Captivation

by Sarah Fisher

  In the orange arc from the lamp she could see the four men were swarthy local fishermen, on a late night drinking spree. The alcohol had stripped away any vestiges of control. The wine bottle was forced back into her mouth, while she felt a hand pawing at her shaved sex. Eager fingers splayed her open, diving deep into the warm moist confines of her sex. She froze, terrified they might tear the delicate flesh around the ring.

  Someone picked up the lantern and held it high, and the man who’d been pinning her down slid off so they could admire their prize. There was an earthy grunt of approval from each of them, and then the one who’d first caught her unbuckled his belt; it seemed he was to be the first to have her; his prize for bringing in such a fine catch. Her legs were forced apart and he straddled her, hauling her back onto his raging cock. Dragging her face closer he pressed a wine-tainted kiss on her lips. His cruel and hungry eyes stared down into hers, savouring her humiliation and distress. He grinned, and stroked her leather collar.

  ‘Slave,’ he whispered in heavily accented English.

  Alex shivered, and then gasped for breath as he suddenly plunged his cock into her.

  The next few hours were a jumbled tapestry of insanely wild sex. The fishermen poured more and more wine down Alex’s throat, forcing her to drink, making her head spin and her stomach churn. And they fucked her again, and again, and again. There was not an orifice they did not fill; her mouth, her anus, her quim. If they noticed the weal marks and bruises on her exhausted body it didn’t stop them from using her for their seemingly endless round of pleasure.

  Alex crouched on all fours in the sand, feeling like a stud bitch as one man slipped his cock into her dripping sex while another lifted her head up and fed himself into her mouth. Every sense was drowned with the sounds, sight, and smell of sex. In her muddled, drink-numbed mind, she begged them to stop, to take her home, to set her free - but her plea’s fell on deaf ears.

  At long last, as the grey light of a new day began to break, the man who’d initially caught her hoisted her up into his arms and carried her to the hut. It seemed to be the signal for the others to depart.

  Alex curled up on his rough bed, assuming that she would be allowed now - finally - to go to sleep. But quickly his hands running between her legs told her otherwise. He rolled her onto her back and began to lap at her sex, awash with the spent semen of his companions. She moaned for him to stop, but he was relentless. He grinned up at her, his lips slick and wet.

  ‘Pleasure. You to give me pleasure, you’re slave,’ he stumbled with the English. Alex moaned and sobbed as his tongue worked its way over her clitoris. Her exhausted body responded at once. She was so tired, but she adored what this peasant could do to her. She was stunned and ashamed; how could her body find so much pleasure in the aftermath of their squalid orgy? Her tormentor eased his fingers into the warm confines of her sex, stroking her towards the darkest of ecstasies. She writhed miserably, trying to suppress the passion that was growing inexorably in her belly.

  ‘Please don’t,’ she sobbed as the first white hot shard of orgasm exploded inside her. ‘Please let me go. You have to help me, please...’ Her whole body convulsed with the wonderful sensations he was inducing, and she knew then that she was beyond help.

  Whatever vestige of self-respect she had remaining shattered like glass, and she relinquished every part of herself to the slave mentality that drove her on and on, taking pleasure from her own humiliation and shame. Her captor finally pulled away, still grinning. Almost idly he crawled up alongside her and dragged his cock out of his trousers. He rubbed the rejuvenated shaft across her open lips.

  ‘Pleasure,’ he purred again. ‘You give me much pleasure, or I beat you too... like Peter Tourne.’ As he spoke he ran his fingers through her sweat-soaked hair. She had no choice but to take him into her mouth. As her lips closed around him she could taste her juices mingled with the sweat and semen of his companions. He threw back his head and pulled her up onto him, while her fingers and tongue struggled to give him the pleasure he demanded. He bucked against her face, and she sucked hard as she slowly admitted to herself that she enjoyed the way he used her purely for his own gratification; there was no consideration for her needs, and that realisation re-lit the fire deep in her belly. He quickly groaned and filled her mouth, and Alex swallowed and shuddered pleasurably in unison with the heavy man.

  When he was still and breathing evenly she curled up like a child against his hairy belly. He smiled and stroked her tenderly. ‘You a good slave,’ he murmured and dragged a blanket up over them both. Alex closed her eyes, willing sleep to steal her thoughts away.

  Chapter 13

  As Alex’s eyes fluttered open the morning light filtering through a small window reminded her of the guest cabin, but the reality of her predicament filled her mind an instant later. She blinked and stared around the rough interior of the beachside building. It was little more than a shed and smelled of rotten fish. On the far side of the room, piled on a table, were a heap of fishing nets. The wooden floor was bare and sandy, the walls covered with faded yellowing whitewash. The odd sticks of furniture were sun-bleached and looked like salvage. Alex rubbed her eyes. The makeshift bed smelt of sweat and sex. She shivered. The only crumb of comfort was that she was alone.

  Memories of the previous night came flooding back in an intense rush of disjointed images; her escape from Tourne had delivered her straight into the hands of drunken ruffians. Far from making an escape, it appeared she had merely exchanged one horrible prison for another. Her head ached violently from the after effects of the wine they’d forced upon her, and every other part of her body felt tired and tender.

  She gingerly tried to slide off the bed. As she rolled over something caught on the tangle of dirty blankets. She stretched across to free herself, and was instantly horrified at what she saw. The fisherman had tied her to the bed with a length of greasy rope. One end was knotted through her collar, and the other was fastened around the metal frame by her head. It certainly wouldn’t prevent her from escaping, but the gesture made her cringe. She was tied in the same way a man would tie a stray dog. Tears trickled down her face. Did the fisherman truly believe she would wait there for him to return? How could she have sunk so low?

  Beside the pile of fishing nets her gaoler had left a bucket of water, a tin cup and a half loaf of bread. Alex stared at it and tried to shake off the sense of resignation and despair that threatened to engulf her. Her clothes had to be on the beach - if she found them, got washed and dressed, she could still make her ultimate escape.

  It took seconds to free herself from the rope. She hobbled across the rough floor and used the cold water from the bucket to wash away the evidence of the night before as best she could. She was thankful there wasn’t a mirror around to bear witness to her degradation. Wrapping herself in one of the blankets she crept cautiously out onto the beach - it was deserted. Under the hull of the boat she found her jeans and boots. She picked them up, trying to ignore the cache of empty wine bottles littered around in a rough circle. It was here the men had held her down, their arena marked by discarded rubbish.

  Across the sand in the shadow of the rocks she found her shirt, jacket and bag. Even though her clothes were stained and torn she pulled them on. Dropping the blanket to the sand she dressed where she stood in the cool rising sun, the fresh sea air helping to revive her - just a little. She checked her meagre possessions, and was relieved to find the men had not taken her money or passport. She then started to explore, trying to get some idea of where she was in relation to the harbour.

  The cove she was in appeared to be completely encircled by rocks, but as she had come down a steep path from the villa, she reasoned that there had to be another way out which led in the direction of the village - after all, the boat was still on the beach, so her captors hadn’t left by sea, and she doubted they’d climbed up to Peter Tourne’s villa, because it
was situated so far away from the village.

  Alex circled the warming beach. Her senses concentrated on any unexpected sounds in the distance; the last thing she wanted was for the fishermen to reappear and find her still there.

  After nearly half an hour she came across a well worn trail that seemed to lead up into the hillside but ran in the general direction of where she guessed the harbour to be. There were probably other paths, but she was desperate to get away from the beach and its vivid memories, and the possibility of recapture. Shouldering her holdall, she set off determinedly without looking back; she wanted to put the events in the cove, and at KaRoche, well and truly behind her.

  After the first hundred yards or so the path veered steeply up into the hills. What had appeared to be an easy escape route quickly turned into a tortuous climb. The path that had seemed so well trodden close to the cove twisted back and forth between rocks and boulders, at some points fading away totally. The loose stones made it difficult for her to get any decent footing, and the muscles in her thighs and calves soon ached and burned. She considered whether to climb down and try to find another way out, but was afraid she might come across the fishermen again. She was rapidly losing her bearings - which way was the harbour now?

  Eventually, after a tortuous climb that tested Alex’s resolve to the limit, she clambered up between a rise of steep rocks and found herself in a deserted olive grove. She paused a moment to gain her breath, and then followed the meandering path until she was beyond the trees, where she found a narrow track which she presumed to be the one she’d crossed the previous night. To her right it climbed back up into the hillside towards the villa, and to the left it ran down in the direction of the sea, which glistened far below.

  Alex stopped for a quick rest. She quelled her nagging hunger by devouring the two juicy oranges, and despite her desperate predicament, was unable to resist the spectacular views her elevated position afforded her. She shaded her eyes from the sun and watched the tiny dots offshore that were the local fishing boats. Some were stationary, and accompanied by a mass of white flecks which circled and swooped to feed on any discarded scraps, but others were moving slowly in a line, and Alex knew then that they were coming out from the harbour, and in which direction she needed to be walking. Surely she couldn’t now be more than half an hour from the village and the harbour?

  Slinging the holdall over her back she set off with a new feeling of optimism. Sadly that optimism was punctured fatally as she rounded a large boulder a little way down the track. Below her, parked in the curve of the bend, was Peter Tourne’s distinctive Mercedes. She stopped abruptly, almost losing her footing, and inadvertently sent a number of large stones clattering noisily down towards the car. Spinning round to flee back the way she’d come, she came face to face with Peter Tourne and Starn Fettico.

  ‘No!’ she screamed in horror and frustration. ‘No! Where did you...? How did you...?’

  She quickly turned again trying desperately to locate an escape route, and saw Mario was now leaning cockily against the car. They had cut her off. She stared at Mario, then at the track, then back to Mario, wondering if she dare try to run past him. Even from a distance she could see he had a sore looking lump across the side of his head, and she knew that if he caught her he would be eager to repay her for the blows she’d struck the night before. He grinned malevolently as their eyes met. She sensed he would be only too pleased for her to try and make a break for it. She knew she was lost. Her shoulders sagged in defeat, and she turned and looked up at Peter Tourne.

  ‘How... how did you find me so easily?’ she asked quietly.

  He smiled with his usual, infuriating confidence. ‘Your little friends were eager to let me know they’d found one of my girls. I hope you enjoyed their company. We’d already guessed where you were; there are only three paths up from the cove, and someone would’ve let me know if you appeared down in the harbour.’ He paused, his eyes resting on her ruined clothes. ‘You wouldn’t have got very far on the island anyway - my marks are well known all over.’

  Alex’s wrists were suddenly seized and twisted painfully up behind her back. She shrieked with agony and arched onto tiptoes in an attempt to decrease the discomfort of Mario’s rough and unnecessary treatment. Both Tourne and Starn enjoyed the way her shirt stretched tightly over her vulnerable breasts, her nipples clearly visible, and then the former waved Mario away.

  ‘Let her go, that won’t be necessary. Will it, Alex?’

  She shook her head miserably as she rubbed her freed wrists.

  Starn grunted and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘You’re too damned soft, Peter. I’d flay the skin off the little bitch if she was mine.’

  Tourne smiled. ‘Then I’m sure she’ll be relieved to know that you haven’t bought her, Starn. But as it is, her punishment is no longer my concern.’

  Alex stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.

  Tourne reached forward and gently brushed the hair back off her forehead. As he did he snapped the lead onto her collar. ‘You are no longer my property, Alex. At lunchtime today I hand you over to your new owner. I think under the circumstances it would be better if we went back to the villa and prepared you for their arrival.’

  Alex stood rooted to the spot. Mustafa’s face formed in her mind, followed rapidly by Monique’s. ‘Who is it?’

  Tourne smiled and then tugged at her leash. ‘You never learn, do you? Let’s just say he’s an old friend of mine. I’m certain you’ll make him very happy.’

  Alex’s thoughts raced. Was it Simon Bay? Was he to be her new owner? She silently fell into step between Peter Tourne and Starn Fettico, and contemplated the fate that awaited her back at KaRoche as they led her to the waiting car.

  When they reached the villa Tourne turned to her. ‘I’m going to chain you in the gallery room. My housekeeper will come and get you ready for your presentation to your new owner.’ He stared intently into her eyes. ‘Don’t ever lose sight of the game, Alex. I told you before that I make the rules, and despite how it may seem to you at this moment, I promise I will do all I can to ensure you are well treated when you leave here.’

  Alex barely heard his words of scant comfort. She was looking up the garden steps at Mario, who was already standing beneath the shady archway that led into the gallery. He was obviously waiting for her. She wondered with a shudder what revenge he might exact upon her for having the audacity to escape.

  Peter Tourne tugged at the lead. ‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’

  The gallery was cool and dark after the glare of the bright morning sun. Alex would have been grateful to have shed her filthy clothes if it hadn’t been for Mario watching her undress with his lust filled eyes. He hadn’t spoken since his boss had handed him Alex’s leash. To ensure she made no further escape attempts the collar was now connected to an overhead chain, like the one in the cells.

  The room had already been prepared for her return - she wondered how it was that Tourne had been so confident he would find her so quickly. Once she was undressed the housekeeper re-shaved her sex with deftly confident fingers. Alex could hardly believe she now found such intimacy acceptable. Her sex and nipples still bore the crimson stain that Antia had applied to them. Climbing into the steaming bath Alex tried hard to concentrate her mind. If she thought for more than an instant about who her new owner might be she could feel a sense of panic growing low in her belly. Mario remained unmoving against the wall - his expression was dark, thunderous.

  As the housekeeper helped Alex from the bath and wrapped her in a fluffy towel, Mario mumbled threateningly: ‘You soon get what it is coming to you, English girl.’

  Alex flinched. The housekeeper glared at him, but he continued unperturbed. ‘I am everywhere. Every house has a Mario.’

  Alex felt an icy chill run down her spine. He was right - every master would have a frien
d or a servant, who would demand or steal her favours. She straightened her back and squared her shoulders, and challenged him with a confidence she didn’t feel. ‘I’ll be ready for him next time, you’ve taught me a great deal.’

  Mario’s eyes flashed furiously and he lunged towards her. It must have hurt his pride to let a girl like Alex escape his clutches. Alex leapt back in alarm as he raised his fist. The little housekeeper intervened.

  ‘No!’ she snapped at the corpulent driver. ‘I get her ready now! You don’t mark her face, you fool!’

  Mario spat in disgust. ‘Bitch!’ he growled. He was genuinely very angry.

  Alex prayed that whoever had bought her intended to take her away from KaRoche straight away - if she was left alone with Mario she dreaded to think what might happen. The housekeeper waved her towards the leather surgical couch. Glad to break eye contact with the driver, Alex climbed onto the padded top and stared at the ceiling. The old woman secured her wrists to the framework. It wasn’t until she was totally immobilised that Alex wondered why she had been secured.

  Mario’s distinctive features came into her field her vision. He was grinning like an imbecile.

  ‘He going to brand you now. Your new boss want you marked so everyone know you belong to him,’ the housekeeper said as if she could read her mind. Alex gasped and began to struggle frantically, rolling sideways off the couch. With her wrists secured any real chance of escape was impossible. Mario grabbed her and dragged a heavy leather strap around her waist.

  ‘Please! Please don’t do this!’ Alex pleaded as he turned his attentions to her ankles. ‘Let me go! I’ll do whatever you want... please Mario!’

  The sweating driver merely laughed. She should have known that there was no point in appealing to him; he would be only too pleased to see her hurt and humiliated, as he had been. Despite her frantic despair Alex heard a door open, and then saw Peter Tourne approaching her.