Trapped: Her Love Story

by Shannon Youngblood

  “Slut,” Preston greeted me as he entered the room. “Kneel.”

  With a calmness not present in our last two encounters. I quickly descended from the bed to kneel at his feet with my back straight, my feet turned in and my hands in place on my thighs. It was the exact position he required, in half the time.

  “You think you’ve figured it out slut. That you can play your little fucking game and impress me, well you’ve got another thing coming,” he bellowed, grabbing my hair and hauling me to my feet, dragging me behind him to the corner of the glass room.

  “Kneel again, you pathetic fucking bitch,” he tossed me to the floor.

  With no hesitation, I kneeled again, in the same position. This treatment, I could handle. My head ached, and my eyes watered, but this I could cope with. I already knew how rough he was. This wasn’t a surprise.

  From under my lashes, I could see the contraption he was wheeling out. It wouldn’t be comfortable, but as long as he wasn’t beating me with anything, I could survive it with my mental stability in check.

  “Ok, slut, let’s see how you did today. How many?”

  In the clearest voice, I could manage, I kept my head down, but spoke up, “Two hundred, Fifty-Seven Thousand, Five Hundred and Thirteen.”

  Oh God, please be right. Please, please be right.

  “Fail. You fucking fail again. How hard is it to count colored squares? Not only are you a pathetic excuse for a slave, a woman and a fuckable hole, you’re also a failed excuse for a human. At the rate you’re going, I’m going to kill you down here,” he raged.

  Grabbing me under my arms, he hoisted me to my feet and threw me at the wooden device in front of us.

  “Know what this is, Slave?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, keeping my head down.

  “Do you now? Well, then go on, Ms. Know-it-all. What is it,” he kicked me, making me fall to the floor.

  “It’s called a pillory, or stocks,” I immediately regretting using more information than I needed to.

  “My, my. You are a little know-it-all, aren’t you? Well, it’s too fucking bad you couldn’t tell me there were, Two hundred, Fifty-Seven Thousand, Five Hundred and Sixteen blue squares in my grid, isn’t it? Ok, my smart fucking slave. How many hours will you be spending in my pillory or stocks?” He was mocking my words like a belligerent cheerleader.

  “Three hours?”

  “Oh look, her numbers have finally fallen into place. Get in the fucking stocks. NOW!”

  I stood back up and fumbled my way over to the solid wooden structure. It looked exactly as it did in every movie I had ever seen, except it almost seemed shorter, and the holes not as large.

  “Notice something, Slave?” He asked, not giving me time to answer. “Your powers of observation are correct. This set has been made especially for me. They are an entire foot shorter than your average set of stocks. Not only is it more uncomfortable, but I also find it puts an unwilling ass in the air with the perfect angle for fucking worthless slave assholes. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I did agree. I hated agreeing with him.

  Once my neck and wrists were in place, my spine bent forward creating the perfect arc, Preston closed the stocks above me. The holes were definitely smaller.

  “I suggest you take short, shallow breaths, the gaps around your neck don’t really leave much room for lungfuls of air.”

  Ok. I could do this. I had to keep telling myself that or the claustrophobia would suffocate me faster than the wood. Most people assumed claustrophobia was for only small spaces, but there was so much more to it than that. I’d never in my life wanted to take such a deep breath, but hadn’t been allowed to. It was like that feeling of having to sneeze and it never gets close enough to happen.

  Concentrate. You can do this!

  Minutes passed, and through short but deep breaths and constant reassurance, I brought my heart rate back to normal and focused back on the second hand of my clock.

  One, Two, Three, Four.

  “Are you calm yet, slave? Can we continue your punishment?”

  His laugh was sinister, and frightening, and obliterated my hope for a peaceful three-hour punishment locked in this mechanism. Did I really think he was just going to lock me away and take off for the night? Yes. I did. Was it a stupid assumption? Yes. It was.

  When he walked back around to the front of me, I almost cheered inside. Maybe he wouldn’t touch my back as I could see no whips in his hand. What I did see, though, froze my heart for a few seconds in time.

  I didn’t know what it was, and if you asked me now, I couldn’t give you a name. What I could tell you is, it was a rectangular piece of metal, with a leather strap attached to his side, buckling at the back. I should also inform you, my mouth fit around it, but was stretched so wide I thought the sides of my lips would tear up through my cheeks. And lastly? I could say I almost preferred the whip when he put it on me and showed me his plans for it. Almost.

  I could feel the drool dripping from my open mouth, pooling at his feet as he looked on with a sadistic hunger and a feral expression. The more I tried to stop my mouth from salivating, the more I created, and the more ravenous he looked.

  It wasn’t long before my tears mixed with my spit and they both traveled together down my chin. I didn’t know if I could do this for three hours. It was humiliating, degrading, and the worst mind fuck of my life.

  I knew what was coming, as soon as he reached for the button on his jeans, but I refused to accept it. With my mouth wide open, and vulnerable, my hands locked securely away, there was nowhere for me to go. It was happening and accepting it was no longer an option.

  “Yes. Beg for it, girl. Beg for my cock in your mouth,” he said, inserting just the tip onto my over-moisturized tongue. “That’s it, right there. Look at how much spit you’ve created for me. With this punishment, I don’t have to hear your incessant screaming.”

  He eased in a little more, slowly, and more gently than I had pictured him being able to, but it didn’t last long. As soon as he reached the back of my throat — and I gagged — he seemed to lose all ability to contain himself.

  Fisting his hands in my hair, he drew back his hips and plunged back in, immediately bruising the back of my throat. Over and over he thrust, only stopping when tomato soup came spilling out of my mouth and dripping to the floor.

  I could feel the wood around my neck tightening with each gag, making me heave harder, creating a circular effect I couldn’t stop. The acidic soup, burned coming up my esophagus, and after another violent propulsion, drops of tomato soup came out of my nostrils. Every hole on my face leaked as he continued to suffocate me with his cock, shoving it further and further down my throat. His fingers gripped my hair tighter as he throat fucked me with no remorse.

  “It looks like you’ve made a bit of a mess,” he took a step back, as I drew much-needed air into my lungs, not caring about the wood cutting into my tender flesh. “I think you had better clean this up.”

  Reaching down, he used his fingers to attempt to scoop a pile of my dripping into his palm, before he stood back up and brought his hand to my mouth.

  “I don’t like messes slut. Clean it up.”

  I had no say in the matter as he dumped the small amount of bile, spit and tomato soup back into my mouth. I had no way of swallowing, and he knew that, but he was enjoying himself just the same. I wanted to spit it out, to spit it back in his face, but I knew better, and I couldn’t purse my lips to spit anyways.

  Grabbing my chin, he gave me no warning as he shoved two fingers into my mouth.

  “You’re a dirty cunt. Do you know what I do with dirty cunts? I make a mess of their cunt. Want me to do that, cunt?”

  Pulling his fingers out of my mouth unexpectedly, Preston disappeared behind me, his final words reverberating in my head as I waited for something. Anything.

  Liquid hot pain engulfed me as something foreign entered me from behind. Heat, like I had never known, pierced through me, and
fucked me mercilessly. I could feel the lips of my pussy blistering with every thrust. My throat screamed out in horror as hell penetrated my pussy.

  “How does that feel slave? I had it custom made. Glass replica of my cock heated up to a perfect one hundred and thirty degrees. Not enough to melt the skin, but enough to leave a few surprises behind for you to remember me by tomorrow.”

  I tried to drown out his words. How could anyone be so fucked up in the head? How could any sane person treat another human being in this capacity? The answer was simple, even in my fucked up current state of mind. Preston wasn’t balanced. He was psychotic, a sadist, and I was his twelfth victim.

  At some point, the glass cooled, and he removed it, only to replace it with his dry cock instead. As he scraped across my raw, exposed flesh, my screams turned to silent sobs of agony, and as he plundered the depths of my pussy, the emptiness I had fought three long weeks to fill suddenly depleted again, the pieces of soul shattering into oblivion.

  In my head, I cried out for Paxton. I screamed, and I begged for him. I needed him more than I needed my next breath. Sinking my nails into my palms, I focused on the pain and the tiny droplets of blood coming from my own hands and not the sadistic bastard pumping away inside of me like I was a piece of meat.

  “You. Are. A. Fucking. Whore.” Preston screamed with each thrust, driving his message home, punctuating each word with another lunge. Twelve times he repeated his words.

  Five Words.

  Twelve Times.

  Sixty Thrusts.

  No lube.

  When his last “Whore” rang out, he stilled, emptying his spunk onto my open internal wounds. I wanted to cry out, the fluid blazing on each blister, but I had no energy left. I begged for him to kill me yet again. I didn’t want to live in this nightmare for another second.

  “You still have seventy-eight more minutes, slut. Enjoy them,” Preston said, his feet heading towards the door.

  I wished I could, now he had gone, but ironically, I knew the next seventy-eight minutes would be worst, because I no longer had the urge to fight. Sinking to my knees, I felt his cum dribble down between my thighs, my drool trailing down my chin. I let the wood cut into my windpipe. If I was meant to die, at least I could say I went out on my terms, and not those of a deranged monster.

  Chapter 8

  “No! You’re not allowed to go yet!”

  I heard him. Paxton. But, how? Was he in hell with me? I knew I would end up here after what I had done to my mother. It was the least I deserved. But I didn’t expect to see Paxton. I mean I had just gotten here, how did he get to me so fast?

  The first thing I recalled was the blistering pain in my pussy. Raw, sweltering agony I’d never experienced before, followed by a numbness in my hands and coldness in my lips.

  The blackness around my vision cleared as I realized I wasn’t in hell, at least not the fire and brimstone kind of hell. I was still in my glass room; my personal hell.

  “What the hell were you doing, girl?” Paxton’s voice came from above me, as he shook me gently.

  “Dying,” I croaked, my throat too raw to find a proper decibel.

  “You can’t kill yourself, Wendy Darling. You can’t leave me yet,” his eyes watered with unshed tears.

  Reaching my numb hand up to his face, I wiped the pad of my thumb under his eye and collected his sadness.

  “Are you crying for me?” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer, only looked down at me with sympathy, and the same affection I had seen in his eyes the weeks prior.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Carrying me to the bathroom, my body was limp in his arms. I tried miserably to hang on, but my strength had been depleted by Preston’s punishment. It was getting harder and harder to determine which punishment was worse, but I knew my ability to withstand them was diminishing rapidly. How did he come up with the things he was doing to me? Was there a website I’d never heard of before? howtotrainyourslave.com? Medievaltorturefordummies.net?

  Placing me on the vanity stool, I winced at the pressure against my fragile, burnt parts.

  “I’m sorry, Wendy Darling. I’ve got to draw you a bath, and it isn’t going to feel excellent, but I don’t want you to get infected,” he kneeled down and grabbed my hand. He looked at me, begging me to understand.

  All I could do was a gentle nod of my head. It would have to do.

  Paxton nodded back at me before kissing the back of my hand and standing upright. I wanted to watch him move around my living space, collecting the items he needed for my bath, but I couldn’t pick my chin up from its place. I was so tired, physically, and mentally, and I just wanted to sleep. Even the allure of Paxton’s body rippling through his sweatshirt wasn’t enough to elicit a reaction from me.

  “Wendy Darling. You can’t fall asleep. We’ve got to get you cleaned up. Can you walk over to the tub?”

  With Paxton’s help I managed to stand, but for only mere seconds as my knees gave out and my body crumpled. Saving me from falling onto the rough tiled floor, Paxton caught me and lifted me into his arms.

  “No one can ever walk after the stocks. I’m sorry.”

  With gentle hands, Paxton maneuvered me into the tepid water, as slowly as he could, and when the lower half sank beneath the surface, I found my voice and burst into more tears.

  “I know. I know, but it will only last a few seconds. I promise. I added lavender to the water, it will help soothe you.”

  He was, thankfully correct, and luckily after a few minutes, the bottom half of my body went numb, allowing me a small amount of physical peace. My mental stability, though, was dangerously close to snapping.

  With the same methodical care, I came to expect from him, Paxton washed my hair and the top half of my body. He gently cleansed me of the dried soup and saliva from my face and my blond strands. Once he had done that, he massaged my shoulders and my neck, making sure not to press too hard on the newly forming bruises, but hard enough to work the knots out. I couldn’t say I felt heavenly, but I felt a damn sight better than I had a few hours ago, and for now that was enough for me. I found it quite odd how much easier it was getting to take my experiences with Preston and shove it into a box in the dark recesses of my mind.

  “Do you think you can stand, girl?” He asked, drawing me from my stupor.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  Slowly, I grabbed onto the bath’s edge and pushed myself onto my feet. The lavender helped a little, but with every move, I could feel my untouched skin rub against my raw, welted flesh. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming out, but I couldn’t stop the tears. Never in my life had I cried so much.

  “Spread your legs for me,” he coaxed.

  I complied immediately, not caring at all what he saw.

  “This will make it feel better, Wendy Darling. I promise.”

  I watched as he pulled a tube of cream from nowhere and unscrewed the lid, squirting a tiny dab onto his finger. Leaning in close to my sex, he placed his lips against an angry red burn, and then replaced his lips with his creamed finger. The cooling was immediate, and the relief instantaneous. For every blister on me, he kissed it first before soothing it, taking away some of the pain both mentally and physically.

  After every blemish was coated, he picked me up in his arms and carried me straight into my bed, foregoing the towel altogether.

  “You’re going to get all wet,” I whispered.

  “It’s ok. I have other clothes,” he countered, pressing into my back.

  “Will you sleep with me?” I asked, my eyes leaden, sleep attempting to drag me under.

  “No.”

  The way he said it had my eyes opening, and my body turning, unceremoniously, in his arms. Gone was the simple, almost playful, sympathetic Paxton, and in his place, someone slightly more calloused.

  “Why?” I asked, a single tear forming in my tear ducts.

  He had sighed before his eyes softened. “I can’t, Wendy Darlin
g. As much as I would like to, I cannot sleep with you, in either sense of the word. You are a slave, and we are just your trainers. You’re not meant to attach yourself to Preston, or to me because you will be inevitably sold to someone else. Your primary focus has to be on learning everything you can so you will be ready for whichever Master buys you. You’re doing so well.”

  Pffft, Well? Yeah, right.

  “I bet Master Preston would disagree with you,” I whispered softly.

  Grabbing my chin, he tilted it up to look into my eyes. “No, he wouldn’t. He sees how hard you’re trying, and although he may not show it to you, he knows you are doing well. His punishments are not meant to torture you. They are intended to make you perfect. You will be subservient to him only, and then to your new Master. He is making sure when the time comes, and you are passed over, there is no doubt in his mind, your mind, or your Master’s mind, you are the best, and punishments will be few and far between. Are Preston’s penalties harsh? Yes. Are they cruel? They can be. But in the end, he is doing this, so someone else doesn’t do something worse to you later. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” I nodded. “What if I promise, not to get attached to you. Will you sleep with me then? Just lay here with me?”

  His deep chuckle made my heart beat faster. It was already too late to make that promise to him. I was already attached, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “I think that promise had been broken before you’d even made it,” he laughed, mimicking my thoughts. “Why don’t you try and doze a little. I will stay until you’ve fallen asleep.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep right now, to be honest with you, Paxton,” my exhaustion was obvious in my voice, but sleep now seemed a mile away.

  “Why not, my Wendy Darling?”

  “I have… nightmares,” I whispered, embarrassed.

  “Don’t be shy, girl. We all have demons in our closets. Why don’t you tell me about them? I’ll help chase them away so you can sleep.”

  I didn’t really want to tell him about them. They were sick and twisted, and they weren’t really nightmares, but memories of the past six years of my life. What if he was repulsed by the things I told him, and what if he told Preston? Would I be punished for my childhood? Could Preston do that? I already knew the answer to the question. No matter how much Paxton saw the good in his brother, I knew the truth. Preston was evil down to his core, and he would and could punish me for anything he saw fit, no matter how ludicrous it seemed from the outside.