By Peter Loaf
Beast of Prey
The cool breeze stirred the man's wispy, graying hair. It's sudden chill was welcome on his high, sweat dewed forehead as he lay on his belly in the tall weeds of a fence row. Unconsciously he reached up and brushed a small spider off of his large hooked nose. There, out in the middle of the field, perhaps two hundred feet from his hiding place, was the little house that contained his prey.
Parked in front of the small frame house was an old rusty Dodge pick-up.
If everything went as usual, the youth would come out, get into his truck
and drive off to work in town, leaving his pretty young wife all alone. The
in the weeds smiled at this thought, revealing his crooked teeth, his overlong tongue coming out to lick his oversized lips. Unconsciously, his hand moved to the large leather satchel at his elbow.
Right on time, just as he had every day for a week, the boy walked out his front door, his lunch cooler in one hand and his pretty little wife in his other. The man in the weeds held his breath and tried to hear what the boy was saying, but the distance was just too great. Setting his cooler in the back of the truck, the youth turned and took his wife into an embrace that was clearly sexual in nature, his big hands sliding down to grip her round bottom cheeks, pulling her against his strong body as his tongue entered her open lips.
The scene was so inherently sexual that the man in the weeds felt his big cock stir against his thigh.
Then, the kiss complete, the boy climbed into his truck and started the motor. A cloud of blue smoke billowed out from it's defective exhaust system with a roar. As the truck rattled down the long dirt driveway, the man watched as the young woman stood in the yard, waving good-by with her left hand as she unconsciously gripped her buttock with her right, trying to prolong the feel of her husband's touch. Then, as the old truck rumbled off toward town, the girl turned and walked back into her little house.
The hidden man raised the field glasses and focused on the window. Inside, the young woman was, as usual, standing at her kitchen sink, running water to wash the dishes from the meal she'd just shared with her husband. "The time has come." The man in the weeds said to himself, his hand going back to the satchel's handles.
Crawling backwards, he moved to the far side of the fence row. Then, keeping low, he trotted around to the opposite side of the house, before sprinting in to where he could lean against the siding and catch his breath.
Inside, Molly Bains McGowan finished her lunch dishes and walked into the living room to turn on her favorite soap opera. Bobby wouldn't be home until just after midnight. If, that is, they don't have him working overtime again. She thought, wishing he didn't have to work in town. The money the farm made last year hadn't even paid the taxes. Now, with their savings gone, they had agreed that, for the time being, he had better get a job in town. Besides, she thought, I'm going to need the health insurance. She smiled like the Mona Lisa and patted her very slightly bulging tummy.
Outside, the man with the crooked teeth grinned at the sounds of the TV coming through the wall. He knew that the young woman inside would have no chance to hear him with that thing on. He went along the wall to where the telephone wires came up out of the ground and carefully disconnected the house from the line. Almost on cue, the TV went to commercial and the volume swelled to almost twice it's former level. The man slid along the wall, ducking under a window to get to the basement door. At the bottom of the steps, the bunker door closed over his head, he took out a set of lock picks and went to work on the padlock that was the only thing between him and his prey. In seconds he was inside, carefully moving through the darkness toward the steps that led up to the small house's kitchen.
Upstairs, Molly sat, engrossed in the plight of the soap's heroine. The girl had been captured by her boyfriend's most deadly enemy. She was now tied to an arm chair, her mouth gagged with a scarf, unable to warn her boyfriend that his enemy was waiting for him behind the door. "That's stupid." Molly said to herself. "That gag wouldn't keep me from screaming. My God, it's just a silk scarf. They act like it would keep her from making any noise at all."
As an experiment, Molly stretched her dish towel through her teeth and said out loud. "Look out, he's behind the door." The words were garbled by the cloth, but you could clearly understand them.
The girl on TV waited in total, wide eyed silence as her boyfriend walked
right into the trap, never even glancing behind the door. The scene faded
to black to be replaced by a woman bragging how wonderful her pussy smelled,
that she'd discovered New, Improved, Industrial Strength, Dixie Douche.
The man with the crooked teeth opened the basement door. It made no noise because two nights before he'd personally oiled it's hinges. He stepped into the kitchen behind the woman's easy chair. Dressed now in a black nylon stocking mask and nothing else, he moved silently up behind Molly with an ether soaked rag in one hand and a coil of rope in the other.
Molly sat in the big recliner, her stocking clad feet up on the foot rest, her knees spread, her hand down between her thighs, toying unconsciously with her sex, waiting to find out what was going to happen to the helpless woman on TV. Behind her, the man stood, his heart beating like a trip hammer.
The program returned, the girl tied to the chair watching with horror filled eyes as the villain hit her would-be rescuer over the head with a candlestick. As the handsome fool was going down, Molly got her first whiff of the ether. She tried to turn around, but his strong hands were there, holding the reeking rag over her mouth and nose, holding her back in the chair, preventing her from seeing him, from escaping, from doing anything except inhaling the strong fumes from the rag.
Molly fought with all her might, at first to get a look at her attacker, then to free herself from his vice-like grip, then simply to remain conscious. She lost on all three counts.
The naked man waited for his victim to go limp. Then, as a test, he dropped one hand to her chest and pinched her nipple, hard. The unconscious young woman didn't even flinch. The reeking rag was tossed aside and his hands moved to the buttons of her blouse.
The first thing Molly became aware of, was that something was very wrong.
For one thing, she could hardly breathe. Her throat seemed to have something
wrapped tightly around it, choking her. She tried to pull her hands out from
behind her back, but discovered that only made the restriction on her
wind-pipe grow tighter. She tried to straighten her legs in order to roll over, but had to stop as her throat was again squeezed. The man! She thought in sudden panic. He knocked me out with something! She forced her eyes open, getting suddenly sick as her head seemed to swirl into a spiral of
flashing lights. She gagged, squeezing her eyes shut again in an attempt at keeping her lunch down.
"You needn't try to fight it, my dear." A silken voice said into her ear. "Everyone gets sick when they recover from ether."
Molly fought for control, for understanding.
Behind her, the voice continued. "You'll feel so much better, once you get it out of your system, believe me." She felt something cold on her lap. "I've got a bucket ready, just let it out."
Then, as the convulsions in her belly came, doubling her over around the cold metal in her lap, she felt the hot knot rise in her restricted throat, blasting out of her mouth and down into the bucket, warming it where it touched the insides of her thighs.
"That's the ticket." He said, his voice silky in her ear. "Just get rid of it. You'll feel so much better once you're done."
When her retching finally ceased, Molly felt a wet rag cleaning her face, then found that she could at last open her eyes. The first things that came into focus, there in front of her, were her crossed ankles, wrapped in several tightly cinched loops of rope. There was also a length of the rope leading up under her chin. She quickly discovered that when she tried to straighten her legs, this rope tightened the noose around her wind pipe. Likewise, when she tried to pull her hands down from the center of her back, she felt the noose tighten.
It was only then that she realized that she was now stark naked.
Panic hit her like an avalanche, carrying her away from sanity so fast that she literally choked herself, fighting to free herself. While she had been unconscious, the man behind her had stripped her totally naked and tied her up. She was tied into the classic Indian squat. Her hands pulled up into the center of her back and lashed together. Then the rope brought up, looped twice around her throat, then taken down to tie her ankles together, two feet in front of her face. To pull on the noose rope from either direction was to give up breathing. Yet, how could she not struggle? She'd been taken captive by a sex maniac!
It was only when her vision began to black out that she stopped fighting the rope, defeated by it's simplicity. She coughed and gasped for air, her lips a bright blue, her thoughts racing. She deliberately pulled her arms and legs upward to slacken the noose and twisted her neck so as to look up at the masked man standing behind her chair.
"Please don't hurt me!" She croaked, her throat still not working properly.
The mask made the man look terrifying as he answered. "I won't."
It was then that she saw that he too was stark naked. Her eyes were drawn down his gray haired chest, across his loose muscled tummy, toward his groin. She saw that his cock was standing up at an impossible angle for something so huge.
"My God!" She said, fighting for a better look at the man's enormous dong.
"Mine too." He said, walking around in front of her so she could see better. "Mine too."
Molly thought she detected a note of regret in the man's tone of voice. She decided to try and work on his humanity. She began to cry.
As if he hadn't even noticed, the naked man walked out of the room, leaving her an actress without an audience. She didn't really feel like crying, she felt like finding a way out of the rope trap in which he'd left her. Vainly, she'd twisted in her bonds, trying to change anything, anything at all.
She heard the water running in the bathroom and knew that he was filling the tub.
She'd gotten exactly nowhere when she'd heard him coming back. She stopped fighting the rope and went back to her best "hopeless sobbing".
"Your Bubble bath is ready, Molly my dear." He said, walking into the room, his big dong now swinging a lot lower but only a little smaller.
"Let me go, please!" Molly sobbed, squinting her eyes in an attempt at making tears come.
"Allow me to introduce myself." The masked man said, standing before her as if she were not a naked captive, but a Queen. "I am The Stalker. I am wanted in five states for rape, my portraits hang in a place of dishonor in every squad room and post office in the land."
Molly dragged her eyes up from the man's swinging dong. "Please. Don't rape me." She said, at last squeezing out a couple of tears.
"I have come here today to show you what you have been missing. Perhaps, even how to save your marriage."
Molly could see he was not impressed by her crying. She decided to switch tactics. "My husband will kill you if you hurt me!" She screamed up at him.
"I am certain he would, if he ever managed to catch me." The masked man said, moving down to kneel beside her feet and reach in between her legs.
Molly did her best to climb the back of the easy chair trying to escape his intimate, unwanted touch. She, once again, failed to go anywhere. Seen in close-up, his masked face looked horrible, but she assumed it was because of the way the tight nylon distorted a person's features. The dark shade of the tightly stretched cloth shadowed him so much that she could not even tell what color his eyes were.
His hand came in, his finger making her jump as it slipped between her labia and touched her already swelling clitoris. "Please?" She said, trying to squirm away.
The finger was gentle and yet insistent as it tickled Molly's love button, making her feel about ten times as helpless as before. Trying to cover her intense reaction to this touch, she said. "If it's money you want.
"I am not a thief, Molly. I am a rapist." The man said, inside his mask.
"I'm not going to hurt you, or allow you to come to any harm. But, in the
next several hours you and I are going to have some extremely intense sex."
The finger in her sex left her now completely erect clit and slid up into
her vagina, feeling strangely electric as it reached up for her "G" spot.
"Feel how wet you've become." He continued, his voice suddenly horse with
The last thing in the world Molly wanted at that moment was to feel her body's growing reaction to his touch. Not that she had any choice in the matter. Unable to escape, unable to even close her thighs, Molly felt the masked man's finger high up within her sheath, massaging her swollen "G" spot, making her want to pee. And, at the same time, making her want what she did not want.
"I have watched you and Bobby fucking." He said, conversationally, sliding his finger out of her sex and lifting it to his nose. "I am here today to show you what sex can become, if you just use a little more of your imagination." He reached in and smeared his wet finger under her nose, filling her head with her own sexual scent.
"Watched us!?" Molly said, feeling a nameless need building in her loins.
The masked man chuckled. "Yes, I have stood outside your bedroom window and watched your husband's idea of showing a girl a good time. I offer you something far, far better. That, I can promise."
"Watched us?" Molly thought about her husband's habit of leaving the bedroom shades up to allow more fresh air into their bedroom. Living over a mile from their nearest neighbors, they'd simply gotten careless.
The masked man stood up, bringing his huge cock back into her field of vision. It was, once again, standing up at an acute angle, almost glowing with it's readiness. She could see how it's uncircumcised tip glistened with his pre-seminal lubricant. "Now, as I said." He continued. "Your bubble bath is waiting. We both know how much time you like to spend in the water. And what you like to do in there"
Molly visualized seeing herself through the bathroom window. Seeing herself in the tub. Seeing herself masturbating in frustration after being left unsatisfied by her unskilled and hair triggered husband.
She felt his arms slide under her and heard his grunt as he lifted her weight. Carrying her in his arms, he headed for the master bedroom. Walking into the room's bath, the man carefully lowered his captive into the tub full of hot sudsy water. When she was sitting in the water, the suds up to her chin, he let her find her balance then let go. Then, kneeling beside the tub, he picked up the sponge and said. "Not too hot, is it?" Not waiting for an answer, he began to wash Molly's big breasts.
Molly felt the hot water draining the tension from her, feeling like the warmth and weightlessness of her mother's womb. She looked up at the man and said. "Please mister, don't do this, I'm afraid."
"Fear is the most powerful aphrodisiac I know." He said, taking his time washing her front, enjoying the feel of her heavy, soap covered jugs, her fully erect nipples.
Molly took stock. She was bound, hand and foot, in such a way that to struggle was to choke herself. She could not move her hands from where they were, trapped up between her shoulder blades. Her ankles were crossed and tied up in front of her at just the right height to allow her to sit, and nothing else. She could not close her legs or cover her sex in any way. The man, naked except for his mask was, she judged, in his late forties or early fifties. His build was slim, clearly showing his age in the way his chest skin was beginning to sag. But down below, his huge, banana shaped organ looked young, and powerful, and virile. Nearly twice the size of Bobby's six plus inches, it looked like the one in her dreams, the one that always satisfied her needs before filling her with it's jism.
Down below, she felt her loins swelling, beginning to ache with forbidden desire.
The man watched her face, reading her confusion easily, judging her progress toward accepting the inevitable. "I am happy you like hot water so much, I always like to start with a freshly washed subject." He said, continuing to lovingly lather her big breasts. "I have found that a woman who thinks she smells good has a much, much easier time letting go of her inhibitions."
"You're quite insane, you know." Molly said, trying to reason her way out of her trap. "You are going to go to prison for the rest of your life, if Bobby doesn't kill you outright."
"He has to catch me first." The masked man said, a chuckle in his tone of voice. "By the time Bobby McGowan gets home tonight, I will be long, long gone."
"You don't understand! Bobby could get home any minute. He didn't go to work today. He's taking a night off. He's only gone to town for a load of fencing."
"The man chuckled, his hands continuing to caress her helpless body. "Remember what I said about fear being an aphrodisiac?" He said, leaning back on his knees so she could see his organ. "Look at what the thought of being caught has done for my erection." He watched her eyes follow his red and swollen glands penis as he made it jump and dance.
The ache in Molly's loins became a small bonfire of need. She now felt very much as she always did after Bobby had spent and gone to sleep.
After a moment, the man again reached into the tub and began to caress her, this time down between her thighs. "Feel how excited you are getting." He said, slipping a long finger up into her opening. "Remember how much better the stolen watermelon tasted?" Again the finger found and massaged her "G" spot, sending a thrill of pleasure up her body and into her brain.
Molly fought against her body's growing desire. She did not want to be raped. "Let me go, please. I promise, I won't tell the police." She said, her voice betraying her panic.
The finger inside her continued to massage her "G" spot, seeming to be trying to set her off right there in the tub. "I could care less if you tell the police." He said, reaching across with his free hand to pull the tub's stopper. "You see, I have been playing this little game of mine for about twenty years now. I have found that the police aren't all that hard to avoid. I am, after all, leaving them almost nothing to go on. My hands are covered with a plastic spray that insures I won't leave any finger or palm prints, I always wear a condom so I don't leave any incriminating DNA behind, and not one of my victims has ever seen my face." He chuckled. "You should see my wanted posters. Not one of their composite drawings looks a thing like me."
As the water drained out of the tub, Molly threw herself over on her back, trying to escape the finger in her sex. The masked man cushioned her head with his free hand and continued to stimulate her "G" spot with the other. "Easy now, you could hurt yourself." He said, adding a second finger to the one already inside her.
Molly fought the urge to hump her hips up against his hand. Laying on her
back in the bottom of the rapidly emptying tub, her crossed feet noosed down
to her throat, she found herself to be totally exposed and utterly helpless.
She played her very last trump. "I'm pregnant you know. If you hurt me you
could kill my baby."
The two fingers continued to slowly pump in and out of Molly's cunt. At the same time, his other hand moved to her chest, caressing her breasts, drawing her nipples up into tight excited points of pleasurable sensation. His voice was gentle and sincere as he said. "I thought you might be knocked up. Congratulations! A baby is a precious gift, a precious gift indeed."
Molly fought against the sexual excitement that was growing in her groin, spreading out like a grass fire to consume her entire body. "The doctor says I'm about six weeks along." She panted, trying to think about anything other than the two fingers. "Please, don't hurt my baby!?"
"Molly, I have already promised that I will not hurt you. Now I promise that what I am about to do will not harm your baby in any way." His fingers withdrew, allowing her to think as he continued. "You see, I could never do that. I have always regretted having no children, but there was nothing I could do. No woman I impregnated could be blamed for getting an abortion. Even if some woman did carry my child to term, I would be forever cut off from contact, from the joy of seeing my child growing up."
Molly was finding herself on the verge of orgasm. Her thoughts were spinning in confusion. Her feelings were a jumble of terror, and pleasurable response, and anger, and even, she was surprised to note, a little sympathy for him and his plight. "Please, I . . ." She gasped, her vagina feeling the memory of his fingers, wanting him with all of it's mindless lust.
This time, when his fingers entered her, he used three, stretching her wider than ever before. Then, as she began to cum, his thumb began to rub her fully erect clitoris, setting her off like a bomb.
He waited until her orgasm ran it's course, then slowly pulled his fingers from her sex. "I think your bath is over, now it's time to take you to bed." He said, his voice low and husky.
"Doesn't it matter that I don't want . . . to be raped?" Molly panted as he lifted her out of the tub.
"Oh, it matters very much, I'm afraid that if you wanted what I am about to do, I just might be incapable of doing it. For me, the thrill is in the conquering." He walked into the bedroom, his captive helpless in his arms.
Molly, bound hand and foot, simply had no way to fight being carried to her bed and set down, her body back in the same Indian squat as before. "Don't move, I'm going to go get my bag." He said, turning away from his helpless captive.
As soon as he left, Molly began to hump herself across the bed, trying to find a way to escape. Coming to the edge, she lost her nerve, afraid that, bound the way she was, the fall would hurt her.
"Molly! I thought I told you not to move. Don't you know, a fall like that could break your pretty little neck?" He pushed her over on her side then rolled her up onto her knees and bare breasts in the exact center of the bed. "You could have lost your baby, falling like that!" He said, slapping her rump as if she were a foolish but well loved brood mare.
"If anything happens to my baby it will be your fault!" Molly said into the mattress.
Without warning, the masked man slapped Molly's up-thrust rump hard enough to sting. "Fuckin' broads!" He muttered. Always eager to blame the nearest man for your own stupidity, aren't you?" He reached into his bag of tricks for a long skein of white nylon rope. "What would it matter, who's fault it was, once your baby were dead?" He began shaking out the rope, trying to find it's center.
Molly lay on the bed in shocked silence, feeling the heat of the hand-print on her bottom. She suddenly realized that it had not hurt so much as shocked. His voice continued, but she wasn't listening. "This will keep you safe enough, I guess." He said, laying the center-point of the rope across her back and upper arms before looping each of her bent elbows and drawing the two ropes up to be tied to the massive head board posts. Next, he brought the two rope ends down each side of the bed, looping them twice around her bent knees before tying then to the two posts at the bed's foot.
Molly found herself trapped in the exact center of the bed. Positioned on her face and knees, her bare ass and open, swollen sex sticking up like an in-season sow's. She could not move in any direction. She could not kick or struggle without tightening the noose around her throat. Unable to protect herself in any way, she began to scream, knowing that there was probably not one person within a mile.
The masked man stood at the foot of the bed and watched. To his eyes, his captive was utterly beautiful. His bright red erection seemed to have taken on a life of it's own. Curved like a scimitar, it was standing up so high now so as to almost touch his navel. He reached down into his bag and picked up a condom. He began to roll it on, taking care not to leave any wrinkles.
As suddenly as she'd begun, Molly stopped screaming. "You like it when I scream, don't you?" It was an accusation.
The masked man chuckled and said. "It seems to fit the occasion." He began to carefully mount the bed behind Molly's helpless bottom. "But I leave it to you, scream if you need to." He said, sliding two fingers down into her wetness and beginning to massage her "G" spot again, quickly making her aware of how incredibly horny she still was, despite her orgasm in the tub.
"Please?" She said, not sure what she was asking for.
"Feel how ready you are to receive me." He said, deeply massaging her "G" spot. "Feel how your body craves what only I can give." He moved up, sliding his fingers out enough to spread her swollen labia, exposing her opening for the entrance of his latex covered organ.
The tip of his cock positioned against her opening, he took her hips in his hands and began to slide himself into her spasming sheath, stretching her far beyond anything she'd ever known.
Molly could not believe how her body was responding to his rape. His words
were true. She did want him. She wanted the masked stranger kneeling behind
her to fuck her, savagely, to bury his big cock in her achingly empty vagina
and fuck her as she'd never before been fucked. Far from hurting her, his
huge organ felt as if it were her missing piece, becoming almost at once
her exact center.
But what of my love for Bobby? She thought, feeling the waves of pleasure crashing against the rocks of her last stronghold. Can I truly love Bobby if this man can make me feel this way?
The Stalker was kneeling behind Molly, his banana shaped organ buried inside her sex. Instead of hammering away at her as Bobby would have been doing, he was slowly sliding himself in and out, his pace measured, predictable, undeniable.
But no! I don't have to feel guilt! She thought, feeling as if he were inflating her with pleasure. I'm being raped!
Then, in a moment of perfect clarity, she saw the truth. He's tied me up like this so that I will be free to enjoy what he is doing for me! Suddenly, she felt as if her guilt was being washed from her. There came a feeling of weightlessness. The discomforts of being bound falling away, to be replaced by the total pleasure of his hot, thrusting, guilt free cock.
When Molly was ready to burst, to explode into orgasm so intense that she feared for her life, the cock within her began to withdraw, seeming to be dragging her gripping vagina right out of her body as it slowly pulled itself free. Feeling that he was deserting her, she whispered. "Please, you can't quit now. I'll die if you leave me like this!"
"One of the neat things about bondage," He said, rolling over onto his back, his hips hanging over the bed's foot rail. "is the way the master can control what happens."
Molly heard the sound of his nylon mask being ripped and felt the man's head being pushed into the triangle between her crossed ankles and her open pussy. She felt his two day growth of beard stubble against her quivering thighs, his long wet tongue as it reached up inside her, finding and pleasuring her every throbbing nerve ending. She surged against the ropes, very nearly lifting herself free of the mattress, taking his head, his tongue right with her.
She had heard of this, as her girl friends called it, "French Culture". She had often wondered what it would feel like. But to ask Bobby to do it to her was more than she could ever do. After all, if he did that for her, wouldn't she then have to do that other thing, for him? She loved Bobby like the newlywed she was, but she did not think she wanted to take Bobby's cock into her mouth, ever.
Unable to escape, Molly felt the masked man using his mouth on her sensitive sex like the madman he was. He was driving her insane with helpless lust. The orgasm that she'd thought might destroy her was grown to twice it's former power and still it would not come. His hot breath, his sucking lips, his probing tongue, his nibbling teeth, all combined, would not quite drive her over the edge. She realized that she wanted to feel him within her again. She wanted to hold out for a simultaneous orgasm. With this stranger!
It was something she had always wanted with Bobby, but had always been afraid to ask for. She was terrified he would not love her if she revealed the "Real" Molly. That shameless hussy that she'd always kept locked up in the innermost fortress of her mind.
But now, that fortress was crumbling. The bonds that held her body, were releasing the prisoner within. She cried out in helpless passion. "Oh God . . . Please . . . FUCK ME?!"
The Stalker spoke, his deep voice vibrating her core.
"I am here to serve." He said, kissing her erect clit one more time before pulling his head out from under her sex. "If it's fucking you want . . ." She felt him getting up behind her once again. She braced herself, feeling as if his first touch might just set her off. She was holding herself motionless, waiting to be penetrated, her swollen, blood engorged labia now colored a bright crimson, when a large, black leather paddle smacked into her up-thrust rump, hard enough to lift her knees from the mattress. Hard enough to detonate her orgasm.
She convulsed once, twice, three times, then felt him enter her, sliding his latex covered cock deep into her sheath, stretching her open, filling her with sweet agony, redoubling the power and devastation of her continuing orgasmic convulsions. She thrust herself back at him, her vaginal muscles seeming to be trying to swallow his big cock, to milk his seed from his swinging balls.
Then, as her body continued to convulse in seemingly endless waves of orgasmic response, her mind seemed to come loose from the bonds of her physical self. She began to feel as if she were somehow floating above her helpless body, unencumbered by any bonds. She seemed to be floating somewhere near the bedroom's ceiling, watching with detached interest as the masked man continued to fuck her tightly bound body, his big red cock sliding in and out of her like a piston rod on an old steam train. She watched in serene pleasure as her body again and again convulsed in orgasmic response to what was being done to it. She could still feel every wave of her pleasure, every nuance of her body's immolation as he continued to fuck her, slowly, powerfully, deeply. She felt that the loops of tight rope had become extensions of his hands, his will, holding her in an embrace for the pleasure of his cock. She found herself empowered with a telepathic sense. She not only could feel her own body's pleasure, she could also feel his. She could feel how his blood engorged cock was ready to explode within the wet clutch of her convulsing sheath. She could feel the building pressure within his swinging balls, the pleasure his roaming hands were giving them both as they caressed her glowing skin, her moist crevices.
Then, as the masked stranger, who she now, in many ways, knew better than her own husband, stiffened and thrust himself deeper than ever before, she re-entered her body, the better to feel his passion. She felt as if she were joining him in a fusion of shared pleasure. They became a new double star in the vault of heaven.
Darkness swept up over her, leaving her senseless.
When she awoke, she was alone. Along with all other evidence of his existence, her bonds were gone.
Like ninety percent of The Stalker's victims, she never told anyone, especially Bobby.
Her sudden interest in better sex, Bobby decided was a bonus from her pregnancy. In time, with her patient coaching, he even got to be pretty good at satisfying her needs.
She never again saw The Stalker. She still wishes she could. She never got a chance to thank him.
Tigress on the Ave.
The Stalker moved on, his work in the wilds of Michigan, done. He drove to Chicago, intending to take a break of at least a year before "Going Hunting" again. He took a nice furnished flat on Lincoln Avenue and registered with his union hiring hall. Two days later he was employed at a downtown construction project as a high steel man.
The trouble began the first time he saw the woman in the flat directly
across the street from his. He'd been up on his building's roof, enjoying
the cool evening breeze from off of the lake. Glancing down into the busy
below, he noticed that someone across the street had turned their Venetian blinds upward instead of downward. He'd found himself looking right down on a large four poster bed, all turned back and waiting for someone to climb in.
Being who he was, it never occurred to him to not watch that window. He was shortly rewarded by the sight of a beautiful brunette, naked as the day she'd been born, lying out on the bed and beginning to masturbate.
He watched as she arched her back, lifting her buttocks from the mattress, her first two fingers going like sixty on her sex, her other hand up, pinching her nipples savagely as if she were trying to punish herself.
She's beautiful . . . Yet she's all alone. He thought, watching the show. What a fantastic body, and no-one to make love to her? He smiled at that thought, not for a second intending to do anything about it.
He made sure he was fully in shadow, then took out his giant dong and began to masturbate. Nothing she will ever know about, that is.
Across the street, the woman finished pinching her nipples and was now taking a large black dildo out of her bedside stand. Her other hand, still down between her legs, was now appearing to be trying to hit ninety.
The Stalker continued to stroke his cock, his eyes locked on the woman in the window.
After first kissing, then sucking on the dildo, she again arched her back, lifting her hips as if offering herself to a phantom lover. Without pausing in her clitoral masturbation, the woman slid the dildo into herself, her mouth opening in a silent scream of unbearable passion.
The Stalker pumped faster, knowing that the peep show probably couldn't last much longer. He didn't want to be left hanging, after all.
The woman began to pump the black cock in and out of herself, the fingers of her other hand now just a blur of motion against her clitoris. Suddenly, after two minutes of growing tension, he could see the woman stiffen, then lift her hips to the point of arching up onto just her heels and shoulders. Between her widely spread legs, the dildo completely disappeared up inside her. She began to silently scream out in orgasmic fulfillment.
The Stalker spent, groaning softly and spurting his jism out over the parapet.
Down on the street, five floors below, a police officer swore at a passing pigeon and wiped off the back of his neck, using the napkin they'd given him with his Vienna hot dog.
The woman put away her dildo, pulled up her covers, reached over and turned off her light, ending his entertainment for that night.
The Stalker put his cock away and made a mental note to come up here more often.
Old habits die hard. Despite his resolve to refrain from "Hunting", in less than three days he'd found out the following things. The woman's name was Jean Cartwright. She was a corporate lawyer who worked down in the loop. She'd lived all alone in the apartment directly across from his for over a year. No-one had ever seen her have even one visitor.
Daily, she would leave her apartment dressed in the severest of tweed suits. She would get into a waiting taxi and ride down to the giant law firm of Rabinowitz Rabinowitz Rabinowitz Goldstein Christian and Smith. There, she would sit alone in an office and write highly technical legal briefs. At lunch time she would stay alone in her office and have a sandwich delivered from the deli in her building. At five o'clock, she would take another taxi home and stay there, all alone, until time to go back to work the next day.
It just didn't make any sense. Here was this beautiful woman, her body apparently needing sex so much that she masturbated daily, living like some kind of a machine, a robot.
He considered trying to meet and seduce her in the normal way, but rejected that thought with a wince of inner pain. He knew what he looked like, his crooked teeth, his hooked nose, his balding, gray haired head. He knew what women saw when they looked at him. They saw an ugly old man. Only his huge cock had retained it's youthful beauty and power, and he knew he would be arrested if he went around showing that off.
She was not even the kind of woman he normally "Hunted". His specialty has always been young married women. The kind who almost never report being raped. The kind who most often "needed" his services.
Besides, he was living in the apartment directly across the street from her. Far too close. He'd rented the place under an assumed name, but he suspected that his landlord had noted down his license plate number.
His normal M.O. was to set up a blind of some kind so that he could watch his prey for at least a week before moving in on her. With his unattractive looks he would never be more than a face in the crowd to the woman as he followed her, studying her, learning her schedule, her vulnerabilities.
When he would be sure that he would not run into any nasty surprises, he would move in, a mask concealing his face, his fingerprints covered in plastic spray, a condom in his satchel. Between two and eight hours later, he would leave his victim, very confused and extremely well fucked but otherwise un-harmed.
He'd been doing this for twenty years now. He'd never yet been caught. He felt that this was because he always took certain precautions. When he would stalk and take his prey he always followed four simple rules. No face, no fingerprints, no physical evidence, no witnesses but the victim herself. Not once had he ever left the police any kind of a trail.
Never-the-less, Ms. Cartwright continued to haunt his dreams, her sexual need calling to him from across the street.
He considered moving, but did not want to lose his deposit. He could control himself, after all.
For a while, he made it his habit to go up on the roof every night, just
at her bed time.
One of the few good things about being lonely is that you have lots of privacy. That kind of privacy usually frees the lonely person to get kind of creative with his or her masturbation. Yet, he noticed, that this woman always made love to herself in exactly the same way. At precisely ten-fifteen PM she would pull down the covers, lie down on her bed naked, massage her clit with the fingers of her left hand and pinch her nipples with her right. After several minutes of this, she would get out the dildo and proceed to fuck herself silly. Afterwards, she would pull up her blankets, turn off the light, and apparently go to sleep.
The first time he'd watched this, it seemed natural, even charming. A week later, when she'd done it seven times, each time exactly the same as the others, he began to watch in concern. This was pathological behavior. This woman was even sicker than he was.
Twenty years before, when he'd begun his career as an itinerate rapist, he'd acted out of a need for revenge. To quiet his conscience, he'd tried to find victims who would not be destroyed by their experiences. He'd settled on young women who'd made the mistake of marrying oversized boys. Boys who had not, and might never, learn how to properly make love to a woman.
Women who, he had convinced himself, were regretting their vows. Women for whom a visit by The Stalker would be a welcome event. Women who could, in fact, profit from being raped.
In the second week the procedure in the window changed, slightly. Instead of lying on bare sheets, the woman positioned a blue hospital mattress protector under her hips before she settled back and began to masturbate. Soon, her reason became apparent as her fingers became covered with menstrual blood. This time when she'd consummated her self abuse she'd gotten up, taken a shower and then gone back to bed wearing a sanitary napkin.
By the end of the third week, he was no longer going up on the roof. He would sit in his darkened apartment and watch her bedroom window, visualizing her over there, arched up from the bed, the big black dildo pumping joylessly in and out of her sex.
The thought of it began to haunt his dreams. He told himself that it was simply none of his business, the way this Cartwright woman chose to live her life. If she wanted to cut herself off from the rest of humanity it was her right, wasn't it? What was it to him that, for her, sex was something you did every night at exactly the same time, in exactly the same way? Perhaps, she's a robot. He thought, watching the light go out, as usual, at exactly ten forty-eight.
That night, he dreamed of rescuing a maiden from a fire breathing dragon. It was the first wet dream he'd had for twenty years.
He took a day off from work and broke into her apartment, still not intending to "Do" her, but just seeing if he could find out anything more about her. Locks were not a problem to him. Neither was knowing when it would be safe to go in. Once inside, he'd found a perfectly normal city apartment. Nicely furnished in tasteful earth tones, the place consisted of two rooms and a bath. The living room/kitchen toward the back, her bedroom toward the street. The bath contained no surprises, being as plain and functional as a motel's. Next to the bath was a large walk-in closet. There, he found eight tweed suits, eight pairs of sensible shoes, a dresser full of very frilly underwear and a locked upright steamer trunk.
A key lock he could have opened easily. This one consisted of four, small thumb wheels, each having sixty numbers. It was like one of those very expensive attache' cases, He could have pried it open, but not without damaging it, not without leaving evidence that he'd been here. Hefting it's weight, he determined that it was not empty. Inside, he thought he heard something clink. He shrugged and left it as he'd found it, sitting there against the back wall of the closet like an unanswered question.
The dildo in the night stand was even larger than he'd thought it was. It was battery powered and made his palm tingle when he turned it on.
When he was returning the dildo to the nightstand, it bumped against something in the back of the drawer. Pulling the drawer all the way out, he discovered a pair of shining steel handcuffs.
"What the fuck?" He said, picking up the cuffs and looking at them closely. They were Smith & Wesson police specials. The now rare thirty six notch female model. The key was sticking into the key hole on one wristlet. "Still waters run deep." He said to himself, imagining the Cartwright woman wearing these things and nothing else.
Yet he had never seen her wear them. He wondered for a moment if she were a cop, but put that thought away as paranoia. Besides, these cuffs were the female model. They had been built with thirty six notches on their closing ratchets so that they could be used on a woman's smaller wrists. Nowadays, cops didn't bother carrying these, they just used plasti-cuffs, one size fits all. The only people who use these things these days are prison guards and bondage freaks. He thought, putting them back exactly as he'd found them. Jean Cartwright is not a prison guard, therefore . . .
Suddenly, the contents of that trunk became a lot more interesting to him. Someone had paid a lot of money to install that combination lock on that old antique trunk. A lock like that said something important would be found inside. It was against his rules, but he decided to try and force it.
Ten minutes later, he stood before the open trunk, amazed at what he'd found. The trunk was filled with skeins of rope and bondage toys of all descriptions. Leather, lace, Spandex, steel, plastic and canvas, there were things in there that made The Stalker feel like a Sunday school teacher at a biker's gang bang. The woman had everything in her trunk. From a soft glove leather slaver's helmet to a Spandex panty girdle fitted with three dildos, two pointed inward, one mounted on the front, sticking out. Inspecting the girdle closer, he saw that all three dildos were connected together and equipped with vibrators and patches of sharp rubber spikes just where they would do the most good. There was a selection of whips and paddles. A drawer full of nipple clamps, bells, and weights. From little silver bells mounted on tiny "C" clamps up to a pair of sixteen ounce fishing weights mounted on a pair of nipple clamps that would pinch tighter as they were pulled harder. There were several types and lengths of spreader bars. And there were gags. Gags of all kinds, from a simple ball on a strap up to and including the soft ball sized ball of foam rubber attached to the inside of the slaver's helmet he'd noticed before. In the blindfold department he found several different types, all effective.
He decided to "take" Ms. Cartwright, that very night, before she could see her jimmied trunk and thus be warned. To make up for his already broken rules, he decided to be extra careful about not letting the woman see his face.
He carefully left the apartment and went home for his satchel of toys. After all, a professional always likes to use his own tools.
Chapter Two: Slave Slut
Five hours later, a taxi stopped in front of the building and disgorged Jean Cartwright. Paying the man, she walked up the steps and got her mail before going into the elevator.
Her day was no different than any other, but today she somehow felt especially tired. She could not wait for time to go to bed. Not for the sex, but for the rest, the chance to dream of better times. To dream of being Sally's love slave again.
Sally Mathews had been Jean's lover long before she'd become her Mistress. The bondage thing had grown with time. Their relationship was always kind of kinky, the two of them playing little games, like blind woman's grope and "Punishment" spankings for almost any excuse. Jean liked that, liked pretending to hate it as her lover would bend her over her knees, pull down her panties and spank her round bottom until it would be colored a bright pink and so deliciously hot as to be ready to explode. The sex between them had always been twice as sweet afterwards.
Then one day, Sally came home with a magazine she'd purchased at their local adult book store. Inside were drawings of beautiful women in tight, clearly sexual bondage. The two of them sat naked on the love seat together looking at the drawings, getting hornier by the page. Some of the positions in the book were obviously too painful to be fun, but others looked like heaven to Jean's eyes. She imagined herself bound up like that, unable to protect herself in any way as her lover would spend hours driving her insane with passion. She found that she could not wait.
"Oh Sally, can we try this?" She asked, pointing to a picture of a girl tied to a post.
"We don't have a post, silly." Sally said, her hand down between Jean's spread thighs, gently tickling the younger girl's sex. "How about this one?" She pointed to another page in the book. It showed a girl tied face down on a mattress, her hands and elbows lashed tightly together behind her back, her feet tied out to the bottom corners of the bed frame. Then, one last rope was tied from her wrists up to the head board to keep her in the bed's exact center and to keep her hands from protecting her ass in any way. Lying next to her on the bed was a wicked looking multi-thonged whip. It's handle shaped like a man's penis, only larger than most.
Jean shivered in pleasure at the thought of being that woman, of having Sally using both ends of that whip on her.
Between her thighs, her answer to her lover's question came in the swelling of her labia, the sudden flow of her wetness.
Sally smiled, got up and went to the coat closet, leaving Jean sitting alone and vulnerable on the love seat, wondering at what she was about to let Sally do to her.
"I was hoping you would feel this way." Sally said walking back with a paper bag printed with the logo of the hardware store down the block. Setting the bag down, she reached inside and pulled out a skein of soft clothesline. "Shall we begin with your arms?" She said, shaking out the rope and finding it's end.
Jean was feeling deliciously naughty, talking about being tied up. But when she actually had to turn her back and hold her hands out behind her, it became something entirely different. Something frightening, yet exciting. Something, she realized with a shock, that she had wanted for a very long time.
Not yet being the expert she would become, Sally was clumsy with the rope, spending a lot of time getting Jean's wrists tied exactly the way the girl's were in the drawing. By the time she was satisfied, Jean was as horny as she'd ever been. She went to her knees on the carpet in front of the love seat and tried to kiss that part of her mistress she desired the most. Sally scooted her hips up to the edge of the seat and spread her legs to accommodate the eager girl's need. She leaned back and watched with glowing eyes as Jean attacked her sex with lips tongue and teeth.
After several very pleasant moments, Sally sat back up and firmly turned Jean around, pushing her down to a sitting position in front of the love seat. "As nice as that is, let's try to do this bondage thing right, shall we?" She began to wrap Jean's elbows, each wind seeming to be pulling her elbows closer together.
"Oh Sally, tie me up tight." Jean said, shivering with emotions.
"Oh I wouldn't worry about that." Sally said, tying a cinch loop around the tight wraps on her elbows, still following the drawing exactly. Then, pitching her voice even lower than usual, she said. "As the great man once said, 'If it isn't tight, it isn't Bondage.'"
Jean tried to move her arms. From her protesting elbows down it was as if she only one useless limb. She could, at the cost of tightening the rope on her elbows, just bring her hands around enough to see her fingertips. She could not protect herself in any way.
While she was discovering this, Sally reached back into the bag and pulled out a pair of wire cutters. Using these, she snipped off the excess rope, cut it into three equal lengths, then tied one to each of her ankles and the third to her wrist bonds.
Holding these three ropes like a bundle of reigns, Sally stood up and said. "Get up and walk to the bed, darling. Don't try anything cute."
Feeling deliciously helpless, Jean struggled to comply. Sally held the three ropes taught, making Jean constantly aware of how totally under control she was. When her thighs were touching the edge of the mattress, Sally shoved her over and roughly positioned her on her front in the bed's center before tying the two ankle leashes to the bed frame, spreading her legs wide, exposing her dripping, swollen sex to the cool air.
Before she tied off the third rope, Sally put a rolled up pillow under Jean's hips, lifting her bottom, further presenting her sex. Then, when the rope was tight, pulling Jean's bound arms up behind her, forcing her to press her chest down into the mattress, Jean came to know what she had done. She was trapped! She could not move in any direction, her legs could not close to protect her sex, she had willingly given up all chance to control what Sally would now do to her. She looked up at her lover and said. "Don't hurt me more than you need to." Feeling a bonfire of lust beginning to burn within her.
Sally laughed, huskily, then sat down next to Jean's stretched nudity, her hand naturally coming to rest between Jean's spread thighs. "The question is, would that be enough to satisfy your needs?" She said, gently tickling Jean's sex.
Jean was not aware how close to her orgasm she was. Normally she had to be stimulated for twenty minutes or more before she could pop off. This time, she lasted twenty seconds.
Then, as the helpless girl on the bed was panting in pleasure beside her,
Sally reached into the hardware bag and pulled out a spool of waxed, braided
nylon kite string. Measuring out and cutting off two eighteen inch lengths
of this, she began to tie simple nooses in one end of each piece. "I think
I'll tie your nipples together behind your back." She said, showing the girl
the two nooses.
It was only when Sally's fingers were positioning the first nipple noose that her words sank into Jean's fevered thoughts. "But Sally, won't that hurt?" She asked, without thinking.
"Of course it will hurt, darling." Sally said cinching the noose around the girl's erect nipple so hard as to make it bulge to twice it's former diameter. "Just because you're lying on your front, doesn't mean these will get off easy." Positioning the second noose was a little more difficult, but in moments Jean discovered just how far apart her nipples could be stretched. Tightly tying the two noose cords together in a bow in the middle of the girl's back, Sally then reached down and began to toy with her purpling, cord bound nubbins, one under each of her armpits.
Speaking in a low husky voice, Sally said. "I wish you could see yourself as I see you." Her hands moved down Jean's flanks, triggering her tickle reflex to fight the bondage. "You are too beautiful to describe . . . Too beautiful for me to ever let you GO." This last word was punctuated by a hard, unexpected spank down between Jean's bottom cheeks, Sally's long nails just catching her captive's erect clitoris.
Again Jean exploded into orgasm, finding out in the process that to breathe deeply was to pull on her own noosed nipples.
By the time her orgasm ran it's course, Sally decided that they were going to need a gag. Their shared lakeside apartment was a good one, one with enough sound proofing to allow privacy under normal circumstances. These circumstances were not normal. Sally was afraid that the neighbors might think Jean actually wanted to be rescued. She bent down into her bag of tricks and came up with a large foam rubber ball drilled and pierced by a leather strap. Before Jean knew what was happening, she had her mouth blocked open by something the size of a tennis ball. Suddenly she was unable to speak, or scream, or beg. Suddenly she was twice as helpless as before. She very nearly popped off, yet again.
Sally pulled the strap tight and buckled it behind her captive's head. "There, that should keep you quiet enough to prevent a visit from the SWAT team." She said, tugging gently on the cords that had been tied to the helpless girl's nipples.
Then, satisfied that Jean was ready, Sally reached back into the bag for the final surprise. Waiting until Jean's eyes came to rest on the bag, she pulled out the whip. After weeks of searching, she'd found a whip exactly like the one in the drawing. Attached to a black rubber dildo twelve inches long and as big around as Jean's wrist were a dozen strips of soft leather, each an inch wide and a foot long. It had a tag on it that said it was called The Double Devastator Dong. (Pat. Pend.)
Sally stood where Jean could watch and ruffed the whip a few times, getting a feel for it's weight and balance. Jean strained against her bonds, not because she thought she could escape, but to feel her lover's tight ropes on her limbs, to feel her helplessness. Then the whip struck, slapping down against Jean's stretched, swollen and sensitized right nipple.
The pain was inescapable. The pain was wonderful. The pain was pleasure, And it went on and on, far into that night and beyond. Jean, for the first time in her life, knew exactly who and what she was.
Chapter Three: Tigress in a Box
The apartment door opened right on time. The Stalker held his breath, afraid she would hear his pounding heart as he stood waiting behind the door, a black velvet bag held in his hands. "Dressed" only in his working uniform of a woman's nylon stocking pulled down over his face and nothing else, the man held the bag with it's opening downward, it's zip-tie closure threaded and waiting for him to pull it tight around his victim's wind-pipe.
Jean Cartwright walked into the apartment, her attention on her mail. Kicking the door closed behind her, she began to open the one item that did not appear to be junk. Suddenly, she felt someone moving up behind her. She tried to turn and see who it might be, but before she could, darkness descended as the black velvet came down over her head. She tried to scream but there came a loud Zzzzip and suddenly her throat was blocked. She could not make a sound. Worse, she could not breathe. She twisted away from her attacker and raised her hands to her throat, trying to free her neck from it's tight stricture. Her fingers felt a stiff tongue of plastic sticking out behind her head like a banner in a gale. She tripped over his extended leg and went down, stars beginning to float before her hooded eyes. Lying on the carpet, she felt strong hands pulling hers down from her throat and suddenly her wrists were being cinched together behind her back to the sound of a second zip-tie.
The stars became blackness.
She lost consciousness.
She had not seen anything, had not been able to make a single sound.
The Stalker finished making the woman helpless by crossing her ankles and zip-tying them together, then reached up and slipped a fingernail into the latch of the tie around her throat, loosening it just enough to let her breathe, to allow blood to get to her brain, but not enough for her to be able to get the bag off of her head.
After allowing the unconscious woman to choke and gasp for a few seconds, The Stalker pried open her slack lips and shoved a ball between her teeth, pushing the heavy cloth of the hoodwink right to the back of her throat, insuring that she would not be doing any effective screaming.
Standing up over his twitching, helpless captive, he considered going ahead and removing her clothing, but decided to wait until she was fully conscious. It's always so much more fun when they're fighting it. He thought, getting to his feet and standing over her, his big cock beginning to come to life.
Jean felt as if she were swimming up from the bottom of a pool of ink. Her head was pounding with her own heartbeat. She tried to moan in protest only to find her mouth blocked with cloth and rubber. I've been gagged! The Man! She thought, trying and failing to bring her hands up to feel her face.
Panic swept over her, making her struggles both violent and painful as she fought the hard plastic bands that held her at wrists and ankles. It was two minutes later that Jean finally regained control enough to stop fighting her bonds. In that time she'd made exactly zero progress toward escape. The only results she had for her efforts had been to make her wrists and ankles feel like they'd been skinned by the tight bands of implacable plastic. The velvet hood remained in place, blocking all light, her hands and feet remained crossed and useless. "Uh, uhn ow?" She asked around the gag, needing to know if she'd been left alone like this.
The Stalker got up from his seat on her couch and walked over to stand beside her as she lay helpless on the carpet. "What happens now, Ms. Cartwright, is that I am going to strip you naked and fuck you silly." He said, kneeling down to begin unbuttoning her tweed suit jacket.
Panic returned, making Jean forget the pain in her wrists and ankles as she fought to keep her clothing. It did her no good, however. In seconds her jacket and blouse were open and pushed back onto her arms, exposing her lacy, black silk bra, her large, long nippled breasts to his questing fingers. She felt his hands touching, caressing, kneading her sensitive mounds. She knew her helplessness, her vulnerability. Deep within her, she knew that, despite her disgust at the thought of being with a man, any man, despite the fact that he was raping her, despite everything, she was getting sexually excited.
He knelt down to straddle her half nude body so that his weight was on her bare tummy, then rode her like a bronco as she twisted and bucked to escape the feel of his flesh against hers. His cock grew even longer and harder than before, it's red glands penis beginning to point toward the ceiling. "Easy, Jean, I do not intend to harm you in any way." His hands on her breasts gripped her just hard enough to let her know how much he could be hurting her. "In a few very nice hours, you will be alone again, free to do whatever you want. You are in no danger, I will not hurt you. There will be no pain unless you give it to yourself by fighting your bonds." His voice was like satin as he held her down, trapping her crossed wrists beneath the small of her back. "I am using police grade plasti-cuffs. You cannot break them, trust me."
Up until that moment, Jean had not been able to stop fighting her bonds. But when she heard him say that they were police grade, she slumped in defeat, grateful that, at last, she could.
To have stopped fighting before she knew her bonds were unbreakable would have been to be partially at fault in what was going to happen. once she knew, she could, at last, stop hurting herself.
The Stalker felt the fight drain out of his captive. He again argued with himself on the subject of bondage. Was it better to subdue the subject with physical pain or with psychological? Most times, he used the choke tie. It's power came from the simple way it held a prisoner, her wrists high in the middle of her back, her ankles crossed in front. Most women quickly settled down once they found that to struggle was to give up breathing. Like most women he'd used that tie on, Molly McGowan had been left no way to escape it's simplicity. She quickly settled down and allowed him to give her the "therapy" she needed. With Jean however, he left her the option to struggle, but had insured that her struggles would be painful. The hard plastic bands that held her would take hundreds of pounds of pressure. He knew from personal experience that their hard edges had felt like bands of steel as she twisted and yanked against them.
But pain did not subdue this woman, she continued to fight until he told her that her bonds were police grade. Most women would have yanked on those cuffs once or twice, convinced themselves that escape was impossible, then settled down. The fact that Jean had continued to fight until told, gave him some additional information about his captive.
The funny thing was, of course, he'd lied. The bands that held her were, in fact, only hardware grade. He had no way to buy the stronger ties without leaving a trail for the cops. He also liked the feature in these ties that allowed him to release the ratchet with his fingernail. It was so much handier than having to cut them every time he needed to change something.
He got up, rolled her over onto her face and began tugging down the zipper of her skirt. She tried to interfere, but again his bonds defeated her and soon she was dressed in only her panties, bra, nylons and garter belt.
She looked sexy enough for a magazine cover, her black lace undies doing nothing to satisfy her modesty, instead making her look even more exposed. He reached into his satchel for more toys. He had a new tie he wanted to try and this was definitely the time.
Jean, feeling the helpless lust beginning to burn within her belly, tried to blindly roll away as he returned to her, armed with two eighteen inch lengths of three-quarter inch plastic pipe and two more heavy Zip-Ties. He pinned her down with a knee on her hips and went to work. Bunching her jacket and blouse down onto her wrists, he wrapped one of the bands around just above her right elbow, he then pushed both ends of the stiff plastic tie through a piece of pipe before cinching them around her other elbow, further trapping her arms behind her back. Turning his attention to her legs, he did the same thing between her knees. Now, even the option of rolling was beyond her abilities.
Still, he was not done with her. Releasing her ankles from their plastic band, he threaded it through her right knee band and made a three inch loop that he left in place for a moment. Pulling his helpless captive up to a sitting position, he knelt behind her, released the band on her wrists, tossed aside her jacket and blouse, then forced her to fold her chest down tight against her bar spread knees. In seconds her right wrist had been slipped into the waiting loop and cinched to her knee. Seconds after that, her left wrist was being attached in the same way to her left knee, trapping her in that position, rendering her totally under his control.
He stood up and apprised his captive. She was sitting at his feet, dressed only in the flimsiest of see-through lace underwear. Her hands were fastened tightly to the outsides of her spread knees, her elbows were attached together by the pipe behind her back, keeping her tightly folded, keeping her butt sticking out, undefended, unprotected, vulnerable. After a few contemplative pumps on his big banana shaped boner he decided that she looked just a little over dressed.
He reached into his satchel and found his emergency room scissors. Snipping her bra straps, he removed it and gently pulled her breasts out to the sides under her arms, giving her more room to breathe, but further exposing her lush body. "You have the longest nipples." He lied, teasing her nubbins into even tighter points.
Her panties, he left in place, for the time being.
Jean, held in the tight plastic box he'd created, turned her bag covered head and made a pleading sound behind her gag.
He only continued to run his hands over her body, feeling her smooth skin, her perfect curves, her available secrets.
As his questing hand was sliding down between the legs she could not close, she began drumming her feet on the floor, screaming with all her might into the gag.
He countered by rolling her over onto her back and stuffing a pillow under her hips to make her more "comfortable". This raised her hips to the light and suddenly, he saw something that he had not seen before. There, outlined by her soaking wet panties were two heavy stainless steel pussy rings.
Chapter Four: Sally's Rings
Jean Cartwright, unable to hinder him in any way, felt her panties being
pulled away from her crotch. She felt the room's cool air on her wet, swollen,
ring pierced pussy. She thought about the first time she saw the two rings
he was now inspecting so closely.
She was as helpless then as she was now. Sally had made her strip down totally naked, then sit down in front of her chair to have her long hair braided. When her hair was pulled back into a single tight braid, the older woman made her stand up on the seat of their favorite bondage chair, a solid oak captain's model with an extra high back. "Now, darling, I want you to sit down, but with your legs threaded out the sides, so that they are poking out under the chair's arms." Sally said, standing before Jean, wearing her skin tight, black leather cat suit. In her hands were several lengths of pre-cut rope.
Wordlessly, Jean struggled to comply, twisting and balancing herself as she sat down, her legs spread wide by the arms of the chair. Then Sally moved in, her tight cat suit glistening in the light, her hands now sure and practiced as she tied Jean's wrists and elbows to the chair arms so that she could never, ever escape. As she tied the final knot on Jean's second elbow, she said. "I could just leave you like this, I don't think you could escape, do you?"
"But Sally, you promised!" Jean said, before thinking.
"A slave slut makes few demands that she does not later regret." Sally
intoned, quoting their favorite porn writer, John Norman. Pushing the girl
back, she quickly threaded her braid through a decorative hole in the chair's
back and yanked a knot in it, insuring that Jean would not be leaning forward
anytime soon. Seconds later, the older woman tied a rope around both the chair
back and Jean's tummy, welding her backbone to the rear of the seat.
Tying the girl's ankles up to the chair's arms further spread her legs and forced her hips to curl forward, presenting her sex.
She sat there, feeling the wooden chair bottom becoming slippery with her vaginal secretions, feeling her lust rise with every cinched loop, every lost option.
"I think tonight's a good night to start out with some clothes pins, don't you?" Sally asked, unzipping the cat suit so that her suddenly erect nipples could stick out through the slits thus provided.
Jean nodded, fractionally, afraid that if she spoke, she would reveal the level of her excitement.
Sally turned to the steamer trunk she'd bought to keep her "toys" in. Opening a net bag, she pulled out several common wooden clothes pins. Turning back to where Jean sat, unable to move an inch, she laughed. "You should see your face!" She said, kneeling before her captive. "You look like a two year old waiting for candy."
Jean shuddered with expectation and said. "I can't help it Sally, being tied up like this makes me so horny I want to scream!"
"What else makes you horny, Slave Slut?" Sally asked, placing the first pin on one of Jean's ear lobes.
"Being your Slave Slut, Mistress." Jean said, trying to shake the spring clip from her ear, only to be stopped by the painful pull on her braid.
Sally laughed, watching Jean wince as the second pin closed down on her other ear lobe. "We may test that today." She said, reaching for another pin.
Her head held up by her hair, she was unable to even look down as the pins had begun to attack her naked, defenseless body. She sat there, unable to escape as pin after pin took and held bites of her torso.
Between gasps, she bit her lips to keep from crying out, afraid that if she made too much noise, Sally might gag her. She didn't want that. Not yet. She knew that a gag would surely set her off, and if she was going to last, she'd learned, she had to find a way to pace herself. Beyond the third orgasm, she'd found a land of danger, a land of bliss. A place where she could not feel pain. A place where she could all too easily stay for the rest of her life.
Only when all two dozen pins were decorating Jean's big breasts and torso did Sally stop. Then, watching the helpless girl's face, Sally began to pass her hand over the out-thrust ends of the pins, making Jean's skin feel as if she were being caressed by a blowtorch.
Between her spread thighs, Jean felt her labia swell and become hot with passion. She wished that Sally had not run out of pins before she'd gotten to the important parts, but she said nothing, trusting her Mistress to get to it in time.
"Wondering why I've left the best for last?" Sally whispered up into Jean's flushed face. "See what I have bought for you." As if by magic, she produced a small black velvet ring box. Holding it up before her captive's wide eyes, she slowly opened it, exposing four steel half rings, each equipped with a socket on one end and a spring clip on the other. "I've decided to ring your sex, is that all right?"
Her sex had not yet been touched, yet Jean tumbled into orgasm, unable to hold back any longer. Between her spread thighs, her bright red labia seemed to gulp air as she humped and struggled against her tight bonds. To have her sex pierced and ringed like a slave girl's was her innermost secret desire. The one thing she'd been afraid to ask her lover to do for her.
"What's the matter, Slave Slut, cat got your tongue?" Sally asked, once she thought Jean would be able to answer.
"Oh please Mistress, pierce me, make me your slave." Jean whispered, closing her eyes and waiting for whatever would now happen.
Sally laughed, huskily, then turned back to her trunk to pick up her turret headed leather punch. "These rings will be permanent, darling, you understand that don't you?" She said, turning the punch to it's largest size hole. "Once those two halves have snapped together, it will take a jeweler's saw to cut them off."
Again Jean nodded, afraid her voice would betray her excitement.
"You know, I was betting you would react this way." Sally said, picking up a bottle of alcohol and a package of sterile gauze sponges. "I was so sure, I put up five hundred bucks of your money that you would not only agree to be pierced, but also that you would want neither a pain killer, nor a gag."
"You made a bet with someone about me-he-he?" Jean asked, sucking in air at the feel of the cold fire of the alcohol being rubbed into her open sex.
"Yes, what's your point?" Sally said, continuing to rub the helpless girl's sex with alcohol.
"How . . . How . . . will this person know how I reacted?" Jean asked, dreading the answer. Once, when they'd first been doing bondage, Sally had shared her Slave Slut with another bull dike. It had almost destroyed their relationship. The other woman (Jean had never seen her face or learned her real name) had been far too rough, far too interested in pain for it's own sake. Jean had thought she would die at the woman's hands before Sally had come to her rescue. In the end, Sally had fought the woman off with the red hot branding iron she'd been preparing to use on Jean.
"Oh don't worry sweetheart, I will never let anyone else have you again. You are my Slave Slut, and mine alone." Sally said, chuckling. "But that doesn't mean I won't show someone the tape I'm making with that camera over there." She'd pointed over her shoulder at the video camera they sometimes used to record their softball games. "Maybe, the tape will be good enough to sell!"
Jean looked in shock at the tripod mounted camera.
She had not noticed it before, but there was a small scrap of tape covering the recording light on it's front. It was set up in it's usual corner of the room, it's lens pointing directly at the chair and it's captive. It's been turned on the entire time! It's running now! She thought in panic. Bound as she was, she could not escape it's awful stare. In it's lens she imagined she was seeing millions of men's eyes devouring her, their fists pumping away on their smelly cocks.
She exploded into her second orgasm, her hips humping up toward the cold metal of the leather punch.
It was at that precise moment that Sally clamped down with the punch, cutting a small neat hole right through the exact center of her outer labia. What had been a mild orgasm suddenly multiplied, leaving Jean totally silent with the waves of pain/pleasure that washed over her.
By the time Jean recovered enough to know, both her nether lips had been punched and fitted with half rings.
Sally came up to look Jean in the face before she spoke. "Do I have your permission to close the rings?" She asked, holding up the other two half rings. "Once they're put together we can never get them apart."
Jean, once again, was almost afraid to speak. "Yes . . . I want the rings . . . Please close them." She said, looking directly at the camera.
Sally bent down and carefully fitted the two missing halves onto the halves already in her woman flesh. "Last chance to change your mind?" She said, holding the two rings in her fingers.
Jean felt the passion flare within her as she said. "Close them, please, before I lose my nerve."
From between her legs there came a series of four distinct clicks and the rings closed, forever.
Chapter Five: Tethered
Jean felt the man tug on her twin sex rings. "Well I'll be corn holed." Came to her bag covered ears as she lay on her back, her body folded flat and held by the faceless man's tight plastic bonds. "These things were made to be permanent, weren't they?" He asked, tugging and turning the twin rings pierced through her swollen sex.
Jean felt his hot breath on her undefended groin. She tried to kick at him but the tight plastic bands around her legs would not give her enough slack. She felt him pull the rings wide, spreading her labia, opening her vagina, exposing her inner self to his gaze. She felt his beard stubble against her opening, the entrance of his long, highly skilled tongue. She felt as if he were an arsonist and she a gasoline soaked warehouse.
After several increasingly intense moments, the snake-like tongue and prickly whiskers departed, leaving Jean panting with passion. He then whispered. "Trust me, you won't be harmed by what is about to happen."
At that moment Jean was praying that he would go ahead and rape her. It was probably the best of her remaining options. If what he said was true, as soon as he'd satisfied himself with her helpless body he would let her go. The sooner that happens, the better. She thought, bracing herself for his entrance into her steaming sex hole.
But, instead of being stretched open, she felt her rings being drawn together, closing her swollen lower lips. "Just a few wraps of sash cord, sweetheart." Came his voice as his fingers tied her rings together, sealing her sex closed, blocking her opening.
Suddenly she felt as if she were a tea kettle with a cork in it's spout.
When the fingers in her sex departed, Jean was as near orgasm as she'd ever been, with a man. She was almost glad, for in the excitement of her raging passion, her terror was literally being swept away.
It wasn't like she'd never been to bed with a man, she'd tried sex with men first. Several of them. None had come even close to what she'd wanted. Some had been boys, looking only to their own satisfaction, not caring that she too had had needs. Others had been nothing more than clean shaven Neanderthals, bullies masquerading as men. Creatures with whom sex had been more like being assaulted than made love to.
Then, Sally had come into her life, filling the void with love, with passion, with excitement. It had not mattered that Sally was a woman, she was the first to make Jean really feel loved.
Despite the fact that Sally was two inches shorter and ten pounds lighter than Jean, the younger woman had always felt like a little girl when in the older woman's presence. Then, later, when they'd gotten into the bondage thing, Sally seemed to become like a goddess. Jean would be lying at the woman's feet, her naked body bound into a configuration of complete helplessness. Looking up at her mistress, Jean would feel like a sacrifice lying upon an altar, waiting to be sent to the Gods.
Even lying in her grave, Sally still seems strong and powerful. Jean thought in confusion as the man continued to fumble with the rings, lacing the cord so tight that her sex lips were being pinched together.
Now, in the darkness of the hood, her body trapped inside the plastic box he had constructed around her, a strange and wonderful thought came to the helpless woman. Perhaps this "man" is Sally! Perhaps she has found a way to return from the grave and has come back to rescue me from the Hell of my aloneness.
Sally's death had been so unexpected, so traumatic that life had become
nothing but a gray blur of repetitive, automatic responses to stimuli. For
the last two years, the clock had ruled her life. When it was time to go
to work, she would get dressed and leave the shelter of her apartment. When
it was time to go home she would leave her office and return home. To avoid
having to shop, she always had her groceries delivered. When it was time
to go to bed, she would do so, following Sally's final command to the letter
as she would masturbate before turning off the light and going to sleep.
That night two years before, Sally had thought of something new. Normally, when they would have sex, she would put Jean into some elaborate configuration of restraint that would leave the girl totally helpless and unable to do anything, save receive Sally's stimulus. That night she simply locked a length of heavy gauge dog chain between Jean's rings and a pop-up tie-down she'd screwed to the floor.
The chain was too short for Jean to be able to reach anything in the room, save the bed. She stood there at it's foot, as she'd been ordered, naked except for a pair of high heeled shoes strapped to her feet, her legs spread wide, her hands up on the top of her head. The downward pull of the lock and chain on her rings felt like Sally was intending to stretch her labia clear to the floor. She felt her sex growing hot and wet, as it bore the weight.
Jean had been secured by her rings before, but never by chain and padlocks. Now, with only that one simple bond, she was feeling the thrill of complete helplessness. She shivered in anticipation, goose bumps popping out all down her front.
"You like that, don't you Slave Slut?" Sally accused, walking around her captive, a new, wicked looking riding crop in her hands. "I wonder if you will like the rest as much." Again, Jean shuddered in growing passion, saying nothing.
"Close your eyes tight and stick out your tits." The woman ordered, taking stance to use the crop on Jean's breasts.
It was the hardest thing Jean ever did, following her mistress' orders. She waited, her body braced for the blow, her suddenly sweat-dewed tits feeling the cool air, waiting for the cut of the crop.
Silently, before Jean's blindness had sharpened her hearing, Sally moved away to sit on the oak bondage chair, well out of Jean's reach.
After a year of Sally's discipline training, Jean knew better than to speak, open her eyes or move without permission. She knew that to disobey was to earn severe punishment. She waited, her sensitive breasts hostage to Sally's whim. Inside her head, she found a new level of helplessness in which to wallow. Like most of Sally's "ideas", this one was delicious. She very nearly came, standing there, with only the one bond, hanging from her sex rings.
After five of the longest minutes of Jean's life, Sally spoke. "I want you to keep your eyes tightly closed. Do you understand?"
Jean started in surprise at hearing Sally's voice coming from across the room. All that time, she'd been convinced that the woman was still standing in front of her, the crop poised to strike. Then remembering herself, she said. "I will do as you require, Mistress."
"Good, then I want you to keep your hands where they are as you lie back on the bed, spreading your legs as wide as possible."
Jean complied, carefully shuffling back until the backs of her legs felt the bed's foot. Sitting down, she slid her bottom back, feeling the tug of the links of chain pulling up over the corner of the mattress. As she lay out on her back, she spread her legs wide and thought about the video camera, all set up, pointing at the foot of the bed. Now, only the weight of the padlock was hanging from her rings.
"Keeping your eyes tightly closed, I want you to masturbate." Sally's voice ordered from the chair. "I want you to do all the things I do to you. I want you to pleasure yourself as intensely as I pleasure you." Then, almost as an afterthought. "But, as usual, you are forbidden to come until I give permission. Is that understood?"
Again, Jean answered. "Yes Mistress." She then brought her hands down from the top of her head and began to do the one thing she had not done since childhood. She began to masturbate.
Sally watched in lust as Jean stimulated her own breasts and ring pierced pussy. She knew that Jean had always been unable to touch herself that way, being afraid of where it might lead. Now, shorn of her will power by the chain attached to her sex, Jean was about to learn of the kind pleasures a girl can only give herself.
Jean quickly found that the trick was going to be avoiding orgasm. With her very first touch to her nipples, she felt how close was her explosion. Using techniques she'd learned from her Mistress, she held back her body's need and continued to finger fuck herself, using two fingertips to jack off her extended and bright red clitoris.
Over in the chair, Sally sat, her legs up on the seat next to her butt, her knees spread wide. In her hands was their favorite dildo, the one the two young women liked to call Tyrone. Sliding this vibrating, ten inch, black plastic cock into her own pussy, she said. "Faster Slave Slut, but don't you dare come."
Jean heard the note of rising passion in her Mistress' voice, heard the buzzing of the dildo, guessed what the older woman was doing and felt an additional thrill at the knowledge. obeying, she'd begun to double time on the hard little nubbin of her sexual center, beginning to feel like an over-inflated balloon.
Sally began to slide the dildo in and out of her pussy, her strokes slow and sensuous.
Jean, unable to hold off much longer, risked speaking. "Please Mistress, may I come?"
Continuing to fuck herself, Sally gritted her teeth and said. "Not yet!"
Jean held on, feeling the pressure within continuing to build.
Sally reached her orgasm, her gasps suppressed but hearable, her seminal fluid coating the vibrating black plastic for it's entire length.
Getting unsteadily to her feet, the older woman walked over to the bed and it's still masturbating captive. "Open your mouth and taste your Mistress' cum." She'd said, putting the vibrating tip of the dildo against Jean's lips. Then, after the girl had sucked the thing deep into her mouth, she'd taken the girl's hand from where it had been pinching her own nipples and wrapped it around the vibrating shaft of black plastic.
"Now fuck yourself! Pull it out of your mouth and drive it into your pussy!"
Jean, on the very edge of her control, pulled the dildo out of her mouth and whispered. "Please Mistress, I cannot obey both of your commands. If I fuck myself, I will come."
"Not yet, Slave Slut, but soon, I promise. Soon, you will be allowed to come. Soon you will be able to come all you want!"
Jean complied, feeling the huge thing stretching her lips against the pull of her rings as it slid into her opening. The vibrations immediately began to attack her "G" spot, stimulating a whole different kind of orgasm. Still she hung on, controlling herself with will-power alone as her body seemed ready to burst apart at the seams.
Then, from over by the chair, Sally's voice came at last. "Now, Slave Slut, come now!"
Jean had arched up from the bed, the big dildo completely hidden from sight as she'd convulsed around it's vibrating bulk. From across the room, there had come an answering cry of passion as Sally had brought herself off at the very same instant.
Then, over the pounding of her own heart, Jean had heard a soft groan and the quiet thud of a falling body. Under orders not to open her eyes, she nevertheless peeked, thinking she just might get away with it at this moment of her Mistress' weakness. What she then saw was etched into her memory.
Sally was lying face down in a heap, directly in front of the chair. At first, Jean fought back a giggle. She thought the older woman was making a joke. Then, as she watched, the woman's body lost bowel and bladder control.
Suddenly, Jean knew the terror of being left alone. She struggled up from the bed, the drag of the chain reminding her of her helplessness. Something's wrong with Sally! She thought in panic. She gripped the lock between her thighs and went to try to help. As intended, the chain stopped her several feet from the chair. She lay down prone and tried to stretch toward her mistress, the chain pulling hard against the ringed lips to which it was locked. Still, she was short of her goal, her fingertips just able to touch but not grip her mistress' elbow.
She still remembers that instant. It was at that touch that she first knew that Sally would forever be beyond her reach. That she'd been left alone, chained by her sex to a ring in the center of the floor. She began to scream.
Chapter Six: Tigress by the Tail
Jean was dragged back from her reverie by a sharp tug on her rings. "There, that should hold just fine." The man said, getting to his feet.
Between Jean's spread thighs, she could feel how her sex was swelling and lubricating in response to the helplessness of her position. She could not see, speak or move in any effective way. She was Zip-Tied into a tight box that held her chest down between her well-spread knees. Her arms were held immobile at both wrists and elbows. Lying on her back, the elbow bar keeping her from rolling to either side, a pillow under her hips to raise her sex, Jean was even more helpless than she'd been the night of her mistress' death.
When the cops had finally broken into the apartment, nearly two hours after she'd started screaming, they'd discovered Jean, crouched at the end of her chain, down beside the side of the bed as far as she could get from Sally's dead body. Still stark naked, the young woman had been out of her mind with grief and terror. One of the cops had found the dead woman's keys and soon Jean had been on her way to the hospital, her blanket wrapped but still nude body shivering on the stretcher to which it had been strapped.
Ninety days later, she'd returned to the apartment she'd shared with Sally. In her purse had been a large, unfilled prescription for Thorazine.
She'd found everything as she'd left it, the chain still attached to the
floor, the carpet stain showing where Sally had died. In the closet, she'd
found Sally's upright theater trunk, standing open, it's contents displayed
to the eyes of the world. She'd bent down and checked the stack of video
tapes in the bottom of the trunk. Because housework had been her
responsibility, Jean had known how she'd left the tapes. They had been kept in chronological order, from bottom to top. Now, she found them stacked randomly, the one containing her ringing, on top of the stack. She'd wondered how many copies had been made, and how much those copies were now bringing.
Finding that everyone in her building had heard about the circumstances of Sally's death, Jean had moved, hoping to avoid the leers, the hostile looks, the sly invitations. To further distance herself from what had happened, she'd changed both her job and her look. She'd had her hair cut short, given up wearing make-up and taken to dressing in nothing but sexless tweed suits and sensible shoes. At her new job, her co-workers had quickly found it unrewarding to attempt any kind of social contact with her and soon she'd been left entirely alone.
For two years, she'd functioned as an automaton, hiding by day in her office, by night in her apartment near Lincoln Park.
Now, she was again in the hands of a Master. A person who knew how, and why, to tie up a woman. Deep inside, she was ecstatic.
She felt his strong hands on her arms. "I do believe," He said as he lifted her up onto her feet. "the way you're fixed, you'll be able to walk into the bedroom." He steadied her for a second, then let go. "Don't fall now." He said.
With a jarring thump Jean landed on her out-thrust rump. Blind, her body folded double, her knees spread wide, she'd thought she'd had only two choices. She could have fallen onto her butt or her face. Of those two, she'd picked her butt.
Again his hands lifted her up onto her feet. This time when she began to let herself fall, the rings in her sex drew tight, forcing a squeal of distress around the gag in her mouth, forcing her to find her balance in order to ease the pull. "See, I knew you could do it." Came his voice, sounding unbearably smug.
Jean grunted around the gag, trying to explain that what he wanted her to do was simply impossible. He responded by tugging up on the cord attached to her sex rings, pulling her butt up, forcing her to re-find her balance by shuffling her feet forward, toward the bedroom. Moving bare inches at a time, Jean waddled her box bound body where the leash directed, the bonfire of her lust lighting the way.
When, at long last, her bag covered head bumped into the side of her mattress, Jean was very nearly at the point of orgasm. Unable to fight in any way, she'd been sexually excited by his mastery, by the cord pulling against her rings, by the knowledge of where she was going and why.
Instead of being lifted up onto the bed, she felt his hand on the bar between
her elbows, turning her around. "Once more around the park, my dear." He
said, pulling up on the cord again so that she was forced to waddle back
the way she'd just come. "You wouldn't believe how sexy you look. Your ass
sticking out that way makes me feel like a man with a tigress by the tail."
She jerked and almost fell as he reached down and tickled her erect clit.
"I only wish we were down at Madi Gras. Down there, after midnight, when
the streets are full of revelers, anything goes. I could even take you out
on the street like this."
The mental image of being this helpless, this exposed in public, combined with the pull and tug of the rings, set off Jean's long delayed orgasm, her closed lower lips suddenly spurting her cum onto the carpet between her feet. Crashing to her side, the bar between her knees holding her leg up like that of a cowering puppy's, Jean felt his hands catch her, saving her from hitting her head.
In seconds, she found herself again on her back, this time up on the bed. Instead of a pillow under her hips to hold her up, this time he was tying ropes from her ankles up to the posts above her bagged head.
Her sex still sealed closed by the cords on her rings, Jean was as turned on as she'd ever been. Far from satisfying her lust, her orgasm had just whetted her appetite. Now, she was feeling his beard stubble against her exposed brown eye, his lips, his snake like tongue. She felt his fingers toying with her passion tightened nipples, then felt a pair of clothes pins replace them, squeezing her nips painfully as his fingers moved down to her ring sealed sex, seeking out her fully erect clit for the bite of a third clothes pin.
Then, dipping a finger into the froth that covered her sex, the man began to lubricate her anus.
Having had many different kinds of dildo shoved up her butt, some quite large, Jean knew that she wouldn't be killed by anal rape. Thus when she felt his condom covered cock begin to wedge her tight brown eye open she relaxed her muscles and let it happen with a minimum of pain. By the time she knew that he was somewhat larger than any dildo she'd ever sheathed, it was far too late to do anything about it. She'd been impaled to the very hilt of his banana shaped cock.
Screaming around the ball gag, Jean tried to tell him he was hurting her. His response was to remove the clothes pin on her clit, forcing her to feel that pain instead of the one in her guts. By the time the flare of pain in her sex had passed, her bowel had gotten used to his organ and was beginning feel good.
Then had come the tug against her rings. Unable to see, it took her several seconds to realize what he was doing. only after the cord on her rings had been tied up to the bar between her knees, stretching her swollen labia out to twice their usual reach, did she know the truth.
She responded exactly the way he had hoped she would, by tumbling into the beginning of a long series of violent orgasms.
On and on it went, his big cock plowing her rectum, his hands toying with her helpless body, driving her insane with pleasure and pain, and passion.
Deep within her innermost self, she knew that she would never again go back to her self-imposed aloneness. That, despite her fears, she was going to have to go out and find someone to satisfy her need to be owned.
She knew that The Stalker would not be the one. His only safety was to keep moving. She understood that. Therefore, she would have to go out, into the dating jungle that is Chicago. Fear or no fear, she would have to do it. It did not matter that there were an unknown number of copies of the video tapes of Sally and her making love out there, that every person she met might have seen them, that it would be like appearing in public, naked and helpless. It only mattered that she not be alone for the rest of her life.
After three quarters of an eternity, The Stalker slowly pulled his still hard organ from her rectum, changed condoms, cut the cord lashing her rings together and entered her, making her come with his first thrust, coming himself seconds later.
Twenty minutes after that, Jean was again alone in her apartment, her only bonds her own nightstand handcuffs locked on her wrists and the black velvet bag still on her head. She felt the cold promise of the ice cube he'd tied to her wrist, remembering his words. "The key's frozen inside the ice. By the time you'll be able to call the cops, I'll be out of the state."
Jean had shaken her head. "No!" She'd screamed around the gag ball. "Don't leave! I need you!"
The Stalker had chuckled, then said. "Lady, you have no idea how many times I've heard those words." Then he'd quietly walked out of her apartment, and her life.
Chapter One: Steak-out
FUCK! What a great night to be home in bed! Detective Sergeant Brown thought, pulling his collar up in a vain attempt at keeping the cold drizzle off the back of his neck. He felt the wetness seeping into his shoe to soak his right sock. He remembered that he'd been intending to get these shoes re-soled. He shuffled his feet, trying not to think about his partner, riding around in the nice dry car, looking for coffee and, more importantly, an open ladies room.
He checked his watch. The little nigger must have found something open by now. He thought, impatient for her return. He knew that the man he was watching had a car, if he chose to go out now, the Sergeant would be helpless to follow.
As if on cue, someone walked across in front of the window he was watching. Someone carrying a suitcase. SHIT! He thought. Sit here for three nights, the motherfucker doesn't move. Just once I let Billie go to the can and what happens? The motherfucker picks this moment to take off. The Lieutenant's going to have my ass!
Keying his lapel mike, he said. "Billie, where are you?"
After a few seconds he spent wondering if he weren't being too skittish, her voice crackled in his ear. "You know where I am, Sergeant Brown."
He visualized her sitting on some filthy toilet in the rear of an all night gas station. "How quickly can you get back here?" He snapped.
"It'll take a couple of minutes." She answered, the sound of a toilet flushing in the background.
Across the street, the lights went out. Oh God, I hope he's not taking a powder! The black Sergeant thought, watching the building's front door. Then, just when he was beginning to relax, the door opened and their man walked out, a large leather grip in one hand, a suitcase in his other.
Again, he keyed the mike. "Where are you now?" Their guy was going down the block toward where he'd parked his car, an old rusty Buick.
"Be there in about three minutes, Sergeant. I'm on John R at Seven Mile."
The old man opened the car's door, tossed his bags onto the other seat, found his keys and started the motor. The old Buick pulled out and took off, heading west.
"Sorry girl, you've missed him. Try taking Woodward up to Eight Mile, you might have a chance to pick him up again."
"Got ya covered Sergeant, I'm heading North on Woodward . . . There he goes, west on Eight Mile. I'll see if I can follow him."
"Be careful Billie, this guy's a pro." He said into the mike, looking off
down Eight Mile, wishing he could see what was happening. "Switch to Tac
One, Billie, I'll call for some back-up." He said. Not waiting for her
response, he turned the knob on his radio, and said. "Officer needs assistance. Westbound on Eight Mile, just passing the Couzens freeway."
After waiting several seconds he tried again. "Officer needs assistance. Does anyone copy?" Still, his radio remained silent. Reaching inside his jacket, he felt for the controls. Oh FUCK! He thought. I turned down the squelch when I was trying to change channels.
Adjusting the knobs correctly, he said. "Officer Case what's your location?" Again there was no answer. Reaching back into his jacket he double checked his radio. Everything seemed as it should be. "Officer needs assistance, does anyone copy?" He said, convinced that his Radio had gone bad.
When several patrol cars responded, he realized his fuck-up. The first two times he'd transmitted, he'd been on the wrong channel with his squelch turned all the way up so that he'd been unable to receive anyone's response. God, I never got used to these new radios! He thought. Then. "Sergeant Brown here, who's in position to assist officer Case?"
"What's her twenty, Sergeant?" Came the lieutenant's voice in his ear.
Damn, I'm blowing this! The Sergeant thought. "Billie, where are you?" He said into his mike, realizing that she'd not answered his last call to her.
Again, she did not respond. Switching back to Tac two, he tried again in the hopes she had not heard him order a channel change. Still there was no response.
After a few seconds, he heard the Lieutenant's voice. "Officer Case, do you copy?" The Lieutenant too had thought of checking this channel.
Sergeant Brown swore. The rookie was on her own out there. Two weeks out of the academy, the ink on her first assignment not yet dry and she was off trying to follow a bad guy all by herself.
"Sergeant Brown." Crackled in his ear. "What's going on?" It was the Lieutenant's voice. He did not sound happy.
"Officer Case is alone, following Johnson. I'm stranded at the corner of Rayette and Eight Mile. The last I heard from her she was heading west on Eight Mile."
The Lieutenant took over. Sending a squad car to pick up the Sergeant, then alerting all precincts in the city to be on the lookout for the two cars.
By the time the car arrived, the Captain had gotten into the act. The driver had been ordered to bring the Sergeant downtown for "A Talk".
On his way to the old man's office he picked up the file. He thought he might as well save himself having to come back for it.
Once the door had closed, the Captain had waved a hand at the couch. "How'd we lose track of Officer Case, Sergeant?" He said, the last word sounding like he was reconsidering the man's rank.
Sergeant Brown squirmed, then leaned forward, his big black skinned hands on his knees. "I don't know, Captain. I had a momentary problem with my radio and when I got it fixed, she was just gone."
"How did you happen to get separated from her?" The Captain asked, his eyes nailing the squirming Sergeant to the wall.
"Shit, Captain, you think a girl can sit in a fuckin' car all night without havin' t' pee?" The Sergeant said defensively. "It ain't like she can wander over behind a garage like you and me."
"You could have called for a squad car to pick her up." The Captain said, accepting the file the Sergeant was offering. "Who is this guy she's following?" He asked, setting down at his desk and opening the file.
Glad to be off of the subject of losing his rookie, the Sergeant said. "The guy's name is Johnson, Willard C. Johnson. Did a stretch in Texas State Prison over twenty years ago, for car theft, no record of arrest since."
"But you think he's this guy the media call The Skinner?"
"Well, the Lieutenant does, I'm not so sure."
"Tell me about it." The Captain said, pouring two cups of coffee.
"Well, the Chicago cops think he's just that guy the wanted posters call The Stalker."
"The Stalker!" The Captain exploded, spilling hot coffee all over his desk and the file. "Hasn't that old fart been caught yet?" He was trying to pour coffee from the crease of the file back into the cup. "What are you bothering with him for? He's not really dangerous after all."
"It's the Lieutenant sir, he thinks they are one and the same man. He's got this theory. He thinks The Stalker, after twenty years of nonviolent rape, has snapped, killing first that woman in Chicago last year, then all those others."
"I thought the Chicago cops cleared him of that murder?" The Captain said, offering the cup to the Sergeant.
"They did, that's why they simply notified us that they'd identified him as The Stalker. When they found that poor woman's body, they searched her apartment, hoping to get a line on her killer."
"They must have found something that implicated this Johnson guy, that right?"
"Ya, they found she'd kept a journal. Six weeks before she was killed, she was 'visited' by The Stalker."
"You mean raped, don't you?"
"That's what The Stalker does." The Sergeant said, tasting the coffee then setting it aside. It tasted like ink. "Though to read that woman's journal, you'd think he was some kind of sex therapist or something."
"Meaning, she liked it." Said the Captain. "Nothing new about that, is
there? I mean, from what I read about The Stalker, he leaves most of his
'victims' kind of confused."
"Ya, confused." The Sergeant said, thinking about what he'd read in the dead woman's journal. The woman had spent thirty pages describing how she'd been trussed up into a helpless ball of exposed female flesh then fucked silly for several hours. In one way the woman had been very much like most of the Stalker's victims. She'd never told anyone about her rape. But in another way, the woman had been completely different than the Stalker's usual prey. Instead of taking some young newlywed having trouble with sex, this time he'd hit an unattached lesbian. Who, from what he'd read in the woman's journal had already been deeply into bondage, even before she'd had a visit from The Stalker.
More importantly, this time the Stalker had left a trail. Knowing that the man always watched his victims before moving in on them, the detective had thought to check the records of, first her apartment building, then the one across the street. Instantly, he'd hit a bingo. In the apartment directly across from hers, had been a man who fit The Stalker's general description. The name the man had given had led nowhere, but written beside the name on the lease had been a notation of his Texas auto license plate number. This had led to a name. Willard Crane Johnson, ex-con. A man who'd been released from prison just two weeks before the first ever reported Stalker rape.
The detective had then fed Johnson's name into the interstate crime computer and asked for wants and warrants. All that came out were three old parking tickets, and one new one. The new one was from Detroit. It was for overnight street parking. Just the kind of ticket that would probably tell them where he was now living.
By this time the detective had known that he was hot on the trail of The Stalker. But the man he was now looking for wasn't some old guy who liked to tie up and entertain young brides, he was looking for a guy that cruised single bars, picked up "dates" and spent the next four hours or so skinning them alive.
He'd flagged Detroit's cops a notice and turned back to his search for the man the papers had begun calling The Skinner.
Enter rookie police woman Billie Case. Billie was what old cops think of as an eager beaver. Just out of the academy, she'd come into the station house like God's Anointed Warrior Against Evil. She'd told her fellow cops that she was sick and tired of watching her city go to Hell and she was going to either make things better, or die trying.
This, of course had made her a less than attractive partner. Cops, for very good reason, feel that they can do more to fight evil if they remain among the living. Having a partner that acted like she was on a mission from God was not a good way to collect one's pension.
After going through three partners in less than a week, she'd landed in
Sergeant Brown's lap. "You're her last chance, Sergeant." The Captain said,
giving his friend the bad news. "If you can't get through to her pretty damn
quick, we'll have to wash her out." A veteran cop, two months short of retirement,
Sergeant Brown had hoped he would never have to break in another rookie.
His job as turnout Sergeant was just as he liked things, these days.
Boring. To break in a rookie would require going back out into the streets of Detroit, something else he'd hoped he'd done for the last time.
Pleading pressing paperwork, the Sergeant had sent his new rookie into the computer room, hoping she would get interested in the clerical part of police work and stay out of his hair. Instead, she'd found the flagged file from Chicago, telling them where they could probably find The Stalker.
He remembered the look of eager excitement on the young woman's pretty black face as she'd shown him the print-out.
He'd sighed, put away his sports page and taken her in to see the Lieutenant, hoping that man would tell them not to bother with someone as harmless as The Stalker.
No such luck. Earlier that day, the Governor's only daughter had been found in an abandoned barn, hanging spread eagle, minus her skin. The heat had been on. All possible leads were to be followed in hopes at finding the most notorious sex criminal of the decade. The Lieutenant had ordered them to watch The Stalker and, if possible, to catch him in the act.
"You know," Sergeant Brown said, looking out the Captain's window at the breaking dawn. "Billie's going to have the time of her life."
The Captain chuckled and said. "I'll bet you're right."
Chapter Two: Lost Nation
Seventy five miles to the southwest of Detroit lies the rural county of Hillsdale. In the southern part of this county, nestled down against the Ohio state line, is a small region of poor land the locals call Lost Nation. Only about ten miles on a side, the area is still much like it was two hundred years ago when it got it's name by providing shelter for a small band of Indians. Refusing to be moved out to make room for the whites, this group had simply vanished into this area of wetlands, steep hills, small lakes, and dense woods. Because they had been peaceful, and because the land they had been occupying had been too poor for farming, no one ever seriously tried to remove them. Three generations later, during World War I, the last few hold outs had finally left, not because anyone cared any more, but to go to Detroit to find jobs in the defense plants.
Sunrise found Billie sitting on the ground under the spreading branches of a beech tree, buck naked, in the exact center of a large mesh fish net which in turn had been laid out over a plaid wool blanket. The clear morning sunlight filtering through the spring foliage revealed her total helplessness but not her most pressing problem. Each of her wrists had been zip-tied to one of her ankles so that her arms had been down between her legs, spreading her knees to the width of her shoulders. Then, two more bands of the hard plastic had been wrapped around her knees and elbows, trapping her like that, unable to protect any significant part of her naked body. Tied into her mouth with a fifth tight zip-tie was a rather large burlap bag filled with what felt like plastic packing peanuts.
But her biggest problem, the one that the sunlight could not reveal, was the four inches of hoe handle sticking up her rectum, pinning her to the center of the blanket like a butterfly.
Now, sitting perfectly still as she watched him going through her pockets, she thought about how she'd come to be in this condition.
She'd known from the beginning that Johnson was taking off on them. Why
would he have gotten up at four am? Not to go "hunting", certainly, his file had said his M.O. was to always stalk his victims for at least a week before moving in on them. She'd thought. No, he's been watching us watch him. When he saw me drive away, leaving the Sergeant without a car, he decided to make a run for it. She'd seen herself as the Detroit P.D.'s last chance to put The Stalker behind bars.
She'd heard the Sergeant's order to change channels, but had not had time right then to take her hands off of her steering wheel. Then, when her quarry had turned down an alley, she'd followed, aware that she was giving herself away, but more afraid of losing him. Then, she'd heard the Sergeant transmit a request for back-up on tac two, their assigned private channel. This had confused her further, making her delay the channel change for several more crucial seconds.
Like many alleys in Detroit, this one had been laid out in a T shape so that cars would be coming out onto a side street rather than a major thoroughfare. By the time she'd turned into the poorly lit cross bar section of the alley, his car had already made the turn, his lights just disappearing around the corner. She'd quickly driven down to the intersection, then cursed softly. The old Buick had disappeared. That part of the alley had been far too long for him to have reached the end in the time she'd been coming down the short chute, so she'd known that her quarry must have gone to ground. She'd decided to park where she was and call for back-up.
Then, as she'd been looking down inside her jacket, changing her radio channel, he'd stepped up behind her, popped open her door and sprayed mace directly into her face.
The next few minutes had been a blur of pain, confusion, helplessness and panic. By the time she'd recovered from the mace enough to fight, it had been far, far too late. She'd been hauled out of her car, hog-tied with plastic zip ties, then bundled up tightly in a piece of three inch nylon fishnet that had prevented even the slightest struggle. Tossing her into the front seat of his car like a load of laundry tied up in a sheet, he'd driven off, his right hand resting around her wind-pipe, ready to cut off any cries for help she might be foolish enough to attempt.
She had never used mace, or seen it used, other than the training film they'd shown her at the police academy. Not wanting the trainees to be reluctant to use their product, the makers of the film had minimized it's effects, showing how it lowered the subject's blood pleasure to the point of his being unable to stand, how it temporally blinded him, how it often rendered him totally unconscious for minutes on end, but not showing the delayed reactions, the violent stomach upset, the shivering, the red swollen eyes that persisted for days. Thus, when she'd begun to vomit, the stream bursting from her lips to splash down onto the Buick's transmission hump, she'd thought something was terribly wrong with her. Then she'd realized, with a start, why he had not gagged her. Had he done so, she would now be drowning in her own vomit.
Then, after five minutes of dry retching had proven her stomach to have been completely empty, he'd pulled off of the road and taken the time to push the burlap bag full of Styrofoam peanuts between her teeth. At first, she'd thought the bag had been made too large to fit inside her mouth, but after two minutes of struggle, it had suddenly gone in, to the very back of her throat, stretching her cheeks tight and completely blocking all of her cries, curses, protests and pleadings. The plastic zip-tie had been sewn right to the bag so that when he'd jerked it tight behind her neck she'd known that she would be helpless to expel it, helpless to make any useful noise through it's sound absorbing, cheek stretching bulk.
The taste of the burlap, the tickle of the rough cloth against her gag spot had set her to retching again, the convulsions twisting her helpless body into a pretzel but failing to bring anything up from her completely empty tummy. He'd watched her for a few seconds, then driven off, his hand coming to slip into the front of her blouse to feel her big sweating breasts, her rage tightened nipples.
By the time they'd gone ten miles, she'd been as good as naked. Her slacks and panties had been pushed down inside the tight netting so that they were down around her knees, her blouse and bra, back onto her arms. The net had been her implacable enemy, it had held her still, unable to fight him as he'd toyed with her, stripped her, exposed her body to the intimate, knowing touch of his fingers.
For two hours the car had taken the rookie police woman away from her city, away from everything familiar to her, out into the wilds of redneck Michigan. Hog-tied and tightly bundled, her eyes still swollen shut by the effects of the mace, her mouth filled with packing, lying on the seat next to the man she knew as The Stalker, she'd found that she'd had zero options. She could do nothing save feel his knowing hands on her body, his intrusive fingers between her sweating thighs.
The first light of dawn had found them driving up a steep dirt trail, the car's wheels slipping and spraying the undersides of the fenders with wet gravel. Her tears, by that time, had succeeded in washing out the worst of the mace. But lying on the seat, she'd only known that they were amongst trees. Not the most helpful clue in southern Michigan.
Then, pulling the car into some thick brush, he'd turned off the motor and gotten out, leaving her on the seat, panting with fear, rage and yes, passion.
She'd been fighting both the netting and her bonds trying to find a way to reach the door handle, intending to try and crawl away, when he'd returned, opening the passenger door and grunting as he hoisted her up onto his back. Carrying her like a sack of Christmas toys, he'd brought her over to this circle of bare earth under a giant-hilltop beech tree.
During the entire trip out from the city, he had not said one word. Still, without speaking, he'd made his intentions very clear to her. She was being taken somewhere to be raped.
Leaving her on the ground, he'd then gone back to his car and retrieved his big leather satchel filled with the tools of his trade.
Despite the tight netting, despite the hogtie, she'd crawled almost two feet by the time he'd returned.
He'd snorted at this and bent to the task of keeping her where he wanted her. First, he'd untied the cord that held the netting tight around her helpless body, then he'd tied a longer rope to the four corners of her net, tossed it up over a low branch and hoisted her up to hang, her hog-tied body swinging face down, three feet in the air.
Then, ignoring the muffled protests coming from his captive he'd gone about the task of stripping her totally naked, and at the same time, changing her bondage. Hanging there in the netting, her hands and feet linked together behind her back, she'd had little chance to fight him as he'd worked, cutting her clothing off of her, leaving her totally naked, her big breasts poking out through the mesh of the netting. Then, releasing only one leg and arm at a time, he'd turned her over so that she'd been left, sitting in mid air, her arms fastened at wrists and elbows down to the insides of her spread legs, her bare butt supported by the mesh of the netting, her naked body exposed to anything he might care to do to it.
Laying out a blanket directly under her, he'd gone back to his satchel
to get an eighteen inch length of sharpened hoe handle. She'd watched him
between her spread legs, using a rock to pound the sharpened end of the hoe
handle right through the center of the blanket, directly beneath her swinging
butt. She'd known what he'd intended even before he'd stood up and began
to untie her support rope. She'd screamed, first in anger, then in fear,
then in pain as the hardwood had slowly, inexorably wedged it's self up into
her tightly clenched anus. When her bottom had finally come to rest on the
blanket, the hoe handle had been a full four inches up inside her, it's smooth
hardness feeling as if it would rupture her every time she tried to move,
or even breathe. He'd then untied the four corners of the net and laid it
out flat, leaving her sitting in the center of the blanket, but going absolutely
Now he spoke, his voice very different than she'd imagined a rapist's would be. "Wilma Case?" He asked, reading her police I.D. card. In his other hand, almost forgotten, was her police issue Glock 9mm automatic. "Says here that you are a probationary police officer. Why the Hell were you followin' me, all alone like that?"
For the thousandth time, Billie tried to say something through the packing in her mouth. As always, nothing intelligible came through.
"Oh ya, I forgot, y'all can't talk just yet." He said, tossing the gun into the pile of her cast aside clothing. "Rude of me to ask when you can't answer." He continued as he went through her wallet. "Damn rude."
Feeling as if the hoe handle up her rectum was about to rip her open, Billie tried to find a way to tell him. He only chuckled and said. "Quit your bitching, officer Case, I only left four inches of that hoe handle sticking up. If I intended to hurt you, I wouldn't have driven that thing so deep." He'd stepped around behind her, gripped her hair in his fist, bent her head back and looked straight down into her red, swollen eyes. "Imagine what twelve inches of night stick feels like. I've had that done to me so many times I've lost count."
Beginning to strip out of his clothes, he knelt behind her and asked. "Ever seen a prison body cavity search performed with the prisoner strapped face down across a desk, his feet spread wide and shackled to the thing's legs? They use an iron tipped riot stick." He reached around and took one of Billie's chocolate colored nipples. "It sometimes goes on for hours." His fingers began to pinch, lightly at first, but growing ever tighter until Billie began to scream in anger at him through the packing in her mouth. Then, switching his attention lower down on her naked, helpless body, he'd begun to tickle her between the legs, his fingers quickly becoming wet with her helpless vaginal secretions.
Billie had read the Chicago woman's diary. The pertinent passages had been included in the file she'd found in the computer. She had read and re-read the woman's account of her experiences at The Stalker's mercy. She'd even printed up a copy to take home with her, to keep in her bedside table, right on top of her small but impressive collection of pornographic "Horror Stories". Right next to her battery powered "Maiden's Friend", and lately, her spare pair of handcuffs.
Now, here she was, in the exact situation she'd had three wet dreams about. Now she was the naked, totally helpless captive of The Stalker. She could not speak, protect herself, escape or expect rescue. She was impaled, the hard shaft of wood stretching her rectum, forcing her to remain perfectly still as his knowing fingers again attacked her most private of places.
Twice, during the trip out from town, she'd nearly succumbed to the stimulation she had been helpless to escape. Now, her thighs held open, her body held totally immobile, unable to even twitch without hurting herself, she felt her passion again rising toward the unthinkable, the inevitable, the inescapable.
Then, just as her growing passion was beginning to make the hoe handle
good, he stopped tickling her open sex and stood up, his giant dong coming into her line of vision for the first time.
Billie stared up at the man's banana shaped cock, his huge, swinging nuts, his grinning face. Between her thighs, her swollen sex throbbed and gushed out even more of her lubricant.
To read about eleven inches of erect manhood was one thing, to see it coming for you was something entirely different.
For a third time, Billie had to fight back her orgasm.
Johnson then squatted down in front of her and carefully smeared his foreskin cheese under her nose. Suddenly her head was filled with his scent, his powerful musk. Suddenly her orgasm was upon her, making her nipples tighten up into tiny points, her breathing to come in gag quieted screams, her pink and swollen sex to become bright red with passion, her hips to bounce themselves upon the hoe handle.
Chapter Three: Skinner
Todd Norman looked like shit. After spending four days and nights walking through the endless swamps of southern Michigan, he felt as bad as he looked. He was soaking wet from last night's rain. His fashionable worsted wool slacks were caked with mud up to his knees and ripped in three places. His expensive sports jacket, now turned into a shapeless rag by the rain, hung on him like a scare-crow's. His tooled leather cowboy boots, never designed for walking, had fallen apart, blistering his feet in several places. He was filthy, the rain having turned the accumulated dirt in his hair into mud which had run down, streaking his normally handsome features, making him look like a demon out of Hell. It had been four days since he'd eaten anything other than red and black raspberries. Worst of all, he was now completely sober.
Sobriety was Todd's most feared enemy.. It was bad enough when he was awake, the memories crowding in on him like ghosts, haunting him, accusing him, driving him insane. Sleeping was worse. If he went to sleep sober, he dreamed. Without the protection a high blood alcohol level he would awake screaming in terror, his body soaked with cold sweat, the images of his victims filling his head, making him seem to actually feel the agony he'd so delighted in creating.
He blamed his present condition on bad luck. Things had been going great, up until he'd made the mistake of switching license plates with his last "date".
For over a year, he'd been able to go where he'd wanted, using his gun to get all the cash,, food, gas and liquor he'd needed from convenience stores. Then, afraid that his car's license plates might have been spotted during his last hold up, he'd decided to switch them, thinking that, for at least 24 hours, his latest victim's plates would be safe. Knowing that normally, disappearances could not even be reported until 48 hours had elapsed, he'd thought he could be out of the state long before he'd need new ones again.
What he had not known was that the dead girl he'd left hanging spread-eagle in the center of an abandoned barn had been the Governor's only daughter.
Less than two hours after Cindy Manchester had failed to return from her aunt's farm, every cop in the state had been notified of her car's license number.
When the first call had gone out, Cindy had been just waking up from the blow to her head that had been Todd's way of inviting her out on a "date". Having been clubbed with an iron bar, she'd known nothing of how he'd carried her away from the road, her body limp and unresisting. How he'd stripped her naked before putting her wrists and ankles into the ropes he'd had all laid out on the old barn's floor. How he'd then tightened the ropes to the point of stretching her into a tight spread eagle, her arms and legs well up in the air, then tied off, leaving her there, her back supported by a pile of loose hay, unable to escape or protect herself in any way. How he'd then gone back and driven her car off the road, hiding it beside his own, behind the old abandoned barn.
Cindy's first conscious thought had been PAIN! Then, she'd tried to open her eyes, remembering the man in the road, the man who'd looked like he'd been hit by a car. The light had hit her eyes like a pair red hot spears, striking clear to the back of her skull, making her head seem to explode. She'd cried out and tried to bring her hand to her head, only to find herself spread-eagled, unable to move any part of her body. The man! She'd thought, pulling at the four ropes with all of her panic given strength, lifting her back from the pile of hay. It was a Trap!
She'd tried again to open her eyes, hoping that the ropes on her wrists and ankles had not been what she thought they were, hoping that she was perhaps in a hospital, in traction,, hoping that she wasn't waking up to ritual rape and murder. Again, the spears had driven into her eye sockets. Again she'd cried out in pain.
She'd remembered the man lying in the road, his arms and legs at unnatural angles, his head hidden by the tall weeds at the side of the road. He had looked so convincing, so obviously injured, she hadn't even stopped to think. She'd stopped her car and jumped out, never even considering that it might be a trap. She'd run up to the poor man, her car's first aid kit in her hand, praying that he was not already dead, dreading what she would find.
She'd knelt down in the dirt next to him and, for the first time, seen his face. He had been looking up at her, grinning, not with humor, but with evil intent. She'd spun away, dropping her kit, trying to reach the safety of her car. Hampered in the loose gravel by her high heels, she'd gone less than two yards when he'd jumped up and hit her over the head with his short iron bar, knocking her senseless.
Oh God, let me see where I am! She'd silently prayed, getting up courage to try opening her eyes again. Then, her prayer said, she'd forced her eyes to let in the light once more. Wincing in agony, she'd waited for her eyes to adjust, then forced them to focus on the rotting, hole riddled roof of the barn. Hope had died. She was not in a hospital, she was The Skinner's helpless captive.
Lifting her head to try and look around herself had been a mistake. The shooting pain in her brain had felt like a red hot spike driving into the back of her skull. But she'd persisted and in several moments managed to focus on the rope knotted to her right wrist. Then, hearing a zipper, she'd looked down between her spread legs and seen him" calmly stripping out of his clothing. It had been at that moment that she'd realized that she was stark naked.
The next three hours had been, for Todd, just like the many, many others he'd known. "The Sacrifice" had been performed exactly as "The Voices" had ordered. Todd had first tightened the four ropes, hoisting Cindy four feet into the air, the ropes seeming to be pulling her arms right out of their sockets. Then he'd carefully examined every inch of her stretched body, giving special attention to her large breasts, her bikini waxed crotch, her undefended anus. Satisfied that she was worthy, he'd then used his knife to peal the living hide from her suspended body, leaving only her head, hands and feet un-skinned. Lastly, he'd nailed her pelt to the barn's wall above her head to dry. Too deeply in shock to scream, Cindy had hung like that for four more hours, her head hanging back and down, her dilated eyes looking at her own skin, dying by inches while Todd had sat on a three legged milking stool between her spread legs, masturbating.
Then, after Cindy's heart had finally, mercifully stopped, he'd washed off the blood, gotten dressed and gone out to switch license plates, intending to be out of the state before anyone came looking for her.
Twenty minutes after that, Todd Norman had been forced to shoot his first cop.
Now, four days later, he was, at last, almost out of the state of Michigan. He had walked nearly a hundred miles across country, avoiding all roads, all contact with people, eating the only food he knew, the red and black raspberries that grew in the woods. He would have used his gun to shoot game, but he was down to only two bullets. He dared not waste them, after all, the state was crawling with cops, all looking for him.
He was lying on his face, peering over a low ridge at an old, unpainted farm house, wondering if the old man he'd seen walking in from the barn lived there alone, wondering if there was any booze in there, wondering if he should chance it.
Then he stiffened. Coming through the quiet morning air from over behind him, he heard the unmistakable sounds of a woman screaming in passion. Thinking to catch lovers in the act, (one of his favorite ways of getting "dates") he carefully climbed the hill, staying under cover as he went.
When he finally got to the source of the screaming, he was amazed at what he saw.
* * *
After forcing Billie to orgasm the first time, Johnson had informed her that they were miles from any other human beings, and that any screaming she might want to do would do her no good at all and might earn her extra punishment. He'd then removed her gag and, leaving it to hang around her neck, had given her a drink of water to wash out the taste of the vomit soaked burlap. He'd then begun to question her, his hands down between her thighs, keeping her helpless body excited, her thoughts too confused to lie convincingly. For more than two hours he'd skillfully kept her on a plateau of sexual arousal, the hoe handle up her ass keeping her perfectly still, the zip-ties keeping her helpless, never allowing her to rest, never allowing her to think. By the time he'd been done, she'd told him about everything. The file, the diary, the computer prediction that he, Willard Johnson, ex-con, was The Stalker, wanted in at least five states.
Then, as a "reward", he'd pulled the netting back up around her, re-tied the hanging rope to it's four corners and hoisted her free of the ground, free of the hoe handle at long last. Tying the support rope off to an exposed tree root, her burning anus two feet in the air, he'd then pushed her up out of the way and, grinning horribly, had sat himself down on the shit streaked hoe handle as if it were a throne.
Billie had found herself perfectly positioned for oral sex. Her bottom,
supported by the three inch mesh, was exactly in front of the grinning man's
face, her spread legs back over his shoulders. It took less time than it
takes to tell for him to position her sex in the center of a square of netting,
then press his whiskered face between her thighs and began to attack her
labia and clitoris as if he intended to lick her smooth.
The knowledge that his rectum was now stretched around the hoe handle had become Billie's only point of reference. It had disgusted her, yet made her realize that it had, after all, not injured her, or even given her all that much pain, once she'd gotten used to it. Then, as he'd been attacking her sex with his highly skilled and extra long tongue, she'd realized that the hoe handle, in addition to forcing her to sit still, had ended up being a source of great pleasure to her, just as it was now pleasuring him. She'd found herself wondering if she could survive being ass fucked. Wondering if she would prefer that to vaginal rape.
When her orgasm had been like an overflowing dam, ready to burst, Johnson had withdrawn his face from her crotch and said. "Ever hear of a basket fuck?"
She'd looked down at him through the netting, her mace reddened eyes dilated into pinpoints by her state of helpless passion. She'd seen then, how truly ugly he was, physically. His crooked yellow teeth, his hooked, broken nose, his wispy, graying hair, his old, wrinkled face,' the skin turning blotchy and sagging down under his chin, all combined to produce a man with zero chance to score with women. Yet, she realized, he had been sexually endowed like a stallion, his huge cock and balls demanding gratification every moment of his life. She'd suddenly understood why he'd done the things he'd done. She'd suddenly found herself sympathizing with a criminal for the very first time in her life.
He'd laughed, seeing the confusion in her face, knowing her innermost thoughts. He'd then carefully hoisted his rectum up off of the hoe handle and moved back several inches, so that when he again lowered his ass to the blanket the wooden shaft had come up between his thighs. Pulling the hardwood shaft out of the soft earth, he'd tossed it aside as if he had no further use for it. Then, reaching over to the support rope tied down to the tree's roots, he'd jerked out the slip knot and let her folded body fall into his lap. Lying back, he'd then gripped the rope in both hands and hoisted her back up a foot so that he could plant his big banana shaped cock up inside her pinkly swollen and cream filled pussy.
As she'd again felt herself being lowered she'd known panic. This white man was huge. Half again as big as any cock she'd ever seen. She'd fought her bonds, fought the netting, fought gravity itself, trying to find a way to keep her dripping pussy from sliding down over his huge organ, trying to find a way to keep him from fucking her into the level of passion she'd always known was there, within her, but had been afraid to experience.
Then, long before she'd reached bottom, his glands penis had reached her top, wedging it's way into her tight cervix. He'd tied off the support rope and lain back, two inches of his eleven still in sight, the rest stretching her sex as open as the hoe handle had stretched her anus.
Chapter Four: The Sergeant's Last Call
Detective Sergeant Brown stood at the foot of Billie's hospital bed, his hat in his hand. "I hear they're going to let you go home today." He said, trying to find a way to ask the questions he needed to ask without upsetting Billie any more than necessary.
Billie pressed the button that would raise her bed so she could look the man in the face as she said. "Ya, Sergeant I don't even know why they've kept me here this long. After all, I wasn't hurt, only kidnaped for a few hours."
"It's standard procedure, any officer that gets herself kidnaped by The Skinner, spends eight hours like you did, then manages to kill the bastard before he can get around to hurting her, gets to spend a little time in bed." Said the Sergeant, watching her face, looking for clues as to how painful this was for her.
"It just doesn't make any sense, Sergeant Brown." she said, sitting up so that the sheet fell down in her lap, the thin hospital gown failing to hide her big breasts, her long, chocolate colored nipples. "I wasn't hurt. Why am I here?"
The Sergeant moved around beside the bed, thinking. You are here to protect both you and the Department. Then, putting his hand on hers, he said. "Tell me what you remember about yesterday and I'll try to explain it to you." He sat down beside her, his other hand turning on the tape recorder in his pocket.
"But Sarge, I already made a statement." Billie said, withdrawing her hand from his. "Once was bad enough."
"Don't think of it as another statement, Billie. Think of it as a chance to clear up a few things . . . Details. To tell the truth, there are some, uh, problems in your official statement that simply have to be resolved." Before you talk to the press. He thought, reaching again for her hand, only to have her pull away a second time.
Billie looked out the window for a moment, saying nothing. Then with a slump to her shoulders, she turned back and said. "Please, Sergeant Brown, I need your help." There were tears in her eyes.
The Sergeant thought. Bingo! Then said. "I will help you in any way I can, you know that don't you?"
Billie looked up at the kindly faced old Sergeant and, tears streaming from her eyes, sobbed. "I couldn't think of any other way!"
Again, the Sergeant took Billie's hand, even going so far as to pat it as he said. "That's all right, Billie, you did your best."
Billie looked sharply at him, jerked her hand out from under his, and in a protective motion, pulled her sheet up under her chin. "Cut the crap, Sergeant, you're working me, aren't you?" She said, her tears. still streaming, but now forgotten.
The big man sighed, then took out the tape recorder and sat it in plain sight on the edge of the bed, still running. "I'm afraid so, Officer Case. The Captain insists. It's either me or someone from internal affairs, your choice."
"Was my story that bad?" Billie said looking out the window again.
"Billie, you were chasing that old guy, Johnson, aka The Stalker. You came back with Johnson's car all right, but the dead guy in the trunk is Todd Norman, aka The Skinner!"
"I told you, I lost sight of Johnson for about ten minutes. Then, when I found his car again, Johnson was no longer in it. Figuring that he was on foot, I started checking around the neighborhood, trying to pick up his trail if I could. Then, all of a sudden, that bastard Norman jumped out at me, spraying mace."
"Why didn't you call for back-up?" The Sergeant asked.
"I told you, my radio failed, right after the last time I talked to you." Billie lied, still trying to salvage the situation.
"So, all alone, without a radio, you got out of your car and started searching an alley for a man you knew was extremely dangerous. Did you even have your gun drawn?" The Sergeant couldn't keep the traces of incredulity out of his voice.
Billie looked at the Sergeant for a long moment, then said. "Okay, you win. I didn't call in because I never had a chance. It was Johnson that maced me. He got me while I was still in my car, before I ever saw him coming. I didn't want to tell anyone that because I should have had my door locked. Anyway, after he'd sprayed me, there was not one second that I was able to do anything about anything. He tied me up, took me out state, hung me up under a tree like a sack of shit and fucked me silly. Is that what you wanted to hear, Sergeant?"
"Billie, the doctor said you'd had intercourse with someone." He said, thinking. Someone hung like a horse!
"The thing is," Billie continued, eager to get it all out now. "Johnson was hurt, hurt worse than you can imagine. Norman caught him, well kinda' with his pants down . . . You know . . . Well anyway, you've read what the Skinner always did to boyfriends, crushing their faces with a club, well that's what he did to poor Mr. Johnson."
POOR MR. JOHNSON? Thought Brown, keeping his face in a dead pan. "You say Johnson was hurt, where is he now?"
"Toledo General, I dropped him off on my way here. I thought that it was a good idea that he get out of the state, what with that file and all."
"It was Johnson that shot Norman, wasn't it?" The Sergeant said, beginning to understand. "He saved your life, so you felt you should help him stay out of prison, is that it?"
"That's about the size of it, Sergeant." Billie said, relieved that the big man understood. "Norman had no idea that I was a cop, to him I was just a helpless nigger, hung up in a tree. A thing to use as he'd used all those other girls." She shuddered, thinking about dying that way, then continued. "Somehow, hurt as bad as Johnson was, he managed to crawl all that way and get to my gun. Then, after he'd killed that, that animal, he managed to crawl over and cut me down. otherwise I'd still be up there, swinging in the breeze."
"But Billie, Johnson's a serial rapist. How could you help him get away? What about his future victims?"
Billie looked into the Sergeant's kindly eyes and said. "He's not a rapist any more, Sergeant, Todd Norman saw to that." Her voice was flat, as if she were trying not to cry.
"What do you mean?" Asked the Sergeant, crossing his legs unconsciously.
"I mean, not only did Norman smash Johnson's face, like he did all those other boyfriends, he castrated the poor man as well." Billie cried, her eyes overflowing again. "Willard Johnson will never rape another woman, he has nothing left down there to do it with!"
Sergeant Brown reached out and turned off his tape recorder. "Well Billie,
that just about covers all of the Captain's questions. I don't know what's going to happen next, that will be up to the brass."
"Please, Sergeant Brown, go look at him before you take that tape up to the Captain. As you said yourself, The Stalker never really hurt anyone. Hell, the only complaints we have against him came from husbands, not the women themselves." Billie said, taking the big man's hand in hers and looking up at him, tears running down her cheeks.
"Was he really that good?" The Sergeant asked, genuinely impressed.
"He was, but he will never be again." Billie sobbed squeezing his hand, then turning away to look out across the hospital lawn.
The Sergeant went down and got into his car, still undecided as to what he should do. The safe thing was to take the tape downtown and play it for the Captain. After all, he was just two months from retirement, he had to be careful. Yet, when he got to the road, he found himself turning south, away from the waiting Captain and toward the city of Toledo.
He didn't tell anyone in Toledo who the man was, saying only that he was looking for an old derelict who'd had some trouble with a street gang, up in Detroit. He'd flashed his badge and asked if they'd had any badly beaten John Does dropped on them in the last twenty four hours. They'd taken him right up, hoping to rid themselves of a very expensive patient.
Johnson was comatose, unaware of the big man standing at the foot of his bed. The Sergeant could see that the man's face had taken a terrible beating, the nurse told him that the doctor had said that it had been like working with putty, so completely crushed had been the man's facial bones. She'd also said that he'd lost nearly all of his teeth in the attack. But the worst hadn't been his face, what had nearly killed Willard Johnson had been the blood he'd lost from the stump of his severed penis. The surgeon that had worked on that end of him had said that whoever had used clothes pins to staunch the bleeding had saved his life.
Sergeant Brown stood and watched as a nurse changed the unconscious man's I.V. bottles. He thought about the Chicago Diary. How that poor confused woman had been tied up and raped.
Then, he thought about how the woman, like nine out of ten of this man's victims had chosen not to report her rape to the police. How she'd written in her diary that she'd dreamed of finding him, or someone like him, again. How she'd ended up dead as a result of her efforts at doing just that. How Billie, instead of hating him for what he'd done to her, had wept at the thought of his injuries.
He'd gotten out a small kit and set to work. Ten minutes later, he'd gone out, leaving John Doe in peace, only the traces of ink on the man's fingertips showing what he had done. The prisons of Michigan were too full of dangerous criminals to need Willard Johnson taking up space. Now that he was no further threat to any woman, there was simply no reason to arrest him.
He'd driven back to Detroit, stopped off at the morgue to talk with an old friend, made a phone call to Billie and then gone up to see the Captain, a new, empty cassette stuck into his pocket recorder.
"Well?" The Captain said, closing his office door and motioning for Brown to take a seat.
Taking the recorder out of his pocket, Sergeant Brown hit the playback
button, set it on the desk between them and sat back as if expecting the sounds
of his conversation with Billie to come out of it's tiny speaker. After a
moment, he looked down at it and checked the volume control. Then, hitting
fast forward, he tried again, several yards into the tape. Again, only a
soft hiss came out of the speaker. "Shit, the son of a bitch didn't work!"
He said at last, shutting the thing off and kicking the leg of his boss'
desk to show how pissed he was at the Sony corporation.
"How about you tell me what she said?" Asked the Captain, already suspicious. "What really happened?"
"She's telling the truth." Brown lied, committing himself. "What happened was, The Skinner must have killed Johnson during the time that Billie lost track of him. Then, when Billie showed up and began to search the neighborhood around Johnson's abandoned car, he saw a chance to grab his next victim, along with the car."
"Then, where is Johnson?" Asked the Captain, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"Down in the morgue, a John Doe tag on his toe. They found him in a ditch beside I-94, out near Dearborn, late this afternoon." He lied, opening the file folder to show two sets of fingerprints, one old, the other brand new. "I checked his fingerprints, see?"
The Captain looked at the two sets of fingerprints, even without a magnifying glass he could see that they were identical. Then he looked at the two photographs, one twenty years old, the other twenty minutes. The derelict in the new one had been run over on a freeway, there wasn't much left of his face.
"The doc said she'd been fucked, that her vagina was found to be full of fairly fresh semen. How do you explain that? After all, we know that The Skinner never, ever, fucked his victims."
"Must have been mine." Said the Sergeant sharing a wink with his old friend.
"Why you old dog!" Said the Captain,, chuckling.
It took six weeks for the man in Toledo to recover enough to be released to a nursing home. By that time the tabloids had tired of following "The Hero Policewoman" around, night and day, reporting to America what "The Woman Who'd Killed The Skinner" ate for breakfast.
Down in Toledo, the man had at last come around enough to give them his name. The one that was insured through his union. This had canceled the hospital administrator's plans to send his fingerprints in to the F.B.I. Six weeks after that, the man had been collected by a black woman dressed all in white, sent over from the nursing home. Twenty minutes later, a second nursing home van had shown up, ready to pick up the same man. The floor nurse said something rude about the hospital administration, then told the driver that the man was already gone. Because patient piracy is just part of the nursing home business, she never bothered to investigate any further.
Six months later, Billie drove out to the newly retired Sergeant's lake cottage. As she got out of her car, he was surprised to see that she was pregnant. She let him show her around, then, well out of his wife's hearing, she asked him to act as her father in a wedding ceremony.
"Who's the lucky guy?" Brown said, first shaking the girl's hand, then, laughing, hugging her to his breast.
"You don't know him, Sergeant, he's been a friend for years." Billie lied, wanting the Sergeant to stand up with her, but afraid he would refuse if he found out who she intended to marry.
"Of course I'll stand up with you. I'd be proud to give away a girl as beautiful as you!" The big old man said. "When do I get to meet this 'Old Friend' who I've never even heard of before?"
"Tomorrow, at the wedding, if you can do it on such short notice?"
Brown smelled a rat. "Tomorrow? What's the rush? I can't even get my tux cleaned by then."
"You won't need anything fancy, Sarge. It's only going to be a small wedding. And to answer your second question, silly, we're just a little late." Said Billie, patting her big tummy and winking.
The next day, Brown was waiting at the courthouse, his wife on his arm, when Billy and her intended walked in. The retired Sergeant was amazed to see that the man was not only white, but at least ten years older than Billie.
"Sergeant and Mrs. Brown, I'd like you to meet Bill, the man I'm going to marry in about ten minutes." Billie said, watching the Sergeant's eyes closely.
"Glad to meet you, Bill . . . ?" He waited for the last name.
"Likewise, I'm sure." Said the man, his face looking strange, in some indefinable way.
"Johnson-Case wedding party?" Said a clerk from the door to the Judge's chambers.
"That's us, come on Sarge, Mrs. Brown, the Judge is a busy man." Said Billie, still afraid of what the big man would do.
"Johnson?" Said Brown, looking again at the man's face, his thoughts in confusion. "Bill Johnson?" Then he saw what had been bothering him. This man's face looked brand new, there were no wrinkles, no sagging, none of the ravages of age. His teeth had that new, perfect look of expensive dentures. Then, with a sense of even greater shock, he realized that this man looked remarkably like Paul Newman had, at age thirty five.
"Can I talk to you?" Brown said to Billie, gripping her elbow.
"But Sarge." Billie said, being propelled across the room.
Bill watched the two for a second, then excused himself and went over to talk to the clerk, letting her know that they would be ready in a couple of minutes.
"Billie, what do you think you are doing?" Brown said, his whisper clearly audible in the quiet courthouse.
"I'm about to get married to the man I love. The father of little B.J. here." She patted her belly, looking up at the big man defiantly.
Brown looked from Johnson to Billie and back again. "But Billie, he's wanted in five states." He whispered, lower this time so that no one but her could hear.
"Not any more, we killed that man, remember. Willard Johnson, aka The Stalker, was Todd Norman's last victim. His body was positively identified by his fingerprints and then cremated. Case closed, remember?"
"Look Sergeant I love him, is that all right?" Billie said, nodding to Johnson's gesture to hurry. "We are about to get married, with or without your help. What's it going to be, are you going to call 911 or stand up with us?"
Detective Sergeant Brown, retired, thought about his options, then with a shrug said. "Let's go make an 'honest' woman out of you."
Billie Case, blessed with the beauty that comes to a woman eight months pregnant, made a stunning bride.
Willard Johnson, his face rebuilt by a young female fan of Paul Newman, looked pretty spiffy too.
For a honeymoon they went camping, in a little place called Lost Nation.
Lying in a chase lounge, looking up at her new husband chop wood, Billie considered herself the luckiest woman alive. Her husband was handsome, smart, loving, and most importantly, understanding. Understanding of why a girl might like to be tied up and diddled several times a week. She wished he too could feel passion, but understood how little he missed his former sex drive.
Being a slave to his own cock and balls for twenty years had been quite enough. As far as Bill Case (He took her name when he married her) was concerned, trading his oversized sex for a wife and child was an extremely good deal. And, he's found that he can share her pleasure when they make love, if not her passion. It is more than enough.