The Taking of Cheryl, Book One: Cheryl Captured

by Paul Blades

  He let Cheryl acclimate herself momentarily to her confinements. He ran his hands over her breasts, appreciating their delectable heft, the softness of the flesh. The Master had made a good choice. She was a treasure indeed. He yearned for the time when she would be his. He knew he would not have too long to wait.

  Jeremiah aborted his reveries and got down to the task at hand. Behind the perpendicular pipe was a handle attached to a ratchet. The wheel, when turned, caused the perpendicular pole to rise. Jeremiah applied himself to the handle and began to turn.

  Cheryl, at first, attached no significance to the fact that the pole to which her arms were attached seemed to be rising. At each turn of the wheel, the perpendicular pole rose, carrying the horizontal pole, to which Cheryl’s arms were attached, higher. It was when her toes could no longer gain purchase on the ground that Cheryl realized the infernal nature of the device to which she was attached. Since her wrists were attached to the underside of the horizontal bar, she could not grab it to try and spread the weight of her body along her arms. As it was, the entire stress of her weight was born by her shoulders. Within a few seconds, her shoulder muscles ached with the strain.

  Jeremiah caused the bar to rise to a height sufficient so that Cheryl could tantalizingly scrape her toes on the floor. They were not in a position to transfer any of the burden of the weight of her body. But Jeremiah knew from experience that Cheryl would strain her leg muscles vainly to try and make sufficient contact with the floor to ease what would soon become an excruciating pain in her shoulders.

  As Cheryl tried to acclimate herself to this fiendish device, Jeremiah removed her blindfold. The light bulb dangling from the ceiling above her head created harsh and sinister shadows. Nonetheless, Cheryl had no problem taking in the plentitude of instruments of pain that were arrayed across the room. She was positioned perfectly to take in virtually all of the room’s contents and she was horrified at what she saw. Was she in some medieval dungeon? Was she soon to be tortured to her death? To what purpose? Cheryl felt a terrifying foreboding about the events that were soon to come.

  She had remained silent and docile until now. But now she pleaded with her eyes to the tall, muscular black man who had brought her to such intense physical delights just a short while before. She tried to speak through the wooden gag that acted like a bit in her mouth. Only small, whiney sounds escaped.

  Jeremiah tweaked Cheryl’s nipples and then moved to leave the room. As she saw him go, Cheryl realized that she was being abandoned to the nefarious discomfort of her bindings and to the terrible visions that arose in her mind as she contemplated the devices of torture. She redoubled her efforts to speak, to beg him to free her, not to leave her to the devices of that horrible angry man who had raped her mouth on the plane. But Cheryl was not the first slave Jeremiah had left here to contemplate the horrifying torments that awaited them. He patted her head, turned and left.

  Jeremiah had left on the lights in the room so Cheryl could plainly see and contemplate the many instruments of torture that were displayed. Her blood ran cold. Her stomach sank. Her mouth became dry. All of the clichés of fear came true for her. She peed.

  While her primary attention was focused on the terrible implements mounted on the walls and around the room, Cheryl ignored the nagging pain in her shoulder muscles. But only after a few minutes, ten, at most, she began to be concerned. She had wondered at the unusual angle at which her arms had been bound. Now the reason was beginning to dawn on her. Frantically, she tried to stretch her toes to reach the floor. If she really pushed, she could scrape her big toe on the rough concrete beneath her feet. She would get no support from there. She tried to anchor her feet on the pole, but, after only a brief moment, her feet would slide down and the relief she obtained in her shoulders was minimal.

  As the time dragged on, Cheryl’s pain grew worse. She had given up trying to brace her feet on the pole and was reconciled to just hanging there, hoping that someone would come and release her. But, when she gave it any thought, she realized that the sole purpose of her being in this room was to make her suffer physically and mentally. That horrid man was out there somewhere; the black man was out there somewhere, undoubtedly contemplating the agonies they had delivered her to. Only when their desires to inflict a more personal pain on her overcame their present delight at her predicament would she gain surcease from this punishing torture.

  She didn’t know how long she hung there. All she knew was that she had passed through many stages of mental and physical distress. When the aching seemed too much to bear, she cried. After a while, her cries turned to sobs. A deep, baleful moaning was next. She yelled and screamed behind her gag for help, out of rage against those had done this to her and the deity who had permitted it. And then back to crying. Finally, the pain was so intense that all she could do was hang there and softly groan.

  Stoner had been crisscrossing his estates that day, checking up on things. He was a man who checked up on things personally. He checked out the readiness of his phalanx of enforcers, congratulating Kurim on the discipline and skill of his men. There would be a party tonight. Ganja, whiskey, and the native women captured in the raid last week. There were twenty of them, which, arithmetically, made it over ten to one. But Kurim and his lieutenants had their pick of the crop. The sergeants shared five or six among them. That left less than ten for the grunts. Those girls had a hard night’s work ahead of them. But the party would last all night so there would be plenty of time for the girls to take in their quota of cocks.

  And the odds got better for the girls considering that at least fifty men would be on duty, on stand by in case of emergency. Fifty more were stationed at outposts around the plantation guarding machinery and equipment, out buildings and crops.

  Stoner needed men on guard and on stand by because there had been some rumblings in the jungle and hills of his fiefdom. A “freedom” movement was in its nascent stages. There had been raids on outposts, men had been killed, equipment destroyed. Kurim had captured one of the raiders last week. The women who would service the troops tonight were from his village.

  During the course of Stoner’s travels, Cheryl was not far from his mind. He knew that Jeremiah would have her ready for him when he returned to the house. He had instructed Jeremiah to mount her on the “T-bar”, and he kept a mental image of Cheryl’s torment as he went around his inspections.

  At about five o’clock, five hours after the plane had landed, four hours after Cheryl’s torturous confinement had begun, Stoner mounted the veranda of his mansion. The sun was low in the sky and would soon be hidden by the mountains that surrounded the verdant plain that constituted Stoner’s plantation. A small native girl dashed out from the house carrying Stoner’s standard refreshment, a scotch and soda. Stoner was not ready to come inside yet so he sat in his favorite rocker and absorbed the dimming reddish rays from the setting sun.

  “Lord of all I survey,” he thought as he sipped his cool drink. “And Lord of the underworld as well,” he mused as he thought of Cheryl, undoubtedly suffering in terrible pain not twenty yards from where he sat.

  Stoner finished his drink. He was ready for some entertainment. He entered the house and told the serving girl to fetch Jeremiah. The factotum responded quickly, anticipating his master’s wants. The two of them went down the stairs that led to the punishment room.

  Cheryl heard the door to the room opening. She could not see who it was because her back was to the door. She hardly cared who it was. But she would care soon enough.

  Stoner stepped in front of the helpless young woman. She looked at him morosely. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her to look him in the eyes. Standing inches from her face, he hissed at her, “Welcome to Africa, bitch.” Suddenly hanging from this horizontal pole, all alone, pain screaming through her shoulder and arm muscles, seemed less dire to Cheryl than facing this twisted man.

  Taking his cue from Stoner, Jeremiah lowered the horizontal bar on which Cheryl’s arms were spread. Slowly, Cheryl’s
body lowered so that her feet touched the floor. At first the contact of her feet with the cool cement was painful, her legs having hung suspended for so long. But after a moment, when the pressure on her arms and shoulders was eliminated, Cheryl felt a wave of relief. It was to be short lived.

  “Cunt,” Stoner addressed Cheryl, “my name is Benjamin Stoner and I own you.” He paused to let that bit of information soak in. He had Cheryl’s attention. “From now until I tire of you, your whole, sole purpose in life is to give me pleasure. I am going to fuck you in your cunt, in your ass and in your mouth. I am going to beat you until you scream in agony from pain in every pore of your body. Because that gives me pleasure too. You will do whatever I say, when I say it.”

  Stoner paused to observe the effect his words were having on the bound girl before him. Stoner wasn’t tall and his eyes were approximately the level of Cheryl’s. Tears were forming at the corner of her eyes. She shivered in fear.

  “Tonight, you will feel the business end of my whip,” Stoner continued. “By the end, you might wish that you had never been born. But tonight is to teach you several important things. You will learn the price of disobedience. You will learn that I have total and complete domination over you. And most importantly, you will learn to fear me.”

  Cheryl didn’t need that lesson. She was already terrified. Stoner grabbed her nipples and twisted them hard. Cheryl’s knees went weak with the pain. He smiled and said to Jeremiah, “Let’s mount her on the rings.”

  That did not sound good to Cheryl who began to plead and whine behind her gag as Jeremiah released her aching arms from the horizontal pole. Stoner unfastened the chain that had held her legs connected to the vertical pole. They dragged Cheryl’s resisting form across the room to a point where two large rings of tubular steel stood anchored in the floor. They were about five feet apart and eight feet high. There were four bracelets attached, free to slide the length of the ring, two bracelets on each one. Cheryl was struggling with all of the strength she could muster. Stoner was actually laughing as he managed to get one foot and then the other hooked to rings. Jeremiah had already fastened Cheryl’s wrists.

  The design of the rings allowed the victim to be displayed in virtually any pose you could want. The bracelets could be anchored at any point on the ring so that if you wanted the victim to hang in the air, for instance, her cunt and widespread legs exposed for a lashing, you just slid the bracelets to the top of the ring. With both legs and arms up, the bracelets could be anchored. The girl’s legs would be spread wide, her cunt and thighs open for the whip.

  This was, in fact, the pose in which Cheryl was placed. The rings could be pivoted in their base and so the part of the rings where the legs were attached could be made wider than the part where the wrists were fastened. It also slid apart on a track to accommodate the precise dimensions of the victim’s body.

  Stoner’s cock was hard as he anticipated the pain he was about to inflict. Cheryl was open, her thighs stretched wide. He took a leather quirt, with a lash about three feet long into his hand. Cheryl could see it and resumed whimpering. “Take out her gag,” Stoner said to Jeremiah. “I want to hear her scream.”

  Jeremiah quickly complied. Cheryl was glad to have the stifling bit removed from her mouth. But it had been a minor discomfort compared to what was to come. She promised herself that she would not beg. She would not cry. She would not scream. But she had never been whipped before and had no way to measure what she could endure.

  In fact, she did not last past the first stroke. Stoner had reared his arm back and landed a blow directly on Cheryl’s widened cunt. She screeched loudly as the shock of the blow coursed through her. She could see Stoner, between her legs, smiling. “Oh, he’s going to kill me,” she thought.

  Stoner landed four more blows straight on to Cheryl’s pussy. He waited until the shock and the wave of intense pain subsided before delivering each one. At the last blow, Cheryl was begging and pleading for mercy.

  For two hours Cheryl’s body was tormented by the lash. Dangling like some weird marionette, she was twisted and turned so that every inch of her body had been exposed to blows. Midway, after delivering ten strong, slashing blows to Cheryl’s ass, Stoner took a break. Cheryl’s ass was prominently displayed. She was bent over, her ankles fixed to the bottom of the rings on one side, her wrists on the other. A small, padded stanchion supported her stomach. Her body was dripping with sweat and was raw with welts from the lash. She was sobbing, trying to catch her breath.

  Stoner stepped up between her legs and stroked her cunt. Cheryl tried to wriggle her hips in protest, but Stoner slapped her ass hard and yelled, “Stay still, bitch!” The last thing Cheryl wanted was to give this cruel, sadistic man another reason to beat her, so she stopped her movement and resigned herself to the manual abuse of her sex by this monster.

  She was surprised how easy it was for Stoner to manipulate her into wetness. She had no reason, other than the avoidance of pain, to want to accommodate Stoner’s desires, but she really had no choice, her body was acting for her. And it was better to have her cunt juices flowing than to have Stoner dry fuck her.

  He was randy now and decided it was time that he sampled a little more of his new slave’s body. He had stripped off his shirt during the beating of Cheryl and was left dressed in khaki work shorts and work boots. He quickly removed the rest of his clothing. Jeremiah stood, saying nothing. He too would sample these wares, but later. Now, he existed only to help facilitate his master’s pleasure.

  Stoner’s cock was steel hard as he approached the girl. He stepped between her legs and, grabbing her hips, slid his cock home into her now well-lubricated sheath. Cheryl had known she would be raped, but the reality of it was overwhelming. More than this vile man’s power to beat her, more than his need to humiliate and insult her, this power that he had assumed to invade and use her body at will, struck her to her very core. She could feel his hot, hard prick sawing at her cunt. Desperately, she shook and squirmed, but the rings held her tight, poised for fucking. She cursed herself as she felt the warmth spread inside her cunt. “No, no, no,” she cried.

  Stoner, misinterpreting the girl’s exclamations, struck her raw ass with his open hand. “You’ll take my cock and like it, bitch!” He pounded her relentlessly, his passion rising. When he came, he groaned loudly, bending at the knees. Cheryl had not reached her peak. Her body desired completion and she gasped when Stoner pulled his cock from her pussy. Stoner, oblivious to Cheryl’s stoked desire, stumbled over to a small table where he had placed his refreshments. He took a long pull at his beer and sighed, temporarily sated.

  Stoner did not perceive the passion that had been sparked in Cheryl by her forced coupling, but Jeremiah did. “These white men are so stupid,” he thought. The way to truly bind her was to fuel that unwanted, even repulsive, desire. Even a slave’s passion should be at the mercy of her master. “Later,” he thought. “Later.”

  Having rejuvenated himself, Stoner was eager to continue the torture of the helpless female. “Flip her around,” he said to Jeremiah. “I want to whip her tits.”

  Cheryl had hoped that her session of torture was over. Her hopes were dashed as she was readjusted in the rings so that she was arched backwards, her wrists behind her. Her body was configured in a “C”, her head leaning back, her breasts flat on her chest, pointing to the ceiling. She lost control of herself as she contemplated the abuse to her precious mounds.

  “Oh, God,” she yelled. “Please, please don’t whip me there. Oh, God. Please, please, please!”

  Rather than be dissuaded from his assault, Stoner was energized. Bent as she was, her head tilted slightly downwards, Cheryl could see Stoner arm himself with the quirt. “Oh, please don’t whip my breasts, please! I couldn’t bear it! I’ll do anything you want. Oh, mister, I beg you please don’t!”

  This was music to Stoner’s ears. Yes, she would do anything he wanted. And now he wanted her to suffer a tit whipping. And so she would.

  Cheryl watched with dismay as she saw Stoner’s hand rise. She
closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. “Crack!” The whip exploded onto her right breast.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Cheryl screamed.

  He struck again, this time the left breast.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” Cheryl screamed again.

  Whatever had been left of the self confident, independent, young woman who had come home from work a few short days ago, was now lost. Cheryl’s personality underwent a complete collapse. She was now nothing more than a bulk of abused flesh. Stoner was her master. She would do anything that he said. As the whip descended again and again, Cheryl screamed and begged for surcease. Lines of red welts rose along the delicate curves of her breasts. Her nipples were afire as the lash tormented them.

  When the tit whipping was over, even Stoner had had enough. He had abused Cheryl unmercifully for more than two hours. Even the soles of her feet had been riven with welts. She lay sobbing, her body in a forlorn crescent.

  “Clean her up, fuck her if you want, but the asshole is mine,” Stoner said to Jeremiah. He didn’t mind sharing his female meat with Jeremiah. It was a small price to pay for his skill in controlling and regulating these bitches. It also humored him to think of these cunts being stuffed with black meat. He knew that Jeremiah sometimes peddled their asses to the officers of his little strike force. He didn’t mind, as long as they didn’t damage the goods. Besides, anything that added to these bitches’ humiliation was fine by him. They were all ultimately destined to serve in a whorehouse in the capital anyway.

  As Stoner left the room, Jeremiah contemplated the mass of quivering flesh before him. He startled the girl by placing his hands on her abused breasts. Cheryl had no more pleas to make, no words to say. What had happened here was something that was beyond her ability to absorb. Never in her life had she imagined herself being the object of such a violent and terrible assault. And now she had been left with this strange, silent black man, an African, she supposed. As she felt him pinch and stretch her nipples, she prayed silently that her abuse was at an end.