by Paul Blades
As he regained his senses, the Turk withdrew his flaccid cock from the narrow passage. He pushed Denise forwards so that she lay again flat on the bed. Rising from the mattress, Turk went into the bathroom to wipe his cock clean of Denises wastes. He washed and dried himself with toilet tissue and flushed it away. When her returned to the bedroom, Denise was moaning softly.
She was crushed, defeated. She would resist no more. She had no way to communicate her surrender other than to lie in place, awaiting this cruel mans next act against her. Turk dressed quickly. This is getting out of control, he thought to himself. He would have to secure her tightly, watch her all the time. And he needed a plan for securing her when it came time to go get the van.
One look at Denise, however, told him that she would offer no more resistance. He pulled her to a sitting position on the bed. He grabbed her cheeks and turned her head towards his. She looked piteously back at him.
Look, he said to her calmly. I am taking you out of here. I am going to wait until it is dark and then you and I are going to leave. If you obey me, you will suffer no more harm. But if you resist again, I will hurt you again. And there are ways of hurting you that would make our little tussle here seem like childs play.
Denise nodded slowly. She knew he meant it. She knew that this beast of a man was capable of all that he said. She could not escape him. She would not resist.
Many hours later, Denise still lay hogtied in the middle of the living room. She had been there ever since the Turks rabid assault on her rear passage, except for two breaks when the Turk had allowed her to go to the bathroom and take small drinks of water. She listlessly permitted him to manhandle her. Even when the tape was removed so that she could drink, she did not try to speak. She had a thousand questions. Where was he taking her? Would she see her sister there? What would happen when he got her to where he was taking her? But fear, exhaustion and despair kept her quiet.
Lying on the floor, a pillowcase over her head to obscure her vision, Denise had plenty of time to bemoan her fate. And the Turk, sitting in a dining chair, his eyes pinned on the delicate female flesh before him had much to contemplate. He remembered Cheryl lying there. Was taking her sister really going to break Cheryls spell over him? What would he tell his new captive about Cheryls fate? How long could he keep her his prisoner?
The Turk owned a small island in one of the finger lakes of upstate New York. It was isolated, surrounded on all sides by state park land, accessible only by boat. He had a couple living there who took care of the place. They would not ask questions when he brought a bound, naked female to live with him. They had cared for his prisoners before. But then he had held girls just long enough to break and abuse them. They all took journeys afterwards to new owners, to ply their new trades as abject whores.
He looked at his watch. 1:45 A.M. It was time to move. He had thought carefully on how to restrain Denise while he got the van and the special carrying case he had brought with him to the city. He stepped over to the motionless girl and undid the rope connecting her hands and her feet. Turk had remembered the hook he had placed in the ceiling the night Cheryl did her little dance before his camera. He slid the girls body over to the center of the room and tied a doubled piece of Venetian blind cord around the bindings on her ankles.
Denise had been startled out of her lethargy by the Turks actions. For a moment, she thought that she was going to be beaten again. But no, she felt her ankles being pulled into the air. Turks arms were around her legs, raising her as he pulled on the doubled cord that ran through the hook. When he had Denise fully lifted off of the floor, he tied off the cords around her wrists.
The girl dangled from her feet, her head about a foot off of the floor. The pillow case was still covering her head as Turk had bound it loosely around her neck. Denise felt herself swinging back and forth helplessly. What torment had her cruel captor devised for her now?
Turk leaned over to the girls ear and spoke softly to her. I am going to leave you here for about five minutes. Do not struggle. It will only cause you pain. After I return, we will get ready to leave. If I find that you have tried to get free when I come back, I will beat you again. Do you understand?
Denise murmured her understanding as best she could from beneath her hood and through the tape over her mouth.
Quickly, the Turk let himself out of the apartment. He looked down the hallway carefully to make sure that he would not be seen. Five minutes he had told her. It would take more like 20. But he had tied her securely, checking all the knots before he left, and he had tested the strength of the hook and satisfied himself that it would hold her weight.
He strode quietly down the hallway after locking the three locks of the apartment door carefully. He would have to hurry.
Denise heard the door shut and locked. At first, she was struck by the utter silence of the room. Turk had turned off all of the lights so that while before she had been able to detect a soft glow of light through the pillowcase knotted around her head, now there was utter blackness. The only sensation was the disconcerting effect of rocking gently in her ropes. She had been warned about trying to free herself and she took the warning seriously. After all, he would only be gone five minutes and she would have little time to effectuate an escape.
But Denise couldnt help squirming in her tight bonds as they settled in around her. The Turk had wrapped the cord all around her torso, over her shoulders, across her breasts and around her waist. Thus, her weight was distributed evenly between her body, her hands and her feet. When she finally came to rest, it was an odd, but strangely peaceful feeling. For the last fourteen hours she had been acutely aware of the Turks movements around the apartment. He had gotten up from his chair several times either to use the bathroom or to get a drink. She heard him open the refrigerator and heat up the leftovers she had stored there. Each time the Turk moved, she had anticipated another assault on her person, some additional and progressively worse abuse.
Now that the Turk had left, her apprehension dimmed somewhat. Under her current circumstances, she could think only of the present. The future was too dark to contemplate. And so, Denise allowed herself to be comforted by the calming sensation of floating in the darkness. After a short while, the relative silence gave way to faint sounds from the streets below. She could hear movement within the apartment building. Movement by people who would surely have found it strange had they known that there was an upside down, naked, dangling prisoner mere feet away from them.
Meanwhile, the Turk was hurrying to his goal; his van and the equipment inside it. He dared not run. In New York, people who ran at 2 oclock in the morning got stopped by the police. Even walking quickly was a danger since it would draw the attention of passers by. And so, he walked fast, but not hurriedly, along the almost deserted sidewalks.
He had estimated fifteen minutes to get to the van and then five minutes to drive back. Heaven help him if it had been towed or stolen. When he turned the corner of 4th Street and Houston, it was there. But it had taken him closer to twenty minutes to make the walk. There was still traffic on the streets and he had to wait several times at corners for the lights to change. Finally, he was able to get in the van and drive off.
By now, Denise was fully aware that the Turk had been gone for more than five minutes. The time had passed slowly and the rush of blood to her head made her dizzy. But she was sure he had been gone for longer than five minutes. What did that mean? Had he left for good? Or would he burst through the door at any moment? If he had left, how long would it take for her to be discovered? A day? A week? By then she would surely suffocate on her own weight, not unlike a crucified slave, for ultimately, her diaphragm would become too heavy to lift.
When Denise heard the key enter the lock on the door, she was startled. She was, at first, relieved that she would not die, a suspended trophy of this bastards conquest. But then she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach as she realized that this cruel man had ret
urned to claim her, to make her disappear from her own life just as Cheryl had disappeared from hers.
The Turk was relieved to see that his efforts at securing the girl had been successful. He wheeled in his case and shut the door, turning on the living room light. The sounds of his movement across the room seemed loud and abrasive to Denise in comparison to the relative quiet that she had experienced for the last thirty minutes. While she had been content to sway gently at the end of the ropes during the Turks absence, now she squirmed and shuddered with fear. As she felt the ropes being carefully untied around her and her body slowly lowered to the floor, she began to cry. She had lost all control of herself. She was at this mans mercy. He had already treated her more cruelly than she had ever experienced. What would he do to her when he had her sequestered in whatever remote and secret place they were going?
The experience of handling Denises naked flesh once more aroused the Turk. When her had her lying on her back, he ran his hands along her well toned thighs. Her bush was fair, like her hair, and sparse. It was soft to his touch. Denises breasts lay flat against her torso, but her nipples were peaked, hard with fear. He squeezed them, pulling them up from Denises body, stretching her breasts. He knew that he should hurry, should not tempt fate. He had been lucky so far, and in his business those who depended on luck were soon out of business. But he wanted to take her one more time.
He dragged her over to a broad backed easy chair in the living room and, as he sat down, pulled her to her knees. He loosened the knot around her neck and pulled the pillowcase from her head. Her hair was matted with sweat, her face flushed. Her eyes overflowed with apprehension. Grabbing a fistful of hair behind Denises head, he held her face close to his. He looked her in the eyes. You have a choice, cunt, he growled at her. You can take ten lashes with the wire hanger after which I will fuck you in the ass, or you can suck my dick. Which will it be?
Denise recoiled at the idea of being struck again with the steel wire of the hanger. And her delicate rear opening still burned from its forceful invasion of a few hours ago. She knew what her choice would be. And so did the Turk.
Her eyes brimming with tears, Denise nodded her head. She hoped that this elementary communication would be understood. She realized that it had when the Turk unzipped his pants and pulled his already firm manhood free. The Turk spread his knees wide and pulled Denise between them.
Im going to take off the tape. If you make a single sound I will hurt you. Understand?
Denise nodded frantically. She understood now what the Turk meant when he said he would hurt her.
Turk ripped the tape from Denises mouth in one sudden, rapid pull. Denises suppressed a cry of pain as the tape removed a thin layer of skin from her lips and from around her mouth. She looked up forlornly at the engorged cock before her face. She had never indulged anyone with this pleasure. She had been asked by her teenage and college lovers, but she had always refused. She listened with disgust as her girlfriends described their oral adventures. The idea of swallowing sperm was mortifying to her. But she would do almost anything to avoid being beaten again.
Timidly, Denise edged herself closer to the angry red instrument. She reluctantly spread her lips and encircled the knob at its tip. Turks hand was still in her hair and, to her dismay, she felt him pushing her head forwards, sinking the meaty cock deep into her mouth.
Close your mouth and suck on my prick, cunt, the Turk instructed her. Fearfully, Denise complied, pressing her lips hard against the skin of Turks manhood, drawing it in, stroking it with her tongue.
Thats it, the Turk told her. Thats it, suck it. Move your tongue around it and suck it! The warmth of Denises mouth and the softness of her lips and tongue sent charges of pleasure along his cock. Slowly, he drew her head back and forth as she worked her lips and tongue dutifully. He looked down and saw her tied hands writhing with frustration at his forced invasion of her mouth. Her back was arched and the delicate rounded globes of her ass jutted upwards. Her legs were still tied together and the soles of her feet lay face up, her toes curled and knotted. Seeing the bound and helpless body of his victim as she pleasured his steel hard rod caused his loins to surge with passion. Leaning back in the chair, his eyes shut, he took his time, slowly guiding Denises head up and down his cock, letting the pleasure wash over him.
After what seemed like an eternity, Denise felt the Turks muscles begin to stiffen and heard him moan. He was now thrusting his hips in time with his hand, fucking her face. Denises whines died in her throat as her mouth was filled with the now throbbing cock. Denise tasted the salty, semi-sweet precum as it leaked onto her tongue moments before her mouth was flooded with the Turks hot sperm. She had no choice but to swallow it as the Turk jammed his cock deep into her mouth. He moaned loudly as jet after jet of cum spurted from his pulsing meat. Fruitlessly, Denise tried to pull her head back, to free her mouth of the insulting organ within it. The Turk just stiffened his grip on her hair.
As his cocks convulsions faded, the Turk sighed, his muscles relaxed. He was sated. To him it had been Cheryls mouth eagerly succoring his manhood. He held Denises head to his loins as he reveled in the memory of Cheryls flesh. Denises squeals for air brought him out of his fantasy. He lifted her head from his cock and looked her in the face.
You did a good job, cunt. But youll get better.
Denise cringed at the implications of the Turks words. The taste of his cum was still in her mouth, her jaws ached, her knees were cramped and raw. She was overwhelmed by the prospect of becoming this mans sexual slave. Forgetting the Turks threats, she began to utter a plea for mercy. But the sounds of her plea had barely escaped her lips when the Turk grabbed her cheeks with his powerful right hand and squeezed them tight. No talking, cunt, he hissed at her. Cunts dont talk, they fuck. Got it! Your mouth is for fucking, not talking!
Denise meekly nodded her head, terrified at the thought of retribution. But the Turk merely rose from the chair and dragged her across the room. He had availed himself of his supply of bondage equipment from his van and he quickly and efficiently stuffed a large, thick ball of rubberized foam into Denises mouth. He stretched the elastic belt attached to it over her head and she was forcibly silenced once again.
Part Six
Life In Katanga II
Half a world away from her former home, Cheryl was sleeping soundly. She lay in a steel cage, twelve foot square, at the foot of her masters bed. After two hours of sexual and physical abuse, Stoner had lapsed into a drunken sleep. The ever present and dutiful Jeremiah had eased her from the bed, allowed her to pee, and then locked her into the small steel cage that sat at the foot of Stoners large bed. The cage was the same one that she had been locked into on the night of her arrival in Katanga, many months ago.
Cheryl had actually lost count of the days that she had been Stoners captive. The days all seemed to run into each other. She hardly was aware of the day of the week, never mind the date. While there were variations in her routine, they seemed to meld into one another since they all involved either her sexual or physical abuse or both.
She was now Stoners wife, sharing that title with Mary, the heavy breasted Irish beauty and Justine, the slender Frenchwoman whose broad red lips and agile tongue had saved her from exile to one of Stoners whorehouses in the capital of Katanga. Justine had been there the longest, outlasting a number of younger and more desirable beauties on the basis of her oral skills. Mary had been there, as far as she could reckon, about a year. Cheryl, when she thought about it, measured her time in Katanga as about four months.
She had learned to please Stoner in various ways. But, to her dismay, there was something about her meek expression, her innate shyness, which piqued Stoners desire to mar and torment female flesh. She had spent many nights a prisoner in the Discipline Room, affixed to one or the other device of torture. She almost always carried some evidence of the mans brutality, for
as soon as the bruises, lacerations and swelling from one beating healed, Stoner determined it was time to begin the cycle anew.
Not that the other wives were spared their share of torment. Marys unfortunate attribute was her large yet still buoyant breasts. Cheryl and Justine were often witnesses to his abuse of those rotund orbs and Marys screams of pain. Justine was whipped also from time to time, most often when her innate sauciness floated to the surface. Stoner became enraged at any sign of resistance or disobedience from his wives and he often detected Justines ironic smile or contemptuous grimace.
To Cheryl, it was surreal to be considered wedded to this monster. But her marriage to him was as valid under the laws of Katanga as it would have been if she had married her high school sweetheart in the States. Stoner, the de facto ruler of ten thousand square miles of Katanganese territory, had converted to the local brand of Islam so as to better control his three hundred mercenaries, all native Muslims themselves, and to facilitate dealing with the various political factions in the capital. As a non-Christian, he could own property, run businesses, influence governmental policy. As a Katanganese Muslim he could have three wives, wives whose very bodies and souls would be owned by him. No political body in the world could challenge his ownership of his three sex slaves. From time to time, he acquired a new sex slave and one of the old ones would have to go. Thus, on her second day in Katanga, Cheryl was made ready to be Stoners unwilling bride.
The night before the wedding, Cheryl had been taught the fine art of throat fucking. She spent the night in the three by four cage at the foot of Stoners bed. She cried all night. It was only as the bright orange African sun peaked over the hills that surrounded Stoners compound that she drifted off.
She only got about a half hours sleep. Stoner, in spite of his inveterate drinking and his nightly debauchery, rose early every day. If you lived in Africa you were smart to rise early, before the orange sun turned yellow and scorching. It was the same this morning. He sprung awake with a jolt, as he usually did. A man who wielded as much power as Stoner, often the power of life or death, rarely slept peacefully. And when he awoke, it was very important to make sure that there was no one in the room intent on his destruction.