The Taking of Cheryl, Book One: Cheryl Captured

by Paul Blades

  As she rubbed the bar of soap over her breasts and between her thighs, Cheryl started to sob. She could see that he was taking pictures of her. She had heard the tell-tale clicks before but wasn’t really sure what they were. Now she was sure and she blushed in shame. She was performing her most private ritual in front of this man who was obviously intent on her abuse and degradation. She knew that he was being inflamed by the sight of her ministrations, but could do nothing to help it. Who knew who would see these pictures? She was mortified. She had never allowed anyone to take a picture of her in the nude, never. Turk lowered the camera and nodded to the girl to get back to work.

  She slowly, as if in a dream, continued to wash. She reached for the washcloth and soaped it up. She then used it to press soap into the void between her thighs, her armpits and the crack of her behind. The man just stood there and watched.

  Cheryl’s sobbing subsided as she let the water stream over her body and wash the soap away. She turned up the temperature slightly and the heat of the water was calming, comforting. She dipped her head into the stream and let the water flow over her face. Her eye makeup, the little that she used, had become streaked and clotted from her tears. As she always used water-soluble makeup, it was rapidly washed away, leaving her face fresh and clean. She washed her hair slowly, conscious of the fact that the upraising of her arms presented a picturesque tableau of her breasts juggling and swaying before this man’s eyes.

  The Turk was truly appreciative. He was satisfied that his well-honed eye for delectable female flesh had not let him down. She was a beauty all right. Her movements in the shower were dainty and graceful, as her gently swaying form had persuaded him when he had watched her walking on the street. In fact, it was that gentle sway, that suggestion of grace and delicacy, which had led him to pick her out. There were a million good-looking women in New York. The trick was to pick out the best.

  He was admiring her sumptuous nipples and areolae when Cheryl turned off the shower. She had been tempted to remain in there forever, but she knew it could not be. She knew that she would have to face whatever was coming from this man and she garnered her courage to confront whatever it was. Besides, the fact that he was obviously enjoying the display of her naked form and her jiggling breasts was reason enough to stop it.

  The Turk stepped back and allowed the girl to exit the shower. He handed her a towel and watched her dry her body. He handed her the blow dryer when she was through and motioned her to dry her hair. As she stood by the mirror, she raised her arms combing through her hair with one hand and using the blow dryer with the other. In doing so, she presented her firm, youthful breasts most advantageously. The man was standing next to her and she could see him looking down at her chest, almost mesmerized. He reached over and placed his hand under her breast.

  Cheryl stopped, stunned momentarily at the resumption of the offensive contact she had previously experienced. His hand was hot as the wetness of her body after the shower had cooled her flesh. Seeing his cruel glance at her in the mirror, she resumed her activities. She could not hide the water that rose in her eyes as she bordered on another fit of sobbing. As he pinched her nipple firmly, she felt the heat begin to rise within her again. Her body seemed to remember what he had done to it and her explosive orgasm. He could feel the heat as well. He looked into her eyes, knowingly.

  Cheryl finished her hair and stood still, waiting for an instruction from this man. She fully expected that he would push her back onto the bed, and this time, plunder one or more of her orifices with his giant cock. But that was not what was next.

  He pointed to the accumulation of make-up on the sink and told her to fix herself up. His instructions were precise: blush, not too much, eyeliner, above and below the eye, bright lipstick. He looked carefully at her nails. These she had just had done a few days ago and the stress of her experiences had not marred their appearance. “Do the toes,” he said.

  He left her in the bathroom, door open and wandered into the bedroom. A sideways glance told her that he was rifling her drawers. He pulled out a few pairs of her daintiest underwear and tossed them on the bed along with the matching bras. It looked to her that he was going to make her do a dress up routine for him, but to what purpose she could not surmise. If that’s what he wanted, she thought, that’s what he would get.

  The relative quietude of the bathroom, with the Turk in the other room, brought some calm to the young woman. She was thinking desperately about what she could do to save herself. She was still afraid, not of the expected rape, she had gotten over that fear, but of the murder that might just well follow. He would have to be some kind of a real weirdo to want her to dress up and then murder her, but what did she know?

  Her cell phone was in her purse in the kitchen. Maybe she could somehow get access to it and dial 911. Or maybe call a friend using her speed dial and they would call 911 when they heard the background noises of her assault. Her parents or her sister would certainly react if they got a call from her and heard only dead air or murmurings in the background. What Cheryl did not know, however, was that the resourceful Turk had already found the cell phone and disabled it. There was no other telephone in the apartment because, with cell phones being so cheap these days, who needed an actual telephone?

  When Cheryl emerged from the bathroom, she saw that the Turk had placed a couple of her dressier skirts and blouses on the bed. “Maybe he’s taking me out,” she thought. “I can run away or call for help.” Once outside of the apartment, there would be people and ways to get their attention. Things were looking up. Maybe.

  Cheryl still had her toes to do and so she sat down on the bed. She had brought the nail polish from the bathroom and she showed it to the Turk for his approval. It was a slightly darker shade of red than her nails, but very similar. Turk took the bottle from her hand and opened it. Grabbing her foot, he placed a swatch on her big toe and then drew her hand next to it for comparison. He nodded. “Okay” was all he said.

  What Cheryl could not figure out was how she was going to do her toenails without spreading her legs wide open for this cretin’s visual pleasure. As she tried to raise one leg to place her foot within arms reach, she attempted to press her thighs together. She was quickly dissuaded by a light, but painful slap across her face. “Spread ‘em”, the man barked. She complied.

  The Turk stood across from Cheryl admiring the grassy slit between her legs. He had some familiarity with it and had a premonition of the delights it would produce for the properly inserted cock. He knew that that was not to be, at least for him, but why should he deprive himself of the chance to imagine plowing that fissure to his heart’s content?

  Again, Cheryl felt deep chagrin and embarrassment as the man ogled her most private parts. Her breasts wiggled back and forth with her efforts to polish her nails. She knew that her pussy was wide open for the man to enjoy, since she had facilitated that view by cutting back the hairs that would have shrouded it. She fought back her tears as she resolved herself not to let this guy have the benefit of knowing how much she was humiliated and ashamed of her degradation.

  But Turk knew. He knew very well. And there would be more.

  Finally, the nails were done. Cheryl thought that Turk would now let her dress, but that would wait. Turk, having had some experience in this area, had palmed a lipstick and blush while she was in the shower. He now proceeded to complete Cheryl’s makeup himself.

  “Put your hands on your head,” he commanded. Cheryl complied readily. Staring up at him, she wondered what was going to happen next. Was he going to suck on her breasts again, tickle her cunt, make her come? He sat on the bed next to her. She could see that he had her reddest and darkest blush in his hands. He drew out the brush and began to apply it to her left nipple. He held the breast firmly in his left hand as he stroked on the blush with the other. She had never put make up on her breasts. She was uncomfortable enough with the darkness of their hue, au natural. Having finished with the left, he then adorned her right nipple similarly. Her t
eats stood out dark and red, a strange contrast to her milky white breasts.

  Turk pushed Cheryl onto her back and ordered her to lift her legs up and pull her knees to her chest. Cheryl did what she was told and felt, rather than saw, the application of a bright red lipstick to her labial lips. In order to make them easier to adorn, Turk grabbed the woman’s cunt with his left hand and gently squeezed the lips closed. Cheryl could feel the pressure on her pussy and the heel of Turk’s hand resting on the hood to her clitoris. The pressure on her clit brought back her earlier humiliation. She closed her eyes and tried to prevent her bodily response.

  It was to no avail and when Turk finished stroking her cunt lips with the lipstick, he noticed the tell tale gleam emanating from between them. “Good,” he thought, “this will be a really good show.” He knew also that the more Cheryl felt dominated and helpless, the easier she would be to handle. This was a good opportunity to see how well he could control her.

  Keeping one hand on her cunt, he dropped the lipstick on the bed. He then turned and used his elbows to spread Cheryl’s legs wider. Cheryl felt the brush of the Turk’s hair on her thighs as he bent over to place his lips on her sex. She knew what was coming and she felt a wave of revulsion go through her. “Please don’t” she whimpered. She was too afraid to let go of her legs. She felt the man’s lips on her labia and his hot breath. She whimpered again, “Oh, God, please don’t do this.”

  Turk stopped suddenly. He reached his hand across Cheryl’s body and grabbed her hair in one hand. Pulling her up he lashed out sharply, once, twice, across her face with the other. Cheryl was surprised with the swiftness of the man’s actions and the sting of the blows shocked her. While the pain was still resonating across her face, Turk pulled her face to within an inch of his own and snarled, “Shut the fuck up.”

  Cheryl nodded in desperation. She wanted no more pain, no more blows. Turk yanked her by the hair from the bed and dragged her back into the living room. Cheryl could not suppress the pain from her head as she felt her roots stretched almost to the point of breaking. He dragged her over to a chair by the dining table and pushed her into it. Cheryl trembled in terror. Turk reached back into his pocket and produced the gag she had worn earlier that evening. He rammed it into her mouth, securing the strap behind her head. “Sit,” he commanded.

  Cheryl had no thought other than to do what this man demanded. She had felt his strength before, but not this ferocity. She prayed in her mind that he was not going to hurt her, pleaded to whatever god would listen.

  Turk fished a roll of duct tape from his bag and returned to the sitting girl. The chair was a straight-backed dining chair with narrow arms on each side. Cheryl had gotten the set at a garage sale the last time she was home. Little did she know then what use one of them would be put to.

  The Turk grabbed Cheryl’s right leg and drew it to her chest. He then took her right arm and pulled it in under her leg, securing it to the arm of the chair with the tape. He repeated the process with the left leg and arm.

  Cheryl now sat spread eagled on the chair, her legs splayed wide apart, her arms preventing their closure. Her cunt was spread wide and her moisture was well evident. Cheryl cursed herself for her lack of control and for her lapse in judgment. He was going to do it to her anyway, not on the bed, but here, in her own living room, bound like an obscene fuck toy. Her contorted position gave him a clear view of her adorned nether lips. Her cunt lips were bright red, invitingly red. “Only the meanest and cheapest whore would wear something like that,” she thought and sobbed.

  Taking a moment to contemplate Cheryl’s wanton display, Turk caught himself. He shouldn’t have slapped her, risking injury. Her face was slightly puffy where his hand had struck. Her tears were ruining her mascara. He needed and wanted to finish what he started.

  Kneeling between Cheryl’s legs, he again seized her nether lips with his mouth. He pushed aside the labial lips so as not to disturb the lipstick he had placed there and took a long, lingering lick in the exterior of Cheryl’s pussy, relishing the aroma of her unwilling arousal. He took his time, alternating between sucking and licking at her now exposed and engorged clitoris and drinking from the well of her vulva. When he felt her close to climax, he relented, pausing to look into her face, examine the pleading eyes, the distorted features. When she had gotten back her breath, he started anew, slowly and expertly arousing her lustful passions. Finally, his face awash with her juices, he let her come, reveling in her contortions as she moved her body up and down on the chair in pleasure and humiliation.

  He left her there for about fifteen minutes as he washed his face and regained his composure. His passion was not spent and he mulled over perhaps having her suck him off. “Well, we’ll see,” he thought as he pulled at his crotch. “Maybe I can work it in.”

  After taking a few more snap shots, this pose was really too good to miss, Turk proceeded to release his captive. Ripping off the duct tape, Turk commanded the now dour woman to return to the bathroom and fix her makeup. She nodded forlornly. He had left the gag in, and Cheryl was horrified to see her distended jaws and forced grimace in the mirror. She imagined what the pictures of her nude display would be like.

  “What had she come to?” she thought. Twice now this man had forced her to orgasm against her will, twice she had exploded in intense, mind wrenching orgasms. And he had pictures, pictures of her debasement, to be spread around who knows where. Even if he kept them as his personal mementos, it was appallingly embarrassing. Maybe if she begged, he would give them back.

  Standing at the bathroom mirror, she composed herself. She was not to blame, she thought; he had forced her. She couldn’t help it. And she knew that if she did not dry her eyes and reapply the mascara as she had been ordered, she would experience more suffering at his hands.

  Time was now getting short and Turk didn’t want to fuck around any more. Ordering her to stand still, he reached into his pocket and extracted the two pairs of faux ruby earrings he had found earlier. Cheryl’s ears were pierced and she was still wearing the pair of rhinestone studs she had worn that day to the office. But these were not for her ears. They were the only two pairs of earrings that were not designed for pierced ears, and they had little clamps with which they could be affixed to ear lobes. They were both red, simulated rubies, clearly not Cheryl’s style, but probably from the same source as the brooch he had pocketed earlier.

  He told Cheryl to put her hands on her head. She complied readily. Turk grabbed a breast with one hand and worried the nipple with the other until it stood straight and tall at attention. He affixed one earring there. Cheryl winced as the pressure of the clasp pinched her nipple. She knew better than to struggle. After the other earring had been affixed, he ordered her back onto the bed and to assume the position she had adopted before, when he had applied the lipstick to her cunt lips. Fearing the Turk’s displeasure, she complied, leaning back, clutching her knees to her chest, her legs spread wide.

  This time, Turk did not take the opportunity to stroke and play with Cheryl’s sex, but went right down to business. He grabbed one cunt lip in his right hand, pulling it out, stretching it painfully. Cheryl let out a small gasp, but otherwise did not react. He clamped one earring to the left labial lip and then did the other to the right.

  Cheryl grimaced in pain as the earrings were applied. She could not guess what weird desire had prompted these decorations, or the decorations to her breasts, but was more than willing to comply if it speeded up her hoped-for exit from the apartment. Turk ordered her to stand and took in his handiwork. Cheryl’s hands went automatically back to her head. The breast earrings were small, their red centers set off by a golden frame. In spite of the matching redness of the areolae, they stood out well, two blood red buttons on her breasts.

  The earrings affixed to Cheryl’s cunt lips were longer, a series of red stones set in gold, dangling two inches below her pussy. “Now that’s what every well dressed cunt in the city should be wearing”, he thought. He made Cheryl pose lewdly as he took more photo
graphs. Standing with her arms on her head, sitting on the bed with her legs spread, on all fours, from behind, with the ruby colored trinkets dangling from her cunt.

  The Turk pointed out the clothing he had selected and ordered Cheryl to get dressed. He had selected a matching pair of black panties and bra. Cheryl stepped into them quickly, thankful for any covering. The panties were sheer and her light brown pubic hairs could easily be discerned beneath them. The dangling earrings rubbed against her as the panties pressed them into her cunt. The bra was scanty, lace trimmed, and pushed her breasts together and up, her areolae peeking above the tops. The earrings poked into the fabric of the bra creating two tiny points. She paused for more pictures.

  Turk had selected, not a skirt and blouse ensemble, but a black cocktail dress, short hemmed, two thin straps supporting the bodice over her shoulders. She had bought the dress for the company’s annual Christmas party last year. It was held at an elegant uptown restaurant and all of the company’s best authors were invited. Cheryl had hoped to make an impression on her superiors and maybe a dashing young fiction writer who she had a crush on. She had made an impression. Two of the executives had asked her for blowjobs. The author never showed.

  Turk perused the stunning figure before him. Something was missing. Of course, the nylons. He opened the dresser drawer behind him and pulled out a black pair of stockings, laced tops, with a band of elastic to hold them firmly against the thighs. This and the pair of shiny black pumps he had selected would complete the costume. He watched as Cheryl stretched one stocking onto her leg and then the other. Perfect. She donned the shoes and she was ready. He recorded her delightful presentation for posterity.

  Grabbing her arm, Turk dragged Cheryl back to the living room. He ordered her to stand by as he rummaged through his bag. He produced a length of rope and ordered Cheryl to put her arms in front of her and to cross her wrists. She did so with trepidation. “How was she going to get away if she was tied?” she thought. The next action was of an even less reassuring nature.