Obsession - Girl Abducted (12 page)

Without warning, Mark brought his hand down with a swat on the exposed flesh. Emily yelped and sucked in her breath.

Mark swatted her cunt several more times. Emily cried out and gasped with each blow.

Just as suddenly, he stopped and leaned over her hot sex, covering it with kisses until she was moaning with lust. Mark stood, watching the rubber tarp rise and fall with her ragged breathing. He retrieved a large rubber dildo and touched its bulbous head to her wet cunt. Slowly he began to insert the huge phallus into her pussy. Emily whimpered but of course, she could not close her legs. "Ow!" she cried, but Mark ignored her. He was fascinated as he watched the dildo disappear into the cunt that seemed to be an entity unto itself, not part of a woman at all, but just raw sex bursting from the shiny black rubber. In and out he drew the large cock until it was coated with her juices. He could hear her steady breathing under the tarp. Mark withdrew it a final time and lay it down.

Next, he chose the rubber-tipped clamps he had used on her nipples. Without warning, he attached them, one on each inner labia. Emily screamed, struggling in her bonds. "Show your grace, Emily. Bear the pain just as you took the pleasure."

As her sex adjusted to the painful tension of the clamps, Emily stilled under the tarp. Perhaps she really was trying to achieve the grace to which he referred. Or else she was just
tired of the struggle. Mark lifted the chain, pulling up on her tethered pussy.

The lips were slippery from his earlier attentions and the clamps slipped off. Emily's body, which had been rigid, seemed to relax slightly under the tarp. Taking a small riding crop, Mark began to whip the bare little mound, smacking the mons and the spread pussy below it with first gentle and then sharper blows. Emily was moaning and crying beneath the tarp.

Mark eased the intensity of the cropping, so it became more of a caress than a beating. Emily moaned and arched up slightly into the leather. Mark smiled at her obvious attempt at pleasuring herself with the crop. This time he didn't deny her. He continued to massage and tease her spread cunt, focusing on her clit until she was panting and thrusting as best as she could in her bonds.

"Come for me, cunt." She shuddered and gasped, moaning as he replaced the leather with his fingers, rubbing the hot little pussy he adored as she bucked against him. He let her rest for a moment, and then he spread her still-swollen labia with his fingers. Rubbing slowly in concentric circles on her spread vulva, he watched with pleasure as the lips swelled even more and the moisture seeped from her slit. Emily's breathing picked up again "Please sir," began the familiar entreaty.

Mark pulled his hand away. "No." So simple. She craved release. He denied her wish. She would come when he decided, not when she wanted. He loved the delicious irony of
turning her into a slut and then denying her sluttish needs. Of course, she didn't protest. She was too well trained for that!

After a minute he began to fuck her with three fingers, pressing them deep into her cunt and drawing them out slowly. As her breathing blended into sweet little moans he pressed his large thumb against her clit, causing her to scream with pleasure.

"Please, oh please, oh please, oh please..." her voice was high-pitched with need.

Mark was excited by her cries and by the red, swollen cunt bared before him. He slapped the smooth pussy, even as she jerked and arched in an uncontrolled orgasm. He hadn't given her permission. He filed this particular transgression away.

His cock strained painfully in his underwear. He needed release, now.

Hurriedly he pulled off his clothes, tossing them in a heap.

Climbing over the tarp-covered body, as if it really were just some rubber sex toy, Mark straddled it at the hips. Slowly he eased his large cock into the reddened defenseless cunt.

Emily was an object—nothing more than his fucktoy. If it pleased him to smother her in rubber and fuck her, that is what he would do. He wanted to hold on longer, to savor the feeling of that hot, open cunt massaging his cock. But it was just too damn good. Groaning, Mark spurted his seed deep into Emily.

When he could summon the strength, he climbed off the cot. Carefully, he pulled back the tarp to see how his slave girl had fared. Her body was covered in a sheen of sweat. Her
hair was wet at the temples from sweat. Her face and neck were flushed.

"Did you suffer for me, slave?"

"Yes sir," she breathed.

I love you
, he almost said. Instead he said, "Good."
CHAPTER Seven

God, she hated the cage. The cold, dank little space.

Locked behind those thick, black metal bars. Sometimes her wrists were shackled so she couldn't get comfortable at all. At first she didn't know how to stay out of the cage. Any little thing seemed to set him off and he would thrust her in, forcing her into the dark, cold little prison.

The door would clank shut. The lock would turn, the lights would go out, the door would slam. Fear. Thirst. Pain. Then numbness. Sometimes he would leave her there for hours.

She would lose sense of time. She would doze fitfully, sometimes awakening to something crawling on her skin.

Terror would wrench a scream from her until she woke up enough to realize it was only a draft or at worst a tiny house spider. Forcing herself to calm down she would try to sleep, or at least clear her mind.

Those first days were the worst. She had always been afraid of being enclosed in small dark places. Probably some childhood trauma she couldn't remember. But she never liked elevators or big crowds or crowded subways. He couldn't have known of this fear beforehand, but he was certainly aware of it now.

She had learned to handle the fear over time. To keep it at bay. To be quiet so he would relent and release her. And she was learning how to avoid the cage. How to obey him better; how to please him. She wanted to please him. To please him
meant she suffered less. Her life revolved around pleasing him.

She lay quietly now, slumped on her side, her hands curled under her cheek. She'd been able to avoid the cage for several days. Sometimes he just put her there because he could. He could do anything. With his strength and his gun and his constant vigilance, she was powerless against him.

Her mind drifted. She wasn't in pain, particularly. Just uncomfortable and a little cold. She would wait till he released her and took her in his arms. Enfolded her in soft quilts and let her sleep in the relative freedom of his bed.

Freedom meant freedom from the cage. Not from this place. Not from Mark. There could be no escape. This was her life now.

She knew she hadn't always been here. She knew she had had another life, one that was nothing like this. It just seemed so vague now—a distant memory. She wasn't even sure it had been a very good life. She remembered she used to run all the time—flying from set to set, from film to film.

She had no life to speak of then—just obligations. Glitter but no light. Attention but not love.

Still, she knew she hadn't always belonged to this strange and compelling man.

But she did belong here now. This was her life, her lot.

Emily no longer protested. She no longer begged to be set free. What was the point? It only made him angry. Mark frightened her when he was angry. Much better to keep him happy.
Sometimes she seemed to step out of her bizarre situation for a moment or two. How could she have permitted herself to be brought so low? Would a stronger person have withstood him better? She seemed almost comfortable with her situation, as astonishing as that might seem. Perhaps it was the constancy of it. She was usually kept naked except when he chose to dress her up as his whore. She was constantly watched, even during her most private moments.

She was always manacled and frequently bound. She was whipped, caned, spanked and beaten every day. She was always marked with welts and bruises from her beatings.

She was forced to come as often as she was beaten. Every sting had its sweetness; every kiss its lash. As Mark had predicted, as he had promised, pain and pleasure had become mixed, confused, melded together.

Her life was completely sexual—Mark saw to that. His focus, and therefore hers, was on her body, her orgasms, her ability to suffer, her willingness to obey. Her hand slipped down to her naked sex. She thought, "I could touch myself now. Steal an orgasm. Take a little pleasure. He would never know." But she didn't. Was it because of loyalty to her master? The man who had forbidden her to touch "his body"?

Or was she just too tired to move?

Her thoughts drifted again. She thought back to when she first saw this man who had become her universe. Her very first thought, before she had had time to get nervous, before she had time to become terrified, was how much better looking this new driver was than Hank. It wasn't just his classic good looks. She did take in the high, smooth forehead,
over which a lock of unruly golden-blond hair fell, and the intelligent grayish green eyes. She liked his long Roman nose and the generous mouth that was quirking into a smile as she looked at him.

When she'd realized he wasn't taking her to the set but was abducting her, the cold terror that shot through her body made her feel like a rat trapped in a corner. Something icy had oozed through her, leaving her dizzy and nauseated. Her heart had pumped so hard she could feel it banging against her ribs. She had been sure he was going to kill her, right there in the car. She had been sure he was insane.

Yet here she was. Months had passed and she was still alive. Looking back, she couldn't remember the first several days very well, except for the constant pervading fear. She had been certain she was going to die at any moment. Yet after the first few days, she rarely even thought of escape— he had made it so devastatingly clear that there would be none.

Maybe it was that very resignation that kept her alive.

Because she had given up any hope of escape, she allowed the situation to wash over her. Rather than use every ounce of resistance to escape, she relaxed, if it could be called that.

She accepted the inevitable with philosophical resignation.

Curiously, this left her free to actually experience the situation Mark was offering her—forcing upon her. She was free to experience what was happening to her, without her usual inhibitions and censors firmly in place. Maybe that was how it had happened. She still didn't fully understand it.
She should have hated this man—this fiend who had abducted her—kidnapped her, raped her, beaten her, humiliated her in every possible way. He had forced her to pee in front of him. He had stripped her of her womanly veil of pubic hair. He had forced her to kneel at his feet and thank him for the semen he spurted down her throat, the urine splashed in her face. He had deprived her of food as punishment, he had peed in her mouth and sodomized her.

He had marked her flesh with welts, he had used her in any number of perverse ways.

Yet, here was the odd thing. Along with the torture, the humiliation, the pain, there had been something else.

Something utterly sincere in his protestations of love for her.

Something strangely but unerringly loving in his actions. He never asked her to love him back. He demanded obedience and submission, but never love. Perhaps he assumed that she hated him, could only hate him. She should hate him, by any rational estimation.

Well, she did hate him, in a way. In the way one might hate a stern father, perhaps? Yet, at the same time she couldn't deny that all her thoughts revolved around him. The first thing that assailed her consciousness when she awoke was where was Mark? What was he going to do to her today?

Would she be beaten? Would she be caned? Would she be bound in some painful way and left alone for hours on end?

Would he be pleased with her? Would he find her submissive enough? Beautiful enough? Responsive enough?

Was it all a bizarre protective mechanism? A way to survive, to avoid being punished? At first it had been. At first
she pretended to accept what he offered, inwardly despising the man who ruled her world. She wasn't sure herself when the change began. When the pretending faded into a real desire to please, to serve, to submit. Did she love him? No, she didn't think so. As far as she knew, she had never loved anyone. But she did desperately want to please him.

When did the change come? It hadn't happened at any one moment, she supposed. But she did remember the day he suspended her, and used the spreader bar to pull her open and taut, completely available to him. Using those dildos he had fucked her cunt, fucked her ass, even fucked her face with the penis gag. And then, when he cropped her, something seemed to happen to her. It was so intense, but it wasn't only about pain. It was the first time, but certainly not the last, that she had come to understand that pain and pleasure could intermingle, could bleed into one another and ultimately blend seamlessly together.

In the midst of the panic, she had grown almost accustomed to—that day she had experienced an odd kind of serenity beneath the fear. Somehow she had found the grace, yes that was the word Mark used so often—she had found the grace to truly submit. To submit to the sensations that washed over her—the pleasure as well as the pain. And the orgasm she experienced had seared through her, catching her completely off-guard. It was like an instantly addictive drug, and from then on, she craved that sensation. She had certainly never experienced anything like it in her past life.

She had had no idea that a person could feel anything so intensely.
She couldn't bring it on by her own will, alas. It only happened sometimes, and usually when she least expected it.

It seemed she had to get past a certain point of suffering before she was able to let go enough to fly. That was the perfect word—it was a soaring of the soul. She didn't know if Mark knew what happened to her at these times. She wasn't sure she wanted him to know—he might take it away. So she stayed silent, as she usually was anyway.

Yet she did truly want to please the man who had become her master. She had been conditioned, perhaps, by these last several months of constant deprivation and torture. But there was also pleasure. Pleasure so intense sometimes she was consumed by it, transformed by it. And the peculiar thing was, the thing she couldn't get her arms around, was that the pleasure didn't derive only from the sweet times—the sex, the gentleness he sometimes showed her.