From tmquin@ibm.net Fri Mar 07 07:11:05 1997

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From: tmquin@ibm.net (The Mighty Quin)

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Subject: NEW: Captured Caroline PT11 "French Lessons" (B&D, NC? tick.)

Date: Fri, 07 Mar 1997 12:11:05 GMT

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First up sorry for the delays on posting this section.  Of course

those people who can remember when I posted quarterly may consider

this early.



The next section of Caroline will be delayed until the short story

"Iron Maiden" is finished and published.  This is the name of the

"Bureaucrat in Bondage" story.  That means that there is still time to

enter the competition.  If some minor functionary has made your life

hell send me his name and the reason he pissed you off.  At the end I

will pick two male and two female candidates and use them to generate

composite names for the two victims of the story.  The winners will

have the story mailed directly to them and with a nifty text editor

you could make it a customised revenge fantasy of your very own!!!!



This section is dedicated to Hunter Rose who has been a great help

during the past couple of years.  Not only has he provided the BISH

images that accompany most of the story sections, he has also

frequently reposted the story when I've been unavailable.  This

section contains some ideas we spoke about nearly two years ago.  I

hope he likes what I did with it.  . .



Tom Quin



============================================================



First up we now have an FTP site thanks to the people at the 

English Palace BBS. The previous Caroline sections can be got 

from



http://www.palace.com



and are placed in the newusers library (ie the public part of 

the board).



No associated images this time though there will be before 

this section goes on the web.



Still no news on the website.

Quin



************************************************************

                                     STANDARD DISCLAIMER

                                     ===================



The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and

has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet.  If it

is found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the

author.



All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to persons

living or dead is purely coincidental.  The author does not

necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this

story, some of which are dangerous or illegal.



Quin 1997

tmquin@ibm.net

************************************************************





                            Captured Caroline.  by Quin

                            ======================



Chapter 11: "French Lessons"

=========================







I wandered into the kitchen thinking again of Maggie's predicament.

She'd always been impulsive, liable to go off and do strange things

for no good reason.  This wouldn't be the first time I'd been forced

to bail her out when things got out of hand.



An image of her bound and gagged flittered through my mind and I was

suddenly and unexpectedly hard.  Wow!  On one level I realized it was

wrong; here was a long time friend in an embarrassing and potentially

dangerous situation.  I shouldn't be getting off on it but it was such

a turn on I simply couldn't help myself.  I could imagine her lying

there, wrists raw from her frantic struggles, body coated in sweat.

At first she would have been too embarrassed to call for help -- after

all she wouldn't want the neighbors to find her like this.  But as she

tired and that knot of fear grew in her gut, she would have abandoned

any thought for her dignity.  After all, survival is of primary

importance.  I suppose she would have tried screaming first, but the

gag was so tight I'd had problems hearing her close to a phone.  Then

as her neighbors started to leave for work and she could hear them

passing her door, I could imagine her desperate attempts to attract

their attention -- the thrashing about, the gagged screams too quiet

to be heard, then finally that desperate, frantic phone call.



The drama of it appealed to me.  The reality, the danger, it was like

our little adventure of last night.  There had been something, perhaps

her look of humiliation in the slut outfit, or the risk of discovery

in the elevator, that had given the experience more of a kick.

Whatever it was, it seemed to be missing from my relationship with

Caroline.



Don't get me wrong; nothing in my life compared with the 

immense thrill of the kidnapping.  The first time I'd raped 

Caroline as she lay there bound and helpless --- when I'd 

felt her struggles, heard her gagged moans I'd been in 

ecstasy, but after that it had started to become a little 

tame.  I still got a huge kick out of just having her.  She 

was young, sexy, beautiful and completely in my power.  I was 

in control freak heaven.  I could degrade her anyway I liked; 

I was the one with the Power.  It was the ultimate geek's 

fantasy.  I had a pretty blonde cheerleader tied up in my 

basement.  Yet strangely enough, bondage sex with my real 

prisoner did not seem as real as my little act with Maggie.  

I think it's lack of spontaneity.  Although I keep Caroline 

bound and gagged most of the time, it's mainly for show.  She 

spends her days locked behind an armored door in a sound-

proof room; escape is impossible and the bonds are overkill.  

I thought again of Maggie lying helplessly in her room.  In 

her case the bonds were real, the cuffs constrained her, the 

gag stole her voice and any chance of rescue.  And that 

rescue is so tantalizingly close. . .



I looked at my watch.  Two hours I'd told Maggie.  Two hours if I'd

been ready in my car.  Two hours if I did eighty all the way and

dodged the state troopers.  Two hours if I didn't have a slave to

feed.  She would understand my lateness, I was sure.  Then a strange

thought struck me.  Suppose I was killed in a car accident on my way

to save Maggie?  I realized immediately that both girls would be

doomed.  Maggie would eventually be found when the police searched her

apartment, but Caroline?  Caroline would die of starvation alone and

helpless and the chances were her body would never be found.

Strangely, I found the thought thrilling; to think that two other

human beings were so dependent on me that they would die if I did.

What a feeling of Power!



Caroline. . .



To be honest, I couldn't think about Caroline without feeling a little

numb.  I can't really say that I was emotionally drained; I am by

nature and training an analytical person, and emotion doesn't come

easily to me.  But the horrors of that attic room continued to haunt

me as I started the coffee and began to prepare breakfast.  I forced

myself to analyze the situation in depth, going backwards and forwards

over a tale that seemed more and more incredible.  Last night when she

had first told me the story, I had believed her completely.  But now

in the cold light of day I started to doubt.  I suppose I didn't want

to believe that a father could do this to his own daughter, and

instead I started to wonder if this was some elaborate hoax.



At first I couldn't see a motive for such a flagrant lie.  Then the

cynical part of my brain found a reason -- to somehow shame me into

freeing her.  Of course, that must be it!  I could almost imagine her

lying there alone in the dark, concocting a story loaded with all the

abhorrent images her psych training had taught her.  She was just

trying to manipulate me, trying to escape.  Happy to find an

explanation, I started to pick holes in her story.  One thing hit me

immediately; surely such torture as she had described would leave

scars, huge horrible scars like in the movies.  No scars meant no

torture, which meant she was playing me for a sucker!  Suddenly I felt

very angry.  I wanted to go down there and introduce her to the lash,

help put that added bit of realism into her story.  . .



Then I wondered just why the lying bitch should have a breakfast when

poor Maggie was all alone and helpless.



Alone and helpless. . .



Then, an evil thought struck me.  My old accomplice Fate had once

again delivered me a wonderful opportunity, if I chose to take it.  Of

course it would be expensive, but as I'd pointed out to Caroline

taking a slave was far from cheap.  As the plan started to form, a

gut-level thrill went through me, and I started putting together a

list of things I'd need.



I was tempted to forget about Caroline and let the bitch fend for

herself, but in the end I relented and decided to make her a health

drink for breakfast.  After all, I did want to put her on a diet and

I'd already decided to give her low residue foods while I was away in

Seattle.  The image of a helpless Maggie flashed through the window of

my mind.  Yes, it would be worth it.  My hand shook as I took some

Gatorade and a box of protein powder and loaded up the blender.  For

my plan to work I needed to get to Boston *fast*.  Fortunately, I knew

a way.  All I needed to do was make a few phone calls and find

something for Caroline to do this morning.



The calls were the easy part.  Traveling as much as I do has a few

advantages, one of which is that lots of hotel chains and car rental

agencies see you as a valued customer.  They're more than willing to

provide an extra service for you, rather than lose you to a more

compliant competitor.  Fifteen minutes later and everything was ready.

Now all that was left was Caroline.



I went downstairs with the protein shake and a flask of coffee.  I

paused at the table and retrieved some new clothes and restraints.

Then I crumbled a contraceptive pill into her coffee cup and topped it

up.  So far she hadn't noticed anything wrong, and soon I'd start

ordering her to take it, adding her reproductive ability (or

inability, as it were) to the things under my obvious control.



She was still asleep when I went inside.  I was tempted to shake her

awake and have it out with her right then, but common sense finally

fought through.  Instead of waking her, I put the cup on the dresser

and bent down to examine her naked crotch.  I had been right about the

stubble -- she would need a shave soon -- but of more interest to me

were her pussy lips.  Very gently, so as not to disturb her, I

examined the folds.  Even in the dim light, I could see a series of

irregular pockmarked scars about a sixteenth of an inch from the edge.

As I looked closely at the tiny pits, I felt my stomach turn.  Any

doubts I still had evaporated as those scars, so exactly like the ones

from a hypodermic, told me that the "butterfly board" was real.

Gently I examined the other side, noticing the corresponding marks

that showed how the needle had gone right through the delicate

membranes.  Above me, she moaned, her tongue darting quickly across

her other lips.  There was already the suggestion of moisture in her

cunt from my handling of her pussy lips, and her nipples had started

to harden again.





Then I realized what agony it must have been for her; to be this

sensitive and for him to do *that.* I wasn't surprised that she'd told

him about Josh -- in a similar situation, I'd have done anything to

stop the pain.  I felt a momentary flash of guilt for having doubted

her, so I reached over and gently stroked her cheek.  She woke slowly,

smiling as she attempted to stretch then found that she couldn't.  For

an instant she seemed puzzled, then she remembered.  Her eyes

flickered open.



I smiled at her.  "Time to wake up, lazy bones."



Surprisingly, she smiled back.  "Hi Master."



"Not yet, but the day is still young," I said flippantly, and slapped

her bottom.

 

I helped her up and we went through the coffee and toilet ritual.  She

seemed happy; our first therapy session together appeared to have

relaxed her.  I knew that she hadn't told me everything, though.  Her

story had stopped soon after Josh's death, with three whole years of

horror left.  One thing I did find out last night was that the

Reverend Conway could pack a lot of suffering into a year.  The thing

I most wanted to know was how she'd escaped.  Had she run away?  Did

that explain her destitute condition and lack of letters home?  I

needed to know before I posted something out of character to her

family and gave the game away.



Still, that could wait.  She seemed much better than last night and I

started to feel happier with the idea of leaving her alone for a

while.  I led her into the dungeon and removed the posture collar from

her neck, replacing her old collar.  After I chained her to the table

I removed the rest of the single sleeve and smiled again.  "Ok, get

naked!"



She didn't hesitate, stripping off the remaining latex in moments.  I

circled her body, admiring her slim athletic build and small but

perfect breasts.  I had come to appreciate just what a find she was

and I could understand why any man would kill to keep her.  I tossed

her some leather cuffs which she put on without comment.  To put on

the ankle cuffs, she put one foot at a time on the bondage chair and

bent over, and I took the opportunity to look at her back carefully.

The lines were faint, so faint that I wasn't surprised I had missed

them.  These were not the vivid scars so beloved of Hollywood, and I

suspected that Conway had been very careful to ensure that all

tell-tale wounds healed properly.  Yet faint as they, were the scars

were there.  It was more support for her story.



By now she was waiting expectantly, so I handed her the shake.

"What's this?"  she asked, looking at the concoction with some

distaste.



"Breakfast," I said.  "Michael Jordan's secret recipe.  Denis would

*kill* to know what's in it."



She looked blank.  "Not a big basketball fan then?"  I asked.  Again

getting no reply I went for the less subtle approach.  "Just drink it,

slave.  It's all the meal you're getting this morning."



"Why?  Have I upset you in some way?"  she asked, almost fearfully.

"Because if I did I'm sorry.  . ."



"No, it's just healthier than the cooked breakfast.  Now drink the

fucking shake!"



She chugged it down.  I got the feeling that she was trying to avoid

any confrontation, which suited me fine.  Most of the last few days

had revolved around her, a situation that couldn't continue if I

wanted to keep working.  Now was the obvious time to acquaint her with

the lowliness of her new position; that as a slave, she was just a

possession like any other and had only a limited influence on my life.



Once the shake was finished I clipped her wrists to her collar and

began to dress her.  First up came a black leather bondage belt.  This

was about three or four inches wide with rings equally spaced around

it.  It had buckles on the front and a small catch, and after

tightening it firmly about her narrow waist I locked it in place with

a padlock.  She didn't struggle or even comment -- cuffs, gags and

chains were a part of her life now, and I think she'd started to

accept that.  Once the belt was locked in place I helped her on to the

table and used cord and straps to tie her down.  As before, I strapped

her with her legs parted and her pussy exposed.  I wished I had the

time to shave her twat again but I had a lot to do and the clock was

ticking.



Once Caroline was secure I reached over and took a packet from the

table.  The packet took some opening as it was designed to keep its

contents sterile.  After a struggle I finally got it open and was able

to remove the catheter.  This was a small hollow tube surrounded by an

inflatable surgical balloon.  I looked for a reaction but it was

obvious she didn't recognize it.  She was still wearing the training

harness, so after a little thought I reached over and pushed the ball

against those cherry lips.  She opened immediately and I pushed the

gag in, loosely fastening it just enough to hold it in place.  Then,

using a small jar of lube, I greased the end of the catheter and

parted her pussy lips.  Her clit had already started to swell and as I

gently pushed it out of the way her whole body trembled.  Very

carefully, I placed the catheter against her urethra and pushed.  A

muffled squeal erupted from the far end of the table, and her hips

quaked as her body fought against the imprisoning bonds.  The thin

tube slid home into her bladder, and I slowly inflated the balloon the

small amount needed to seal it in place.  Then I removed the pump and

waited for her to calm down.  Needless to say this took a while, but

eventually she was ready for the next stage.



I call the device a McGuffin.  It's a small oval piece of latex a

little bigger than a woman's labia.  One side is plain, and the other

is studded with electrodes and small piezo-electric buzzers.  This

particular one had been designed for use with the catheter and had a

small hole between the cluster of electrodes for the clit and those

for the rest of the pussy.  Sliding it down the tube, I gently moved

it into best contact . At the other end of the table the moans started

again.  Once it was in position, I sealed it in place using surgical

tape, then released Caroline.  She stood a little uncertainly; it must

be odd for a woman to suddenly find a pipe between her legs, and she

struggled a bit more than usual as I covered the arrangement with a

special pair of spandex pants.  I used a locking belt to fasten the

pants in place then started to apply electrodes to her breasts.  She

struggled and moaned into the gag as I stuck a couple of other

McGuffins on top if each nipple.  I finished up with an spandex

athletic bra just like those in the shops except modified to lock in

place.  Then I removed the gag.





"What are you doing. . .Master?"



"Careful, slave.  You almost bought yourself a punishment!"



Her eyes were wide.  "Isn't this a punishment?"



I laughed and kissed her forehead.  "Why, have you done anything

wrong?"



She thought for a while.  "Not as far as I know."



"Then why should I punish you?"  It seemed straightforward to me, but

then Conway had never needed a reason to punish her.  I smiled.  "I

have to go somewhere and I need to keep you busy while I'm gone.

Trust me, all will be revealed!"



She squirmed.  "That thing. . .it's uncomfortable."



"Yep, it is."  I pushed her back onto the table and locked a pair of

shoes with sensible heels on her dainty little feet.



Realizing she wasn't going to get any sympathy, she pouted for a

while, then seemed to realize that she was ungagged and could talk.

She looked up.  "Master?"  she asked softly.



I stopped for a moment.  "Yes slave?"



"Can we talk about your mother?"



I was puzzled but willing to play along.  "I suppose so."



"Do. . .do you love your mother?"



That caught me by surprise.  To be honest, my mother was a bit of a

bitch.  While my father was tending the store, she'd ruled our

household like a petty tyrant.  When it had become clear that I was.

. .different.  . .she had pushed me towards greater and greater

academic achievement.  If for some reason I didn't jump a grade or

score better than anyone else on a test, she wanted to know why.

Thinking back on it, if it hadn't been for my grandfather's gentle but

firm insistence on letting me have some free time to myself, I don't

believe I would have had a childhood at all.  It was my belief that

most of my problems with women had come from her; my desire for sexual

dominance, my status as a power freak, was a subconscious backlash

against her total domination of my childhood.



"Of course I love her," I said, and it was true.  After all, you'd

have to be really screwed up not to love your mother.



She gulped a bit.  "If something.  . .bad was going to happen to her,

something you could prevent, you'd do it, right?"



I attached the leash to her collar and led her over to part of the

dungeon near the cell.  "Yes," I said.  Caroline seemed to prefer

straight answers.



The floodgates opened.  "Please, you have to let me go or he'll kill

her," she begged.



"He'll kill my mother?"  Needless to say, I was shocked.



"NO!  He'll kill my mother!" she wailed.



I stopped.  "When did we start talking about your mother?"  I said,

sounding confused.  In the back of my mind I could imagine the laugh

track, like this was some weird sitcom.  In my head I could almost

hear the intro -- 'New this fall, the hilarious new show "Master and

Slave," coming soon on NBC!  Richard Cody, successful author, kidnaps

a girl and keeps her in his basement -- you'll be rolling with

laughter as he tries to keep this fact secret from friends and family,

often with hilarious results!'



"Perhaps if you start again," I said smoothly.  "Who's going to kill

who and why?"



She took a deep, halting breath.  "Momma wanted me to go to college,

but at first my father wouldn't let me," she said.  "Then she talked

him around, but he said he was going to call me every week.  If I ran

away or if he found out I'd told anyone, he'd kill her and then

himself--"



"How could he find out?"  I asked, annoyed.  "That's stupid, he can't

be keeping track of you all the time."



She shook her head.  "He has friends in the police, lodge buddies, he

says they'd warn him if the police started getting interested in him.

He'll do it, I know he will!"



So she hadn't escaped him.  She was still as much his prisoner now as

she had been in that attic.  Conway still had her on a tight leash;

only the nature of the chain and its length were different.  While I

could believe that he had contacts in local law enforcement and even

see how they might tip him off, there was no way he could have

everything covered.  Then I looked at Caroline and saw the fear in

those blue eyes, and I realized it didn't have to make sense as long

as *SHE* believed it.  Still, I was intrigued enough to want to know

more.



"So he let you leave town on the understanding that he was to know

where you are and that you were to keep quiet about the things he

did," I said.





She nodded and looked down.



I reached over and forced her to look at me.  "What if he were to

order you back?"



She sniffed.  "I had to come at once."



"He specifically told you that?"



She nodded again.  "He said that if I disobeyed, it would be Momma who

was punished because it was her idea."



Somehow I didn't think he would limit the punishment to just the

mother.  So he'd let Caroline go.  Suddenly, the alarm bells in the

back of my mind were on overload.  One thing I'd learned was that he

did nothing without a reason, and I knew for sure was that whatever

that reason was, it hadn't been to please his slave wife.  No, if

Charles Conway had allowed Caroline out of town then he had something

in mind and from experience it wasn't going to be pleasant.  Conway's

plans tended to be pretty straight-forward.  He didn't mislead or

bluff; instead, he relied on using his position in the local community

to best effect.  I was sure that had the Conways not been the family

of the local minister, someone would have spotted the abuse long

before now.  But then, as Caroline had said, who would suspect the

nicest man in town?  Hell, even I'd thought she was lying.  I guess

people just don't want to believe something like that.



I analyzed the problem.  I could see no obvious benefit for getting

her out of town, but then I didn't have all the data he did.  However

I knew there was a reason and it would be obvious from Conway's point

of view.  Then something else popped into my head.



"Hey, wait a minute!  If he's told you that he intends to call you

back, then what was that 'offer' of yours?"



"My offer was good."



"Bullshit!  If he called you back to Iowa, how could you have been my

slave here?  You lied, you little bitch."



She flushed.  "I don't think he'll call.  I've been away almost eight

months and I've been able to avoid going home even during vacations.

He hasn't said anything.  I'm almost free."



I shook my head.  "No you're not.  He's just played out the line a

little, that's all.  He has every intention of reeling you back."



A look of fear crossed her face.  "Oh no.  I mean, he wouldn't--"



"He would," I said harshly.  "My guess is he was going to do it soon,

otherwise he'd have given you some more money."



"I don't see. . ."



"You're on a scholarship, right?" 



She nodded. 



"What is it, a hundred percent of tuition costs?"



She nodded again, a worried look spreading across her face.



"And he pays for your rent, food and things.  I mean, he gives you

money for that."



"Yes," she whispered.



"Let me tell you what's happened and you correct me if I'm wrong.

He's never really given you enough to live on, so it's always been a

struggle.  He's said something about working your way through college

builds character.  He hasn't worried when your grades have suffered as

a result.  Recently, he's sent you even less money, and he's been

making noises about coming for a visit."





By now the look of alarm had turned almost to panic.  "Next month.

But how.  . ."



"I'm afraid it's obvious.  He's coming to get you to take you back," I

said.



Her face filled with horror.  "Back. . ."



"Probably straight back to the attic, so that he can purge you of any

independent thoughts."



"NO!"  she shrieked.  "Please God, NO!  I've left, I'm independent.

Never again!  Oh, God, never again!"



"You never left," I said sadly.  "He wanted you out of the way for

some reason.  He never had any intention of letting you finish that

course."  I continued to lead her gently towards the far corner of the

dungeon.  "You see, if you fail or he brings you back, the tuition fee

will be wasted but he doesn't care because he's not paying it.  The

maintenance fee is something he *does* pay, which is why he's keeping

it as cheap as possible.  That's why he never gave you enough money,

and he hasn't sent you any more because he knows you won't be needing

it.  Besides, he figures you may fear the attic more than what he'll

do to Momma, so the less money you have, the less chance there is that

you'll run."



The tears streamed down her face.  "No!"  she screamed, "you're just

saying that so you don't have to let me go!  He couldn't.  . .*I

can't!*"



I looked her in the eye.  "Slave, I don't have to let you go.  Even if

he was intending to flay your mother alive, it's no skin off my nose."

I winced at the subconscious pun.  "What I mean is, I'm the only one

who has no problem being honest with you because I *know* what you're

going to do."



"And that is?"



"Exactly what *I* tell you," I said.



She looked down deep in misery.



By now we had come to the far corner and a couple of items which were

covered by dust sheets.  Still sniffing, she looked at them with some

trepidation, probably thinking they were some arcane torture device.

And in fact she was right, as she saw when I pulled the sheet aside.

I'd seen this thing on a late night infomercial about a year ago.  It

was an exercise machine that looked like a cross between a bicycle and

a rowing machine.  You sit on it and while your legs turn some pedals

your arms pull the handles towards you.  I used it successfully until

I moved into the house and had access to a dedicated multigym, at

which point I moved the machine down here.  Of course, I had to modify

it for its use as a slave trainer.  First, I welded extra cross

members to the frame, to strengthen it and make sure it couldn't

collapse.  Then I added some mounting points for restraints.  Finally

I attached some accelerometers and tension gauges so that the computer

could monitor its use.



She looked stunned.  "I said you needed exercise," I said cheerfully.



"Please no!  We need to talk about Momma. . .I need to talk."



"I'm sorry, but I don't have time.  Now do what you're told or I'll

find something even more uncomfortable to keep you occupied."



She lowered her head and sobbed once, then nodded.



I removed the gag trainer and helped her on to the machine.  I

fastened her right wrist to a small length of chain attached to the

handles.  I needed to leave one hand free for drinking, so I made sure

it wasn't her 'good' one.



Finally she spoke.  "Why did he let me go if he was going to bring me

back?"



"He has a reason," I said.  "The fact that we can't figure it out

doesn't mean it doesn't exist."



"But my Momma said--"



"She said what she wanted to believe, or what *he* wanted her to

believe.  Ask yourself this:  how could she persuade him to do

anything not in his own interest?  Can she withdraw sex?  Can she go

away?  Can she even have a fight with him?"





"I never thought.  . .I mean, I was just so happy to be leaving."



By now I'd fastened the bondage belt to chains coming from the seat so

that she couldn't stand up.  Then as she sat thinking, I used small

chains to secure her feet and ankle cuffs to the pedals.  Once she was

strapped down I started with the rest.  I attached a small box to the

back of the bondage belt.  This had a number of wires which I

connected to the electrodes on her body and to the McGuffins.



She sobbed a little.  "I'll never get away, ever."



"You are away," I said lightly, "and you're never going back."



She looked at me, her eyes full of a curious mixture of hope and fear.

"But my Momma?"



"I have an idea," I said.  "But it will require your complete

co-operation."



"Anything," she said.



"You said that before and didn't mean it."



"To save my Momma, anything!" she said firmly.



"Good girl," I said, smiling.  Always praise the slave when she does

well.



I put a sweat band on her left wrist and showed her the small table

with the water containers on it, then made the final connections.  I

fastened a small hose to the end of the catheter that poked through

the pants.  This ended in a bucket behind the machine.  I got her to

pee and confirmed that there were no leaks and that the amber liquid

flowed easily into the container.  Finally, it was time for the final

piece.  I showed her the light weight VR helmet before I put it on her

so that she wasn't too frightened.  I'd modified the basic unit quite

a bit to ensure that it couldn't be removed or tampered with, but in

essence it is similar in design to the ones Sega sells.  The only real

technical difference was that it uses a flat CRT rather that an LCD

module.  After I told her what it was for, she seemed happy for me to

strap it on her.



The helmet would display a crude VR environment for her to cycle

through.  The virtual course was divided into sections.  If she made

the sections on time, the McGuffins would reward her with a little

sexual stimulation.  Failure meant a shock.  At random intervals she

would hear my voice giving her some new instructions.  Obedience meant

reward, and she figured out what happened if she disobeyed.  Happy

that she was set, I kissed her cheek for luck and started the program.



Once she was started, I looked at my watch and cursed.  My schedule

was slipping.  Locking the dungeon door behind me I ran upstairs.

First up was the utility room and the pile of dirty clothes from the

last week.  Rooting around, I finally found the sweats I'd worn during

the kidnapping.  As I hoped they smelt of old sweat and dirt, with

perhaps a hint of Caroline's perfume.  There was still a ski mask in

the pocket which I'd intended to wear.  I thought again of how I

rushed out and took her.  I must have been insane.  I opened one of

the closets and got out a huge duffel bag.  When I'd been working

through the kidnapping I'd toyed with the idea of carrying Caroline

out of her apartment block in this.  I'd come to the conclusion that

it could work but would look so unusual that it was bound to be

remembered.  So the idea was discarded, but I'd kept the bag.



In went the sweats, some sneakers and a couple of rolls of duct tape.

Charging through into the kitchen I added some Saran wrap and a small

pile of Ace bandages.  Last stop was my office.  I found the DAT

recorder straight away but couldn't find a blank tape.  Searching my

desk drawers, I finally found one and as an unexpected bonus a bottle

of a cheap and very nasty aftershave someone had bought me one

Christmas.  Everything went into the bag.  As a final thought I threw

in my Powerbook and portable printer.  As I didn't have time to change

out of my master's outfit of shirt and leather pants, I pulled on my

favorite leather flying jacket so that at least my clothes matched.

Still cursing the clock, I charged to the back of the house and waited

by the back door.





By now Caroline would be part through the first section.  Soon she

would be getting her first taste of the obedience test.  Not being a

cruel man I'd decided to help her out.  Every time my voice gave her

an order the helmet would briefly flash the word "OBEY," driving the

command subliminally into her subconscious mind.  She was so

suggestible, I was certain she would make a good subject.  By the time

I came home her mind would be a little closer to being mine.



I was still thrilling at the thought of it when the helicopter landed

on the back lawn.  I grabbed the duffel bag, locked the door and ran

out.



I climbed in.  "Mr Cody?"  the pilot asked.  The guy looked like the

chopper pilots you see on TV -- short haircut, aviator shades,

baseball cap and a huge pair of headphones.



"Yes," I bawled, trying desperately to be heard.



He offered his hand.  "Bob Wilson -- I'll be your pilot today."  He

showed me how to fasten the harness.  I put on the headset he gave me

and was relieved when the wall of sound subsided.  "I was told you

want to go to Boston?"



"Yes, a panic business meeting. I need to get there ASAP."



"Understood, Mr Cody.  ASAP is the only way we work around here."



Bob seemed a pleasant enough fellow.  I got the feeling that perhaps

some of his customers weren't that comfortable flying, as he had this

patter worked out where he gave a running commentary on everything he

was doing.  He kept cracking jokes and making light of the fact that

we were shooting cross country at better than 100 miles an hour.  For

the most part I let him talk while mentally building up checklists of

things to do.  I was so distracted that it seemed like no time before

we were setting down at a small private airfield just outside Boston.



Thanking Bob and giving him a generous tip for his speed, I started

across the grass towards the control tower.  Nearby a pretty brown

haired girl stood near the driver's side door of a Chevy mini van.

Her blue blazer and sensible gray skirt identified her as a

representative of a well known rental agency.  I was looking at the

grass for most of the time in order to shield my head from the wash of

the departing helicopter, and when I looked up I got a shock.  For an

instant I thought the girl was gagged; it seemed that a large red ball

had been pulled between her teeth.  As I got closer I realized it was

just imagination.



She smiled and stepped forward, offering her hand.  "Mr Cody.  I must

say you know how to make a spectacular entrance."



I looked her over.  She was perhaps three or four years older than

Caroline, with large, almost luminous gray eyes.  She wore her hair in

a business-like shoulder-length bob.  Her makeup was conservative,

except perhaps for her lipstick which was a shocking red.  Suddenly I

realized what had just happened -- the color was the same as the one

Caroline used, one I'd deliberately picked to match the red of her

ballgag.  Mental association, or something more?  In that split second

I checked out her ring hand, the state of her shoes and her name

badge.  Her name was Penny Jackson, she was single and quite junior in

the company, which was probably why she was delivering cars to the

middle of nowhere.



"I'm afraid I'm in a bit of a hurry, Penny, " I said warmly.  "Do you

have the agreement?"



"Oh yes, sorry."  She smiled again and I watched as her pupils dilated

slightly.  Penny was young and easily impressed.  I was probably the

closest thing to a celebrity she'd ever met, and if I was interested I

was sure I could score quite easily.  We went though the formalities

with little difficulty, since membership has its privileges and a

platinum card speaks very loudly.  I offered her a lift back to Boston

but with some regret she pointed to another car parked nearby with a

bored looking young man behind the wheel.  Still, I took her business

card so that I could arrange pickup later, then I threw the duffel bag

in the back and headed for town.



On the way in I daydreamed; pretty little Penny bound, gagged and

struggling.  Penny and Caroline, girl to girl.  Of course any thoughts

I had of adding her to my little harem were just a fantasy, although

the thought of a brunette to round out my collection was quite

tempting.  With some difficulty I refocused on Maggie.



It was now over an hour since I received the call, but my two hour

estimate had been very optimistic, something Maggie would have

realized.  Bottom line was that I could now reach her apartment long

before she was expecting me.  Now was time to finalize the plan.  The

core idea of the plan was fairly simple:  Maggie is bound and helpless

in her apartment waiting the two or more hours it will take for

Richard Cody, her trusted friend, to speed to her rescue from the

backwoods of darkest New England.  However, before he gets there she

has an unexpected visitor in the form of a sneak thief who happens

upon her as he's turning over her apartment.  There she is, helpless

and in a sexually provocative position with a complete stranger.

Well, not exactly a complete stranger.

. .



The reason I'd rushed to Boston was so that I could play the intruder.

Maggie was fairly smart and being a practical joker herself she was

likely to smell a setup.  I was hoping that the 'stranger' arriving so

early -- long before I could be expected to show up -- would sell it

to her.



Unfortunately I was likely to blow the plan the moment I opened my

mouth.  I'm fairly good at accents but the basic tone of my voice

remains the same.  I experimented with different voices as I fought

the traffic but it was still no good.  Then I had a revelation.  If I

were a foreigner, then I might stand a better chance of pulling it

off.  Broken English with a scattering of foreign words and

expressions might just disguise my voice enough.  In addition, it gave

me a good excuse not to say that much in English.



I speak six languages, four fairly fluently.  The obvious choice was

Spanish but I knew that Maggie spoke it too and could probably spot my

accent.  Russian would be good, especially with all the news coverage

the Russian Mafia have been getting lately.  The problem was, Maggie

knew I spoke Russian.  In the end I settled on French; internally it

made more sense anyway, what with Quebec only a few miles to the

north.  I would be a French Canadian burglar, down in Boston to pull a

few jobs before heading north again.  I practiced the accent, trying

hard to lower my voice a little.  In my mind he started to form,

taking on more and more substance as I worked out a back story.  I

stopped and wondered if she deserved it, but the twenty-first birthday

thing had only been one of the awful practical jokes she'd pulled on

me and payback was long overdue.



I checked into a mid-priced motel about three blocks from Maggie's

apartment building.  I had a reservation so things went relatively

smoothly.  I shot the guy on the desk a line about needing a quiet

place to work in and a large tip got me a room in the next block with

no neighbors.  With time now a factor, I went inside and got set up.

For the most part this involved getting changed into the sweats I'd

brought, slapping on some of the aftershave and recording a couple of

things on the DAT machine.  I placed a call to Maggie's department at

the university and told them that she had a bad headache and wouldn't

be in today.  They accepted it easily, since her job was pure research

with few teaching commitments.  I unloaded the things I wouldn't need

from the duffel bag and set off.



I had a copy of Maggie's key, an arrangement that dated from the time

I lived in Boston.  I don't know if she even remembered giving it to

me but it would make things a lot easier.  Like the night before, I

entered the basement car park and found Maggie's space.  Then I

hoisted the duffel bag over my shoulder and headed to the lift.  The

trip up was uneventful and this time there were no interruptions apart

from the hideous muzac they seemed to play during the day.  I reached

Maggie's floor without disturbance and was relieved to find that the

corridor outside her apartment was empty.



Pausing outside, I deliberately fumbled with the lock for a few

minutes.  I can actually pick locks, a skill I learned at MIT, but it

took some time and though I wanted to give the impression I was

breaking in, I didn't want to chance her neighbors calling the cops.

Finally, I inserted the key in the lock and waited.  I had the ski

mask in my pocket and I could have put it on, but again knowing my

luck someone would come past right then.  I took a deep breath.  If

Maggie had decided to tie herself in the living room then all this

trouble and expense would be for nothing.  Gently, I opened the door

and went inside.



The room was dark as the drapes were still drawn, and it took a few

minutes for my eyes to adjust.  By the dim light of the one working

lamp, I could see that the room was pretty much as I'd left it last

night.  Maggie wasn't there.  Taking the DAT machine from my pocket I

quickly rewound the tape, deliberately making noise as I circled the

room.  When the tape was rewound and I was sure that any occupant of

the apartment had heard me, I pushed play and set the machine on the

coffee table.



A shaft of light shone from beneath the bedroom door.  As I drew

closer, I could hear faint movement inside.  I took another deep

breath, pulled on the ski mask and quietly opened the door.



Maggie lay on the bed.  When she heard the door open, she made a

supreme effort to sit up.  She was dressed in the hooker outfit I'd

bought her, all shiny leather and PVC.  As she managed to face the

door , I realized that the ski mask was unnecessary.  Her eyes were

covered with the light padded blindfold I'd bought.  Her mouth chewed

on the ballgag, and she groaned and thrust her crotch up into the air,

making suggestive little mewing noises.  Then I realized that she had

no way to measure time.  To her it must have seemed like several hours

since the call.  She obviously thought it was me and her waving hips

were a clear invitation.



As I got closer I admired her handiwork.  She had used a good part of

the cord I'd bought to tie her ankles to a broom handle as an

improvised spreader bar.  Her wrists were pinioned behind her back, I

assumed with the handcuffs.  A small length of yellow cable came

through a gap at her zipped crotch and ended in a small battery box.





"Hummmph," she moaned.



"Merde!"  I knew immediately that I'd hit the right tone perfectly.



Maggie stiffened.  As I'd intended, she was surprised by the response.

The first part of convincing her I was a stranger had begun.  I

muttered a few things in French about who had done this and what was

going on.  Getting no indication of comprehension, I felt it was safe

to come closer.  Hearing me, she started struggling in earnest but it

was obvious she wasn't going anywhere.  For my imaginary stranger, the

French Canadian burglar, there was only one question:



"Etes-vous seule?" I demanded.



"Hummphh. . .UM Iee Eeee."



"Pardon?"



"Hummm."



"Oui.......le baillon!  Errr, Mademoiselle. . .you must 

promise.  No noise, oui?"



She paused, then nodded so I reached behind her head and released the

strap.  As with Caroline, I left it dangling around her neck.



"Water," she croaked, so I poured a glass from the jug by her bedside

and held it to her lips.  She drank greedily for a few seconds, then

started sniffing near my sleeve.  The smell of sweat and cheap cologne

hung in the air.  This was not a Cody smell, and yet another part of

my deception was established.



I put the glass down and we waited a while, the room quiet but for the

insistent sound of the off hook telephone.  Reaching down, I picked it

up from the floor and replaced the handset, then noisily placed the

phone back on the bedside table.  She jumped and 'looked' around

nervously.  I felt she was starting to buy my act.



"Please can you untie me?"  she asked, twisting her shoulders around

so as to get her bound hands as close to me as possible.  I could see

I'd been right about the handcuffs.  I could also see what a struggle

she'd had.  The once glossy surface of the PVC gloves near her wrist

had been worn away.  In fact, the cheap gloves had been what had kept

her prisoner; they had slipped during her struggles but only enough to

stop any chance of her working her wrists free of the cuffs.



"C'est. . .it is impossible, handcuffs.  No key, eh?"



"The key is on the bed somewhere."  I looked and after a while I found

it under a pillow.  She seemed to sense this because she thrust her

arms towards me.  I reached down to the cuffs -- and closed them an

extra click.



"What are you doing?"  Her voice had that edge of panic that I liked.



"My job," I said off handedly and reached for the gag.



"No please. . .who are you?"



At last, the question I'd been waiting for.  "How you say -- le

cambrioleur?"



"I'm sorry?"



"Le burglar...?  My gloved hand covered her mouth just as she was

about to scream.  A faint shriek came out and she struggled wildly but

her position was hopeless.



I grabbed the ball and started to bring it up to her mouth; a gagged

Maggie could ask no questions and so reduce the amount of talking *I*

needed to do.  Sensing I was about to silence her again she started

struggling and shaking her head.  For my own reasons I would need to

work on the gag soon anyway so I decided that "le cambrioleur" should

have a change of heart.



"Mademoiselle, please."  She stopped struggling.  "I will leave.  .

.le baillon?"  I tugged at the strap until she realized what I was

trying to say.



"The gag?"



"Oui.  No baillon if you quiet until I am gone."



She understood and nodded.  I removed the gag from around her neck and

pocketed it.  Then I started to noisily search the rooms.  Maggie

didn't have much, almost all her unspectacular pay went towards the

future purchase of her dream house.  In addition she was a bit of an

intellectual elitist and shunned such items as a TV.  Consequently,

her apartment had little a burglar would find interesting.  But I

stayed in character and searched the place methodically while she

struggled on the bed.  Two things I did check was the availability of

Saran Wrap in the kitchen and that she had bandages in the bathroom

cabinet.  I had brought my own, but I didn't want to give the game

away by using something unusual that she knew wasn't in the house.





"Please," she called.  "I need the toilet?"  That was good because I

needed her to go anyway, so with much gallic swearing I undid the

spreader.  I found the rope looser than I expected -- she was probably

only minutes away from freeing her legs.  I gathered up the loose cord

and tied it to the leather collar she wore and using it as a leash

guided her to the bathroom.  I reached between her legs and opened the

zipper and was rewarded by the smell of hot pussy.  Removing the

vibrator, I noted the dampness of her crotch.  She turned a bright

beet root color from the embarrassment but the sight of her erect

nipples as they pushed through the peepholes in the leather cups gave

the game away.  The little slut was getting turned on!  Like Caroline,

she seemed to get quite uncomfortable having me watch while she peed,

but in the end she had to put up with it.  Then I dried her and led

her back to the bedroom.



"Please, you should leave now, my boyfriend will be back soon."



I grunted.  "This boyfriend, he tie you?"



She turned red again.  "Yes, it's a sex game, you know?  He only

stepped out for some cigarettes.  He'll be back soon."



I let the sentence hang in the air a while as if I was considering it.



"Non, you lie. If boyfriend tie, *he* would have key."



"But--"



I placed a gloved finger to her lips.  "Shussh!"  I took her head and

forced her to nod and then shake.  "Just this, eh?"



She nodded.



"Magnetoscope, stereo?"  She shook her head.  "You have jewels?  A

safe?"  She shook her head again.  I went through her purse checking

credit and cash cards.  "The cards, tell me the numbers!"  She

stiffened.  I knew one of these was the dream house account and

contained almost all the money she had made in her life.  I had the

feeling that she wouldn't give me that without a fight.  Pursing her

lip, she shook her head.



"C'est la vie!"  I said and stuffed the gag back into her mouth.  She

complained, but there was little she could do.  She fought a little

when I removed the thigh high boots and tied her ankles to the bed,

but the blindfold kept her from seeing just what I had planned.  I

went to the linen closet and removed what I needed.



At the first touch of the feather duster against the bare soles of her

feet she gave a strange little gurgling sound.  Soon the room was full

of muffled laughter.  She thrashed around as much as the bonds allowed

and the first tears started to creep from behind the blindfold.  I was

glad she'd used the toilet because by now I was sure she'd lost all

body control.  I'd left the zipper open and gradually started moving

the duster up her legs, against her thigh, her pussy lips.  She went

crazy in a strange flux between being tickled and turned on.  Her

gagged voice begged for mercy but I was relentless, working her over

until all the fight had been laughed out of her.  The duster danced

over her body, driving her more and more wild, pushing her way beyond

any reasonable limit.  Then when she was almost completely out of her

mind I stopped.

 

"Enough?" I asked.  She nodded weakly.



I removed the gag and asked for the PIN numbers and the amounts in the

accounts.  She seemed drained and strangely submissive.  I noted the

information for later.  The figures for her main account were not that

impressive; she always transferring any excess to the house account.

However the dream house account was different.  I couldn't tell if she

was lying but the amount seemed about right.  I made a point of

whistling when she gave the balance.  While she was weak I asked other

questions like where she worked and how much she could take out of the

accounts in a week.  I think she was too far gone to see where this

was heading and gave fairly truthful answers.  While this was going on

I was wrapping an Ace bandage around the ball of the gag making it

larger.  In the back of my mind a counter that had started when I

entered her apartment was counting down.



Then the knock came.  We both jumped, but in my case it was to clamp a

hand over her mouth.  Then from outside the room my voice said,

"Maggie?  Are you all right?"  She stiffened, then started to struggle

in earnest, trying to throw me off.  I clamped my hand harder over her

mouth as she continued to scream.  Then the voice continued.



"Maggie, listen, I need to find the super and get him to open the

door.  I'll try and keep him out of there but there may be nothing I

can do -- is that all right?"



She screamed into my hand.



"Look, I can't hear you.  I'll be fifteen, twenty minutes tops, okay?"



That had sold it to her.  I think half of her suspected it was a joke

and that I was the Frenchman.  To some extent she had played along.

Now, thanks to the recording on the DAT player, she had heard me

outside and suddenly in her mind she was alone and helpless with a

stranger.



She struggled as I forced the enlarged gag into her mouth and pulled

the strap tight.  The bandage covered ball was a real mouth filler and

her screams were reduced to almost nothing.  She must have realized

this because she stopped screaming at once and just lay there

trembling.  I went to the duffel bag and got out more bandages, the

duct tape and the plastic wrap.



Looking at the small pile of discarded cord I suddenly had an idea.

Quickly I fashioned a device I'd learned about in books.  When I tied

the cord around her waist she didn't seem to notice, being more

concerned with chewing the ball.  Even when I pulled one end between

her legs she didn't understand.  Still, she would find out more in a

second.  Taking the roll of Saran Wrap I went to work.



She struggled as I wound the Saran Wrap around her legs.  As I wanted

to be able to bend her knees I carefully left them unwrapped but

continued with her thighs.  Then I rolled her over and did the same

with her arms pulling her shoulders back and thrusting her breasts out

in the process.  Her struggles became weaker as she had less and less

to work with.  When I went over the Saran Wrap with the duct tape she

became even more helpless.  As I used the tape to secure the tops of

her arms to her torso, the fight left her.  She just lay there as I

hog-tied her, though she showed some interest when I took the rope

between her legs and secured part of it to her wrists.  As a crotch

rope this was a masterpiece.  Two parallel cords held apart by a

massive knot ran either side of the pussy holding the lips open and

exposing the clit.  A third rope passed between them, deliberately

passing tightly through the pussy and bringing several rough knots in

contact with her nub.  It was this rope that was bound to her wrists

and it took her no time to realize that she could vary the pressure

and move the knots over her sensitive bud with the little hand

movement she had left.



However, she also found out how frustrating it was; while almost any

movement brought some stimulation, getting enough to make a real

difference would take a lot of effort.  Still, her 'struggles' again

became quite animated and the smell of hot pussy started to fill the

room.





We both knew that a line had been crossed.  This was the first overtly

sexual thing the "Burglar" had done.  Before now he had been content

to keep her quiet while her searched for valuables, now he was making

it clear that he had found something of value between her legs.

Maggie shivered and moaned, though it was hard to tell if this were

fear or anticipation.



I stroked her cheek.  "You like, Mademoiselle?"



She shook her head defiantly.  I looked down and saw her hard little

nipples where they poked through the peepholes.  They told another

story.



I brushed a hand over her exposed clit, felt the moisture and heard a

muffled gasp.  "You little flower says different, eh?"



She turned away.  As she wasn't saying much I didn't feel too bad

strengthening the gag a little.  As I'd done with Caroline I covered

the lower part of Maggie's face entirely with duct tape, criss

crossing her mouth and sealing the ball in place.  Then I wound a

tight bandage over the top, squeezing her cheeks in and reducing her

moans to whispers.  The tweaked nipple test showed that she was

effectively muzzled and the partial mummification had robbed her of

her ability to move.  Opening the duffel bag up on the bed next to

her, I rolled her inside.  Then she suddenly realized what I had in

mind.  She screamed but I could barely hear it even this close and her

struggles only succeeded in rubbing that frustrating crotch strap

against her exposed pussy.  Even as I was pulling the bag closed

around her I could tell that she was more intent with getting off than

getting free.



I put the slut boots into the bag, together with some of her more

slutty street clothes and a little makeup.  After all, Maggie would

need something to wear later . Besides, it helped make the bag appear

less body shaped.



"Mademoiselle, ecoute!  We will leave now before your friend returns.

You will be my guest for a few days only."  I took the knife I'd used

to cut the saran wrap and teased her neck with the point.  She

stiffened and the cold steel touched her skin.  I moved the knife

away.



 "Trouble me and I have a knife, comprendre?"



She nodded and I zipped the bag closed.  She was quite heavy and I was

glad I didn't have to carry her any distance.  Throwing her over my

shoulder I went out into the living room.  Quickly pocketing the DAT I

went over to the door and opened it a crack.  The corridor outside her

apartment seemed quiet enough.  I was so caught up with the thrill of

it all that for a moment I forgot I was wearing the ski mask.  I

snatched it off and stuck it in my pocket then, trying to move a

loosely as possible so as to disguise the weight of the bag, I ambled

towards the elevator.  It seemed to take forever to arrive and even

before the doors opened I could hear the voices inside.  Maggie had

heard them too because I could hear the gagged moans close to my ear.

It was a 50/50 chance which way they would turn on leaving the

elevator but there were fewer apartments to the left so I quickly

darted to that side and waited, my heart in my throat as Maggie

continued to squirm behind me.  The door opened, and they turned

right, two guys dressed like they were back from jogging.  Before the

doors closed I'd dashed inside.  I doubt they even knew I was there.



I held my breath as we neared the lobby.  Some elevators automatically

stop and open at the lobby even if they haven't been called.  The last

thing I wanted was for the doors to open and there be a dozen people

waiting, especially as right now I had the biggest hardon in my life.

Fortunately, that didn't happen and the elevator continued to the

basement car park.  Maggie was struggling as much as she could and

trying desperately to scream, but her cries were ineffective.  I doubt

they could have been heard more that a few feet away.  Still, her weak

struggles did shift some of her weight and made her difficult to hold.

I staggered over to the mini van and used the famous self-opening side

door to get the struggling bundle into the back seat.  I strapped her

down with a couple of lap belts, then pushed the seat as far forward

as I could.  Climbing inside I moved the driver's seat hard back,

trapping Maggie in a small padded box formed from the seats.  The van

had tinted windows so no one could see in through the sides, and

arrangement of the seats hid her from oncoming traffic.  I was careful

in positioning the bag; when opened, it would be easy to see her face,

and tits and cunt were strategically close to the gap between the

front seats for easy access.  In fact ,when we were out of the garage

I felt comfortable enough to open the bag and look at my captive.  I

was relieved to see she was breathing normally, and though most of her

face was covered the little moans she made told me of her appreciation

of the crotch strap.



Though I had a room a few blocks away I decided to give Maggie an

adventure and plotted a route that would take me out of the city via

the Tobin Bridge.  After the bridge, Highway 1 heads north and I

suppose it could be an eccentric way of heading for the Canadian

border.  The important thing was that it had toll booths and Maggie

would hear the sound and know we were leaving town.  I think there was

construction because there were jams on the approach to the bridge and

I had to keep stopping.  Still, I had Maggie's compliant if not

necessarily willing body to play with as I waited.  I stroked and

teased listening to the little sounds that she was making and smelling

the perfume of her hot pussy.  For a few blocks I played tag with a

little red open top with an out of state license plate reading MISS T.

I don't know if this was a pun on Misty or if she was some beauty

pageant winner but the car's owner was a real looker and knew it.  She

was in her early twenties, with fluffy blonde hair, dark glasses and

an attitude that needed serious adjustment.  I accidentally blocked

her way at an intersection and at the next block she deliberately cut

me up.  Five minutes later we were parked side by side and she looked

over at me like I was dirt.  I smiled and she tossed her head back

again making it clear she didn't want my company.  I had my hand down

between the front seats playing with Maggie's nipples and listening to

her muffled protests.  My hand drifted down and played with the crotch

strap, Maggie moaned some more, but despite the window being open Miss

T heard nothing.  She continued to pretend to ignore me while I

thrilled with the knowledge that she would never know I had a helpless

girl bound and gagged on my back seat.  At the lights she squealed

away, gaining perhaps a car length on me for her trouble.  I smiled,

thinking just how easily it could be Maggie in the little sports car

and Miss T on my back seat.



Finally we reached the bridge.  The tolls are automated so there was

little chance of detection, and soon I was the other side of the

river.  I did a large circle using Highway 28, imagining Maggie's

despair and desperation mounting with every mile.  I zipped up the

duffel bag and stopped at a gas station to get some chocolate.  The

place was quiet but there were enough people around for Maggie to hear

and try to contact.  Needless to say, no one noticed anything wrong.

I headed back towards Boston with the biggest hardon in history, and a

helpless captive ready to satisfy it.  The traffic was better on the

way back in and in no time I was at the motel.  I zipped up Maggie's

bag in case a passerby looked through the driver's window, and opened

the door to the room.  I spent a moment drawing the drapes against

inquisitive eyes then brought Maggie inside.





She was in quite a state.  Her body was covered in sweat, hair

plastered down to her skull.  Her erect nipples were poking through

the peepholes in the corselet and seemed a little red.  I could only

assume that she had been using the rough fabric of the bag to maximum

effect.  Needless to say her clit was engorged.  I had almost expected

friction burns but apparently there was more than enough lubrication.



As I eased her out of the bag, she started floundering about like a

fish out of water.  For a moment I thought that she was struggling to

escape but then I realized the truth, she was trying for an orgasm.  I

sat and watched the valiant struggle.  She came close on a number of

occasions but finally she fell back, exhausted and frustrated.  I

smiled, thinking how strange it was that reality so closely followed

art.  I had got the design of the crotch strap from a trashy bondage

novel about a white slaver.  After capture he fits one to all of his

'recruits' in order to prevent escape.  The idea was that any attempt

to struggle causes sexual stimulation which distracts the victim,

causing them to fail to get free.  Though Maggie could not possibly

get free the strap was having a similar effect.  She would struggle

and build up her level of excitement, but only being able to nose

breathe she was unable to get off before oxygen debt forced her to

stop.  She panted and shivered.  Ready if not exactly willing, she

waited for her kidnapper to take her.



I smiled.  She would have to wait a little longer.  Using the knife I

cut her legs free.  Instead of the kicking I'd expected, she pushed

down, thrusting her shaved crotch upwards.  The little slut was

begging for it, but I would not oblige just yet.  I improvised a

modified hogtie using tape and cord.  First I taped both ankles

together with each foot against the opposite calf.  This forced her

legs open into a rigid triangle with knees horizontal and out of the

way.  It left her pussy exposed and gave her no way to protect it.

Then I bound the ankles to the wrists, making her body rigid and

reducing her movement to virtually nothing.  She moaned and struggled

but could do nothing more.  Satisfied that she was under control, I

removed the gag.  As expected she wanted water first so I placed the

glass to her lips and let her drink just enough to take the edge off

her thirst.  Then I turned her so that her head was over the side of

the bed and undid my fly.  She knew what was coming and lay quietly

while I explained the penalty for biting.  As it turned out I needn't

have worried.  The gag had strained her jaw muscles to the point where

I doubt she could bite anyway.  Needless to say, it wasn't the worlds

greatest blow job.  I did consider punishing her for bad technique but

there seemed little point since she was physically unable to do

better.  Finally I came, though it was more through my efforts than

hers.  I forced her to swallow, then moved her into the center of the

bed.



I spent a few minutes stripping the sodden bandage off the ball gag

while she worked on putting her jaw in order.  We both finished about

the same time, and I pushed the ball against her lips.



"Please no," she begged.



"Oui," I said.  "I must go to le Banque."



"Bank?  Please no!  That's all I have!"  Her voice was panicked.



"That is all right, mademoiselle, it is all I need!"



"Please," she said thrusting her chest outwards.  "I have other things

I could offer.  . ."



I laughed, a gravelly, hearty sound that surprised even me.  "Do not

worry, mademoiselle, I will taste those fruits on my return."



She struggled but the result was a foregone conclusion.  I tightened

the gag strap and left her alone in the dim motel room.



I didn't go far, just out to the car to use my mobile phone.  First, I

called my accountant who I hoped could help with the problem of

Caroline's mother.  We talked hypothetically about a couple of ideas

I'd had and he confirmed what I needed to know.  Now I knew that my

plan stood a chance, I called around and talked to a number of other

friends to arrange meetings.  Finally I called a fine Deli I knew and

ordered the makings for dinner.  It was then I made the mistake.



I'd been eating a bar of the chocolate while I made the calls and

finished up quite thirsty.  As it was too early to arrive back at the

room, I decided to go in search of the Coke machine that motels always

have.  The first machine I found was broken so I went further afield.

. .



As I walked back towards my block with my 3 cans of coke and some ice,

a movement caught my eye.  She was young, very young -- sixteen, maybe

seventeen at most, dressed in the brown uniform of a maid.  In her

arms she carried a huge pile of towels almost as tall as she was, in

her hand was a key and she was heading for my room.  She ignored my

shouts and as she got closer to my door I realized I had no option.

Bursting into a sprint I closed on her.  I was lucky -- fumbling with

the towels, she dropped the key.  But for that, she would have been in

the room long before I reached her.  As it was, I made it just as she

opened the door.





Perhaps I should have been an actor -- despite the danger, I stayed in

character.  "Mademoiselle, what are you doing?"  I demanded, pointing

to the 'do not disturb' sign I'd hung on the door.  I was acutely

aware that Maggie was just feet away and could probably be heard

easily with the door open.



The girl looked at the sign, and for the first time I noticed her

olive skin and those dark brown eyes.  "Perdon," she said.  "No hablo

ingles!"



A moan emerged through the open doorway and the little Spanish girl

moved forward curiously.  Quickly and as gently as I could, I reached

forward and closed the door.  I could still hear faint sounds from

inside, but the gag was good enough to prevent Maggie from drawing too

much attention.  I knew she could probably hear us clearly and I knew

she could speak Spanish so in the worse accent I could manage I asked,

"Habla usted frances?"



"Oui," she said with a smile.  Immediately there was a bond between

us.  We were both foreigners now.



"Tres bien!"  I smiled.  "Mademoiselle.  Je suis fatigue.  Je ne

voudrais pas ma chambre a ete faite."  I tapped the 'do not disturb'

sign for good measure.



She blushed.  "Excusez-moi Monsieur."  Then she hurried away.



Relieved, I opened the door.  A Spanish girl who spoke French but no

English?  I wished I'd had the time to know more.  Of course, a real

desperado would probably have pushed her inside and tied her up as

well.  Still, I'd dealt with it in a way consistent with my character,

and I was sure Maggie was none the wiser.



Putting down the supplies I removed the gag.  "You lie!"  I accused.

"The number was no good!"



"Please no.  I told you the truth."



"The card, it has gone."



"The machine ate my card?"  Her voice was a strange mixture of panic

and relief.



"Oui!  I have lost one day.  I have nothing!  Comprendez- vous?"



"Yes, but what can I do?"



I waited a while as if he was weighing up his options.  Then I reached

over and pushed the gag firmly into her mouth.  Fumbling for the

phone, I made a number of calls to my house and talked to the

answering machine.  For Maggie's benefit, I made out that I was

talking to someone at the other end.  The first ten calls were

entirely in French and after the first Maggie gave up trying to alert

the person at the other end of the phone and waited patiently.  Then I

sprang the eleventh on her.



"Bonjour, John.  Comment ca va?  Bien.  Listen I have something

special.  Non, a woman.  Oui la prostituee.  . .how you say, a

hooker?"



Maggie raised an muffled objection but I ignored her. 



"The bitch ripped me off.  . .stole my money.  . .oui.  . .non I

caught her.  She is my guest.  . .oui.  I need to get my money back

before I go 'ome to Quebec.  . .exactement!  I think the same.  .

.oui.  . .anything you like for two hundred dollars.  Oui?  Tres bien!

A tout a l'heure.  . .oui!  Au revoire."



Maggie moaned and struggled as I made the next four calls in English.

Each was approximately the same.  I claimed she was a hooker that had

stolen money from me and offered to sell her ass for two hundred bucks

in order to make my money back.  Each call varied a little and I

gradually filled in the details, assuring one party that she would be

blindfolded or telling another she was an accomplished liar.  The

setup was obvious -- sometime later tonight Maggie was going to be

gang-banged by fifteen guys at two hundred dollars a head.  She would

be bound and blindfolded, gagged for much of the time but even when

she could speak she would be unable to persuade them to stop.



I noisily flicked through the pages of a book.  "Fifteen men a night?

That is three thousand.  In a week.  . ." Maggie moaned, in a week she

would have fucked over a hundred guys.



"Do not worry Mademoiselle, we will 'ave the money soon, non?"



Her nipples were hard, her pussy damp.  Maggie could only orgasm with

a man when forced and soon fifteen guys were going to have their way

with her.  She'd be fucked, sucked, groped and I'd made it clear that

she could be used in anyway those men wanted.  I watched the crotch

rope as it rubbed against her clit.  This gag allowed a little mouth

breathing so she got a little closer before she exhausted herself.  I

made an excuse about needing to go to buy condoms so that my friends

wouldn't catch something from her slut cunt.  I offered to get her a

drink before I left and she nodded.



I expected her to beg to be released when I ungagged her.  I thought

she'd threaten and whine.  But instead she surprised me.



"For God's sake," she moaned.  "Fuck me, Cody!"



"Mademoiselle, I am--"



"Cut the French crap, Cody, and just fuck me, okay?  Do what you like,

whip me, degrade me but for God sake let me cum!"



I paused while I thought what to do next.  My original plan still had

about ten more minutes left to run.





"Cody, please.  . .fuck my pussy, you bastard.  If you want to, then

use me like a whore, just be quick.  . ."



In the end I gagged her just to end the obscenities.  Then, still in

character, I mounted her.  I told her she would be my whore, that the

fifteen guys would use all of her holes, would fuck her beyond

exhaustion, would cum all over her body.  I told her she would be

powerless, bound and gagged, unable to stop them as they took what

they wanted, unable to stop them from degrading her and making her

lower than the cheapest whore.  Then I told her that she'd like it, or

at least she'd pretend to because that way they would stop beating her

and that would mean she could get some sleep.



Before the next fifteen guys arrived. . .



All through this she struggled and screamed and fought and when I

finally cut the crotch rope and entered her she was more than ready.

The hogtie was a masterpiece, giving her no way to stop my

penetration, making her more powerless, less guilty.



I still believe she orgasmed fifteen times, once for each imaginary

rapist, for each imaginary violation.  Even gagged she made more noise

than I would have liked and I only hoped the little Spanish girl

wasn't in the next room.  Finally spent, I collapsed on her and there

we stayed 'till I we recovered our strength.  Then I removed her gag

and blindfold.



She blinked and smiled.  "Hi, Cody."



"Okay.  When did you know?"



"Know what?"



"That it was me?"



"I've always known," she said, a little bemused.



"But I wore sweats and--"



She smiled.  "It was very good, Cody.  Wonderful, in fact.  You were

so convincing I almost thought it was real on a couple of occasions.

In fact, if you hadn't worn the cologne I gave you last Christmas, I

could have panicked and really thought it was real.  Very subtle clue

by the way -- a masterstroke!"



I was suddenly very glad that I hadn't said the aftershave was cheap

and nasty.



She continued, "Coming early was good, too.  In fact you almost caught

me out.  If you hadn't done that key fumbling thing outside the door,

you'd have caught me in the living room.  As it was, I didn't really

get chance to tie my ankles properly."



"Whoa, wait a minute.  You mean you only tied yourself up when I

arrived?"



"Of course.  What kind of idiot do you take me for?  You don't really

think I'd be stupid enough to tie myself up and not be able to get

loose."



"But the gloves?"



"Nice touch, I thought.  Well, you kept saying they were cheap and

nasty and I agree.  I was planning to get better ones so I could

afford to sacrifice these."



"So this whole thing was a setup?"  I demanded.  "You weren't really

tied up at all?"



The silly cunt grinned at me.  "Nope.  I just woke up with an itch

this morning and I knew you were too busy to come if I asked, so--"



"You incredible bitch!"



"The one and only."



I stared at her.  Then it was my turn to grin.  "Okay.  So I'm a

sucker and I bought it.  Now you'll have to do something for me."



"No, I don't," she pouted.  "You got off on it, too, big time.  I

never realized what a power freak you are.  If I didn't lean in the

other direction I might even fight this Elizabeth chick for you!"



"Flattery will get you nowhere," I said.  "And you do owe me - *big

time.*"



She rolled her eyes.  "Fine.  So what do you want?"



"You, to be my slave for one evening of my choosing.  No limits, no

veto, nothing.  You do what I say, fuck what I say and the only

acceptable answer is "yes, master."  Understand?"



She pouted again.  "Why should I agree to this?"



"Two reasons," I said.  "One, you'll get off on it big time.  And two,

you say no and I push this gag back into your lying little mouth and

leave you here for the maid to find."



She thought for a while.  "Okay.  But only for *one* evening."



"Agreed," I said and started to free her.  Already my mind was working

on the plans to fulfill my deepest fantasy; to have both my slaves

helpless and available at the same time.