Sara's Story Ch. 01

"That was uncivil, Sara."

"And what you're doing to me isn't?" she shot back, defiant, no trace of humor in her voice.

"For this, I will have to punish you. I didn't want to, but you leave me no choice."

"Or, how 'bout this: why don't you go fuck yourself instead?" In response all she heard was the pop of a latch, and the opening and closing of a door. She was left in silence.

She didn't know how long she waited, time was meaningless to her, but it was half an hour at least. The muscles in her legs and arms began to ache from the cursed straps. She tried to calm herself, steel her resolve for the next round, come what may. Gradually her heart rate slowed, her breathing began to steady. The throbbing between her legs subsided until only the wetness remained. The wetness, and the dread of what he would do to her when he came back.

You shouldn't have done that, the voice chided her. It's not like he was hurting you, it continued, now he's angry. What if he comes back with a knife? Did you think about that before you pissed in his face?

He has no right to touch me, she told the voice in her head, besides, he's going to kill me anyway. That's how these things always end, isn't it?

Before the voice could answer, Sara heard the pop of the latch and the door opened. The man made no sound as he entered, and she found that she desperately wanted to hear him speak...to gauge his mood by the tone of his voice, but her pride would not let her be the first to break the silence. His footsteps stopped at the end of the table, where her feet still dangled uselessly and her privates were exposed for anyone to see. She had never, in all her life, felt so exposed and vulnerable as she did at this moment. She wanted to cry, but refused to give in to it.

She heard him shuffling around, heard things being laid out and arranged on a table. Implements of torture, perhaps? wondered the voice. He turned on a faucet and filled a bucket. She then realized that he was cleaning the floor. He worked his way steadily towards her until he was standing right at the end of the table. She then heard water sloshing in a bucket followed by silence. She waited, ears straining for the next sound, and heard nothing. After a minute or two she again heard him standing next to her. She heard the sound of a bowl set on a table, and water being squeezed from a towel, but still, when the warm wet towel touched her thigh she yelped in surprise, eliciting a chuckle from him that she found comforting. He cleaned her. First her thighs and stomach, then her privates, even down the slit of her ass where her urine had dribbled and pooled on the seat. When he was finished, she heard him wash his hands at some faucet on the far side of the room and walk back over to her.

"Any more tricks, Sara?" he asked, resuming his post on the stool.

Through clenched teeth she replied: "I'm just full of surprises, you son of a bitch."

Every nerve of her body was on edge. Deprived of her sight, her other senses were on high alert. So when the man between her legs leaned forward and, without touching her at all, gently blew across her privates, every nerve ending in her entire body ignited. The battle had begun again, and she was already losing. But if the main battleground before had been her clitoris, now it seemed to be anything but. First he started gingerly sucking the outer lips of her vulva, drawing blood into her privates. He drew circles around the entrance of her vagina with his tongue and danced around her clitoris. The effect was intoxicating, the need urgent. Again her nipples constricted and begged for touch. The throbbing between her legs returned with a vengeance. She could feel the heat building in her vagina. and that wellspring opened and flowed. She had no weapons left, no tricks up her sleeve. She was bound and naked and completely exposed to his trepidations, and she was too tired to resist any longer.

But now he would not let her come. Time and again he would bring her to the edge of oblivion, only to let her slip back, to deny her clitoris that one slight flick that would send her into ecstasy. Despite the straps, her hips moved involuntarily with every caress, her body became slick with the sweat of her exertions, and still he held her back. Her breathing was heavy, every muscle strained and tense. She was his. Sara no longer felt the straps that bound her, or the stiffness in her muscles from the restraints. The chair, the blindfold, even the fear, it all slipped away as her complete reality became the gentle stroke of a tongue.

"Oh, god" she cried softly.

In that moment, he pursed his lips around her clitoris and began to suck, all the while flicking forcefully with his tongue. She didn't slip into orgasm. She was fired like a rocket into it. The sound of her pleasure wasn't the soft purr or growl of a kitten. It was feral, guttural, and full of hunger. Waves of pleasure swept over her, and she was carried away. Again and again he brought her back to that pinnacle until finally exhausted, she stopped coming. Her entire body went slack and her breath came in gulps. Only then did he stop.

Sara drifted back down to reality, and shame was waiting for her. He had done it, she thought. He had taken from her what she had refused to give, and worst of all, her vagina still throbbed, still ached to be touched. He stood and rested his hands on the balls of her feet. She could feel him looking down at her, and she knew how she must look to him. Her cheeks were flushed, her nipples hard. There was a sheen of sweat on her stomach and chest, and on her upper lip. Her legs were spread and her labia open and ready. Even though she couldn't see it, she knew her body, knew that her privates were now deep scarlet and engorged with blood. Her wetness had spilled over its boundary and run down the cheek of her bum.

None of this could she hide from her captor. All of it was openly exposed to him, and he was taking it all in.

"You are truly a paragon of your sex, Sara Kierson," he said.

Her chin began to quiver and she turned her head away from him. This is it, she thought, now he's going to pull it out and rape me, and I'll hate him with every fiber of my being.

But to her surprise, he didn't. Instead she felt him put thick leather straps on her ankles. Cuffs, she realized, or something like it. He walked around and put something similar on her left wrist. "I'm going to let you up now," he said. "but before I do you have to promise me you won't do anything foolish, and that you will do exactly as I say."

Sara didn't reply, but set her jaw. The quivering of her chin stopped.

"Sara," he persisted, "I'm not going to let you up until you promise me."

"Alright, fine! I promise. I won't do anything stupid and I'll do what you say!"

He released her arms, and cuffed them together. Instead of a chain, the cuffs were connected by a thin metal bar. He then undid the straps on the rest of her body. When he was finished, he carefully pulled her to her feet.

She felt the cool tile floor, still damp from mopping, under her feet. Her limbs were stiff and sore, but it felt good to be standing on her own two feet. She thought about snatching off the mask that blinded her, but then thought the better of it. He had given her a little freedom, and she didn't want to lose it again so soon.

"Are you going to take off the blindfold," she asked.

"It time, Sara. You have to learn patience."

He put an arm around her shoulder and slowly guided her out of the room and into a hallway. He was, of course, fully clothed. He was taller than she was, and she could feel the strength in is arms and chest. She considered for a moment trying to break away, trying to make a run for it, but she did not think she could even if she tried, not that she'd know where to go even if she succeeded in escaping his grasp. They took just a few steps before he stopped her again and opened another door.

He led her several paces into the room. "Stand here, and don't move," he ordered.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"Patience," he reminded her. She heard a click, and felt the weight of a chain as he attached it to her cuffs. He was then at her ankles, where she heard him chaining them to the floor. Only then did he remove the mask that blinded her. She shut her eyes until they adjusted to the sudden brightness. When she opened them, her captor was standing just a few feet away next to the wall. He was dressed in a loose fitting black t-shirt and blue jeans. He wore a mask, not unlike a theatre mask, but the lower half of his face was exposed. He had a strong jaw, and was clean shaven. His black hair was shot through with gray. He was watching her intently.

Doesn't look Dutch either, observed the voice.

The room was no larger than her bedroom. There were no windows. A leather sofa sat along the wall to her left, and all along the walls there were paintings of nude women in various poses. She followed the chain from her cuffs up to the ceiling where it ran through a pulley and back down to the wall where he was standing. The chain was connected to some sort of hand winch, which he now began to ratchet. Slowly the chain began to lift towards the ceiling, and her along with it. She tried to resist, but it was useless. He was stronger and had the leverage.

She looked at him. If his face betrayed any emotion, it was hidden by the mask. "What the hell are you doing now?" she demanded.

"I'm punishing you, Sara. You were bad, remember?"

Told ya, said the voice.

"I was bad? I was bad!" She was incredulous. "You violated me! You raped me, Michael. I did the only thing I could to stop you. Why are you going to hurt me for that?"

"Because you have to learn a very simple lesson. The rules outside these walls do not apply here, Sara Kierson. I make the rules. If you obey them, you will be rewarded. If you do not, you will be punished. What you did violated the rules, so you must be punished. It's that simple."

Her hands were now above her head and steadily rising.

"Michael, really, you don't have to do this. I didn't know the rules...I just reacted, that's all. Please. You got what you wanted. I came for you, didn't I? Why don't we just call it even? You don't have to do...whatever you're about to do."

"There are certain things you have to understand, Sara. Disobedience is always punished, obedience is always rewarded. That is the first lesson."

The chain continued to lift her, until just her toes touched the cool tile floor. He set the latch on the winch, and walked behind her, out of her vision. She struggled to see what was going on behind her, but with the chains on her ankles and her arms stretched over her head, she was unable. She could hear him setting things out on a table.

Meat hooks? Razorblades? wondered the voice.

"Michael, please don't." she begged. "At least tell me what you're going to do to me." She fought the chains for a peek.

He stood directly behind her, close enough that she could smell her scent on his breath. He presented a riding crop, holding it up long enough for her to get a good long look at it. It didn't look friendly at all.

"You're going to whip me?" She sounded almost relieved, at least it wasn't a meat hook. "Michael! I'm not some..."

"Now would be a good time for you to stop speaking, Sara."

She heard him shift his feet...assuming the posture, and heard the whip of the crop as he drew back. She clenched her rear and squeezed her eyes shut. Fire rippled across her backside as the crop struck her backside with a loud thwack. She jumped, despite herself, but didn't give him the pleasure of hearing her cry out. I can do this, I can do this, she reassured herself. "I can believe you're whipping me, you son of a bitch!" she yelled at him, furious.

The blows continued in a steady, measured pace. Each time it became more difficult to hold back, to keep silent.

It's just like eating chicken wings, noted the voice, each one gets hotter and hotter.

And the voice was right. With each sting of the crop, the pain became more intense. She twisted and turned, desperate to evade the crop, but the hand on her hip held her steady. He focused his blows, not over her entire backside, but only on one area at a time. First on the tender round of flesh where her butt met her thighs. He then slowly moved upwards, exploring fresh territory and spreading the stinging pain. Even worse than the pain was the humiliation, the shame that stung much more intensely than the marks of the crop. By the time he reached the top of her rear, the entire area was throbbing and burning. She could feel the welts starting to rise. When he started again, almost without pause, on that tender, abused flesh, the pain became too much for her to handle and remain silent, and when she breached that silence, it was like a torrent.

She screamed, she cursed, she hurled every insult she could think of at her tormentor, her face red with anger and humiliation, streaked with tears. But he did not abate. Instead, the more she cursed and flailed, the more he whipped her. When he reached the top, he started again at the bottom a third time. Finally, exhausted, she collapsed. Her feet gave out and she hung there limp and lifeless.

"Please," she cried, "Please stop. I'll do anything. Just please stop."

Only then did he relent. Her rump was bright red and criss-crossed with welts. To weak to stand, her full weight carried by the chain that bound her arms above her head. He set the riding crop down and walked back over to the winch. He let her gently down to the floor, where she cradled herself and sobbed quietly. Michael unlocked and removed the cuffs on her wrists and ankles, freeing her of all restraint, and set a box of tissues next to her. She did not move, but gathered her legs up in her arms and wept.

He sat down in the center of the white leather couch. "Come here, Sara."

She did not move.

Michael took the crop and brought it down hard against the leather sofa with a loud crack. Sara rose with a start and stood near him, her eyes red and puffy and wet.

"Good, now lay across me," he instructed.

She did as she was told, lying face down on the sofa, with her backside across his lap. The position was awkward and embarrassing, but she no longer cared. The flesh on her butt still stung and throbbed, but the shame of it all was far greater. He was inspecting her, or rather, what he had done to her. She had no idea what he was going to do next, so she occupied herself by examining the artwork on the walls. They were originals, not prints, she decided, even though she hardly considered herself an expert. The women in the painting were all nude and very beautiful, but none of them looked like her. Where she was all angles and well-defined muscle, they were rounded and soft, large breasted and doe-faced. The kind of girls she liked, when she was into girls.

Something cold and wet touched her backside and she jumped, but Michael steadied her with a hand on her shoulders. "It's just aloe," he said. "It'll make the pain stop."

"How sweet of you," she replied sardonically. But even as she said it, the burning began to lessen. Her skin cooled and the pain lessened. The relief was almost immediate.

"Better?"

"Yes, a little," she had to admit.

"What do you say?"

Sara bit her lip. A million inappropriate responses threatened to spill out of her mouth and sentence her to another date with the riding crop. Miraculously, she controlled her tongue long enough to spit out a testy "Thank you."

"I know you won't believe this, but I didn't want to do that. I don't want to hurt you, Sara."

"Lemme guess, that hurt you more than it did me, right?" The tears were gone now, but her eyes were still red and swollen.

"Not exactly, but it's not something I take pleasure in. All I ask is that you are obedient and do as I say. I won't hurt you."

"I'm not sure what you think you know about me, but 'obedient' is not a word that is ever used to describe me."

"I know. I studied you for a long time, Sara. You will be a challenge."

She wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but let it go, for now.

He continued to work the lotion into her tender flesh. She could smell the pleasant aroma of the aloe, and allowed herself to enjoy just a little bit the pleasant sensation of his caress. Her awareness began to drift. The man might be a monster, she decided, but he was good with his hands. She hardly noticed a different sort ache starting to grow inside her. Not from her welted rump, but the hungry, throbbing ache between her legs, the need for penetration. She felt wetness. Not that of her previous encounter, but new, hot. She didn't consciously open her legs, but ever so slightly she shifted, an invitation.

He accepted. He didn't tease her or waste any time on the periphery. But his finger slipped inside her so easily, so effortlessly, that she was hardly aware of it at all, at least, consciously. He only put one finger inside of her, but he knew just how to use it: less like a penis, more like a massage. He didn't try to rush her or probe too deeply. She wasn't even sure if he was trying to bring her to orgasm or just explore her.

He thumb slipped forward into the valley of her backside and began to massage her perineum, the finger and thumb moving in unison. She tensed. The last time anyone had ventured over to that part of her body, it had ended very, very badly...

It was her first boyfriend. They were trying new things, experimenting, and this time he wanted to take her from behind. She got into position for him, and everything was going great. Then he tried to give her what she later learned was called the shocker. He jammed his thumb into her anus like it was some sort of ramrod. It's amazing how quickly she could go from completely turned on to completely pissed off. She kicked him off the back of the bed and he split his head on the corner of her dresser. That was the end of that, and to add insult to injury, he bled all over her favorite tee. Since that day, that other opening was strictly off limits.

But this was different. He never penetrated, only massaged. Slowly, she relaxed again. The thumb complimented the finger and soon she drifted off again, utterly relaxed. Her orgasm came slowly, spreading from her privates like a low burning fire that warmed her whole body, right down to her toes. When it was over he rested the invading hand upon her thigh and with the other stroked her hair. She was so relaxed now she almost fell asleep.

Minutes went by and not a word was passed between them.

Finally, Sara broke the silence with a question that jumped to the forefront of her mind and ripped her from her half-dreaming. She remembered reading about some poor woman in the news who had been locked in a dungeon basement for years. She was terrified that he had a similar fate in mind for her.

"How long are you going to keep me here, Michael? Please tell me you're not one of those types who will lock up a woman forever."

Michael laughed, not a laugh of condescension but pure amusement. "Of course not, Sara. Our relationship will be less like a marriage and more like a casual summer fling. I can promise you that."

"Oh," she said, and laid her head back down on the sofa. She was tired. Perhaps the drugs he used to sedate her were still having some affect on her, or perhaps it was just the stress of the situation, she didn't know. All she remembered after that was being carried, and then being laid in a soft, warm bed.

Sara Kierson dreamed of the pool, and this time, her friends were there.