by John Argus
‘Owww…’ she wailed miserably.
‘Only a little pinching,’ he said, smiling. ‘You English girls – you are supposed to have the stiff upper lip, is that not so?’
‘It h-hurts!’ she gasped.
‘Yes, but only a little bit,’ he mused. ‘A little pinch is all. You are an English lady; you must preserve face, show no reaction.’
English lady?
Yes, of course she was. She shook her fuzzy head. It was hard to remember very much beyond… before… Images flittered behind her eyes and she wondered vaguely what she was doing there.
The white-haired man fussed over her for several more minutes, then examined her, apparently very pleased with her and his handiwork.
And then, for some bizarre reason Gwen could not understand, he untied her completely and began to tie her up once again.
‘I was in London recently,’ he said as though holding a perfectly normal conversation in perfectly normal circumstances. ‘I shopped in Bond Street and bought a nice suit there. I went on a boat on the Thames. It is a lovely city. Have you ever been there…?’
Had Gwendolyn Allison Pepperdine ever been to London? Who was this silly old man? Of course she had been to London! She practically lived there!
‘…I stayed at a top hotel. They have a lovely restaurant there. It was cool but not nearly so cold as New York, and there was no snow. There was a lovely…’
He droned on about London as he bound her, and her hazy mind provided images to match the descriptions he gave.
Soon she was hanging in mid-air, held horizontally in a virtual net of interlinked rope loops, her legs lifted high, her big toes bound by narrow cords cut to length to apply a precise degree of pull, her arms lifted up and back, thumbs aching from their own separate bondage, breasts hanging, plucked by cords. Her hair had been wound into a careful tail and then circled along its entire length by carefully laid loops of twine that pulled her head up.
He left her like that for a while as he cut more cord, twine and rope to measure, chatting softly all the while about England and restaurants and theatres and hotels and shops, as well as an English butler he had hired at some mansion or other he owned.
The divergence between the images that sprang unbidden to her mind and her present situation became more and more of a contrast as time passed. And her mind, which seemed to have been asleep for some days, was beginning to puzzle at why she was allowing herself to be subjected to such levels of discomfort and abuse without question or protest.
He lowered her to the floor, untied her, and then retied her once more. This time the ropes formed a diamond pattern in her pale skin as they interlaced across her torso. A length of bamboo was placed behind her knees and her legs then bent back and tied in place. She was lifted into the air again, this time upside down, hanging from the bamboo pole.
Her arms were bound behind her back with another length of bamboo under them. Her wrists were fastened tightly to a length of cord that was laid down between her buttocks, up between her sex lips, then around her hips, pulling in tightly. A large knot in the cord was placed right over her clitoris. Weights were then placed on the lower pole to put more and more pressure on her body, which soon began to feel as though it would tear apart under the strain. The backs of her legs screamed where they were bent over the top pole and the bottom pole was digging into her armpits.
As a final touch her hair, still tightly bound in twine, was pulled up and back and bound to a wooden peg pushed into her anus.
As before the man spent several minutes admiring his work, moving around her, muttering to himself and nodding his head. Then he sat and began to cut more rope and twine for some new purpose.
When he was done he set her down once more, untied her, and began anew. This time he hung two long lengths of rope from the ceiling and stood her on a low stool. He raised her arms and then carefully entwined each one with snakelike curls descending from wrist to shoulder. The two loops then slipped around her chest above and below her breasts, with a tight layer between the two to draw the loops closed.
Thin twine made an X across each breast, the centre of which was a small tight loop binding each aching nipple. Two more loops of rope descended down the centre of her body front and back, passing between her legs. Twine encircled her hips, and then pulled down carefully between her legs, a loop ensnaring her clitoris and closing tightly. Then the rope passed over it and was tied tightly between her legs, again with a large knot just over her clitoris.
He removed the stool then, and her weight fell upon the rope. Some of that weight was on her arms and chest, and she felt the ropes digging painfully into her tender breasts as well. But most was on the two loops which prised her pussy lips apart and met beneath her, and the pressure of that was fairly agonising.
Of course, he was not yet finished. First he carefully bound her legs together in an interlaced pattern that kept her from twitching so much as a toe. After admiring that for a time he unbound her legs, spread them wide, then laid separate winding layers of rope down their length to the ankles, fed the ropes through rings in a pair of beams, and hung gradually increasing weights from them.
The pain was now intense, and her cries and sobs were met with a curious smile as he admired his handiwork. Her pussy was on fire, the discomfort worse than anything she had yet experienced, yet there was a subversive element of arousal accompanying it, and that element had been present for as long as she could remember being with Richardson or his acquaintances. But it was not strong enough for her to fight through the growing torment between her legs.
She demanded her release, demanded he cut her down, cursed him until he tied another rough rope around her head, with a large knot positioned to block her mouth much as the rubber ball-gags Richardson had used.
But the treatment she was receiving brought an anger she had not felt for some time, and the anger was like a hot fire licking away the cobwebs that had been gathering in her mind. For the first time since putting herself in Richardson’s hands she felt herself an unwilling prisoner – for real. The smiling old man and the pain of her bondage evoked her rage in a way Richardson and others never had. His complete indifference to her suffering, the fact that he was so obviously interested in her only as a thing, as an object, as a model to lay his designs upon, raised her indignation to a mighty fury, and she strained helplessly against the ropes biting into her flesh as she sought to free herself.
Of course she could not and exhausted herself very quickly, soon hanging limp, sobbing weakly at the discomfort and ignominy of it all. The old man left the room, muttering, and the pain slowly faded to a dull throb.
He returned after a while and removed the weights from her feet, then untied them and left once more, still muttering to himself.
The pressure was now not nearly as bad. Her pussy still ached yet the sense of relief was tremendous. She hung still for some time, waiting for the old man to return, and gradually her body began to detect a small but delicious little sense of pleasure coming from her groin. Her legs shifted fractionally and she winced as the ropes nibbled at her sex. Yet the additional pressure brought only a little more pain – along with a considerable rise in pleasure.
Her legs felt leaden, like dead weights. But she slowly moved her right one forward and her left back – just a bit – and shuddered as the knot over her clitoris shifted. It was almost like sandpaper against her sensitive nubbin, yet the sensation of pleasure was intoxicating. She groaned weakly and shifted her legs back, shuddering with the delicious wave of pleasure that streamed through her veins.
She arched her back and the ropes around her breasts tightened, and her nipples throbbed within the tight confines of twine encircling them. She shifted her legs again, trembling as the twine dug into her clitoris, squeezing it tightly, and the larger knot of rope ground against it from above. The pain was more intense w
She scissored her legs, crying out with the turmoil the movement created, then stiffening and shaking violently as convulsions rippled along her spine. Her head jerked and her body shook and writhed in the ropes as the climax gripped her, and her own uncontrolled movements served to heighten the stimulation of her body as the ropes pulled and pinched and twisted.
Gwen collapsed, gulping in air, perspiring heavily, yet still pulsing with dreamy delight. Her lower body began to undulate, her legs swinging together, forward and back, forward and back, sawing her pussy against the rope digging into her sensitive flesh. She came again, crying out in rapturous pleasure, the burning heat of pain subdued by a torrent of white-hot ecstasy.
She was burning up. She was being cut in half. She was dying. But only the pleasure mattered. Only clinging to that pleasure for another few seconds, then another few, then just a few more held any meaning at all.
She hung limp again, chest and belly aching from the terrible spasming of muscles. She whimpered, her head hanging back, jaw slack, and hissed as her back arched and her nipples pulled against the twine holding them. Her breasts strained against the rope digging into them, and then her lower body began to undulate once more.
When the old man returned and cut her down she was in no state of mind to complain or demand she be released. Limp and exhausted she was bound artfully in rope, with a large knot pushed into her mouth, and then carried back to the car. She was in a daze most of the trip, then carried up to the luxury apartment and placed in her cage. She was sat back against the bars and her arms were shackled. Then her legs were lifted up and back and also shackled at both knees, and she was left alone.
Gwen noticed, as she had not for some days, the words softly proclaiming the joy of submission and the need to please her master, and this time felt a small wave of resentment before drifting off to sleep.
She woke as was normal, to find Richardson opening her cage. He released her from her shackles and she groaned as she sprawled weakly on the floor, body stiff and aching, but the snap of his switch soon had her on all fours as he leashed her and led her crawling along the hall. He was annoyed with her because the rope had left red marks on her flesh, especially one running between her buttocks and up her abdomen.
And she felt sore, especially between the legs. She vaguely recalled the old man rubbing some sort of cream into her there, but she still hurt. She did not try to ignore that pain but instead clung to it; it cleared her mind somewhat, so that even while she carried on her morning duties instinctively her mind sat apart, frowning in suspicion and disapproval as she licked at his shoes, ate her food and drank her water from bowls on the floor, knelt calmly as he buggered her – even feeling grateful to him for not penetrating her aching pussy – then knelt meekly as he informed her of her duties for the day.
She was to sweep every rug and wash every floor. She would do this while crawling on all fours, of course, using a pail and scrubbing brush.
He showered and shaved, then prepared to leave. But before going he sat on one of the sturdy antique chairs and ordered her to place herself across his lap. Naked, she felt the smooth texture of his expensive clothing against her flesh as she obeyed, and her mind felt another little burst of resentment and disapproval.
Then he spanked her, punishing her for the marks on her skin, marks which were none of her doing. The unfairness of that did not penetrate at first; she had, of late, come to accept punishment with or without cause as her just reward for…
For what, she could not quite remember. But regardless of cause Richardson’s hand struck firmly and painfully as it ranged up and down her buttocks, turning them a bright pink, then an angry red that matched the welts the ropes had left.
When done he strapped her ankles back to her thighs, securing the straps in place with small padlocks, then left her to her work, apparently confident she would do it.
What a rat he was!
It had only been a few days… or had it? It occurred to Gwen just then that she could not quite recall how many days she had been with Richardson. One day seemed to run into another, with nothing to mark the borders between them. Sometimes she was placed in the cage to sleep, but not at any precisely set time. Sometimes she spent hours in the cage, sometimes hanging by her ankles, sometimes manipulated into uncomfortable positions. She could not tell noon from midnight except from looking out of the windows – when she was not blindfolded or in the torture chamber.
She crawled towards the closet where the buckets and cleaning equipment were kept, then halted, annoyed at herself for her automatic obedience to his word. She reached back and rubbed her tender behind, then eased a finger between her legs, gasping as she touched her tender clitoris.
She changed direction, wary as she did so, for doing anything against his specific orders inevitably drew punishment. But she went into his bedroom and then into the toilet, where she looked up at the medicine cabinet. On her knees reaching it seemed an insurmountable difficulty, and she had, of late, gotten into the habit of accepting rather than solving problems.
Still, she went to the corner and dragged over a chair, then hauled herself up onto it, and from there crawled unsteadily up onto the wide counter. From there she reached up and opened the cabinet, searching for medicines. She found some aspirin and a cream of lotion for scrapes, cuts and burns. Pleased with herself she turned on the faucet and swallowed a couple of pills. It was only while drinking some water to wash them down – with his glass – that she felt an odd sense of dislocation. How long had it been since she had sipped from a cup or glass?
She spread the cream along her furrow, wincing slightly, then replaced it and awkwardly climbed back from the counter to the chair and then to the floor. She put the chair back in place and crawled back to the hall, stopping in annoyance to work at the straps binding her ankles back. She could neither slide them off nor undo them, and wondered resentfully how much of her meekness was due to being forced to crawl like an animal almost every day. It certainly affected the way one thought. Still, there was nothing she could do about it, so muttering, she continued on.
Her stomach rumbled a bit, but it always seemed to be empty of late. She never really got a lot of food, or at least, not good food. He seemed to feed her mostly junk. Feeling indignant she turned and crawled back to the kitchen, then opened the refrigerator and got herself a banana, which she devoured gratefully. Then, daring still further, she plucked down a carton of milk and drank from it.
Feeling somewhat sated she crawled back up the hall to his office. She saw no sign of calendars, and climbed up onto his big chair before his desk, looking through his mail. She found a few pieces that looked new and checked the postmarks. It was the fourth of March. She had arrived in New York mid-January. It had been two weeks or so before she met with Richardson, so she had been with him for about a month now.
‘A month!?’ she exclaimed. Where on earth had the time gone? She had thought it more like a week. Had it really been four weeks? Surely not. She frowned as she stared at the postmark, then something caught her attention and she realised it had been mailed in London. That brought another swarm of images to her swirling mind and curiously she opened it, and frowned at the distinctive handwriting.
It was handwriting she knew well, for it was her stepfather’s handwriting.
I am, of course, pleased with how events have come to pass, but as I have informed you on several occasions the photocopies of my stepdaughter’s relinquishment of her financial affairs to me are insufficient for authorities here in London. I require the actual notarised forms she has signed. As to your desire for a larger fee for your efforts I will, of course, consider them once the statements have been turned over to me. I ask you to consider, however, that your efforts have not been unrewarded by me thus far, and that from the videos you have forwarded it is apparent this work involves considerable benefits in and of itself.
Gwen stared at the writing, squinting to make out the words. She was kneeling on the chair, elbows propped on the desktop as she read, frowning in confusion and disbelief. At first she could not understand how her stepfather had ever even come to know about Richardson, then she struggled to understand what he meant about relinquishing her financial affairs. She hadn’t signed anything…
Or had she? She had made so many statements to video and tape recorders, and written and signed so many lurid descriptions of things she had done, or even fantasised about. But he had always torn those up, hadn’t he?
What on earth was going on?
The desk was locked, as were the cabinets behind it. She angrily considered breaking them open, but did not dare. Instead she searched the house, but quickly came to the conclusion that the only place in it Richardson would hide anything incriminating – unless he had a hidden safe she knew nothing about – was in his office.
She did find, however, some interesting reading material in his bedside table. It was a book on mind control. Among passages underlined were those advising to keep the subject thirsty and not let them have too much in the way of protein, to keep them from getting any decent sleep, and to constantly reinforce the behaviour considered improper with punishment. It spoke of something called subliminal assimilation, in which constantly repeated orders at barely audible levels would imprint themselves on the subject’s mind.
‘That filthy, miserable bastard!’ she cursed vehemently, embracing her opinion of both men with one outburst.
Had she really signed a document turning her financial affairs over to her stepfather? If she had it meant nothing at that moment. But when her grandparents’ trust fund came due in a few months it would mean quite a bit, to say the least! Of course, once she showed up she could simply rescind the thing.
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