Having It All

by Jurgen von Stuka

  Twice every day her captor came up the stairs and greeted her with a coffee, tea or a bit of whiskey in a paper cup, forcing her to drink it after he removed her gag. He would bring her some food and let her use the toilet while he watched, her hands captive in steel cuffs in front of her. And then he would string her up again and whip her with a riding crop that was old and worn, the crooked bone handle stained with his sweat and anger. The leather portion of the crop would cut across her hips and ass, stinging, hurting, leaving bruises that only partly healed before the next unpredictable assault came a day later. She screamed and cried as he beat her, feeling the intensity of the strokes as her body twisted and swung on the chain from the rafter, her legs sometimes left free to flail about and at other times chained and pulled wide so that the crop's flails explored her ass and her cunt. He used its crooked bone handle to probe deep inside her and caused her to stop her ragged movements and feel the sexual tension begin to mount in her head as he rummaged about in her ass and cunt, tweaking the whip and alternately tugging and pushing on the handle.

  Some nights he cut her down, cuffed her hands to the ring that normally held her feet and fucked her without passion or words, doing her first face to face and then turning her over and taking her in the ass while she struggled and fought, hammering the stained, dirty floor with her bound hands. Although she knew that she had in fact consented to, even asked for this, she did not understand it at first. As always, she was sexually excited each time he ravaged her, with either his cock or his mouth or his whip. No matter what he did, she always came wildly before he did, screaming into the gag, keeping her eyes squeezed shut and always, always having that surging, mind-ripping climax that was only part relief and was also a demand for more intensity, more depth of his probing and more slippery cum from his cock. At some point, when the gag was out, she asked him who he was and why he had taken her. He said that the house was his. He'd owned it for years, but could no longer afford to keep it up, so the bank had a lien on it. As to why her, he calmly explained, more than once, that all summer long he watched her walk the beach and noted that there was no one walking with her. He also said that she looked, at first glance, a lot like the vice president of the local Rhode Island bank who had carried out the foreclosure on the house.

  So, on the last day of the season, he was there on the beach, waiting for her, just a few yards from the house. He chatted with her and then, out of the blue, suggested that walking alone was dangerous and that someone might come along and swoop down from the property onto the deserted beach, throw a bag over her head, tie her hand and foot and carry her off to his attic. Remarkably for both of them, she looked him in the eye and said that she thought that might be preferable to going back to New York and toiling away the winter in an overheated, mid-city office.

  “Really?” he had asked.

  “Really,” she said, still looking him in the eye.

  “Turn around,” he said, putting his hands lightly on her shoulders. She obeyed and he quickly tied her hands behind her and put a rubber ball gag into her mouth, pulling the straps back cruelly and fastening them behind her head. She didn't struggle, even when he placed a cloth bag over her head, picked her up, put her over his sturdy shoulder and carried her up the path, through the dunes and into the house. In minutes she was tied to the rafter in the attic; silent, shocked that her fantasy was coming true.

  She asked him to let her go. He replied that he might. Someday.

  As if to try to accommodate her fantasy, that afternoon, he tied her hands high overhead while she knelt on a soft cushion on the floor. He left the gag in place and tied two additional ropes from the rafter to her ankles, leaving her on her knees with her feet elevated behind her. Then he slid in under her and wrapped the long ends of the ropes from her ankles around each soft and pliable breast, pulling the rope tight and forcing her tits into pear-shaped, shiny bulbs. She struggled as he watched her tits bobble while he pressed his already hard cock into her pussy and told her to fuck him. When she only responded half-heartedly, he brought the crop into play and began to whip her tits and back and ass until her hips started to move with a more vigorous forward and back action. The more he flogged her, the faster she moved. That was the first time they came together and he stayed under her for a longtime that night, slipping his cock into her welcoming ass for an additional hard fuck and telling her, as she squirmed and bounced on his belly, that she was a whore and a thief for taking his home from him. And so it continued until she woke up.

  As with the Viking and the Legion, the dream was a stimulating mixture of fear, extreme pleasure and imagined pain. She found the psychological aspects confusing. How was it possible, she asked her shrink, for her to experience a real sexual climax, a physical phenomenon, while she did not have any physical cause for the pain? While the whipping was certainly real in her head, it was, of course, only an imaginary experience. As usual, Doctor Roth gave her no answers but instead asked her what she thought. Frustrating as this technique had become, she always welcomed the dreams, hoping that they might turn out to be reality, knowing in her head and heart that it was still only a dream and that the chance of her actually being taken and kept in this crude manner was zero.

  When she and Jim moved into the new house, Sandy still agonized about Jim knowing the truth about her obsession with bondage and slavery. For years, she had always wondered how she could keep her terrible secret from those close to her and now, as they lived together in the same house, she was still uncomfortable with the idea that this man knew her deepest secrets. She didn't realize that as they shared their bed, on some nights she actively demonstrated what she was dreaming as she tossed and twisted on the sheets, eventually jamming her hands down between her legs and doing to herself what the legionnaires and the man in the attic had done. Then, suddenly, she was captured in the tub, securely bound and gagged, unable to touch herself; unable to do anything but struggle and try to get free. When she slept there, in the tub, new dreams of submission and capture flooded her head. She now could really fight to get out of the tub's strict bonds, fight to resist Jim's powerful dominance. In her head and body, she reveled in this bondage. In another part of her mind, she still struggled with telling Jim the truth, hoping he'd understand and acknowledge her weakness, her need to be kept as a slave.

  Chapter Ten

  Rack

  While Sandy accustomed herself to her new tub life with its surprises and suspensions, Jim was busy designing his next project for her. He felt that sooner or later she would need to get out of the tub, unhook the seven deadly gold links from her lovely person and provide some sort of services to reward him for his hard work. Jim had a number of services in mind, but it also seemed to him that given Sandy's present somewhat recalcitrant demeanor, she might not be willing to provide sex or even a BJ unless encouraged to do so. Thus, Jim's next project was aimed at providing both motivational guidance for Sandy and yet another reason for her to become a bit more cooperative.

  For nearly a week, Jim sawed, welded, hammered, and riveted in his garage workshop, taking time out now and then to visit his uncomfortable and very frustrated girl friend in her tub. He had released some of the tension on the cables connected to her vital locations and was visualizing exactly how he might use the same points of attachment without the frame or the tub. The solution was, inevitably, of course, a rack.

  Initially, Jim wanted to construct a model of the early medieval racks, but he quickly determined that these were just too heavy, crude and ungainly for the work he had in mind, so he built a slightly different rendition; one that could be moved around the house on wheels, was very strong and could be rotated from horizontal to vertical and the various angles in between. His choice of material was aircraft spec, structural aluminum. His solution also incorporated the latest technology in digital controls for multiple electric and hydraulic motors, miniature subassemblies and a variety of gear, much of which he had to invent. Some of the incorporated devices were based on
what he had found in science fiction stories and graphic novels where the models were subject to fantastic and evil devices operated either by computers or alien beings who relied on the automatic equipment to do what they themselves could not. Some of his modifications were simply for his own ease of use and some were essential to the plans he was putting together for Sandy's submissive future.

  He made some other useful modifications too, such as the ability to control and monitor the rack and its occupant from his car or anywhere else via his mobile phone. The finished project was disassembled in the garage and taken, in pieces, upstairs and set up in the master bedroom, which Jim had recently been occupying alone. Lonely for his girl friend's company, Jim decided that the rack would allow him to have his way and have Sandy's more or less silent presence as well. Given their joint interest in what they were doing, he felt that proximity had its distinct benefits.

  The new bedroom furniture with its gleaming aluminum frame and attachments took up the space at the foot of their giant, king size bed, but Jim felt that this loss of space was more than compensated for by the utilitarian functions of the rack. Having rationalized this, he went into the bathroom, placed a new foam blindfold over Sandy's eyes and informed her that she was moving to the bedroom. To Sandy, anything other than the terrible tub and accompanying suspension frame sounded good, so she didn't resist or object when Jim released her arms and legs from the unpleasant hog-tie configuration, unhooked her from the seven terrible cables and helped her sit up in the tub. He left the pair of handcuffs on her wrists behind her back and left her legs in the set of heavy shackles that fit so well on her slim ankles. Then he lifted her out of the tub and carried her out of the bathroom, down the hall in the opposite direction of the master bedroom. Intending to disorient her, Jim carried her around the second floor of the house, up to the third floor, turned her around and around and then down the stairs again and into the master bedroom. He placed her on her back on the floor, facing the rack and lifted her feet up until they were centered midway between the two major uprights of the rack's frame, then locked another heavy cuff over the shackles on each ankle. Turning a crank that he had intentionally designed for its old horror movie style squeaking and loud clicking noise, he took up the slack until Sandy's ankles were evenly stretched between the rack's uprights with the short shackle chain pulled tight as well. He used this manual mechanism as a foil against the nearly silent hydraulics and electrical motors which would come into play later.

  Lying face down on the floor, Sandy quickly realized that she was again being bound so that her feet and legs would remain motionless. Of course, it was much too late for her to do anything about this and she merely sulked while Jim uncuffed her wrists and connected them to the hanging chains on either side of the rack. Jim turned the cranks of the wrist cuffs and slowly raised a resisting Sandy up and pulled her towards the top of the rack. In no time at all, she was nicely spread in an X position, arms and legs stretched towards the four corners of the rack. She tested the restraints and found no slack, no possibility of freedom.

  “Would you like to chat?” Jim asked, sitting in a comfortable chair, surveying his latest handiwork. Sandy nodded and made agreeable sounds behind the gag.

  “This is a one time offer,” Jim said. “I'm serious. If we can talk this out and you will agree to my terms, we can end this fun and games and you can stay here or go as you please. I don't want your money, I just want my girl to be happy and enjoy the benefits of self-induced slavery.”

  Sandy made more positive sounds, so Jim removed the gag. He offered her a drink of water and sat back down to contemplate his girl friend stretched so beautifully before him, arms out from her shoulders at forty-five degree angles and legs well spread, opening up her gold-jeweled pussy with its gleaming gold link in the center.

  “I need a real drink,” Sandy finally said, looking at Jim with less than friendly eyes.

  “Of course, Sandy. Vodka, gin, scotch or bourbon?”

  “Cognac,” she said.

  “Done,” Jim replied and went downstairs to get the bottle of Louis XIV from the liquor stand. He returned with the crystal bottle and two elegant crystal snifters. He poured two large shots into each snifter and held one up to Sandy's parched lips, tipped the glass slowly and allowed her to take a big swig of the strong alcoholic beverage. She swallowed, coughed and said, “More.”

  Jim raised the glass, but held it away from her, saying, “How about a 'please'?”

  “Please,” Sandy spat. She drank and swallowed and then looked at Jim and said, “You prick. How can you do this to me?”

  “You said this was what you wanted.”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “Well, you did. Many times in your chat rooms and blogs. Not to mention every night in your sleep.”

  “You read that?”

  “Of course I did. I wanted to know exactly what it was that you needed and wanted to be happy. Isn't this what you wrote?”

  “You have no business reading my stuff,” she said, looking as if she was going to cry. I wrote my deepest, darkest, subconscious wishes. I wrote what I told my shrink, not you.”

  “You put it on a public forum, Sandy. What did you expect?”

  “I put it on Headbook, or Ourspace. I don't remember which, but they're not public.”

  “No? You really think that's private?” Jim asked, incredulous.

  “It was until you read it. How did you get in to that?”

  “I'm one of your so-called 'friends’, silly. How did you think I got in there? Headbook is anything but private, no matter what they tell you. Geez, they elicit all kinds of personal information from you and sell it to advertisers, crooks, federal agencies, anyone who wants to pay for details about your life. And you think that because on one hand they tell you that they respect your privacy and on the other hand they have you sign and agree to a fifteen page, fine print legal document, that no one else knows you're a closet submissive?”

  “Oh shit,” Sandy cried, looking more distraught than when she was first hoisted up on the rack. “I guess I just thought…oh well. Now you know. I'm embarrassed.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right. You seemed to be having a pretty good time in the tub.”

  “Well, I guess…” Again, Sandy hesitated, leaving the thought unfinished.

  “Oh my God, Sandy,” said Jim, amazed.”I kept thinking this was your dream. To be controlled and dominated and have your submissive sexual needs catered to.”

  “Yes, well, it is…was…maybe so… But that didn't mean punching holes in my tits and my sex and my nose…” She hesitated, started to open her mouth and then shut it, leaving the tongue ring slightly protruding from between her parted lips.

  “I thought that's what you wanted. You asked Doc Forbes about piercing months ago, didn't you?”

  “That's patient confidential,” she snapped.

  “I'm sorry. Shall I let you go?” Jim asked with obvious sincerity.

  “Well…” Sandy said softly. “No. Not yet. I want to study the full effects of what you are doing. Besides, I have to admit that I have had some nice orgasms. And the new jewelry is interesting.”

  “So I noted. Me too,” added Jim. “I mean the sex was great. And I assure you that no harm is going to come to you. You know the old medical rule: first do no harm.”

  “Well, my wrists and ankles are kind of bruised. What can you do about that, mister Fix-it Man?” She laughed as she used the nickname she had given him when they first met and he fixed her car one night outside a local super market.

  “One of the rules in this game is that hurt is not the same as harm. I suspect that your ankles, wrists, and other pierced parts hurt, but I don't believe they have been harmed. Granted,” he added, “it’s a thin line.”

  “How much money, how much of my money do you really want?” Sandy suddenly sprung this question, surprising Jim.

  “Really?” he asked, looking her in the eye.

  “Yes, really.”

/>   “None.”

  “None?”

  “None. I was just using that as a fiction bridge to justify what I have been doing to you.”

  “You don't want the family bucks?”

  “Nope. Just you.”

  “Before you read my blogs, did you know?”

  “Yeah. Your chain box fell from the shelf in the closet. And then there are your midnight virtual bondage gyrations.”

  “Gag me, quickly. This conversation is too much,” Sandy said quickly, frowning and closing her eyes.

  “Okay. I guess we're done with our little chat.” Jim started to replace the gag.

  “Wait,” she said, opening her eyes wide, as if she had suddenly thought of something important.

  “Okay. What?”

  “What else have you got in store for me? I need to know.”

  Jim put the gag down.

  “If this ever gets too intense, you can always send the SOS, you know,” Jim said, picking up his brandy snifter and turning it in his hands while he looked at the cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling, wondering about the future with this woman.

  Sandy hummed to herself for a moment and slowly nodded her head, as if she was debating something in her mind.

  “To answer your question,” Jim said. “It's more of the same with some other stuff that I'm cooking up to further enhance your cooperation. And, by the way, don't concern yourself about anyone wondering where you are. Donna and Jen stopped by just yesterday to tell me they got your postcards. They were pissed that you hadn't told them you were going on this vacation.”

  “Whath?” Sandy sputtered, the tongue ring slightly altering her speech.

  “According to the latest information, provided by your friends and travel agents, you are out of the country, on a long tour in the African mountains, far from email, phones and texting. So, I think I can drag this out for quite awhile and eventually, the tour manager will phone me and tell me of the terrible tragedy that took place a few weeks ago and you were lost in some river or canyon or forest or whatever. Nobody to recover. No deposit. No return. I will dutifully get on a plane at once and head for the Dark Continent where I will spend an appropriate amount of time helping in the search, getting bitten by insects and picking up a tan and possibly some dreaded African disease…if they haven't already run out of them by now.”