Jemma's TormentbyRobin P©
It looks like a rape, but read on to discover that it isn't.
The following story is based on the imagination of a reader who has given permission for the use of her ideas. For the sake of privacy, her name will not be published and does not bare any resemblance to the characters portrayed herein. The beginning is entirely her story, with only editorial alterations, background, in fills and the conclusion on my part.
As with all of the works posted by me, under my name, it is protected by international copyright and may not be copied, published or posted under any other name without express permission of the author. I do give permission for printing for personal use however; the hard copy must not published in any format with out prior permission of the Author.
I had planned for this day; carefully tailing your movements from flat to the station. I had been timing the sequences of you kissing your girlfriend goodbye then locking the front door, getting into your car and driving to the station. It must have been a whole month I suppose, time in which to familiarise my self with your daily routine. All the time I had been planning when and where I would strike, assessing your capabilities to fight back and deciding on my methodology.
Why you? I guess it was because you had bumped into me one day as we both got on the train. In your headlong rush to get through the sliding doors before they closed and left you on the platform, you charged straight into me and flashed a sorry accompanied with a dazzling smile that didn't reach your eyes. I remember you smelled wonderful, your perfume accentuated by the lingering aroma of shower gel or whatever you had used to wash that morning. From that moment onwards, your fate was sealed and my careful preparations began to roll.
But, that wasn't the real reason for my choice; the reason will become clear later, much later.
I had to prepare my ground as well. I began by renting a small town house in Anerley Park with a garage at the bottom and a basement below that. I didn't need the rest of the house, just the basement and automatic door.
I was meticulous. I wanted you incapacitated, using an injected drug, but had to be extremely careful not to give you too much or too little. The dose has to be quite accurate, calculated on you weight and body mass. I estimated that fifteen millilitres would be enough to render your muscles inoperable, but not stop your heart. You would be aware of what was happening, but unable completely to offer any resistance at all.
I chose Ketamine, an old fashioned anaesthetic no longer used because of the side effects. What did I care if you suffered acid like trips? My sole intention was to have your body totally at my command and Ketamine would act very fast, essential in what I had planned for you.
It had to be a Monday I figured, inevitably, you would be disorganised from the weekend. I had observed you distracted on Monday mornings, rushing from the car parking space towards the ticket kiosk while rummaging in your bag for the fare. I had wondered why you didn't buy a seasonal ticket and meant to ask you perhaps, if ever there was conversation between us.
Today, instead of tailing you from the flat as I had done for the last four weeks or so, I parked my car near the entrance to the station and waited for you to arrive. As usual, you were nearly late and typically, you rushed from the hurriedly parked car towards the front entrance of the station and, unknowingly, towards my clutches.
Your white open necked blouse stretched across your breasts, showing the lacy bra underneath. The black jacket was undone and flapped in the breeze. Your legs were bare beneath a short black skirt. I noted that you had not dried your long blonde hair properly and idly wondered how long it was since you left the bed of your lover to go to work. I imagined the two of you, entwined in embrace, breast-to-breast, hip-to-hip and your rosebud mouths locked together in a timeless passion. You were about to get the advance of a man; I wondered what she would think about your violation.
Ten strides away, you stop and delve to the bottom of your bag at last to retrieve the purse tucked away in a corner. In a feat of dexterity, the bag is shoved under an arm while you flip open the purse and extract the money needed. The gap between us closes as the purse is unceremoniously dumped back in the bag with the money clutched in your hand.
Five steps; I feel for the syringe loaded with ketamine that is in my pocket and grasp it as I might a dagger. I have to time my approach to perfection, too soon and you will become alarmed and have the chance to fight or struggle, too late and the opportunity will be missed.
I allow you to pass by me, smelling the aroma of your perfume, is it "Pure Poison" I wonder? It would be an apt fragrance. Then, in a flurry of movement, my hand snakes out from my pocket and buries the short needle into the muscle of your behind while simultaneously tripping and pushing you over. To make the whole event look like an accident, especially to any casual observer, I fall on top of you and hide the syringe in your bag for later disposal; getting rid of the evidence, should things go wrong, is all part of the careful planning.
You cry out of course, not from the hardly felt the prick of the needle as it passes through the thin fabric of your skirt and straight into the muscle. Your cry is for the sudden fall and the confusion of someone falling with you in a jumble of arms and legs. My weight drives the wind out of your lungs and chokes off any further vocal response.
I need at least five seconds for the initial impact of the ketamine to take effect, in order to gain that vital time, I make sure that your money is knocked out of your hand and some of the contents of your bag are spilled out on the pavement. It will take long enough to pick it all up. Your confusion and growing state of panic as the drug begins to hit are covered by my proffered words of apology and offers of help.
In those vital few seconds, your last chance of escape, of salvation pass by. I wave away offers of assistance from the passers by, telling them I have it under control. Indeed I do, for your immediate future is now completely under my control.
I keep up the pretence of concern and lead you to my waiting car. Already, the drug is coursing through your veins and has hit the neural receptors of your brain. Your eyes tell me that you are suffering from the effects, your struggles are becoming rapidly feeble; it is no problem to get you to the car with what support your legs can offer. With a show of great care, for the benefit of anyone interestedly watching the events unfold, I help you into the front passenger seat, placing your hastily repacked bag on the floor between your feet.
By now, the ketamine has done its job. Your body has virtually shut down all responsive motion. The rush of adrenalin raised you heart rate, causing the drug to work faster. Mixed with the confusion and anger is the overwhelming euphoria of the narcotic. I strap you in unhurriedly; then get in on the other side and start the car.
The trip is to be a short one; it will take no more than six minutes or so, through the back streets to get to my destination. I have practiced the route and have memorised the trouble spots in order avoid them. I glance across at you. Your eyes are open and there is recognition of the danger you are in, but there is nothing you can do about it. Speech is gone as is the ability to control your muscles in defence. The short skirt has ridden up and sits on your hips as might a belt. The vee of your underwear is visible, trapped between the milky whiteness of your upper thighs, a direct contrast and so alluring to the eye. I cannot resist a touch even though I am likely to crash the car. I risk the lack of concentration and pull your legs apart. You do not, nor cannot resist. Deliciously slowly, my trembling fingertips find your sex and press the fabric of your panties into and between the hidden lips. My cock, already hard in anticipation, hardens still further, painfully pressing against the denim of my jeans. I have to stop. Our journey continues until the arrival at the carefully selected house.
A flick of the auto-switch opens the galvanised steel garage door. Slowly it opens upward while the car idles outside, waiting for the portal to reveal the darkness inside. The car slides into the gloom and is swallowed from sight as the door silently closes down, effectively separating us from the outside world and your freedom.
I can relax now. The difficult and potentially dangerous part is over. I congratulate myself on the successful transference of you from daily routine to my domain.
Unhurriedly, I open your door and snap off the seat belt that separates your breasts; it retracts with a click into the door pillar. Getting you out of the car could be problematic, but it is something else I have practised. Lifting your legs and spinning you in the seat saves the effort of trying to take a dead weight on my lower back, it wouldn't do to put myself out and have us both incapacitated. Then, with your feet just short of the ground, I grab your arm and in a fluid movement, pitch you forward over my shoulder.
I grab your bag in one hand and nudge the car door shut with my knee. Carrying you is effortless across the garage to a half hidden door that leads to the basement. I have spent several hours preparing this subterranean room, sound proofing it and making sure the tools of my pleasure are all in place and ready for use.
The door opens onto a whitewashed room. There is very little furniture, just a mattress covered table in the centre of the concrete floor and four rings in the wall. Deftly, I drop you to land on the mattress, and then lift an errant leg that has fallen off the side. The glimpse I get is of your sex hidden by the blackness of a G-string. The anticipation rises and it is as much as I can do, not to rip the clothes off of you there and then and just plunge my self into your body until my animalistic urges are sated.
I have timed the whole episode though. Knowing I have approximately ten minutes left before the effects of the drug will start to wear off. During that time, I have more preparations to do.
I unclip and remove your watch off of your left hand, noting that you are right handed. Then, with some difficulty, remove the rings from your lifeless fingers. These with your necklace and earrings are placed out of reach in a stainless steel bowl that sits on a small, wheeled hostess tray, amongst the implements of my pleasure.
I have to pull your blouse out of the waistband of the black skirt; the bottom of the shirt is creased and rucked. Working up from the bottom, I undo each button, pressing them through the hole slowly while looking into your eyes. I can see that function is returning but know you still have some time before you are able to move, but fear is registering in the wide silent scream. One by one, as the buttons undo the smoothness of your skin is revealed as each button is released. The last one parts, the two halves fall sideways off of your breasts, to uncover a matching bra to the thong. I recognise the set as the one you recently bought in "La Sensa".
The button on the side of your skirt is a little more difficult to manipulate, but eventually, it gives way. Then I pull the zipper to allow me to pull the garment off over your knees. One by one, I take off your impossibly high-heeled shoes, smelling the leather and sweat of each before dropping it to clatter on the hard floor.
Your fingers twitch, feeling is returning rapidly now, but I still have time to complete my preparations. I move to your left hand side and pick up a silk rope that is tied to the leg of the table. The loose end is wrapped around your wrist when I have pulled it up over your head. Deliberately in you r line of sight for the effect it will have, I move to the opposite side and grasp your right wrist and cruelly pull that up over your head too, securing it in place with another, prepared silk rope.
Now that the top half of you is immobile, I can work on the lower half in comparative safety, it isn't always possible to gauge the recovery time of different people from the ketamine. For some, it is seconds only, while others take several minutes or even hours.
Grasping an ankle, I loop another silk rope around the delicate flesh and tie it off, then do the same with the other. Effectively, you are crucified on the tabletop with only a thin mattress under you and only the flimsy material of underwear between your sex and my ministrations.
Lastly, I lift your head by grabbing your hair and place a wooden morgue block under your neck; an indentation cups your neck snugly. It keeps your head up and allows you a good view of your body. Tape holds your head in place as if you had suffered a neck trauma and was in hospital, all that you can move when muscle response returns fully, is your toes and fingers. I stand back and admire the view and my handiwork.
Your senses and control have now returned almost fully. There is of course some disorientation totally expected after the anaesthetic, but, had you hands been free now, you might have made a formidable opponent especially if the French nails were brought into play. The elongated white tips looked lethal.
Hooking a foot around one of the uprights of the tray, I pull it towards me and lift off the covering cloth. An array of instruments glistens into view, light from the overhead pendant, refracts at obtuse angles making small bright dots that dance on the walls. The effect is mesmeric and attracts your peripheral vision.
Sitting on top of the neatly lined up tools is a Bowie style, hunting knife with a smooth bone handle. I pick it up in my right hand and transfer it to my left. In the transference, you see the wickedly sharp blade and vicious point. Fear courses through you, mixed with adrenalin; it drives the last lingering effects of the ketamine out of your system and makes you forget completely, the other tools on the top tray of the stainless steel gurney.
At last, the ability to speak returns; your first words are a plea in a whispered voice.
"Don't hurt me please."
It is a forlorn and pitiful cry. The sound of your voice is husky in the fear you have and the dryness of your throat following the administered drug.
I don't answer you, just look into your eyes silently and then raise an eyebrow in a mocking expression. It has the effect I sought, you are stunned into silence, afraid that your whimpers may bring about or hasten your demise. Self preservation takes over, you resign yourself to the ordeal that is to befall you, imagining the very worst that could be.
I trace the point of the knife from the hollow of your neck and shoulder in a slow languid traverse that is leading towards your right breast. The fabric of the brassiere will be no impedance to the honed edge; the protective sheath of your skin could offer no resistance to its progress if I decided to plunge it into your chest cavity.
Your eyes close as if in silent prayer as the point picks against the fibres of the garment. Although the touch is so slight, it feels like a branding iron in its intensity. Goose bumps form as a primordial response to the cold, trying to trap air between skin and hair as an insulation mechanism. You have no hair, but its effect on your nipple is quite remarkable. The hidden hard nub creates a small mound inside the fabric, pushing from within. It is there that the point of the knife is travelling and you know it, fully.
"Please." You implore, but I ignore the plaintive cry.
I am enjoying the tenseness of your reaction and purposely linger with the sharp apex against your nipple. I imagine that it is becoming painfully hard in the confines of the lacy material. A slight push punctures the warp and weft of the material, creating a small hole; the pressure of flesh forces a pimple of skin through the parted threads.
I trace the pattern of lace towards the strap, unto your skin, which evinces a sharp intake of breath from between your white teeth when cold steel meets warm dermis. Slowly and with great deliberation, I flatten the blade on the mound of your breast, the effect is as of searing heat, and your eyes flash open to follow in morbid fascination, the progress of the lethally sharp weapon.
It passes under the strap and, with a deft flick of the wrist, demonstrates, as if you needed the input, that the blade is whisper sharp. The strap parts with a snap and disappears over your shoulder, leaving the under wired cup unsupported.
In deliciously exquisite suspense, the tip of the hunting knife crosses the valley over your breastbone to explore the left breast that is heaving in unison with its twin as your lungs suck in air and expel the residue.
Again, I rest the tip against your proudly displayed nipple, seeing the rise of a little mound as if it were trying to escape all by its self. A knick opens in the fabric; skin is forced through the hole. Again, I trace the blade upwards toward the strap and lay the knife flat, feeling you tense as it passes under the black elasticated loop. Anticipation is in your eyes, you know what is to happen, having it already occur, so I make you wait, perhaps a couple of minutes pass where nothing moves apart from your chest in breathing and your eyes as they flick between the knife and my own portals to the sole.
Judging the time to be right, another dextrous twist of the wrist parts the support loop that flicks behind your neck, disappearing in the strands of your blonde hair, massed by the block supporting your head.
Was it a realisation of the full impact of your situation? Or is it a plea for the torture to continue? I consider briefly asking you, but then decide not to enter into dialogue at this time.
Satisfied with the result and the reaction; the point of the knife is pressed lightly on your chin, and then follows the contours of your neck and breast to the meeting point of the cups of the plunge bra. A flick of the wrist separates the thin bow. The cups spring apart to release the treasure contained. Your breasts, free from the encumbrance of the fabric prison fall into their natural attitude, blood infused nipples standing dark and proud, surrounded by pimpled aureoles.
I brush each in turn with the point of the knife, pricking the hardened skin, but not enough to pierce or draw blood just enough to snag the tortured flesh. Then, just as slowly as the previously enacted and deliberate torment, the tip, reversed, travels between your breasts towards a quivering navel. A thin red line traces the passage and raises a weal of pronounced skin, leaving a trail to follow perhaps, at a later time.
Unhurriedly, but inevitably, my intention becomes clear to you, I mean to cut the thong from your body, but also intend to enjoy the delicious thrill of cold steel meeting your hot flesh.
You moan and try to thrash your head from side to side in denial of my resolve. The combination of shaped block and tape prevent anything more than a centimetre of movement. It is a useless attempt and achieves nothing except to raise your own anxiety. The blade, flat on your pubis, slips under the elasticated waistband to one side of the V shape that hides your sex. The thin band parts with a snap that is echoed when the band on the other side is also cut. With the tip of the knife, I lift the fabric covering your mons and reveal your neatly trimmed dark blonde hair. I can smell the wetness collected in the gusset that lies against your hidden sex without the taught ness created by the side straps. I let it fall between your parted thighs to lie in an untidy heap beside your anus.