Miss America - a BDSM Vampire Tale

by Chrissie Bentley

  What the fuck? I’m not sure if I spoke aloud, or if I simply thought that. Either way, a hand slapped me hard and loud across the face, and then jerked me to my feet by my hair.

  “You will speak when we ask you to. Otherwise, you will remain quiet.” Like fuck I would. I did speak; I shouted, in fact, but my only reward was another stinging blow, and a weight between my shoulder blades that, without having had any prior experience of the sensation, I was convinced was a gun. “You come with us.”

  I looked around. The entire room had been swept clean of my belongings, hurled into my two suitcases. Two of the men carried them to the door; the third remained close behind me, wordlessly orchestrating whatever was going on.

  I struggled to remain calm for the moment; there was nobody in the hall outside, but once we got to the lobby, I’d let loose all the hell I could summon. But when we arrived there, after five tense moments spent waiting for, then riding in the elevator, the vast hall was deserted. So… I couldn’t believe it… was the street outside. Every single time I set foot out of my room, the entire place had been bustling, uncomfortably so. Now even the pickpockets had vanished and the only vehicle in sight was a gray Mercedes to which I was clearly being directed.

  I looked up and down the street and felt the gun push deeper into my spine. “There is nobody there. No one you would want to see, anyway. Now get in.”

  The back door of the car opened. Roughly, one hand pushing my head down, I was bundled into the car. As I turned to try and push my way back out, I felt the cold click of handcuffs first on one wrist and then, as my arm was bent painfully back, the other.

  “The vehicle is soundproofed. Your screams will not be heard. Neither will you be seen.” I’d already noticed the heavily tinted windows. But who would have seen me, anyway? Even as the engine roared to life and the car swept down the street, the sidewalks remained deserted.

  Okay, this had to make sense somewhere. “Who are you?”

  A slap. “Silence!”

  “Tell me who you are.”

  Slap.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Slap. My face stung, my eyes were tearing, my heart was pounding. Okay Chrissie, get a grip. At best, it’s a misunderstanding; at worst, you transgressed some local law and it’ll all be sorted out at the police station. Of course that’s where we were headed.

  Of course. But then I remembered what the bellhop said. Those men…are bad. Kidnappers… rapists… white slave

  traders…. I felt a hand on my leg; shifted in my seat to brush it off, but it anticipated my movement. I turned to face the man beside me, the white suit. Middle-aged, cleanshaven, blonde… Scandinavian, maybe. Probably not a local. But definitely trying to cop a free feel.

  His hand inched up my thigh. I cursed the heat that convinced me to prefer a short skirt to jeans. His fingertip tickled the inside of my thigh, but wriggle as I did, I could not budge it. I didn’t speak – I’d already learned the consequences of that, and I couldn’t slam my legs shut because… his buddy on the other side was playing the same trick on that thigh. Okay, if they are cops, I’ll have their badges. And if they’re not… I tried to push that thought away. If they’re not cops, then the bellhop was right.

  White Suit was at my groin now, his fingertip still stroking my leg, while his knuckle grazed my vagina.

  “Cut that out!” He ignored me. His pal was still a few inches above my knee, squeezing… hey, not so hard… “Fuck you! That hurt!” The words spat out before I could control them – the bastard pinched me. Then White Suit did the same. And suddenly, that’s all they were doing, grasping pieces of flesh, pinching, pulling, tearing, and the more I squealed and swore, the harder they did it. But, when I looked at them, both sat staring impassively ahead, as though they were completely unaware of what their hands were doing; unaware that there was a frightened, furious woman on the edge of hysterics between them.

  I strained at the handcuffs. Of course I had no hope of freeing myself, but simply concentrating on that helped dull the pain… or, at least, take my mind away from it.

  Then a voice. “If you just sit quietly, if you do what we say, perhaps you will not find it quite so painful.”

  A response rose to my lips; I swallowed it and sat back. The pinching continued, but it was lessening in its intensity. Either that or my flesh was so shocked and numb that it was no longer capable of registering what was happening. No, they’d definitely stopped, but only to commence another torture, as two fingers, one on either side, slipped beneath the fabric of my panties and, as though they shared the same mind, began tugging the lips of my vagina apart. Now I was desperate. Now I was terrified. I knew what I wanted to say – ‘Look, if you want to rape me, just get on with it.’ But the words wouldn’t come; just a roll of wet blubbering sounds that clearly meant nothing to my tormentors. Deep inside me they probed now, hard, rough fingers that cared nothing for lubrication, nothing for sensitivity, but which explored my cunt like disinterested pot-holders. I felt one – I could no longer tell which of the two it was, or even if there were still two of them – prod towards where my clitoris lay hooded, scrape at its covering as though to startle it awake, and then rub hard, brutally.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I tasted blood – I had bitten through my lip. But I felt no pain. My lips, like the rest of my body, were numb. And then I think I blacked out. I must have, in fact, for when I opened my eyes again, I was alone. In the most stygian darkness I had ever

  experienced.

  Behind me, my hands were still shackled, but it was chains now, not handcuffs. Feeling along the links with one hand, I encountered cold stone. A wall. The floor beneath me, too, felt smooth and cool. A dungeon? What kind of cops keep their prisoners in a dungeon? If they are cops, they have to be cops, and my first phone call will be to the American Embassy.

  I tried to shift my legs. They were cramping. They were also chained. Or manacled. Locked at the ankle, I could do no more than bend my knees by shifting my bottom forward on the stone. My bare bottom. I was naked, and my legs were spread wide open. And then I felt something else, a thick length that impaled my vagina and

  penetrated, it seemed, to my uterus. I screamed.

  I don’t know how long I was alone in the darkness, with only my screams for company but suddenly a light flooded on. I blinked through its dazzling glare, a figure seemed to appear out of nowhere, to tower above my prone form.

  “I see we have come to our senses, then?” It was a man, but that was all I could tell. If he had an accent, I couldn’t detect it.

  I nodded. “Who are you?” My eyes adjusted. He was tall, faintly exotic looking, his balding hair swept back in an impressive mane of gray. A small beard and mustache enclosed his mouth; his body was draped in an immense black cloak, and the lower halves of his legs were encased in black leather boots. One of which lashed out and caught me in the ribs.

  “I made an observation. I did not invite conversation. You will remain silent.” I lowered my head and saw, for the first time, the object that had ignited my hysterics, a fat, rubbery, slug-green dildo that protruded from deep between my legs, and now quivered grotesquely in time to the sobs that wracked my body.

  “Ah, I see you have noted our toy,” the voice said. “We found this in your luggage.” A piece of white plastic clattered to the floor beside me…my vibrator. “Such a pathetic bauble. We thought we could improve upon it.”

  Reaching down, he clasped the dildo firmly in one hand and jerked it out of me. There was a loud plop as it exited, to be held dangling obscenely before my eyes, well over a foot long, a fat fist around. I tried to estimate how much of its length had been lodged inside of me. Two thirds maybe? I gasped, and felt a wet sting as the dildo was slapped against my face. “I would have thought you’d rather enjoy that. Your cunt is no stranger to penetration, is it?”

  I remained silent and received another slap. “I asked you a question.”

  “No,” I replied sullenly. “N
either is your ass-hole. Nor your mouth. In fact, I doubt whether there is an orifice, or even the suggestion of an orifice, anywhere in your body that you have not allowed a man to use?” A pause, and then, “Is there?”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No there isn’t.”

  Slap – with a hand this time. “’No Sir.’ Or, should I desire, ‘no Master’.” “No, Sir. Master.” “And yet, when a certain gentleman made his own bid to avail himself of those same holes… and not necessarily all of them; one, I expect, would have satisfied him, you rejected him. Tell me why this should be?”

  “I don’t know who… who you mean?”

  “Master!” “Master. Please, I really don’t understand what this is all about? Please tell me, just let me explain….”

  “Yes, you will explain. And when you have explained, you will learn. Never again to reject a lover, or refuse to open that pretty little mouth, those firm, fleshy buttocks, those glorious, silken thighs. Then, when you have learned, those lessons will remain with you until you die. Or until you are so old and hideous, so used up and useless, that they cast you out on the streets where you belong.”

  He turned. “I will give you time to reflect. To consider all that you have done. And when I return, you will answer my

  questions.”

  I heard a door open, out of sight around a corner. There was a pause, as if he was thinking about something, and then the light went out. Moments later, it flashed back on again and the door slammed shut.

  I leaned back against the cold stone. So far as I could see, the chains that held me captive were the only adornments to the room. From wall to red-brick wall, the floor was bare. There was no window, and only a bare bulb hung from a frayed wire in the ceiling. The room looked as though it hadn’t been used for anything in years, although the fact that, even naked, I was at least

  comfortably warm suggested it was kept heated for some reason.

  And that reason was? I turned

  uncomfortably to inspect the wall behind me, wondering whether some past captive might have left some clue to his or her existence, gouges counting off days, perhaps, or a desperate scratch of graffiti. Of course there was nothing – how could anybody write on the walls, when their arms were chained? And what would they possibly have written, if they could have?

  I turned my mind elsewhere, to the remarks my visitor had made. He’d mentioned “A certain gentleman.” Is that what this was all about? A spurned would-be lover? I thought about that, tried to figure out who, but what was the point? For every man that the average woman chooses to sleep with, there must be dozens with whom she chooses not to, and dozens more who’ve not even made their desires known. And I am to answer for just one of them? Yet if I didn’t…

  Somewhere at the back of my mind, a decision had been made; a realization reached. I was not being held by the police. I had not been kidnapped by terrorists… I don’t know whether that thought had even occurred to me consciously, but I was able to dismiss it without a second’s regret. Which left, kidnappers, rapists and white slave traders. “All of those and more besides.” The words of the bellhop rang in my ears.

  I wondered if he would realize I was missing, or if he’d just assume I had checked out. Wait, that was it! He’d see I hadn’t checked out, would know that something had happened, he’d call the police, give the three men’s descriptions… but if I truly believed that a band of thugs who’d go to this much trouble to capture someone would be dumb enough to leave a loose end like that, then I must be even dumber than them. Of course they would have checked me out, as thoroughly as they cleared my room. “Leave no trace of her,” one of them said. And they probably hadn’t.

  Why here, why now? I had to keep thinking, it was the only thing that was keeping me sane right now. Why here, why now? I had been in Spain for three days, two of them spent with Pedro, the other shut away in meetings. If this was an old grudge, an old boyfriend or non-boyfriend, why follow me halfway around the world when it would have been far easier to simply grab me in New York? Because it wasn’t an old boyfriend. It was somebody here.

  Somebody who had seen me on the street, at the hotel, even in the offices where the meetings had been held and… some filthy, fucking, disgusting, evil old man.

  I thought back to the meetings. They’d gone on all morning, people flown in from all over the world and one of them, an old guy, Austrian, I think. Maybe Swiss. He’d cornered me at the coffee machine. Grabbed my hand, called me “fraulein” and began pulling at my wrist, gesturing towards another door. A supply cupboard? A bathroom? A love-nest for over-sexed geriatric businessmen?

  I’d laughed and pulled away; he hissed and tried to pull me closer. Finally I jerked my arm back, leaving him growling into thin air. He missed the next meeting but I saw him later with an army of flunkies leading him to a white Rolls Royce. He wasn’t short of a buck or two that was for sure. Perhaps he wasn’t short of a grudge or two either. Then if you put the two together.

  I shook my head. I’d received so many slaps since this all began that my mind was wandering. That was not what this was about, of course it wasn’t. It was like a storyline from some crazy book…The Story of O, something like that. Mysterious

  gentlemen’s clubs that specialized in the sadistic torture of innocents or otherwise, who abused them in every imaginable way and then sold them on. To the white slave trade. “Kidnappers, rapists, white slave traders.” Oh God, this isn’t happening to me.

  I was cried out. My body was weak and reeling, every bruise on my thighs was howling, every scrape and abrasion inside me was screaming. My face felt as though it was burning from the slappings. My eye caught the dildo, thick and fat and obscene, where the man dropped it. I could not believe any one could imagine a woman taking pleasure from something that looked as repellant as that. There again, I could not imagine any man taking pleasure from what was being inflicted upon me.

  If it was him, if it was the Austrian, surely all I needed do was explain, tell him I misunderstood his intentions, tell him I’d be honored to – what? Suck on his withered old penis? He looked so feeble, I doubted whether he could even have raised a smile, let alone an erection. I could not cry anymore. But I could get angry. Very angry.

  “Okay you fuckers, let me out now! Now, I say! I’m an American citizen. You have no right to keep me here…” on and on I went, every cliché in the book. “I’ll tell my Congressman, I’ll tell the President!” Whine, whine, threaten, threaten, “I’ll tell Oprah, I’ll tell Seymour Hersh. I’ll go on Larry King and he’ll send Hilary Clinton woman to kick your Spanish asses.”

  Could anybody hear me? And would they care if they could? The fact that they had snatched me from a five-star hotel in the center of Madrid, had driven me through the streets in broad daylight, had half-raped me in the car while the city flashed by, and then finished the job with an eighteen inch dildo, all that rather suggested they didn’t give a flying fuck what I threatened them with. Because they could threaten me with a lot worse. And they, unlike me, were in a position to do so.

  They did not intend to kill me. I don’t know why but of that I was certain. Or, maybe I do know why. In the sort of books where these things happen there’s always an element of business, of propriety, even.

  There are rules and codes that must not be broken. Let’s say it was the old Austrian. He paid them to teach me a lesson. But he’s a businessman. He will want something back. Me? Broken and submissive, his sex slave for life, however much might be left of sex for him – one good fuck and he’d be worm food. Or, a healthy return on his investment, the proceeds from my sale to somebody else? Either way, they needed to keep me alive, and they needed to keep me unblemished as well. Any scars, burns, breaks, any imperfection might reduce my value.

  It seemed strange to consider myself as a commodity, stranger still to be doing it so dispassionately, while lying spread-eagled and naked on a cold dungeon floor. But, if I intended getting out of this
, in any shape or form, that’s what I needed to do.

  I considered my treatment. I’d been pinched, slapped, kicked twice. But nothing that left more than a bruise, and bruises fade. The real damage that they inflicted was emotional. That was what I had to be on guard for. The body heals, the mind less so. I needed to find out what they wanted from me, but more than that, I had to find out what they wanted to do with me. And I had to go along with it, as much as I could bear to, and then some. I would get through this.

  Time passed. I had no idea how long. Hours. Days. Maybe more. For a while, I attempted keeping track of it by studying my visitors. There were four of them,

  altogether. First there was the man who had come to me on the first day; I called him the Magician, for that was what he resembled, in his long flowing cloak. Give him a proper beard and a kindly demeanor and he could have stepped out of a Harry Potter movie.

  There was the Weasel, a tiny little man with gnomish features, a bulbous nose and sharp, inset eyes, who would plant himself crosslegged on a cushion, and talk, bluntly and in revoltingly anatomical detail, about sex.

  And there was the Doctor, comfortably bearded, boyish despite his obvious middle age, always wearing white with a hint of tweed beneath it, and studiously examining different aspects of my body, regardless of whether or not they needed treatment. After one of his visits, I discovered he’d placed a small circle of material, barely noticeable, on my upper arm. A contraceptive patch. How thoughtful.

  Each came to me regularly and with all three I learned to look for the slightest detail

  – were they clean-shaven, or was there the shadow of a beard beginning to show? Did their breath smell of morning coffee, or evening alcohol? Did they look as though they were facing a new day, or preparing to end an old one? It was a crude method, but it seemed to work; I reckoned I’d been here for eight days now, and imagined, back in the States, my absence had been both noted and reported.

  But I mentioned four men. And it was the fourth who tore away the final shred of hope I had nursed of some kind of outside rescue… my friends telling the police who get in touch with at the State Department, who would contact the authorities in Madrid, who would talk to the bellhop, who would tell them his story. For the fourth man appeared on the eighth day, stark naked aside from a black head-covering, with tattered slits for eyes, and a thin red line where the mouth should be.