Lust

by Violet Blue

  “Like my friend said, we like to hurt.” The hand of the hissing voice twisted her tit to prove its point. “Behave!” Which sounded like a final warning to Lydia. Made meek, she collapsed in the men’s arms and whimpered in puffy, panicked little breaths.

  The men hauled Lydia along, half dragging, half carrying her. The man behind her smelled familiar—Right Guard, she realized, as the image of a high school beau flashed through her mind, an old boyfriend who had used the same deodorant.

  Is this my life flashing before my eyes, she wondered?

  Other odd realizations hit her as she was being dragged: a shoe threatening to slip from her foot, her thigh-high stocking beginning to droop. She clenched her toes to keep the shoe on her foot; she couldn’t rescue the stocking.

  Rescue. Who would rescue her?

  No one apparently. Over the scurrying hustle of her abductors, Lydia heard a van’s metal doors creak open. Her captors lifted her off the ground and practically tossed her into the vehicle. A mattress met her body as she fell to the floor. She heard the doors slam shut and the men settle in around her as the van lurched into gear. The sounds of metal objects shifting and the odors of old oil, chemicals, and solvents told her she was in the back of a work vehicle. Perhaps a plumber’s or a painter’s van?

  But before she could move and react, the men were upon her again, grabbing her wrists and ankles. Lydia fought, squirmed, struggled.

  “Who are you?” she blurted through the hood. Her voice echoed inside it, amplified by it.

  “Do you hear that?” the cackler asked. “Who are you?” he mimicked sarcastically. Lydia imagined a sneer on his face.

  “Well one thing’s for sure,” hissing voice said. “She doesn’t think she’s David Balfour casting off on the Covenant, circa seventeen-fifty-one.”

  David Balfour. Covenant. 1751.

  Her code words! Those were her code words!

  Instantly, Lydia relinquished her fear. This wasn’t an abduction, but a mock kidnapping and she was its latest “victim.” As the van rumbled over the parking lot’s speed bumps and bounced her about, she giggled. So this was what it felt like to be kidnapped!

  It felt like two men holding her down, tying her hands together, then her ankles. Simple, classic bondage, just like in old black-and-white photos from long ago. Lydia stretched, languorously, catlike, on the mattress. She arched her back, put her best breast forward, hoping to tease her captors. Maybe, she thought, I can get them to come around to my way of seeing things. Being a do-me kind of woman had its advantages.

  “What’s in her dossier?”

  It was the hissing voice; the one that had provided the code words, only now it was flat and authoritative, smacking of leadership. Circa 1751. Dossier. Lydia realized that the voice was intelligent, the brains of the operation. This was the voice whose favor she needed to curry. She worked her way toward him and found the man’s legs at mattress’s edge. She rubbed her head against them, ever catlike. Notice me, she wished. Don’t resist.

  A voice she hadn’t heard before spoke. “Here. Take a look. I’m too busy driving.” Another man, she figured.

  The hissing man—Brains—pushed Lydia back onto the mattress. “Stay put,” he commanded her, not giving an inch in acknowledgment. Papers rustled.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” he said. More paper rustling. “Willful, stubborn brat. Always weaseling into your good graces.”

  “Yeah and weaseling all over your legs too,” Cackle interjected.

  “We’ll break her of that. What else? Let’s see. Limits, limits…where’s her limits?”

  Limits? The word caught Lydia’s attention. Her boyfriend had filled out the form one night while she lay prone in his bed, tied down and blindfolded. She remembered what he had said when he reached the limits section of the form. “Limits. Hmm. Let’s see. Shit play. Fucking. Unprotected oral. Safe shots okay. Gee, that all?”

  “All” wasn’t much. Lydia shuddered then at the lack of limits and she shuddered now. The playing field, her boyfriend had decided, was wide open. Which served her right, he’d claimed, since she’d badgered him for weeks to sign her up as a victim. He hadn’t wanted to, but, as he’d complained, “Sometimes the only way to get a brat off your back is to give in.”

  Now, Cackle spoke, from alongside her. “Gee, except for the no-fucking limit, she sounds like a regular party girl. Guess that means I can do this.”

  Lydia felt Cackle’s hands at her blouse. “No!” she shouted as he forcefully tore it open. “No? Did you say no?” he taunted as he slipped a hand into her bra and cupped her tit. He petted her clumsily, grabbing and squeezing her breast like some crass frat boy hell-bent on a drunken fuck. Her nipple went hard at his touch.

  “Nice, very nice,” he cooed in breathy lust.

  The sound of his voice sent a shiver up Lydia’s spine. And it sounded familiar. Where had she heard that before?

  “Too bad we can’t fuck her,” Cackle complained. “But I can do this, right?”

  Lydia felt Cackle’s crotch press into her face. Denim, she smelled denim and, through it, the faint whiff of sweaty balls. Cackle’s raging hard-on pressed against her lips, shielded only by the armor of his pant’s zipper and her hood. Lydia felt besieged, powerless to push this man off her face. And then he started humping her face. He slid back and forth over her face as his hips gyrated. Cackle’s breathing grew ragged, as if her face was the means for a hasty jacking off.

  “Safe shots,” he muttered. “Yeah, that’s good. I wanna shoot all over this bitch’s tits.”

  Humiliation rushed through Lydia, paralyzing her. Cackle was a creep, a real pervert in her book, the kind of guy she’d cross the street to avoid. The kind of guy, if he approached her at Hellfire or Paddles, she’d scoff at and say, “Not in a million years, not even if you were the last man on earth.” She bet he even had thin, greasy hair, yellowed leering teeth, and weasel slits for eyes.

  But here he was, humping her face. Cackle grabbed her by the back of the head and pressed her forward into his crotch, making Lydia puff for every breath. Horrid, he’s horrid, she thought. She thanked her lucky stars for the miracle of thick denim and Lycra hoods.

  A hand slipped into her bra, cupping her breast. Not Cackle’s—he was too busy face-fucking her. Brains? It had to be Brains’s hand. The hand weighed her breast with a bounce, as if it was some grocery store grapefruit. It even squeezed the fruit for ripeness.

  “Jeez, I don’t know what you’re getting so worked up about,” Brains sneered to his humping friend as he removed his hand. “She’s just your basic B-cup. Nothing to write home about.”

  Lydia sat there, taking it, shocked. She liked her breasts. Sure, they weren’t centerfold breasts, but then a centerfold’s breasts weren’t either. The crotch pulled away.

  “Yeah, well, they’ll do in a pinch.”

  Cackle slipped his hands into each bra cup, found Lydia’s nipples, and squeezed unforgivingly. Lydia screamed and thrashed about, trying to escape his cruelties. Cackle laughed and let go. He’d proved his point.

  For a time, they rode in silence. The van’s every little movement made it feel like a ship swaying on the high seas. So far, her captors hadn’t really stressed her badly. Mostly, they’d grossed her out. Especially Cackle. Creep, she thought.

  A hand placed itself on her knee. The hand was big, encompassing, and warm. She hoped it was Brains’s. She readily preferred him to Cackle and she imagined him as a Harrison Ford type. How bad could that be? she asked herself.

  “We’re almost there,” Brains told her. (Yes, Brains!) “You know you haven’t placed many limits in our way, don’t you?”

  “My boyfriend did that,” Lydia responded.

  “So what. You signed the paper. You consented.” Brains went silent for a moment, then added, “I’ll give your boyfriend credit. He’s plenty generous.”

  The hand traveled up Lydia’s skirt, found the cleft between her legs and crept under her panties.


  “Real generous.” The tenor of Brains’s voice softened but it did not grow any more gentle. Lydia knew the sound of that voice; it was the sound of a man pondering all the erotic possibilities that stood before him. It was the sound of a man getting a hard-on.

  “Just because my boyfriend’s generous doesn’t mean I’m gonna be,” she declared. “I’m not that easy.”

  “Bullshit!” Brains shot back, grabbing whatever portion of cunt he could and pinching it. “You’ll do whatever we want you to do! Understand?”

  He had her by the labia, just as hard as Cackle had had her nipples. Lydia bellowed through the pain, wanting it to stop.

  “Understand?” Brains demanded an answer.

  “Yes! Yes, I do! Just let go, damn it!”

  A slap shot across her hooded face. “Don’t swear at us, you bitch! And don’t tell us what to do either.” Cackle again. His slap was more humiliating than painful and Lydia went silent, the blush of embarrassment hot on her face. She hated Cackle, she decided right there and then, but she obeyed because she wanted the pinching to stop.

  Sure enough, Brains let go and Lydia cried out as her cunt lips throbbed in pained relief. He instructed Cackle to spread her thighs.

  The bondage prevented much of a spread but it allowed enough. Brains pulled his hands from beneath her panties and started patting her pussy in sure little slaps, slaps meant to arouse. Cackle’s hands—with their long, skinny fingers—held her thighs, occasionally squeezing them. Being held there by two men, one holding her down while the other slapped her pussy, was more than Lydia could fight. Especially since it felt so good. She moaned. She fell into the mounting swell of arousal, of orgasm nearing, that feeling of all sensations swirling and coalescing and tightening and exploding and pulsing. Coming, she was coming. Her moan had transformed itself into the cries of ecstasy as Brains slowed his slapping to a light caress.

  “Do it again,” Cackle instigated. “Come on. Do it again.”

  “Yeah,” the driver shot back from the front seat, “she came in two minutes flat. If I know anything about sluts, she’s good for another one.”

  Brains laughed and started again, this time, rubbing her clit. “No, please no,” Lydia whined. “It’s so sensitive.” She hated how vulnerable her clit was after orgasm, how easy a target for torture it became. “No?” Brains teased. “Did you hear that? She said no. Like she has a choice.”

  A slap on the thigh and a “Bitch!” came from Cackle. Then again. And again, over and over. Each slap burned into Lydia’s thighs, reminding her of her boyfriend’s choice hairbrush, reminding her how he’d use it when he could no longer take her brattiness. Now this creep was slapping her, belittling her with verbal slights as he went. “Bitch! Cunt! Slut!” He used all the words that her boyfriend didn’t have the balls to call her, even when she deserved it. But this creep, he could say it. She resented him even as he humiliated her. I’ll get you, she silently swore. Somehow, I’ll get back at you.

  But Brains’s touch was another thing—trying and difficult, but ultimately not a thing to rebel against. Yes, her clit felt raw. Yes, it screamed Don’t touch me! But it also complied with Brains’s actions. It responded to him, working its way to another peak despite the discomfort. That was, after all, its function.

  And it overwhelmed Lydia. Everything overwhelmed her. Brains masturbating her, Cackle humiliating her with every slap, the burn of those slaps, the raw edge of her clit, her conflict about her captors, her clit speaking its own mind. Which finally shouted and Lydia followed in tandem, crying out as she came.

  When all was said and done, when hands left her and Lydia recovered, she was aware of two things: the driver’s voice claiming “She had to work at that one,” and the fact that the van had stopped.

  “Come on, let’s string her up.” Driver’s voice, deep and resonant.

  They dragged her across a hardwood floor, if the sound of their steps was any clue, then plopped her down. Her wrists and ankles were seized and relieved of their rope. But leather cuffs went into place and something else, between her ankles. A spreader bar. The sound of chains went with them. She rested in her captors’ arms as a metallic sound commenced. It was the crank of a hoist.

  Lydia felt her ankles rise. She was being raised up, into suspension. Her legs rose into air, then her torso, then all of her. Lydia had no real idea how high up she was, only that her hair and arms dangled downward. She felt a slight sway to the suspension, a gentle sensation and not what she expected of such a dramatic position.

  Something cold slipped under the waistband of her skirt.

  “We gotta strip her down. Too many clothes,” Brains said.

  “Just remember what Medusa wants,” Cackle reminded. “We don’t want cross her.”

  Medusa? Who was that?

  Brains grunted an acknowledgment, then pressed the cold object into Lydia’s skirt. Which began to rip. A knife! She tried to imagine what it looked like as it pulled along her skirt and tore it away. It took only seconds for Brains to cut her skirt in half and remove it. He slapped her pantied ass with the flat of the knife.

  “That’s going to be nice to play with,” he commented offhandedly.

  Cackle wasn’t so coy. “I’d like to shove my dick up it and fuck it.”

  “You wanna fuck everything,” Brains shot back as he placed the knife under Lydia’s blouse, ripped it up the back and then down each arm. Lydia tensed as it traveled across her body. She expected he’d continue until she was fully exposed.

  But he didn’t. He stopped when the blouse fell from her and, instead, pulled her panties down—well, up—to her thighs, exposing her round rump.

  Brains patted it soundly. “Nice ass. Grade-A.”

  “Choice cut for a spanker like you,” Driver joked.

  “Takes one to know one,” Brains shot back. Sheesh, Lydia thought, they sound like grade school kids on the playground.

  “Hey, let’s take turns with her,” Driver said.

  Take turns with her. The words made Lydia seize up with fear. Take turns with her. How far would that go?

  “First dibs!” Cackle declared. To Lydia’s absolute fright and disgust, she heard his zipper in motion. The sound of condom dispensing followed. Oh god, no, she thought. Then she uttered the words as she felt Cackle’s creepy hands at her cheeks, rolling the hood down over the bridge of her nose.

  “Better let me hold that in place,” Brain said. Lydia felt his touch at the back of her head, gathering the hood’s drawstrings tight.

  “You just wanna watch,” Cackle bantered.

  “Hey, front row seats.” Brain’s voice was ear level; Lydia realized he was kneeling next to her. “And you better give me a good show,” he told Lydia. That breathy, hard-up voice of his was back.

  “Yeah, baby, you better give good head,” Cackle said as he pressed the tip of his cock to her lips. “Open up, cunt.”

  “No,” Lydia said, tight-lipped like a ventriloquist. “No.”

  Brains tugged on the drawstrings. “You better take that cock if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Nnnn-Nnnn.”

  “You bitch!” Cackle shouted. “You’re gonna open up!” To prove it, he grabbed her clit and pinched it. Shocked by sudden, searing pain, Lydia screamed. And found Cackle’s cock stuffing itself into her mouth. I’ll bite you, you bastard, her thoughts flared, but Cackle stopped pinching and started face-fucking her, his arms clenching her around the waist as she dangled. Lydia felt his meat slide back and forth, short and stocky and, to her relief, not at all an effort to accommodate. As she felt the pain in her clit fade to a dull throb, she heard Brains reward her with a “That’s a good girl.”

  “Too bad she fought me,” Cackle commented. “With her pussy practically in my face, I was gonna eat cunt while I fucked. But no more Mr. Nice Guy for her.”

  But he did explore her pussy with his hand while he face-fucked her. His fingers parted her lips; she felt them at her crevice, brushing over her clit
, making her shudder. He dipped into her depths and Lydia could hear her lips smack in wetness. The sound made all thoughts of biting his cock vanish.

  “Yeah, too bad. She smells real good.”

  Returning his hand to her waist, Cackle stepped up his face-fucking with a “Nice throat,” comment. Lydia, dangling, felt the air begin to rush in her ears, the drool pooling, then spilling from her mouth. The face-fucking took on a noisy slurping, the sounds of a heavy blowjob. And Cackle was getting off on it. “Yeah, cunt, that’s the way. Nice and wet.”

  He began to pummel her faster, accenting every stab with a staccato grunt. Then, he wrenched himself free of her mouth. She heard him peel the condom off; she heard his hand sliding back and forth over his cock. Cackle grabbed her pussy again, this time clutching it with one hand while his grunts became wheezy and weak.

  Then, he was there. He cried out once as he peaked, then muttered a sick, perverted “Oh yeah,” for each of the four shots of come that hit Lydia, right between her breasts. It was runny stuff and, as she felt Brain loosen his hold on the drawstrings, Cackle’s spunk dripped onto the shelf of her chin. There, it stayed. No one made an effort to wipe her clean. Brains simply rolled her panties back into place, the hood, too, letting the spunk seep into the Lycra fabric.

  “Feel better now?” he asked Cackle.

  Lydia gasped. Cackle’s hands were back inside her bra, feeling her up. “Oh yeah, I feel better,” he answered; then, directing his comments to her tits, he mumbled “Nice, very nice.” That perverted lust was back in his voice, sending chills along Lydia’s spine. She knew she’d heard that very line somewhere before but where? She wanted to wrack her brains and find out, but Driver spoke up instead.

  “We better get cracking. Five minutes until Medusa.”

  The sound of the hoist resumed and, as the rope went slack, Brains and Driver took Lydia in their arms and returned her to standing. Lydia felt instantly unsteady.

  “You’re okay,” Brains said. “We’ll hold on to you. Lean on me.”