middlemen from Manchester well enough with our knives and blades to rip them apart so well that the local constables will tell the story for decades. They won’t forget the gruesome sight soon!”
Simon doesn’t blink. He’s in deadly peril, but he won’t give this scoundrel the pleasure of seeing fear in his eyes.
“Don’t take it personally. I wouldn’t mind keeping you my guest. It’s entertaining having you with me. But your sacrifice will fulfill other plans.”
Simon has a hard time believing this is a real homicidal maniac, and he casts dark looks at him.
“To entertain you until your next meal …”
The man draws clothes-pegs out and clamps them on Simon’s bare skin: his nipples, but also his ear lobes, the flesh under his armpits or on his hips and thighs. The pinching sensation lasts for three hours, and it gets worse when the kidnapper comes back to feed Simon. The pegs’ removal is the worst, most stinging moment, which has the boy moan in his gag and the evil abductor smirk.
Aloysius expedites the meal and Simon gets a fresh muzzle for dessert. His captor stuffs his mouth with rags and puts a head harness on him.
“I’ll set the machine so you get jolts for a pleasant digestion,” the evil man says. He cackles all the way down the hall, leaving Simon locked inside the room, unable to focus on defeating his restraints due to the shocks.
His ordeal lasts for an eternity. When Aloysius gets back, he has two henchmen with him, wearing hoods that conceal their faces.
“I need help to set up a show to ensure the villagers stay away from these woods once and for all.”
The two assistants release Simon from the chair and shackle him for transportation.
“Edgar and Horace will bring the peasants around by midnight to watch the werewolf rip you off. Of course, he’ll escape, leaving bloody remains behind him!”
Simon fights all he can, but the three men have no difficulty overpowering him. They march him outside the cell to the end of the hall and up a flight of stairs. The door at the top is concealed by shrubbery, and they come out to the clearing where the performer practiced with his magician friend. At the back, a fire crackles at the foot of a large rock with a flatbed top. Iron rings are hammered to the grey stone slat. Mysterious runic symbols are carved on the stone.
The three men bring the victim to prepare him for the sacrifice. Iron bracelets, chains, and locks allow for a tight, inescapable bondage.
“I’ll keep you company until it’s time, Simon. You should be weakened enough by your captivity to offer no resistance, but you’ll understand I can’t take any chances.”
The two goons leave, having another role to play in Aloysius’s evil plans. Simon has to bear the villain’s nasty talk. He’s gagged with his red ball gag, trapping rags inside. The man explains his criminal enterprise, never shying away from reminding Simon his own demise would be part of a greater scheme.
“I’ll remember you all my life, as one of those pawns I’ve played with to climb to the top of the food chain.”
The late evening and early night feel endless and cold. The man won’t let Simon use his skills to thwart the locks and chains, and Simon starts to despair.
In the distance, they hear a clamor.
“It’s time. My faithful assistants have turned into rabble-rousers.”
Aloysius adds wood to rekindle the bonfire. He steps behind a bush and reappears wearing the costume. The fire’s flames reflect on the long, stainless-steel claws. Simon squirms, but the chains holding his collar to the front and back rings and the inextricable network make it a real challenge.
The roar from the crowd increases and the light of torches glimmers very far away. They grow nearer until he can hear the shouts: ‘Down with the werewolf!’
Simon feels stuck; the shocks made him weak and the bonds’ tightness overwhelms him. He watches Aloysius in his scary disguise, hoping the crowd will save him.
The crowd is close enough to see him act, so Aloysius leaps from behind the bush and tramples towards Simon. The escape artist is desperate; he sees the first set of claws rise in the air, ready to fall on his chest and tear his rib cage apart.
He hears a ‘whoof,’ fearing it’s the arm swinging towards him, but a thud sounds louder. A beast threw Aloysius to the ground. It’s as big as a bear, but with longer legs. Aloysius flees, hampered by his mask and unable to fight the threat.
The creature is on its four legs. The people are close now but none dares attack the large animal, its huge jaws and sharp teeth on display. The eyes glow red, reflecting the fire’s embers. This time, Simon is going to have it, victim of a supernatural being.
The two seconds feel like hours; the beast turns around and sniffs the air filled by the smell of Aloysius blood drawn from the first caress of the claws.
Horace and Walpole go into the woods after the beast. All Simon hears is the bloodcurdling scream of a man caught by the werewolf and its savage sounds as it tears its prey apart.
The villagers come to rescue Simon. He finds out Stilo is with the mob; his help is welcome to remove the most remote locks—and getting a hairpin to pick them.
In the distance, more horrible, desperate screams resound, informing the crowd of the two henchmen’s fateful encounter with the eerie creature. Two police constables accompanied by five villagers light up new torches and go find out what happened. They come back half an hour letter, their faces pale.
With Simon rescued and the evil men dead, the group heads back to the village. No doubt this evening will be told in the pub many times in the years to come!
End of the episode
It's a Halloween story, so there's some graphic violence.
The Trees Have Eyes
Chapter 1 – Practice Makes Perfect
“We have to, Stilo! You know the number needs to be ready for the show in Scotland. I can perform the stunt, but I need to practice regularly. You said so yourself.”
“It’s late October. It’s damp and cold, and we’re in northern England, not in Florida! At least you could put on some warm clothes.”
“I’ll be in my blue underwear for the trick on the big day, so I’d better get used to it. It’s just the pouch underneath. I’ve got the shawl and a coat, plus blankets in the bag for when we’re done. A month from now, I’ll be hanging down on top of a hill and above a cliff. I’ve got to be ready for the cold, snow, or hail.”
Stilo knows Simon is right. His reluctance comes from tales he heard at the local pub. Two horribly mutilated bodies have turned up in the surrounding woods since August. It is the talk of the town, and there is no shortage of patrons peddling vivid folklore explanations. Ghouls, leprechauns, and werewolves make for entertaining stories to impress the American circus artists.
Three old men tell Stilo of a centuries-old werewolf legend: the young owner of a large farm had been accused of lycanthropy and of devious, wicked murders of villagers.
The story is embellished for the visitor, and of course, each man has a different speculation for the killings and the remains torn by wild animals, which made autopsies a guess and let the mystery live on. Their tales justify strangers paying drinks.
Stilo isn’t superstitious, and he understands the importance of the Inverness show, which will gather the cream of worldwide circus performers. He mustn’t hamper the plucky escape artist’s will to train for the performance of a lifetime.
Not one to hang out in pubs, Simon is blissfully unaware of the creepy stories, but his act requires privacy against potential competitors. The mayor’s son told him of the best spot for a discreet practice session, a clearing not too far from the camping grounds where the circus has settled.
Simon and Stilo turn at an indicated crooked tree and go through thick shrubbery and patches of forest featuring huge old trees. The path goes up, down, and around. They pay attention to the layout so they find their way back. Eventually, the duo and its bags of gear reach the clearing.
They waste no time and set up the equipment: Stilo threads a rope over an oak’s horizontal branch and helps Simon to prepare. He puts the performer in the straitjacket and binds his legs before he wraps the rope around his ankles. Stilo then helps Simon lie on a tarp and hauls him up by his feet, pulling on the other end of the rope running over the branch.
Simon rises in the air and Stilo binds the rope to the tree. He takes his watch out.
“The gag, Stilo!”
Stilo puts the red rubber ball inside the young artist’s mouth, buckling it tight with the leather strap that’s threaded in.
“Go!” he says, launching the timer. Simon first tackles sliding out of the straitjacket to gain the use of his arms. The contraption is rigged, allowing the release of the arms with concealed buttons. After undoing the strap holding his arms, he pulls himself up to grab the rope above his feet and releases himself from its grip.
He’ll be hidden by a screen when he performs, but it’s small and he’s got to keep compact while performing the routine. They redo the number and focus on putting the straitjacket dramatically to ensure the audience believes it’s genuinely restraining.
They repeat the number several times. It’s early in the afternoon, and even with leafless trees, the area is not very bright. They have another hour or two before they can’t see well enough. There’ll be fog too, if it’s like the day before.
On their last tries, Simon starts feeling confident on its success one month away. He’s hanging by his feet when he picks up on a change in Stilo’s demeanor. A whiff of cigar smoke is in the air; Simon knows something is afoot. The magician tightens the straitjacket. Stilo is out of reach of his apprentice’s gagged pleas.
Even if he could speak, Simon would be ignored by the bewitched magician, who comes and adds ropes around the straitjacket. He wraps each coil taut and knots it tight. Soon, five extra pieces of rope are cruelly biting in Simon’s tender skin—the canvas being welcome to protect some of it.
Once Stilo has wrapped his package tight, his intoxicated brain has him flee the scene. Like a bug caught in a spider’s web, Simon is trapped. He’s been in the situation before and doesn’t panic. Keeping his cool is crucial. He’s glad the rope isn’t on fire like it’ll be on the day of the show.
The maniac Stilo is brutal but not particularly good with knots. After ten minutes, Simon may only rejoice the fit was sudden. Stilo didn’t block the release mechanism, at least, and Simon gets out of the straitjacket soon.
Chapter 2 – Hidden Menace
Simon is working at freeing his ankles, having successfully freed his arms and grabbed the rope above his ankles, when he feels a presence. A veil covers his eyes—someone slid a leather sack over his head.
“I love picking fruits from trees!”
Fours hands seize him and start binding his ankles. They grab his wrists, bring them behind his back, and encircle them with cuffs. A hand slides inside the hood and places a fabric under Simon’s nostrils. A sickly sweet smell assaults them. The men hold him tight until he fades away into unconsciousness.
He comes back to his senses in a dark room. It’s warm, at least. He’s chained to a wall: iron bracelets surround his limbs and pin him to the damp, smooth stone surface. He assesses his predicament while recovering from the narcotic, becoming aware of his plea as his mind gets back to working as usual.
He takes in his surroundings and spots a fireplace a few feet away in the wall perpendicular to the one he’s chained to. Torches light up the underground room. A box of cigars lies on a table near the chimney. The attackers must have brought him right under the clearing where the practice took place, he figures.
Simon tests the strong restraints and the heavy gag. He’s got massive packing inside his mouth. Then it strikes him: there is someone who knew where he and Stilo would practice.
The door across the underground hall opens and Aloysius, the mayor’s nephew, enters. His grin shows his canine teeth, worrying the captive. The young man crosses the room, his eyes glued to the chained and spread body.
“I’m sure a professional like you appreciates how cleverly I abducted you. No witness, no scream. You vanished after practice, and now you’ve been picked for a new number. When the old fool you entrust your safety with recovers from his madness bout, you will be gone. And when you’re found eventually, it’ll be too late.”
Simon feels Aloysius’s malevolent intents; he pleads with his eyes and moans.
“Ha! You’re trying to soften me, but why should I?”
The man walks up to Simon and lays his right hand on the boy’s chest.
“I’ve got you for my convenience. I’ve seen you practice and perform. I’ll need to be up to the task of keeping you my prisoner and ensure you can’t warn anyone of your presence. It would spoil the fun!”
Aloysius goes on describing the many ways he intends to restrain Simon. Having fallen in the clutches of tie-up-obsessed men before, Simon doesn’t hear much new. The amount of equipment the man describes and the size of his facilities promise a long, arduous captivity.
“Try and escape, but my men are behind the door,” he says, preparing to leave. “You won’t get too far. But we’ll treat you better if you succeed.”
The door slams shut and the barrel rattles inside the lock.
Simon feels the twenty iron bands surrounding his limbs and locked to the wall; alas, without any accessories—he’s grown to keep a hairpin in his hand at all times, but it’s gone—he won’t be able to defeat the steel locks. He feels a weakness in the right wrist’s restraint, nevertheless. He sets to exploit the defect and gets his wrist free after some minutes. He’s covered in sweat from the effort and wonders how to make progress, since nineteen more steels bands stand between him and freedom.
The door opens.
“So, you feel completely helpless?” Aloysius mocks him. He spots the wrist freed from its bracelet.
“Maybe I shouldn’t joke. I didn’t expect you to get out of any of these fetters! I think I need to get you to a more secure location. I have just what you need in store.”
The man undertakes to release him from the wall.
“I must tell you about this place. It’s a room worthy of your abilities. We’ve had the secret brewery for three generations, and it has remained a secret all these years. We make absinth, you see, which is forbidden in this part of England. Prohibition makes our trade even more profitable. And we don’t give the treasury too much work, keeping everything off the book!”
The man chains Simon and tugs the scantily glad performer along; they walk outside the dungeon and cross the narrow, dimly lit hall to another room.
“This cell will prove a better choice for a difficult customer like you. Not to worry, I’ll keep you muzzled and shackled so you remain in a familiar environment.”
Aloysius leads Simon to a chair; at first, he thinks it’s a dentist chair, but looking closer he recognizes with horror the contraption used for capital punishment in his country: an electric chair!
The man toils to strap Simon to the seat. He starts with the legs: a footrest and steel bars hold fixtures to link the limbs to, and despite a valiant struggle when he takes care of his arms, Simon ends up pinned to the huge, sturdy seat. Aloysius knows his trade: the mooring points are as adequately picked on this armchair as those of the chains on the wall. The headrest and helmet make Simon’s head still and lock his jaws. His fingers are kept under custom-made gutters screwed in the chair’s arms.
“You can sit down for a while. And you’ll benefit from all the modern comfort.”
The abductor goes behind to a control panel and pulls a lever. Simon feels a tingle along his arms and legs. The current runs through his body.
“You should feel something, but let me make sure you get the gist of this device.”
Aloysius turns a dial and the tingle makes Simon shake.
“Mmmmrmmph!”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you say. You’d better listen. I’ll get the dial down and I’ll leave you to enjoy some rest after this trial. If you pull another escaping stunt, know it’ll fail and that I barely moved the dial.”
Simon screams and writhes for an eternity before the sadistic man turns the power down. The escape artist breathes slowly and savors the ordeal’s end.
“It got you properly calmed down. Don’t give me an occasion to repeat this treatment. You said in an interview escape artistry requires lots of energy, and we’ll drain it out of you if you leave us no choice.”
Simon gasps behind his thick gag.
Chapter 3 – On Display
Simon is left alone, which starts his captivity. The thorough contraption manages to keep his efforts futile. The threat of getting shocks also hampers his enthusiasm. All he can do is hope that someone finds Stilo and sets up a rescue party.
The man comes back every two hours or so to check on Simon. He gets fed and watered, but the kidnapper has him gagged as tight after each of these lenient moments.
On the second day, Simon sees the door to his cell open, telling of Aloysius’s coming. His adrenalin surges when he sees a shape bearing a wolf head and waving arms that end in shiny steel claws.
“I fooled you, didn’t I?” the man brags as he removes his fake hands and pulls the head off. “If the costume works on you, it’ll work on the peasants who will come to see the werewolf is real. If they see him slaying a foreign escape artist, the legend will live on. It has kept people away from our facilities, and it helped when competitors came to make us an offer that we had to refuse. We worked on these two middlemen from Manchester well enough with our knives and blades to rip them apart so well that the local constables will tell the story for decades. They won’t forget the gruesome sight soon!”
Simon doesn’t blink. He’s in deadly peril, but he won’t give this scoundrel the pleasure of seeing fear in his eyes.
“Don’t take it personally. I wouldn’t mind keeping you my guest. It’s entertaining having you with me. But your sacrifice will fulfill other plans.”
Simon has a hard time believing this is a real homicidal maniac, and he casts dark looks at him.
“To entertain you until your next meal …”
The man draws clothes-pegs out and clamps them on Simon’s bare skin: his nipples, but also his ear lobes, the flesh under his armpits or on his hips and thighs. The pinching sensation lasts for three hours, and it gets worse when the kidnapper comes back to feed Simon. The pegs’ removal is the worst, most stinging moment, which has the boy moan in his gag and the evil abductor smirk.
Aloysius expedites the meal and Simon gets a fresh muzzle for dessert. His captor stuffs his mouth with rags and puts a head harness on him.
“I’ll set the machine so you get jolts for a pleasant digestion,” the evil man says. He cackles all the way down the hall, leaving Simon locked inside the room, unable to focus on defeating his restraints due to the shocks.
His ordeal lasts for an eternity. When Aloysius gets back, he has two henchmen with him, wearing hoods that conceal their faces.
“I need help to set up a show to ensure the villagers stay away from these woods once and for all.”
The two assistants release Simon from the chair and shackle him for transportation.
“Edgar and Horace will bring the peasants around by midnight to watch the werewolf rip you off. Of course, he’ll escape, leaving bloody remains behind him!”
Simon fights all he can, but the three men have no difficulty overpowering him. They march him outside the cell to the end of the hall and up a flight of stairs. The door at the top is concealed by shrubbery, and they come out to the clearing where the performer practiced with his magician friend. At the back, a fire crackles at the foot of a large rock with a flatbed top. Iron rings are hammered to the grey stone slat. Mysterious runic symbols are carved on the stone.
The three men bring the victim to prepare him for the sacrifice. Iron bracelets, chains, and locks allow for a tight, inescapable bondage.
“I’ll keep you company until it’s time, Simon. You should be weakened enough by your captivity to offer no resistance, but you’ll understand I can’t take any chances.”
The two goons leave, having another role to play in Aloysius’s evil plans. Simon has to bear the villain’s nasty talk. He’s gagged with his red ball gag, trapping rags inside. The man explains his criminal enterprise, never shying away from reminding Simon his own demise would be part of a greater scheme.
“I’ll remember you all my life, as one of those pawns I’ve played with to climb to the top of the food chain.”
The late evening and early night feel endless and cold. The man won’t let Simon use his skills to thwart the locks and chains, and Simon starts to despair.
In the distance, they hear a clamor.
“It’s time. My faithful assistants have turned into rabble-rousers.”
Aloysius adds wood to rekindle the bonfire. He steps behind a bush and reappears wearing the costume. The fire’s flames reflect on the long, stainless-steel claws. Simon squirms, but the chains holding his collar to the front and back rings and the inextricable network make it a real challenge.
The roar from the crowd increases and the light of torches glimmers very far away. They grow nearer until he can hear the shouts: ‘Down with the werewolf!’
Simon feels stuck; the shocks made him weak and the bonds’ tightness overwhelms him. He watches Aloysius in his scary disguise, hoping the crowd will save him.
The crowd is close enough to see him act, so Aloysius leaps from behind the bush and tramples towards Simon. The escape artist is desperate; he sees the first set of claws rise in the air, ready to fall on his chest and tear his rib cage apart.
He hears a ‘whoof,’ fearing it’s the arm swinging towards him, but a thud sounds louder. A beast threw Aloysius to the ground. It’s as big as a bear, but with longer legs. Aloysius flees, hampered by his mask and unable to fight the threat.
The creature is on its four legs. The people are close now but none dares attack the large animal, its huge jaws and sharp teeth on display. The eyes glow red, reflecting the fire’s embers. This time, Simon is going to have it, victim of a supernatural being.
The two seconds feel like hours; the beast turns around and sniffs the air filled by the smell of Aloysius blood drawn from the first caress of the claws.
Horace and Walpole go into the woods after the beast. All Simon hears is the bloodcurdling scream of a man caught by the werewolf and its savage sounds as it tears its prey apart.
The villagers come to rescue Simon. He finds out Stilo is with the mob; his help is welcome to remove the most remote locks—and getting a hairpin to pick them.
In the distance, more horrible, desperate screams resound, informing the crowd of the two henchmen’s fateful encounter with the eerie creature. Two police constables accompanied by five villagers light up new torches and go find out what happened. They come back half an hour letter, their faces pale.
With Simon rescued and the evil men dead, the group heads back to the village. No doubt this evening will be told in the pub many times in the years to come!
End of the episode
It's good to read more from you.
I can't help hoping that BC might have some pics for us eventually.
I can't help hoping that BC might have some pics for us eventually.
They all say boxer shorts are cool,
but little Speedos always rule.
but little Speedos always rule.
Nice to read another adventure of Simon again 
Yes! This new adventure was so good (chapter 2 was very exciting). The end was dark, but also interesting.
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Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 575
- Joined: 6 years ago
[mention]Xtc[/mention] BC has pics, and he's posted one for this story on his Pixiv account, but it's usually stuff I can't link to.
[mention]Killua[/mention] Glad to make the Simon fans happy again!
More in store, by the way. Though I should condition their posting to massive participation in the thread.
[mention]kankuro10[/mention] Hey! Thanks a lot for your comment. I'm happy you stick by as a true Simon fan!
[mention]Killua[/mention] Glad to make the Simon fans happy again!
More in store, by the way. Though I should condition their posting to massive participation in the thread.[mention]kankuro10[/mention] Hey! Thanks a lot for your comment. I'm happy you stick by as a true Simon fan!
-
Bondwriter
- Centennial Club
- Posts: 575
- Joined: 6 years ago
Hey! Here is BC's Christmas story, which could lead to another adventure...
Simon’s Christmas Caper
Story by BC
Writing by Bondwriter
“We’ll have to redo the take. You moved. The light’s faint, the exposure time is long. How many times do I have to tell you to stay still?”
The photographer Stilo found to take a picture for a Christmas card isn’t a pleasant man. Callum McAlastair’s portfolio is filled with local celebrities, but he has some London actors. The artist has peculiar ideas and is keen on trying out new things with the escape artist.
The photo shoot feels like it’ll never end; Simon is kneeling in the snow, his ankles bound to the top of his thighs, in just his blue stage costume. His hands are bound in front of him, forcing him to hold a flute, and fake angel wings are strapped to his back.
Simon spent half an hour bound standing against a tree, then tied kneeling at the same spot. The photographer complained about the light from the start. It is December in Scotland, and on a cloudy day, daylight comes late and goes away fast; the hill they chose is turned to the east, and a forest grows above, keeping it darker. Two feet of snow cover the ground, barely brightening the location.
McAlastair gagged the model himself, experimenting with the escapist’s trademark gag, the red rubber ball with a leather strap threaded through it; the outcome didn’t satisfy him, and he stuffed Simon’s mouth with a balled-up piece of cloth before putting the ball back on him. Later in the shooting, he added scarves of various colors for lighting effects, leaving a bright red one on eventually.
It’s getting dark, and the photographer is now using a floodlight. He’s brought lots of equipment, which required two aides to carry it from their vehicle three hundred feet away. Stilo has the man hurry, and though the photographer would like to get another position and another tie-up, the magician tells Simon to get dressed.
Simon slips out of the ropes and grabs the long woolen coat he came wrapped in, putting his thick socks and shoes on. He removes his gag, ready to let McAlastair know his sincere opinion on his awful manners; he lets Stilo handle the situation.
McAlastair calms down as Stilo tells him Simon is not a doll and that he’s taken enough. They decide on how to proceed to select the picture the circus director can use as a Christmas card. The shrewd manager hopes for a few more shows to fill the few slots left in the calendar. The director’s prospects are good, and he plans to bring the circus back to Europe in the years to come; making proper connections is a must.
“It was all right, Stilo,” Simon says as they walk back to the campground. “I like having my picture taken, though it took a bit long this time.”
Three days later, Stilo is discussing the props they need for new numbers when the mail comes in. The circus director’s assistant, Anna—who’s also the makeup artist for the clowns—brings a package sent by the photographer.
“You said that fellow has a knack for getting his models’ true spirit?” the director asks, ripping the package open.
“He was focused on his work during the shooting,” Stilo says, watching the envelope in the director’s hands. The man picks a stack of photos and watches them, handing them to Stilo once he’s seen enough. McAlastair took thirty high-quality shots of Simon in his three dire positions. They don’t convey the proper message to the director, though.
“It’s good photography, but we can’t use this for Christmas greetings. You can see the goosebumps! When Simon’s lips aren’t covered, they look blue, even in black and white! I told you, Stilo, it’s meant for the most influential people in European show business, and Christmas is a warm and positive moment.”
Stilo realizes he’s grown used to seeing the boy almost nude, restrained, and gagged, and he knows Simon doesn’t mind and enjoys being watched. The older man agrees nonetheless.
“We still have time to get the man back for more conventional photographs,” the magician convenes.
“Yes, and I’d like it to be an escape artist’s representation, not a captive or a slave. Have him wear something on top, too, there’s something about his nipples …” the man doesn’t elaborate, gazing away, lost for three seconds.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get a proper outfit.”
The next day, McAlastair is back for a meeting in the town’s hotel; his smile dies down when he’s told of the setup. Simon is to be shot wearing longer blue silk shorts and a waistcoat, and he is to remain free from bonds.
“As you see, we staged the location,” Stilo explains in front of the fireplace at the lobby’s end. Logs burn in a blazing fire. Candles line the mantelpiece, and a large Christmas tree adorns the corner six feet away. The photographer sets up lights and then his camera and its stand.
Simon is surrounded in ropes, chains, and opened locks strewn around. His red ball gag, scarves, and rolls of tape are close by. Simon is pleased to smile, and they take three portraits, the photographer adjusting his camera between each take. The shooting is wrapped up in half an hour.
The next day, the photographer delivers the twenty Christmas cards himself. He’s added ‘Merry Christmas and ‘Happy New Year’ above Simon’s kneeling form. The budding young man’s smile rivals Mickey Rooney’s or even Shirley Temple’s. The director is impressed by the performer’s poise.
He puts the cards in the envelopes he’s prepared. ‘While I’m at it, let’s send the other ones to venues in the U.S. that could book Simon and Stilo on our off days. I’ve paid good money for them,’ he thinks.
He grabs his address book, which documents clubs that would pay good money in the big cities they tour nowadays; he prepares twenty envelopes and puts the turned-down cards inside. He’s one short, though. He checks inside the box and the shipping label; it says twenty.
Did someone nick one of the cards? He steps outside the caravan. He finds Anna backstage with the clowns. She tells him that she got a fan letter for Simon in the morning, so she sent one of the useless Christmas cards.
The director is reassured he didn’t get scammed. He goes back to his desk to check who the fan is. The pictures looked really strange, and maybe they don’t give the best impression. His assistant wrote down the address in the ledger. Windsor and Balmoral are the two words that he sees at once; he knows more about the quaint locals than his aide, and he knows it’s the royal family they’re dealing with.
He dashes out to find Stilo. The magician is rehearsing with Simon. The new number has Simon chained, hung by his feet, and lowered down into a cylindrical fish tank—empty so far. A curtain conceals the tank. A barrel of water threatening to spill into the tank is held by a rope that a blade on a timer threatens to cut.
“Get down, Simon. We’ll take a break,” Stilo says; the director’s face tells of an issue he needs help with.
Simon slides out of his bonds to join the men; he notices the worried looks.
“One of the wrong Christmas cards got sent to Balmoral Castle, to the young prince! He’s a fan of yours, Simon,” the director explains.
“I know. He sent me an invitation to perform on Christmas Eve. Anna just gave it to me before we started practice. Do you think he’ll mind?”
“Of course,” the director scolds. “We can’t have our reputation tarnished by tawdry promotional material!”
Neither the magician nor the escape artist feels like the director, but they’ll help him out; it seems to genuinely bother him.
Their mission is to go trade the sent card for a decent Christmas one.
“The number is tomorrow,” the director complains. “We can’t screw it up!”
“We’re close by,” Simon remarks. “Less than thirty miles away.” Always eager to learn more about the places they attend, he’s looked at maps of the surroundings.
The director puts Anna in charge of arranging for transportation, which involves one vehicle for the passengers and one for the props. Simon and Stilo start getting the gear together, thinking about the numbers they should string together over the half-hour they’re asked to perform tomorrow.
Simon thinks the Iron Maiden number is required after Stilo makes a ten-minute magic show. The escape artist gets strapped in the contraption, threatened by long, sharp blades. The door gets closed and the lid is locked; he reappears in a chest ten feet away, freed from his bonds. Then he gives praise to the audience’s main guest, the prince.
“This will certainly be a hit,” Stilo says.
Anna comes and tells them they have a small car just for them early in the morning; the truck for the props and assistants will get there later. Billy and Liz, the knife thrower and his assistant, help them prepare all they need for this extraordinary performance.
The circus people celebrate the merry event that evening; Simon falls asleep with stars in his eyes.
The next morning, he’s up early and soon ready for the trip; many wool clothing layers keep him warm. The drive takes two hours on narrow, winding roads. Simon’s face remains stuck to the car window, taking in the amazing landscape. The sky is clear and the snow makes it bright, which energizes the young performer.
When the castle appears behind a turn in the road, Simon is awestruck: acres of lawn spread in front of a majestic building with turrets and towers. He’s seen many impressive castles since they landed in Plymouth, including the one where they met the ghosts, but this one tops them all. The driver drops them at the grid and leaves.
Stilo introduces himself to the guard standing in a booth. The man doesn’t have them on his roster, but he’s aware of Christmas festivities. He calls someone, and soon another guard comes to the gate.
“I’ll show you to the guardroom.”
Simon and Stilo follow the man through the wide alley; he heads to one side of the building and enters through a small door. A man in his fifties, dressed in a red uniform, looks up from his newspaper and watches the newcomers.
“Good morning, sir,” Stilo greets. “This is Simon, the famous escape artist, and I’m Stilo the magician.”
The man frowns.
“All right, I’ll show you to the ballroom.”
The heavyset man extricates himself from behind his desk. Simon and Stilo follow him in the halls; he opens a small door, and they go down a spiral staircase.
“The ballroom is underground?” Simon asks Stilo in a whisper.
They reach a hall carved in rock. Two guards stand there. The officer opens a door and shows his guests in.
Stilo and Simon cross the threshold.
“This is not the ballroom,” Simon states.
“No,” the burly man says. “It’s where we put terrorists! Dirty Jerry spies!”
“But we’ve been invited—”
“You must be the Nazi spies. we’ve been warned about,” the man interrupts Stilo, who keeps his calm; it’s a misunderstanding that’s going to be solved soon.
The officer’s subordinates come to give a hand. They chain Stilo’s wrists to the wall.
“The boy said he’s an escape artist. Make sure you handle him properly.”
The men chain Simon to a pillar, which has the escape artist protest. Annoyed, the officer gets a handkerchief out.
“I don’t discuss with delinquents,” he claims, cramming the balled-up cloth inside the performer’s mouth. He uses a belt to keep it in.
As soon as the three men leave the cell, Simon starts wriggling out of his bonds.
“Don’t, Simon,” Stilo advises. “This’ll prove you’re an escape artist. It won’t disprove you’re a spy.”
Simon removes one cuff and the gag anyway.
“But we’re going to stay in here? What if we miss the show?”
“There’s still plenty of time. We have to be patient.”
The pair waits for eons before they hear noise outside. A loud, indignant voice resounds outside. The key turns in the lock. A man dressed in a grey suit enters.
“My! My! It’s Simon and Stilo indeed! I’m Edgar, the head butler. Please accept my apologies.”
He waves to the guards, who release the wronged guests.
“I’m so sorry, but the prince’s secretary hadn’t informed the guards you were to come yet.”
The man goes on about the diplomatic kerfuffle; Stilo shrugs.
“It happens. Did the prince get the Christmas card we sent?” he asks, having his own concern.
“No, not yet. Mail gets delivered after the meal on Christmas Eve.”
“The envelope that we sent did not have a proper Christmas card. Here is one that’s worthy of his highness.”
“I will swap them. That’s the least I can do,” Edgar says.
They get out of the cell and climb back from the dungeon.
“Being in jail made for a better visit,” Simon jokes. “We got to see parts not many tourists must access!”
“Glad you’re taking it lightly. So, here is the stage where you’ll perform.”
The ballroom is huge and the stage is ideal. Stilo and his assistant have their minds on the evening’s performance for the rest of the day; they don’t let themselves get distracted by the luxury environment and the weird people surrounding the royals. Bill and Liz soon show up with the equipment and help set it up.
The show gets the audience wild, the tricks all working perfectly. Simon crawls through the diminutive tunnel from the Iron Maiden to the chest quicker than usual.
After they’re done, Simon dons a jacket and blue silk trousers. He’s invited at the prince’s table to have dinner. The royal youth seems impressed by the Yankee escape artist who’s around his age. He asks Simon about his job and adventures outside the performances, which are what the fans always want to know about.
The two young men get along and chat all night. The prince promises Simon he’ll have him as a guest later on; he is eager to make friends, and the cute redhead is the friend he really pines for.
The End
Simon’s Christmas Caper
Story by BC
Writing by Bondwriter
“We’ll have to redo the take. You moved. The light’s faint, the exposure time is long. How many times do I have to tell you to stay still?”
The photographer Stilo found to take a picture for a Christmas card isn’t a pleasant man. Callum McAlastair’s portfolio is filled with local celebrities, but he has some London actors. The artist has peculiar ideas and is keen on trying out new things with the escape artist.
The photo shoot feels like it’ll never end; Simon is kneeling in the snow, his ankles bound to the top of his thighs, in just his blue stage costume. His hands are bound in front of him, forcing him to hold a flute, and fake angel wings are strapped to his back.
Simon spent half an hour bound standing against a tree, then tied kneeling at the same spot. The photographer complained about the light from the start. It is December in Scotland, and on a cloudy day, daylight comes late and goes away fast; the hill they chose is turned to the east, and a forest grows above, keeping it darker. Two feet of snow cover the ground, barely brightening the location.
McAlastair gagged the model himself, experimenting with the escapist’s trademark gag, the red rubber ball with a leather strap threaded through it; the outcome didn’t satisfy him, and he stuffed Simon’s mouth with a balled-up piece of cloth before putting the ball back on him. Later in the shooting, he added scarves of various colors for lighting effects, leaving a bright red one on eventually.
It’s getting dark, and the photographer is now using a floodlight. He’s brought lots of equipment, which required two aides to carry it from their vehicle three hundred feet away. Stilo has the man hurry, and though the photographer would like to get another position and another tie-up, the magician tells Simon to get dressed.
Simon slips out of the ropes and grabs the long woolen coat he came wrapped in, putting his thick socks and shoes on. He removes his gag, ready to let McAlastair know his sincere opinion on his awful manners; he lets Stilo handle the situation.
McAlastair calms down as Stilo tells him Simon is not a doll and that he’s taken enough. They decide on how to proceed to select the picture the circus director can use as a Christmas card. The shrewd manager hopes for a few more shows to fill the few slots left in the calendar. The director’s prospects are good, and he plans to bring the circus back to Europe in the years to come; making proper connections is a must.
“It was all right, Stilo,” Simon says as they walk back to the campground. “I like having my picture taken, though it took a bit long this time.”
Three days later, Stilo is discussing the props they need for new numbers when the mail comes in. The circus director’s assistant, Anna—who’s also the makeup artist for the clowns—brings a package sent by the photographer.
“You said that fellow has a knack for getting his models’ true spirit?” the director asks, ripping the package open.
“He was focused on his work during the shooting,” Stilo says, watching the envelope in the director’s hands. The man picks a stack of photos and watches them, handing them to Stilo once he’s seen enough. McAlastair took thirty high-quality shots of Simon in his three dire positions. They don’t convey the proper message to the director, though.
“It’s good photography, but we can’t use this for Christmas greetings. You can see the goosebumps! When Simon’s lips aren’t covered, they look blue, even in black and white! I told you, Stilo, it’s meant for the most influential people in European show business, and Christmas is a warm and positive moment.”
Stilo realizes he’s grown used to seeing the boy almost nude, restrained, and gagged, and he knows Simon doesn’t mind and enjoys being watched. The older man agrees nonetheless.
“We still have time to get the man back for more conventional photographs,” the magician convenes.
“Yes, and I’d like it to be an escape artist’s representation, not a captive or a slave. Have him wear something on top, too, there’s something about his nipples …” the man doesn’t elaborate, gazing away, lost for three seconds.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get a proper outfit.”
The next day, McAlastair is back for a meeting in the town’s hotel; his smile dies down when he’s told of the setup. Simon is to be shot wearing longer blue silk shorts and a waistcoat, and he is to remain free from bonds.
“As you see, we staged the location,” Stilo explains in front of the fireplace at the lobby’s end. Logs burn in a blazing fire. Candles line the mantelpiece, and a large Christmas tree adorns the corner six feet away. The photographer sets up lights and then his camera and its stand.
Simon is surrounded in ropes, chains, and opened locks strewn around. His red ball gag, scarves, and rolls of tape are close by. Simon is pleased to smile, and they take three portraits, the photographer adjusting his camera between each take. The shooting is wrapped up in half an hour.
The next day, the photographer delivers the twenty Christmas cards himself. He’s added ‘Merry Christmas and ‘Happy New Year’ above Simon’s kneeling form. The budding young man’s smile rivals Mickey Rooney’s or even Shirley Temple’s. The director is impressed by the performer’s poise.
He puts the cards in the envelopes he’s prepared. ‘While I’m at it, let’s send the other ones to venues in the U.S. that could book Simon and Stilo on our off days. I’ve paid good money for them,’ he thinks.
He grabs his address book, which documents clubs that would pay good money in the big cities they tour nowadays; he prepares twenty envelopes and puts the turned-down cards inside. He’s one short, though. He checks inside the box and the shipping label; it says twenty.
Did someone nick one of the cards? He steps outside the caravan. He finds Anna backstage with the clowns. She tells him that she got a fan letter for Simon in the morning, so she sent one of the useless Christmas cards.
The director is reassured he didn’t get scammed. He goes back to his desk to check who the fan is. The pictures looked really strange, and maybe they don’t give the best impression. His assistant wrote down the address in the ledger. Windsor and Balmoral are the two words that he sees at once; he knows more about the quaint locals than his aide, and he knows it’s the royal family they’re dealing with.
He dashes out to find Stilo. The magician is rehearsing with Simon. The new number has Simon chained, hung by his feet, and lowered down into a cylindrical fish tank—empty so far. A curtain conceals the tank. A barrel of water threatening to spill into the tank is held by a rope that a blade on a timer threatens to cut.
“Get down, Simon. We’ll take a break,” Stilo says; the director’s face tells of an issue he needs help with.
Simon slides out of his bonds to join the men; he notices the worried looks.
“One of the wrong Christmas cards got sent to Balmoral Castle, to the young prince! He’s a fan of yours, Simon,” the director explains.
“I know. He sent me an invitation to perform on Christmas Eve. Anna just gave it to me before we started practice. Do you think he’ll mind?”
“Of course,” the director scolds. “We can’t have our reputation tarnished by tawdry promotional material!”
Neither the magician nor the escape artist feels like the director, but they’ll help him out; it seems to genuinely bother him.
Their mission is to go trade the sent card for a decent Christmas one.
“The number is tomorrow,” the director complains. “We can’t screw it up!”
“We’re close by,” Simon remarks. “Less than thirty miles away.” Always eager to learn more about the places they attend, he’s looked at maps of the surroundings.
The director puts Anna in charge of arranging for transportation, which involves one vehicle for the passengers and one for the props. Simon and Stilo start getting the gear together, thinking about the numbers they should string together over the half-hour they’re asked to perform tomorrow.
Simon thinks the Iron Maiden number is required after Stilo makes a ten-minute magic show. The escape artist gets strapped in the contraption, threatened by long, sharp blades. The door gets closed and the lid is locked; he reappears in a chest ten feet away, freed from his bonds. Then he gives praise to the audience’s main guest, the prince.
“This will certainly be a hit,” Stilo says.
Anna comes and tells them they have a small car just for them early in the morning; the truck for the props and assistants will get there later. Billy and Liz, the knife thrower and his assistant, help them prepare all they need for this extraordinary performance.
The circus people celebrate the merry event that evening; Simon falls asleep with stars in his eyes.
The next morning, he’s up early and soon ready for the trip; many wool clothing layers keep him warm. The drive takes two hours on narrow, winding roads. Simon’s face remains stuck to the car window, taking in the amazing landscape. The sky is clear and the snow makes it bright, which energizes the young performer.
When the castle appears behind a turn in the road, Simon is awestruck: acres of lawn spread in front of a majestic building with turrets and towers. He’s seen many impressive castles since they landed in Plymouth, including the one where they met the ghosts, but this one tops them all. The driver drops them at the grid and leaves.
Stilo introduces himself to the guard standing in a booth. The man doesn’t have them on his roster, but he’s aware of Christmas festivities. He calls someone, and soon another guard comes to the gate.
“I’ll show you to the guardroom.”
Simon and Stilo follow the man through the wide alley; he heads to one side of the building and enters through a small door. A man in his fifties, dressed in a red uniform, looks up from his newspaper and watches the newcomers.
“Good morning, sir,” Stilo greets. “This is Simon, the famous escape artist, and I’m Stilo the magician.”
The man frowns.
“All right, I’ll show you to the ballroom.”
The heavyset man extricates himself from behind his desk. Simon and Stilo follow him in the halls; he opens a small door, and they go down a spiral staircase.
“The ballroom is underground?” Simon asks Stilo in a whisper.
They reach a hall carved in rock. Two guards stand there. The officer opens a door and shows his guests in.
Stilo and Simon cross the threshold.
“This is not the ballroom,” Simon states.
“No,” the burly man says. “It’s where we put terrorists! Dirty Jerry spies!”
“But we’ve been invited—”
“You must be the Nazi spies. we’ve been warned about,” the man interrupts Stilo, who keeps his calm; it’s a misunderstanding that’s going to be solved soon.
The officer’s subordinates come to give a hand. They chain Stilo’s wrists to the wall.
“The boy said he’s an escape artist. Make sure you handle him properly.”
The men chain Simon to a pillar, which has the escape artist protest. Annoyed, the officer gets a handkerchief out.
“I don’t discuss with delinquents,” he claims, cramming the balled-up cloth inside the performer’s mouth. He uses a belt to keep it in.
As soon as the three men leave the cell, Simon starts wriggling out of his bonds.
“Don’t, Simon,” Stilo advises. “This’ll prove you’re an escape artist. It won’t disprove you’re a spy.”
Simon removes one cuff and the gag anyway.
“But we’re going to stay in here? What if we miss the show?”
“There’s still plenty of time. We have to be patient.”
The pair waits for eons before they hear noise outside. A loud, indignant voice resounds outside. The key turns in the lock. A man dressed in a grey suit enters.
“My! My! It’s Simon and Stilo indeed! I’m Edgar, the head butler. Please accept my apologies.”
He waves to the guards, who release the wronged guests.
“I’m so sorry, but the prince’s secretary hadn’t informed the guards you were to come yet.”
The man goes on about the diplomatic kerfuffle; Stilo shrugs.
“It happens. Did the prince get the Christmas card we sent?” he asks, having his own concern.
“No, not yet. Mail gets delivered after the meal on Christmas Eve.”
“The envelope that we sent did not have a proper Christmas card. Here is one that’s worthy of his highness.”
“I will swap them. That’s the least I can do,” Edgar says.
They get out of the cell and climb back from the dungeon.
“Being in jail made for a better visit,” Simon jokes. “We got to see parts not many tourists must access!”
“Glad you’re taking it lightly. So, here is the stage where you’ll perform.”
The ballroom is huge and the stage is ideal. Stilo and his assistant have their minds on the evening’s performance for the rest of the day; they don’t let themselves get distracted by the luxury environment and the weird people surrounding the royals. Bill and Liz soon show up with the equipment and help set it up.
The show gets the audience wild, the tricks all working perfectly. Simon crawls through the diminutive tunnel from the Iron Maiden to the chest quicker than usual.
After they’re done, Simon dons a jacket and blue silk trousers. He’s invited at the prince’s table to have dinner. The royal youth seems impressed by the Yankee escape artist who’s around his age. He asks Simon about his job and adventures outside the performances, which are what the fans always want to know about.
The two young men get along and chat all night. The prince promises Simon he’ll have him as a guest later on; he is eager to make friends, and the cute redhead is the friend he really pines for.
The End
Yeah! New Simon's story. I really liked it. Very interesting the plot and the ending.
Happy new year! (Hopefully, a year with more of Simon's adventures)
Happy new year! (Hopefully, a year with more of Simon's adventures)