Driving down a rural highway, I saw her, standing outside of her sweltering car, her hood raised. I stopped, got out of my car, and asked her, "What seems to be the trouble?"
"I don't know," she said desperately. "It just died. No warning, nothing. Do you have a phone I can use?"
Standing closer to her, I got a better look. She had a slender body, blonde hair, curvy hips, sexy lips, and blue eyes. Yes, I had a phone, but I wasn't telling her about the cell I had on me.
"Yes," I said, "but I'm a little old-fashioned--it's down the road, at my house. I don't carry a cell phone. Probably should in these parts. Have to walk a couple miles to get to the nearest house, then you don't know who you'll run into out here. Some crazy person could persuade you to get off the property with a shotgun or something. You want a ride? I'm not far. You can call who you need to call and wait there."
Her eyes widened when I mentioned crazy people with shotguns. I stifled a chuckle, given what I had in store for her. She got into the car willingly, but with trepidation. Understandably so. People trust me easily--too easily, to tell the truth--but they shouldn't. She was clearly smarter than most of them, or at least wiser.
We got to my house and walked inside. "Sit there at the table while I go get the phone," I said, pointing to a chair in my kitchen. I walked into my bedroom and opened the chest at the foot of the bed. Inside, I had implements of all kinds: restraints, whips, blades--a whole variety of things to capture and torture a pretty little thing like the one in my kitchen. I took out a pair of police-issue handcuffs, a black spandex hood, and a survival knife. I put the cuffs in my pocket, the knife in its sheath in my waistband, and left the hood out, in my hand. I was ready.
I entered the kitchen quickly, behind her, slipping the hood over her head. She began to struggle and scream instantly, but I wasn't deterred; I became even more aggressive. I wrestled her to the floor, face down, pulled her arms behind her back, held them there with my knee, and put the cuffs on her. I then took the knife, laid down partially on her body, partially next to her, and held the blade at her throat. "You're helpless now, little whore. You'll do what I say, or this blade will cut deep into your flesh."
"I'm not a whore!" she protested "Let me go! What are you going to do to me? Don't touch me! LET ME GO!"
I put my arm around her throat, applied some pressure, and held the blade against her cheek. I had my mouth against her ear as I said, "You are a whore. You travel alone, looking all sexy, in a car that clearly isn't maintained? You're just asking for someone to come along and rape you, little slut."
"FUCK YOU!"
"No, little whore. No; you'll be fucked soon, but not the way you think. I have so much fun in store for you. And if you're thinking screaming is going to help you, or struggling, just remember this: no one can hear you in here. No one is around to help. All you're going to do by screaming is turn me on more, and all you're going to do by struggling is make my cock hard. So go ahead, scream, squirm, writhe, and fight. I want you to."
Whenever I've given this talk to captives, they've responded in one of two ways: they have panicked completely, screamed hysterically, and fought like wild women, turning me on to the point of intoxication, or they've gone completely silent, thinking I might get bored and leave them alone. This one was the latter type. The latter type are more of a challenge, and I love a challenge. In the end, they always scream. They always panic. But, if they don't scream and fight right away, it's much easier to move them and get them into an even more hopeless situation.
I slung her over my shoulders in a fireman's carry, then I walked down the stairs with her, carrying her into the room where I did most of my torture. When I plan on letting a woman go, she never sees my basement. I have everything I need in the trunk at the foot of my bed to torment the willing ones. They come and go. I get bored with them. I have to feed the darker needs now and again.
She was blinded by the hood, so she didn't see the walls, the shelves, the chains with the hooks, the cranks that raised and lowered them. If she had, she would surely panic. I had my special whips here--the ones with barbs on the end that tear into flesh. I had a variety of blades, surgical equipment, electrical gear--in short, everything I needed to make a victim scream her little lungs out, and make me happy.
I laid her on a table and put the spreader bar on her, wrapping the restraints around her ankles, locking them in place. Then, I lowered two of the hooks, handled by a single crank, until I had enough slack to reach her. They had sharp points that I drove into her wrists. She panicked then. She began to scream and flail. I jumped on top of her and held her still long enough to unlock the cuffs, then I let her fall to the floor from the table, breaking her fall somewhat with my arms and my knee, then I went to the crank and began raising the hooks. Slowly, inexorably, the chains attached to the hooks raised her arms above her head and apart from each other.
She wouldn't stop screaming, and she was struggling as much as she could in her restraints. Blood flowed from her wrists, beautiful, sticky, hot blood. I licked some of it off of her, then I took her hood off, grabbed her by the hair, and quickly licked her lips. She licked them instinctively, tasting her own blood. She gagged. She didn't vomit, though.
"LET ME GO! LET ME GO! LET ME GO!" She screamed it, over and over. I ran my left hand over her body, then I bent down and held each ankle as I attached the ring on each end of the spreader bar to a ring bolted to the floor with a padlock. When her feet were secured to the floor, I reached up between her legs and began to rub her crotch through her jeans. Her clothes needed to go. I needed her flesh. She began to come through the hysterics finally, and her screams weren't as loud or frequent. She was sobbing uncontrollably, though.
Tears. Sweet, delicious tears. Oh, they taste salty, but the sight of them, the sound of her sobs, the look of her face as they streamed down all made me mad with desire and drunk on her agony. I took the knife and cut away her clothing with it, first her shirt, then her jeans. She was naked before me. Naked and sobbing. Naked and screaming.
I took several leather strands with hooks on the end of each, all coming together into a handle with a hook on the end, and I attached it to a chain. I took its twin and attached it to another chain, so they dangled. She screamed again, tried to pull away from her restraints, straining against the hooks in her wrists, clearly in agony. Delicious agony. I brought the hooks on the right side to her back, and I inserted the first one through her skin. There were barbed; they were not coming out without ripping her flesh or cutting through the metal. I inserted them in a vertical line down her back, ten in all, on the right side. I took the strands on the left side and made another vertical line. Then, I went to the crank on the right side, and she screamed more.
"STOP! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Please, I'll do anything you want! PLEASE!"
"This is what I want, whore." I began to crank.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
I cranked until the strands were taut, then I cranked some more, so the hooks pulled at her flesh. I went to the other crank and did the same. Now, each line of hooks pulled her flesh in two directions, and I had a target in the middle of her back for my whip. One of my special whips.
I drew it from the wall in full view, and she went wild, but to no avail. There was nothing she could do, nowhere she could go. She couldn't avoid the first lash, which left a long gash across her back, or the second, or the third, or any of the thirty lashes I gave her with my whip. Blood flowed freely down her back. When I was done whipping, I stood close to her, smearing every inch of flesh that wasn't covered with blood on the back of her with the red, sticky fluid. I tasted her. Licked it off. Smeared it over her more.
It was time for the front. I drew another set of hooked leather strands from the table, attached it to a chain, but this time, I did not do a vertical line down her body. The chain was directly over her, and I hooked the strands in a circular pattern on each breast. I took another pair, attached it to another chain in front of her, and hooked her labia. I cranked each, pulling at her tits and her pussy. I then whipped her abdomen, leaving gashes all over the front of her. I smeared the blood all over her, leaving her pussy for last. I used blood as lubrication to rub her clit, but I doubt she felt it the way she should, given her agony. It didn't matter. Her pleasure wasn't my goal.
The bloody, sobbing mess of her had my cock raging, throbbing, ready to enter her. I detached the hooks in her labia from their leather strands. I went over to the table, grabbed loose hooks, and attached them to the hooks in her flesh, one by one. I then ran the new hooks into the flesh on either side of her labia, spreading them as I went. I wanted her wide open. When I finished, I unlocked the spreader bar from the rings on the floor, then lowered new chains and locked them to the bar's rings instead. I cranked, raising her off the floor until she was the level where my cock could enter her blood-soaked pussy easily.
I trusted inside of her, covering my cock first in her blood. Each thrust pulled at the hooks in her flesh, and she cried out in anguish. I held her hips and thrust deep inside of her, hard, fast, knowing I wouldn't last long, couldn't last long with this much blood, this much screaming, so many tears. I rammed myself into her over and over, drawing fresh cries each time. I felt myself building up, building up, cumming inside of her. Protection didn't matter; she wouldn't be around long enough for conception. She'd seen my face, after all; her life was over. Perhaps she knew, perhaps not; all that mattered was the agony in the moment, I suspect...which is appropriate, because that's all that mattered to me: the agony, the ecstasy.
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