Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl (16 page)

Placing his hand over her puffy and abused nether lips, he told her, “I’ll pierce your cunt and tie it up with leather laces so no one can use it but me.” His voice was deep, threatening. “And I’ll whip that pretty body of yours until it bleeds!”

A deep, sinking feeling went through Cheryl’s stomach. Until this moment, the threat of being sent to the capital was an abstract one. No girl who had been sent there had ever come back, and so its precise horrors were unknown. So Cheryl had not been able to imagine an environment much worse than her life here as Stoner’s wife. Now she had.

“In the morning,” the dreadful man continued, “I’ll whip your cunt. Then you can suck my cock again.”

In the morning, Uzoma kept his promise. Suspending Cheryl’s ankles from the bedposts, he had lashed her sex terribly. Cheryl, her hands still bound behind her, wailed and cried as the thin whip struck between her pussy lips. Afterwards, she knelt and sucked the African’s thick, black prick. His come filled her mouth when he ejaculated and she had trouble swallowing it. He left her there, hogtied, when he went down for breakfast. Two servants, a man and a woman came in to pack his things. They left Cheryl lying on the floor where they found her.

Following breakfast, it was the big man’s intention to leave. His copter was warmed up and waiting. Stoner was standing on the edge of the parade ground shaking his hand and exchanging last minute pleasantries when he asked the President to wait. He signaled to Jeremiah, who signaled to someone inside the barracks. Two soldiers emerged, frog walking a tall black woman towards them. Her hands were locked behind her and she had a black bag over her head. It was the woman who had been whipped on the afternoon of the raid.

When the woman was brought up to where they stood, the soldiers stopped and held the woman upright. “A present for you, Mr. President,” Stoner said.

A soldier whipped off the hood. The woman’s mouth was gagged by a large red rubber ball, but the rest of her face was clear to see. The President stepped near her and stroked her face.

“Such a pretty one,” he said. He ran his hands down her torso and cupped her sex with one hand. The woman began to struggle.

Ah,” he said, amused. “She is not yet tamed.”

“No, Mr. President,” Stoner replied. “She’s yours to conquer.”

The President laughed. “It will be my pleasure. Turn her around, please,” he said to the soldiers. Uzoma admired the straight lines of her back and the graceful curves of her hips and buttocks. “There’s plenty there to have fun with,” he thought. Then he saw the italicized “
S
” branded into the cheek of her ass: Stoner’s mark. He wanted to make sure that the President never forgot where this present came from. The struggling woman was dragged to the helicopter, Uzoma and his entourage got in. He waved goodbye to Stoner as it rose gracefully from the grass and climbed into the sky. Stoner watched it as it flew away. “Maybe it’s time to get rid of this guy,” he thought. He had had feelers from a number of young colonels in Uzoma’s army. Maybe he should put somebody in power who would be just a little bit more grateful.

PART TWELVE

SLAVER’S BAIT

The tenor of Denise’s life with the Turk had been set on her first two days there. She was never allowed to speak, her arms were constantly bound behind her, her face half hidden by the leather mask, its thick leather plug in her mouth. Every morning she would receive a thorough and sensuous massage from the old woman followed by a manual manipulation to orgasm. She would kneel at the dining room table, erect, knees apart, at lunch and dinner while the hulking man who had kidnapped her ate. She would watch as Tamara marched to and fro during the day on her seemingly innumerable and never ending tasks.

Her sessions of love making with the Turk continued to be hot and heavy for both of them. She had learned to patiently, slowly, suck Turk’s cock using only her mouth. His eyes would roll back into his head and he would groan loudly when she finally let him come. She would sit astride him, impaled on his long hard rod of flesh and rock her hips gently until, with a mighty groan, he would discharge himself inside her.

And then, there was the dungeon. He did not take her there frequently, and when he did, he did not beat her as cruelly and with such hateful passion as he had before. But he did beat her. He would leave her bound into tortuous positions, her body stretched so that it imposed its own pain on itself, for hours on end.

After lunch, or while she was chained to the foot of the stairs, or at night, after dinner, when the three other occupants and Denise sat in the living room and listened to music, the Turk would grab her leash and pull her to her feet. Wordlessly he would lead her down the hall. If they turned at the stairs and went up, Denise knew that he had opted for an interval of pleasure with her. If he passed the stairs and headed to the dining room, off of which the door to the cellar ran, her heart would sink, her mouth would go dry. Butterflies would appear in her stomach. He had decided that he would inflict pain on her.

Every afternoon, Tamara would bring her to the sun porch and they would watch the sun go down together. Each time, Tamara would caress her loins until she came, crying out softly at each wave of pleasure. Only once had the old man joined them. Denise had surmised that the presence of the man would forestall her afternoon delight. But it was not so. As usual, Tamara pulled her onto the lap and delved her fingers into Denise’s slit, which was, as usual, wet with anticipation. At first, Denise was mortified to be seen accepting the old woman’s caresses before this old man. However, he watched her with such obvious pleasure and he and the old lady spoke to each other in such pleasant tones, that Denise soon forgot her embarrassment and let the warmth spread from her loins over her body.

As for the Turk, he was still as unsettled as he had been when he decided to abduct Denise. He spent hours wandering through the woods or rowing his canoe on the lake. He would sit at his perch and try to recreate the feelings of that magic kiss. He agonized over the question of whether to keep Denise or not. At the same time, her presence both exacerbated and alleviated his painful longing for Cheryl. The answer to his dilemma came as a result of a phone call from Nora.

Nora ran a ‘specialized’ brothel and slave procurement business deep in the Nevada desert. Turk had kidnapped females for her many times and had spent some considerable time there, using the product. This time Nora had a job for him in Western Massachusetts. It seemed a wife of a very wealthy executive wanted the executive’s young and lovely mistress to disappear. It was one of Nora’s trademark deals. She would get paid on both ends, by the disgruntled wife and by the ultimate buyer. Mexico or Latin America was the usual destination of her captives. Occasionally, she would ship to Asia or Japan. It was really the highest price that prevailed.

Turk figured the job would take three days. He drove off in his van with one of his specialized boxes. Nora would fly in with her small seaplane and pick up the merchandise. She might stay around a day or two for old time’s sake.

While the Turk was gone, life went on as usual at the homestead. With one exception. Denise had known that this time would come eventually. During the afternoon after the Turk left, the old man walked into the Great Hall and saw Denise sitting cross-legged at the foot of the stairs. Tamara was upstairs cleaning. The old man paused for a moment in contemplation and then stepped over to where Denise sat. He unhooked her chain and led her out of the Hall, through a long hallway and then outside the house through a door in the back. He led her to a tiny shack about 30 yards from the house. When they had entered the shack, he turned to Denise and, pressing on her shoulders, forced her to her knees. He undid the mask and withdrew the thick leather gag. He opened his pants and pulled out his large, withered cock. Denis knew what to do.

The young woman patiently massaged the old man’s tool with her lips and tongue. He moaned as he felt her hot tongue lick his shaft and circle around his cock’s bulbous head. It took some time, but the old man finally got hard. Denise was happy that she could please the kindly old man. When he was hard enough, he withdrew from her mouth and had her kneel and bend over on a large stack of bags of mulch. Denise spread her legs willingly and opened herself so that the man’s passage to her cunt would be eased. He pressed the head of his cock against the entrance and slipped inside. He moaned the whole time he was fucking her. He took his time, patiently sawing back and forth. Denise’s blood began to rise at the motion of the man’s large, hot tool. When she felt the old man’s pace begin to quicken, she contracted her pussy muscles as hard as she could, increasing the old man’s pleasure.

When the pair came back inside, Tamara was standing there at the bottom of the stairs waiting for them. Denise felt like a naughty school girl, although she had had really no choice in whether to fuck the old man. He sheepishly reaffixed her leash to the hook by the stairs. The old lady spoke a few words in to him, curtly. The man nodded. Tamara hesitated for a second. Her mouth then turned into a grin, her face beamed. She stepped up to the old man and, curling her hand behind his head kissed him on the cheek. They hugged. Denise had sunk to her knees to await Tamara’s presumed displeasure. Tamara merely smiled at her and patted her on the head. She walked away humming one of her little songs. The old man looked at Denise, shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, Turk’s boat could be heard motoring up to the dock. Tamara rushed into the kitchen to prepare him some food. Denise, who had missed her passionate fucking with the strange, dark man, came to her feet and tried to peer out the window of the Great Hall in an effort to see him. She was affixed to the bottom of the stairs and so could not run to the door. She heard the kitchen door open and the tread of the Turk’s heavy boots. When she saw him enter the great hall, her heart stopped. He was carrying a big black box, the kind that he had imprisoned her in when he kidnapped her. The box, from its weight, was obviously full. Denise quickly fell to her knees. “What does this mean?” she thought to herself. The Turk looked at her sternly and then muscled the box past the stairs and towards the entrance to the dungeon.

He emerged about twenty minutes later. He passed by her without looking and went into the kitchen to eat. She could hear the chair scraping on the stone floor of the kitchen, the clatter of dishes. He talked to the old woman. His voice was sharp and curt. Hers was pleading, soft.

In fact Turk and Tamara were having an argument. Tamara had made the same assumption that Denise had made. She knew better than to confront the Turk head on. This was his house. He ruled here. But she let him know how much she loved her ‘little bird’ as she called Denise, how sweet she was. Turk told her to mind her own business, that he was the judge of who came and went here. He would do what he wanted with the girl. He had no immediate desire to sell Denise. He just didn’t want to commit himself to keeping her. He couldn’t keep her bound and gagged and chained forever, could he?

When Turk left the kitchen after his meal, he grabbed Denise’s leash. To her relief, she was dragged up the stairs after him. But in the event, she was left unconsoled. His lovemaking was harsh, hard. He ploughed her throat cruelly and then had her kneel on the bed, crunched over, so that he could ravish her rear passage. He had no soft caresses for her. There was no quiet, tender interlude. When he was done, he took her leash and ran it under her, between her legs, and fastened it to her bound wrists. She was forced to continue kneeling on the bed, her breasts crushed against her knees, her head forced down. The chain rubbed between her pussy lips, grating against her sore clit each time she tried to move. She stayed that way until Tamara came to relieve her some two hours later.

That night, Denise was taken to the dungeon after dinner. Turk took her into the torture room. She was crying, both in anticipation of the frightful pain she could expect, but also because she had apparently fallen from grace in the cruel man’s eyes. The addition of a new girl undoubtedly signaled the removal of the old. The Turk pulled her over to a steel pole set in the floor and attached the back of her collar to it. The floor near the plate had been covered with a steel plate. Embedded in the plate were large, rounded prongs, about 2” in circumference and set about 1” above the surface of the plate, 1” apart. Turk left the room. It didn’t take long for Denise to discern the precise nature of her torture. The iron bumps drove directly into the soles of her feet. There was no way to stand on them comfortably. She could shift her feet in any direction, roll back on her heels, stand on her toes and she experienced the same dull, throbbing pain in her feet within a few seconds.

The Turk returned with a short, shapely young brunette in tow. Her hair was long and she wore a mask similar to Denise’s. Her eyes were wide with terror. She was nude and her firm, round breasts bounced as she was led into the room. The Turk led her to the center of the room where the chain came down from the ceiling. Denise had taken the whip or the cane here several times. She knew what was in store for the girl. The increasing pain in her feet, however, prevented her from giving her full empathy to the Turk’s new victim.

Turk unfastened the girl’s hands behind her back and fastened them to the chain. He pulled her hands up over her head. He tied her ankles to the ring in the floor.

The girl was visibly trembling. She had dark, tanned skin, presumably from a salon due to the time of the year or perhaps from weekend trips to the Bahamas. Her areolas were dark, her nipples taut with fear.

Turk unlocked the gag around her head and pulled it free. The girl immediately began to plead and beg for her freedom. She had not noticed Denise when she had entered, but she saw her now and uttered a mournful moan. “Oh, God, please mister, please! I’ll do anything you want. I have money! I can get more! Oh, God, what are you going to do to me?”

Turk slapped her across the face. “Shut up!” he yelled at her. The young girl obeyed, her lips trembling, tears flowing down her face. The Turk went to the wall and selected his favorite rattan cane, the same one he had used on Denise. When the girl saw it she went insane. “No! No! No!” she yelled, struggling desperately and futilely at her bonds. “Please don’t whip me. Oh, I couldn’t stand it. Please! Please!”