Mistaken Trust (The Jewels Trust Series)

by Spain, Shirley

  Sobbing uncontrollably, she launched another frantic twisting-turning assault against the leather restraints.

  He indulged his senses: the sight of her short auburn hair in a tossed mess across her face and her eyes wild with fright; the sound of her gasping short breaths; the smell of her sweat, richly seasoned with fear ... and her fully clothed body? No, no, no. That mannish red, black and white plaid flannel shirt and those tight-ass Levis had to go. A mischievous grin scooted across his face. “Oh, Miz Tree-Hugger,” he taunted, his voice rising an octave in anticipation of the next step. “One more thing.” Flashing his version of a sexy Tom Selleck eyebrow wave at her, he brushed back his pin-striped suit coat to expose a knife sheathed at his side.

  “God, nooooo,” she shrieked, violently jerking her arms and legs against the stubborn straps.

  “Now, now,” he said calmly, deliberately withdrawing the SOG SEAL knife to dramatically reveal its seven-inch blade.

  “Please, Mister. Please. I’ll do anything you want. I mean anything. I even have some money. Please, just don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want, please....”

  Old news. How unoriginal, he had heard it all before. The sight of the blade had brought about an instant attitude adjustment in each of his past lab rats, too. Miz Tree-Hugger’s chatters were no different.

  The verbal tirades always started the same and always ended the same. At first when the women were bound only in wrist restraints they spouted angry commands. Demanded to be released. Bravely judged him. Shouted vulgarities.

  When their legs were strapped down, brave commands and damning judgements quickly diminished to window-shattering screams and pleas for outside help. Once that notion was squashed and the knife was unsheathed, Mickey Mouse bargaining attempts were proposed. When that didn’t work, they resorted to shameless begging. And right now Miz Tree-Hugger was fuckin’ groveling.

  “Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you want. Really. I promise. Anything,” she sobbed.

  Snickering, “Damn straight you’ll do anything I want,” he needled, bending over her.

  “Just please don’t hurt me. Pleeeease....”

  Undisturbed by her sniveling and pleas, his steady hand skillfully guided the razor sharp knife through the heavy flannel material of her shirt with the ease of a pencil slicing through a cobweb.

  Like those before her, Miz Tree-Hugger held her breath and pinched her eyes shut, muscles trembling without control. “Same old, same old,” he flatly commented, again like a coroner verbalizing notes. After slicing the blouse, he skinned off her tight-fitting Levis. Lastly, he reduced her bra and panties to mere tatters before sheathing the knife.

  Obviously relieved the knife was out of her sight, she started to breath again ... and cry.

  Peeling the slivered clothes from her body and tossing them on the floor, he hovered over her, visually frisking every inch of her naked body.

  Miz Tree-Hugger’s face was red and blotchy from crying. A thin line of blood trickled from under the leather wrist restraint on her right hand. Her nipples were hard and shriveled like purple raisins. And she had peed all over the bed.

  The other lab rats had taught him bladder relief was common in these situations. He remembered his first. A big-breasted Hispanic hooker with purple punk-hair. Charming her into believing he was just another kinky trick, she willingly submitted to the restraints. But as soon as she figured to the contrary, it was smelly hot piss everywhere. The mattress ruined.

  But he was highly intelligent and quickly learned from experience. When he purchased a new mattress he mentioned his son occasionally wet the bed. The salesman suggested a heavy-duty rubber mattress cover. “Wise investment,” he muttered with a prideful smile as he gazed at the urine-soaked sheets.

  Though the bulk of his attention was devoted to Miz Tree-Hugger, he wondered if Sweet Cheeks would piss all over herself. He hoped not, but would be prepared just the same and leave the rubber cover on.

  “Please, Mister, let me go ... or get it over with.”

  Standing silent, eyes narrowed, he continued to shake her down.

  “Rape me ... that’s what you’re going to do, right? Well do it then let me go. I’ll never tell you raped me....”

  Rape. The accusation greatly offended him. “I’m no rapist,” he growled, grinding his teeth. Stomping with indignation to the nightstand, he yanked open the top drawer and extracted a wad of leather, hiding it behind his back.

  On and on she wailed about being defiled and repeating that word: rape.

  Pushing the drawer shut with his knee, he glared at her as one would a cockroach needing to be stepped on.

  “Please, Mister, please. Don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want. Just please don’t hurt me....”

  His lips curled with loathing.

  Pointlessly squirming, she continued to beg, “Please, Mister, just do it then let me go. I won’t tell anyone. Really. I promise.”

  “Riiiight.”

  “Pleeeeeease. Just do whatever you’re gonna do then let me go,” she begged, tears coursing down her face and puddling on the pillow. In obvious frustration and desperation, she launched another twisting, turning and yanking battle to liberate herself from the escape-proof restraints.

  Tilting his head, he motioned toward the straps. “You know, you’re the one to blame for your predicament.” Scratching the back of his head, “Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to ride with strangers?”

  “I-I thought I could trust you. You showed me a badge and told me you were a—”

  Bellowing a laugh, he interrupted, pouncing like a starving hyena on a tethered goat. Straddling her chest with his knees, he waved his hands in front of her face to reveal the hidden wad behind his back: a wide black leather gag with an oval ball attached. “Open wide.”

  “Nooooo,” she screamed in a high pitched squeal.Being an astute predator, he capitalized on the opportunity her screaming provided to jam the rubber protrusion in her mouth. Wildly she shook her head in useless protest, crying out distorted shrieks. Grinning at her futile outburst, he nimbly buckled the mask to her head, ripping out clumps of hair caught in the clasps.

  Sliding off her, he stepped back from the bed, surveying the fruits of his labor. The wide over-the-mouth gag not only covered the bottom half of her face and filled her mouth with a hard rubber ball, but the stiff leather also wrapped under her chin, creating a strict muzzle doubly secured by multiple straps fastened tightly near the crown of her head.

  The torturous gag wasn’t meant to stifle panicked screams, though it certainly did that. Its purpose was to heighten the helplessness and fear of the lab rat, to feed his compulsion to dominate his subjects. Besides, the grunts, groans and garbled noises expelled from beneath the muzzle greatly amplified the sexual entertainment.

  Screaming relentlessly and wildly tossing her head back and forth, she continued to tussle in her bonds.Hair messed up and scattered across the pillow. Face contorted in misery. Every muscle tense in anguish. Naked body mercilessly staked-out, futilely combatting captivity....

  An erotic show for him. Sheer terror for her.

  Brandishing a wide grin of satisfaction, he peeled off his suit coat, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Now the real fun was about to begin. Returning to the nightstand, the bottom drawer this time, he produced a liquid-filled glass jar, loosened the lid and placed it on top of the nightstand. Next, he extracted two forceps, tucking them neatly in his shirt pocket. Finally, a stainless steel apparatus resembling a skinny shoe horn with a razor sharp tip and black handle. Holding it like a carving knife, he sneered, leaning over her.

  Accelerated fear widened her already bulging eyes into banjos.

  Slowly and lightly he swept the edge of the blade across the top of her cheek.

  Automatically she jerked her head. Her body pitched about. Fists tightened. In utter torment she screamed.

  But just as he had planned, the leather belts kept her body secure and the g
ag distorted her shrill screams as he artfully continued the razor’s wicked journey. Down the side of her neck. Across her chest. A figure eight around her breasts. Diagonally over the middle of her stomach. A circle around her belly button. A traced outline of the triangle puff of auburn hair then straight down the outside of her right leg.

  Abruptly he stopped the trail-leaving descent at her knee, dropped the shoehorn razor-tool on her concave stomach and turned an analyzing eye on her. Blood marked the path of the blade across her body like a thin line of chocolate drizzled over a cake for decoration.

  So far, her reaction was what had become the usual: breasts pumping up and down, eyes racing back and forth, and foamy saliva oozing from under the gag as fear consumed her body in dreaded anticipation of his next move.

  But he was sure she couldn’t imagine what was next. That alligator grin resurfaced. “Time for surgery, Miz Tree-Hugger.” Purposely pausing, he let her think about it for a moment. “They call it female circumcision.” His eyes danced with delight.

  Squirting urine and blasting spurts of gas, she went berserk frantically twisting and turning her body while crazily yanking on the restraints, trying to break free of the leather straps that could keep a rampaging Clydesdale in check.

  All this peeing, farting, and pointless fighting was nothing more than the usual. Certainly nothing new. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to dream. What would Sweet Cheeks do? Envisioning her beautiful hourglass body mercilessly bound to the bed, she was quivering from the unknown, but trusting him just the same. From under the gag, she let out moans of anticipated ecstasy, begging him to do it to her.

  Again his maleness swelled.

  While spending moments in imagined Sweet Cheeks bliss, he knew exactly what was happening with his current lab rat. By now, like her predecessors, Miz Tree-Hugger was nearing physical exhaustion. Not only because of her refusal to surrender to the restraints, but because he had brutally gagged her to intentionally reduce her air intake. Continued fighting simply exaggerated the futility of her efforts, escalating her fear. And as far as he was concerned, his ability to induce intense fear in a woman produced the ultimate high.

  He opened his eyes. Back to reality. Back to his captive. Pulling up two more leather straps secured to the bed frame under the mattress, he completed the binding.

  Buckling the final leather straps above her knees and tugging on the opposite end to muscle her legs even wider, she offered little resistance.

  Abandoning her for a moment, he ransacked a kitchen cupboard, returning with a light blue bath sheet and a Snake light. Flattening out the bath sheet between her legs so he wouldn’t have to work in her urine, he then wrapped the Snake light around her right thigh to illuminate the area between her legs. Concerning himself with details like gloves, instrument sterilization, or anesthesia didn’t cross his mind. Those were trivial non-necessities.

  “It’s surgery time,” he taunted as the thick fingers of his left hand vigorously spread the tender lips of her femininity, while his right hand reached into his shirt pocket for the forceps. “Surgical tissue holders,” he said unemotionally, locking forceps on each skin fold. The handle end of the forceps he fastened to the thigh restraint with a snapping carabiner to hold the hinged instruments in place for an unobstructed, hands-free, view of her sex button.

  Miz Tree-Hugger whined a pitiful whimper, body tensed, quivering in terror. Once again she waged a feeble battle against the straps, but, of course, they remained dominant.

  As if her little erectile were a rare gemstone, his eyes fixed upon it. With his finger he callously pinched and pressed her clit several times before burying his face between her legs. In a violent sexual feeding frenzy, his hot tongue and wet lips severely assaulted her.

  Gasps of misery leaked from the savage gag as her thigh muscles flexed and strained, exerting maximum force to slam her legs shut, but the straps wouldn’t allow it.

  Once satisfied, his head slowly rose from between her legs. Allowing his eyes to drift shut, he inhaled deeply and slowly, nostrils flared, basking in the scent of his latest lab rat who helplessly whimpered and tremored.

  Excitedly, his eyes flew open. Once again his fingers roughly toyed with her sex button as if preparing for a second gorging, but instead, in one smooth quick action he scooped out her clitoris with the surgical dissector, as effortlessly as digging out an eye of a potato.

  Emitting a drawn-out muted scream, her eyes bulged. Face contorted grotesquely. Body violently convulsed. Then just as quickly, stillness and silence. Blood leaked from between her legs.

  Cradling the tiny piece of precious flesh in his hand, he rushed over to the nightstand to a formaldehyde filled jar labeled #4 MOMMA, dropping the little lump of tissue inside.

  Tightening the lid, he guardedly toted the container into the modest kitchen nook. Smashing the precious jar close to his body with one hand, he fished the other behind a large particle board cabinet in search of a hidden lever. Once he found it, a small section of the wall popped open, exposing the entrance to a secret room.

  While holding the jar tightly against his chest, he slithered inside, slapping his hand against the wall to the right of the opening several times until it connected with a round, battery-operated touch-light.

  The pale light revealed a tiny room, no larger than a modest walk-in closet. An old wooden rocking chair sat in the middle. Rows of six-inch wide pantry shelves lined the walls. But the shelves were not stocked with food. They were full of treasures. His treasures.

  Carefully, he placed #4 MOMMA next to the jar labeled #3 MOMMA. Stepping back to admire his collections, he fixated on an eight-by-ten inch color-faded photograph of a seven-year-old boy and a pretty blonde woman happily embracing each other.

  Smiling, he lovingly picked it up. The vintage wooden frame creaked in his grasp.

  Reverently, he stroked the face of the woman in the picture with his pointer finger. “Momma, why couldn’t every day have been like that day?”

  Oh, how he loved Momma and how happy he was when Momma and Daddy lived together. Yet, he had never blamed her for Daddy leaving. It wasn’t her fault. It was the fault of her sex button: the clitoris. That tiny piece of flesh hounded Momma, pressuring her to have sex with men other than Daddy and forcing her little boy to touch her in feminine places ordinarily forbidden to a son.

  Daddy never knew about the taboo acts Momma required the six-year-old to perform, but Daddy caught Momma in bed with three different men, three different times, and forgave her three times. But the fourth time, well, Daddy just left.

  By the age of ten, Momma had carefully schooled the little boy in a variety of finger rubbing, tongue licking and object using techniques to stimulate the flesh between her legs. The little boy grew to believe the tiny button of tissue had hooked Momma to seek a fix. Like an addictive street drug, the fleshy nodule created insatiable cravings for orgasms two, three, four, or more times a day and Momma would satisfy them by any means possible, even if it meant using her own son.

  And though he felt shame for touching his mother down there, he was captivated by her beauty. Big blue eyes. Long silky golden hair that shimmered against her heaving bare breasts. Small waist. Flat stomach. And long, lean legs that engulfed his boy body, tightly squeezing it like powerful tentacles on an erotic ingurgitation as she moaned in sexual bliss.

  Afterward, Momma would smile sweetly, gently caress the side of her son’s face, eye him adoringly. “I’ll always be your Sweet Cheeks,” she would softly promise while coaxing his head between her legs for another round.

  By his late teens the boy had learned all women were designed with an enslaving little knob that compelled them to seek orgasms. The teen reasoned if Momma had been rid of the fleshy nub hooking her to orgasms and driving her to have sex with strange men, Daddy would have never left and the little boy’s childhood would have been storybook worthy. But that didn’t happen. Daddy had made a big mistake. He should have removed Momma’s sex button.
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br />   Now grown up, that little boy was determined not to repeat his father’s oversight. No, the woman of his dreams—his Sweet Cheeks—would be cleansed of her corruptive sex-seeking nodule and he would extract it himself ... after all, how hard could it be to snip out such a tiny clump of flesh? But first things first. Had to find his Sweet Cheeks. Using a long and uncompromising measuring stick, his Sweet Cheeks had to be nothing short of the perfect duplicate of his mother.

  After years of searching, one day when he least expected it, Sweet Cheeks walked into his life: his mother reincarnated, even more beautiful and sexy than he remembered. He had found her. Finally found her. Nirvana!

  Then, just as quickly as seventh heaven manifested, it disintegrated into fire and brimstone when Sweet Cheeks flashed a seductive smile and mentioned she was happily married. Instantly, he knew the evil little sex button was dictating her life.

  Crushed, he resigned to settle for simply visualizing the cleansing process, as if she were his wife. Right before purifying her, he would touch her there. Stimulate her sex button one more time. Satisfy her evil craving one last time. Plunge her into the depths of base sexual desire before finally redeeming her with his cleansing ritual ... he would be her sexual tormentor and savior in one! Every time he played the scenario, the mental picture launched a wicked good hard-on followed by glorious bliss.

  In a short time, however, the images in his head were no longer emotionally or sexually satisfying, compelling him to escalate his fantasies to mock versions of the cleansing process with pretty blonde-haired, well-endowed dolls he had bound, gagged and mutilated. Though toying with the plastic dolls in subservient positions temporarily gratified his deep-rooted compulsion to control women—specifically Sweet Cheeks—he yearned to cleanse the real woman. That’s when he decided he must possess her whether she was married or not.