The Sociopath's Daughter [Part One] (Fb Mg nc bond caution)

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja
anais_ninja@hotmail.com
/~anais_ninja/


Note: This is the darkest piece I've ever written.  I've done
non-consensual (i.e., rape) scenes before, but this goes past that,
stopping just short of snuff/torture.  Consider this a warning if
you're squicked by this sort of thing. 


                                  * * *


The boy wouldn't stop squirming and struggling.  He'd been tied up in
my basement for six hours and showed no sign of getting tired.  Of
course, there was no use fighting the chains that connected the leather
cuffs around his wrists and ankles to the heavy wooden bedframe, but he
didn't know that.  They all tried to free themselves from their
restraints, though none had lasted as long as this one.  And none had
ever gotten free. 

I'd been checking on the boy every hour, looking for some sign that he
was tiring.  For the last hour I'd sat in the chair across from him,
watching him struggle, listening to his screams and cries for help. 
I'd come twice while I watched him, dipping my hand in my panties and
rubbing my swollen clit, eager to feel him inside me.  I liked to wait
until they were quiet, compliant, obedient before I took them, but now
I was getting impatient. 

Patience.  You have to be patient if you want to do this and not get
caught.  That's one of the lessons Will taught me, that patience is
everything.  He'd stalk his prey for weeks, months even, and he had no
qualms about calling it all off if something didn't seem right.  That's
why he died of natural causes in his own bed and not in some stinking
prison. 

The boy looked like he'd had enough.  He gave one last pull at his
restraints and, with a sigh of resignation, relaxed against the
mattress.  I could see the tears begin to flow from beneath his
blindfold. 

Without a word, I rose from my seat and sat down on the edge of the
bed, gently running my hand over his smooth chest.  I'd undressed him
before the sedative had worn off, and I'd already had a chance to
admire his young body.  Just two weeks shy of his thirteenth birthday
-- I knew almost as much about my prey as his mother -- he'd already
started to grow hair on his chest and groin, a fine blond fuzz that
felt like velvet.  His cock was soft, of course, but that would soon
change. 

"Who...who are you?" the boy stammered.  "What do you want with me?"

"Shhh..." I whispered.  I never spoke to my boys.  The less they knew,
the better. 

"P-p-please...let me go.  Lady, please..."

"Shhhh..."  This one knew I was a woman.  Not all of them did, at least
at first. 

He was trembling in fear and when he felt my mouth make contact with
his cock he gasped in surprise.  The boy began to stiffen immediately,
filling my mouth with his hard, hot meat.  Not all of my boys could get
it up when I did this, but most of them did.  For the rest, there was
that little blue pill that Bob Dole is so fond of.  Only once did a boy
fail to respond.  Only once. 

"What...what are you...?"  The boy knew what I was doing, but this just
didn't fit into his expectations.  Perhaps he thought he was going to
be sodomized, tortured, or even murdered.  Getting his first blow job
was probably the last thing he expected. 

My Daddy was a creature of habit but I wasn't stuck to a routine.  Will
always started his girls with oral, licking their little cunnies until
they begged for mercy.  Sometimes I'd start my boys with a suck,
sometimes I'd cut to the chase and mount them.  And then there were
those times when I'd tease myself, doing everything but take their
smooth young cocks inside me and only giving in to my urges when the
anticipation of a new lover was too much to bear. 

Tonight there wasn't enough time.  Had this boy stopped struggling
after the second or third hour I might have treated myself to an
evening of delicious anticipation.  Now I had to find my pleasure
quickly if I was to return the boy in time, before his parents even
knew he was missing.  I released his glistening erection from my mouth
and stood up. 

The rustling of clothing caught his attention.  I could even see his
ears perk up like a dog's.  Denied the use of his sight, he could only
rely on sound and smell to get some idea of what was going on, what was
going to happen to him.  He could hear my skirt coming off, the snap of
the elastic waistband of my panties as I removed them, the
imperceptible sound of my clothes being carefully folded and placed on
the chair. 

"P-p-please, lady," the boy whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming.
 "D-don't hurt me.  Please?" 

"Shhhhh..."  The bed creaked as I climbed in and straddled his slim
hips, reaching down to guide his stiff penis inside me.  He gasped
again at this new sensation.  Slowly, I settled down on his young
spear, engulfing it within my hungry sex until my carefully shorn mons
met the fuzz that covered his pubic bone. 

"Oooh..." the boy cooed as I began to slide up and down on his stalk. 
My wet cleft made a quiet squishing sound as I rode his young cock and
I could feel his hips start to move, bucking against me as I fucked
him.  Not all of my boys seemed to like this and I didn't expect this
one to get into it either, not after all the struggling he'd done.  But
he did. 

To tell the truth, there were times when I liked the non-compliant ones
better, the ones that struggled against their bonds as I rode them. 
There was something extremely pleasurable about having a young boy buck
and thrash beneath you, trying to escape, trying to get free from the
restraints, away from my sex.  Like a living Sybian, hips twisting,
body heaving, a challenge to stay on top of.  But I was glad that this
boy was cooperating.  Time was running out and I needed my release. 

"We...we're fu-fucking..." the boy stammered.

"Shhhh..."  I leaned forward and grabbed his wrists, wriggling my hips
against his, feeling his throbbing boyhood as it stirred my needy slit.
 I'd already come twice while waiting for the boy to settle down, but
that was  nothing compared to what was about to come.  That gnawing
feeling in my belly gave way to a delightful tingle, anticipation of my
hard-earned release.  Two months of stalking this beautiful boy were
about to pay off. 

"Oh...oh...oh..."  The boy was getting into it, and though there was
the possibility that he'd come too soon, I preferred boys this age for
a reason.  Most of them would stay hard after a dry orgasm, and even
the ones that didn't would soon be ready for another round. 

Discipline was another thing Will had taught me.  I could climax
without making a sound, not a moan, not a gasp, not even a whimper. 
The loudest sound that escaped my lips was a nearly-silent sigh, even
during the most intense orgasms. 

So it was that night.  As my pleasure took me in its grasp, my body
trembling and quivering with delight, I let out a soft "Ahhhh..." and
ground my sex against the boy's shaft, rubbing my swollen pearl on his
pubic bone until I found my release.  The boy still hadn't come, so I
rode him to another, lesser climax, and only then did he utter that
characteristic groan and let loose.  I could feel a spreading warmth
inside me, a sign that he'd released his seed.  Though I preferred the
ones that were old enough to squirt, it wasn't a necessary part of my
pleasure.  In fact, the ones that couldn't were usually more
manageable, easier to grab, less of a risk.  Of course, the risk was
half the fun, if not more. 

I released his glistening cock from my pussy, dismounting him and
taking a sip of water from the glass on the bedside table.  I had a
squeeze bottle with a straw as well, filled with chilled water, and I
gave the boy a drink, the only thing approaching a kindness I would
allow.  He was my plaything and I took care of my toys, but I wasn't
here to be his mother, lover, nanny, or nurse. 

I rode his smooth young boycock once more before the endgame, enjoying
another delightful climax.  By now the boy's struggles had stopped,
either through fatigue or because of the narcotic in the water I'd been
giving him.  I chose a hypnotic agent, one that produced a
dissassociative state and hindered short-term memory.  That made the
endgame easier. 

Endgame was the hardest part of all.  I suppose killing the boys would
have been easier, at least until the question of where to dispose of
the remains came up, but killing them would have attracted too much
attention.  I was a serial rapist, like my Daddy, not a serial killer. 
Not that I wasn't capable of that; I just didn't get off on killing. 
It was more pleasurable to know that these boys lives were changed
forever, just from an evening in my basement. 

Endgame started with an injection of the same narcotic that laced the
water, at a spot on his body that no doctor would think of checking. 
Once the boy was out cold, I'd unchain him, bathe him -- no sense
letting the police pick up the odd bit of DNA or fiber -- and dress
him.  Then it was back into the van for the drop-off.  My van was just
like my Daddy's only newer, a non-descript white cargo van on which I'd
paint a different corporate logo each time.  A wire-mesh cage behind
the driver's seat kept my boy confined until we reached the drop-off
point. 

Tonight the drop-off point was a rail yard where the city's transit
system stored out-of-service subway cars.  I parked the van near a
break in the chain-link fence I'd made the night before, unlocked the
cage, and led the boy by the hand out of the van.  In my other hand was
a knapsack I'd bought at a thrift shop, filled with cans of spray
paint. 

I led the boy through the fence and helped him into the nearest subway
car, an old model that had lost most of its window glass.  The boy was
tired from the drugs and the sex and he fell asleep as soon as he laid
down on the hard bench.  I removed the opaque sunglasses from his face,
the glass painted  black to keep him from identifying me.  After
leaving the bag of spray paint next to him, I climbed down from the
subway car and went back through the fence. 

Back in the van I dialed the transit police from a cloned cell phone
I'd bought from a kid in the park behind the library.  In my best
"concerned citizen" tone of voice, I told the operator that I'd seen
some boys painting graffiti on some of the cars in the train yard.  She
thanked me for the call and I hung up the phone, starting the van and
driving away.  I took a circuitous route back home, just in case I was
being followed, and flung the phone out the window as I crossed the
river. 

For the next two weeks I watched the evening news and scanned the
papers for any sign of a police investigation.  Nothing.  Chances are
the boy tried to tell his story, at least what he could remember.  Too
bad no one would believe him.  I'm sure he'd catch hell from his
parents, not to mention the transit police, who were nuts whenever
graffiti was involved.  I didn't care at all.  He was just a plaything.
 The world was full of my playthings.  That's what Will used to tell
me. 

"We're special people, princess," he'd say as he held me in his strong
arms.  "We have a gift.  We don't worry about petty things like how
some plaything feels.  The world is ours for the taking, princess." 

"I love you, Daddy," I say, feeling safe in his embrace.

"I love you, too, princess," Daddy would reply.

Well, he wasn't really my Daddy.  He was the man who grabbed me off the
street and took me to his basement. 


                                  * * *


When I was taking Abnormal Psychology in college, the professor told us
that one in 100 people had sociopathic tendencies, that they were
unable to empathize, unable to perceive the emotions of other people. 
Of course, like most things human, the line between "normal" and
"sociopathic" isn't so cut and dried.  There's a spectrum, varying
degrees of pathology, from the schoolyard bully to Vlad the Impaler. 

Nowadays, much of the research into the causes of sociopathic behavior
is concerned with brain function, and the tool of choice is the PET
scanner, able to take real-time pictures of brain activity.  But when I
was in college it was nurture, not nature, that was suspected as the
cause.  Certainly that fit in with my own experience. 

I wasn't born this way.  And though I'm loathe to blame my natural
parents, it was the way they held me at arms length throughout my
childhood that turned me into the person I am now.  I was raised by an
endless succession of nannies and au pairs, none of whom lasted more
than six months in my family's service.  When I was old enough, I was
sent off to boarding schools, the best ones money could buy.  My
summers were spent at camp.  From when I was seven until I was twelve I
must have seen my parents a total of three whole weeks. 

There were other kids in much the same situation as I was, but they
didn't act out the way I did.  I would tease my classmates mercilessly,
until tears began to flow, after which I would get the attention I
craved from the teacher or the Dean.  Negative attention, to be sure,
but attention all the same.  When I was ten I discovered a new way to
get what I wanted: sex.  I would masturbate so often -- and so loudly
-- that my room mates begged to be reassigned.  Eventually I was given
my very own room at the school.  Perfect. 

It didn't stop there.  I'd masturbate in class, I'd come on to my
teachers (both male and female), and I would constantly draw the
dirtiest imaginable doodles on my notebooks, reports, and test papers. 
I'm sure that if I'd kept this up, the people who grade the SATs would
have received an answer sheet filled with giant penises penetrating
dripping vaginas, all in Number Two pencil, of course. 

And I didn't leave this at school, either.  On winter break at home
when I was eleven I would constantly grab at my real father's crotch
and at the breasts of our beleaguered English au pair.  Over the course
of Christmas Dinner, I came three times, once with the bone from the
drumstick of a turkey. 

I didn't care if this humiliated my parents at all.  All I cared was
that they acknowledged my presence, something they always seemed
reluctant to do.  They tried to get me help, sending me to a series of
therapists, none of whom had the slightest idea of what to do with me. 
I don't suppose it helped that I'd spend my 40 minutes on the couch
rubbing my cunny and inviting them to join me. 

When I wasn't masturbating and thinking up creative ways to embarrass
my parents, I'd fantasize about my death, constructing elaborate
methods with which I would end my life in a manner as messy and gothic
as possible.  Merely slitting my wrists had lost its appeal by the time
I was twelve.  Instead, I daydreamed about swan dives from the Opera
House proscenium, or strapping myself with explosives and crashing a
beauty pageant, or attacking a politician with a vial of acid, my
variation on the "suicide by cop" scenario. 

I would spend hours on the ledge of my window, dangling my feet over
the edge.  Unfortunately, our apartment was only on the third floor
because of my mother's fear of heights.  Chances are, I'd only end up
with a pair of broken legs or, at worst, be paralyzed for life. 


                                  * * *


I met the man I call my Daddy when I was twelve, after winter break.  I
was waiting at the train station, about to head back to school.  My
parents had just dropped me off and left, afraid that I'd humiliate
them by masturbating on the platform.  A man in a dark suit and trench
coat approached me.  He had a thick mustache and shaggy hair that
spilled out from beneath his fedora. 

"Elizabeth Hudson?" he asked.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Come with me, please," he said, showing me a gold badge in a leather
case. 

"What's this about?" I said.  I'd shoplifted some cassettes over winter
break.  Was I getting busted for that now? 

"I'll explain at the precinct."  He grabbed my suitcase and I followed
him out of the station.  I had a feeling something was wrong when he
led me down an alley to a non-descript white van, but before I could
say anything he grabbed me from behind and held a moistened cloth over
my mouth and nose.  The last thought I had before I passed out from the
chloroform fumes was that my parents had hired him to kill me because
they were tired of their masturbating daughter. 

I woke up in a windowless room, tied to a bed.  My blouse and skirt had
been removed, leaving me in my training bra and panties, staring at the
stained plaster ceiling.  I strained at the ropes that held me to the
bed for a while and then gave up when it was clear that I wasn't going
to free myself.  Then I tried screaming until my throat felt like
sandpaper.  It was no use.  The walls were constructed from stone
blocks. 

That's when I started to cry.  As my salty tears streamed down my face
my thoughts raced through my mind, going a mile a minute like the train
that had left without me.  My first thought was that I was being held
for ransom.  That man had known my name so he must have known that my
parents were fairly wealthy.  They could have easily raised a million
dollars for my release.  Maybe that man is on the phone with them right
now, I thought. 

But my thoughts soon took a darker turn.  I was bound hand and foot and
nearly naked as well, more than was necessary for the garden variety
kidnapping.  My heart pounded as I imagined my fate, torture, rape,
death.  I was nearly hysterical when I heard the door to the room open.
 A man entered, dressed only in his boxer shorts and wearing a blue
woolen ski mask. 

I suddenly realized that I might make it out of here alive.  Why would
he bother with a mask if he was going to kill me?  True, I saw his face
at the station, but I couldn't really remember what he looked like. 
The mustache could have been fake and his hair did have the shaggy look
of a cheap wig.  Yes, I was grasping at straws here, but I needed
something to hope for, a way out. 

"W-what are you g-going to d-d-do to me?" I stammered.

"Shhhh..." was all he said in reply.

"P-please, mister.  Let me go."

"Shhhh..."  He walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge.  There
was a table next to the bed from which he picked up a pair of scissors.
 My heart pounded faster as he aimed them at my chest.  This is it, I
thought.  He's going to stab me in the heart. 

But he didn't.  Instead, he clipped the front of my bra, right between
the cups, exposing my budding breasts.  I watched as he stared at them
for a while, as if he was getting up the courage to touch them.  When
he finally did graze my nipples with my fingers, I recoiled, straining
at the ropes that held me.  His hands were cold. 

"I'll...I'll do anything you want, Mister," I pleaded.  "Just let me
g-go." 

"Shhhh..." he whispered.  The man snipped the sides of my panties with
the scissors.  Then he grabbed the crotch and pulled, leaving me naked
on the bed.  By this time I had my eyes closed, trying to steel myself
against what was going to happen.  I felt his cold fingers on my cunny
lips, just lightly grazing them, and I knew I was going to feel his
cock next, pressing inside me.  I heard the bed creak as he climbed
between my legs. 

The next thing I felt wasn't his cock, though.  It was his tongue, warm
and slimy, licking the length of my slit, probing me, opening me. 
That's when I had the strangest thought: I could actually get into this
if I wasn't tied up and about to be murdered by this sick fucker. 
Maybe it was because I had nothing to lose at this point.  Perhaps it
was due to the fact that I hadn't masturbated since that morning and
I'd gotten used to doing it six, eight, ten times a day.  Regardless,
his tongue felt pretty good down there, especially when he licked my
button.  

I felt a comfortable warmth begin to spread through my belly and I
began to move my hips, urging him to linger at my clit.  When I opened
my eyes I saw him looking up at me from between my legs as he licked
me, and though his face was obscured by the ski mask, I could see his
arched eyebrows through the eye holes.  It was as if he was surprised
or something.  He stopped licking me and got up on his knees. 

"Wait...don't stop..." I said.

"Shhhh..." he replied, shaking his head.

"But...but I was getting close."  Just a minute or two more and I would
have come.  One last orgasm.  Was that too much to ask for? 

He didn't reply.  Instead, he began to push down his boxer shorts,
revealing his hard cock.  There was something wrong, though, and it
took me a moment to realize what it was.  That's when I did something
that saved my life. 

I laughed.

The man had completely shaved his pubic hair and, even though he had a
normal adult-sized cock and balls, his denuded genitalia looked like
they belonged on a preteen boy.  For some reason I found this
incongruity hilarious and I laughed hysterically, until I was out of
breath and tears clouded my vision.  Even when I thought I would stop
laughing, one look at his hairless crotch would send me back into
hysterics, and the more I tried to keep from laughing the harder I
laughed. 

My captor didn't think this was so funny though.  He leaned over me and
reared back his hand, like he was about to slap me.  This didn't keep
me from laughing, though.  If anything, I laughed harder. 

"What's so fucking funny?" he snapped.

"Your pubes..." I said between gasps for air.  "They look so..."

"What?"

"You look like a horny toddler," I giggled.

"A what?!?"  The man was pissed off now, and his erection had all but
disappeared. 

"A horny toddler," I said.  Even though I was still trying to suppress
my laughter, I couldn't stop giggling. 

"Fuck," he spat, climbing out of bed and tearing off his ski mask.  I'd
been right about the fake mustache and wig he'd worn when he picked me
up at the train station.  Without the mask I could see that he had
thinning hair and a clean-shaven face, and even though I was still
laughing at this point, I tried to memorize his features.  Sharp nose,
weak chin, hazel eyes, brown eyebrows, and a small mole on his
cheekbone.  I guessed his age at somewhere between 35 and 45, not too
tall, a bit paunchy, and very, very pale, as if he lived in a cave. 

"I'm sorry, Mister," I said, still chuckling.  "You just look so funny
without your pubic hair.  I can't help it." 

"Fuck," he repeated, sitting down on the chair next to the bed.  "You
ruined the fucking mood." 

"I said I'm sorry."

"No one's ever laughed before," the man said.  "No one."

"Well, I'm sorry but I couldn't help it," I said.  "Why do you shave?"

"So I wouldn't leave any hairs on you," he said.  "They can identify
you from just a single hair." 

"Oh, I see," I said.  "Could I have some water, please?  I'm really
thirsty." 

"Yes, of course," the man said, getting up from the chair and leaving
the room.  He returned a minute later with a glass and he held up my
head so I could take a sip.  I tried not to look at his hairless cock
and balls, but I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye and the
laughter returned. 

"You're getting on my nerves," he said.

"Sorry," I replied.  "Can't help it."

"Aren't you scared?"

"Not really."  All that laughter had left me feeling strangely relaxed,
as if I didn't care what was going to happen. 

"You're not afraid of what I'm going to do to you?"

"My life sucks anyway," I said.

"Why do you say that?"  The man sat down and placed the glass of water
on the bedside table. 

"My parents don't care about me," I said.  "School is like hell on
earth.  I think about killing myself all the time.  I figure you're
going to fuck me and kill me, saving me the trouble of doing it
myself."  I wasn't laughing anymore. 

"I wasn't going to kill you," the man said.  "Fuck you, yes.  But not
kill you." 

"You're not?"

"Well, I should since you laughed at me," he said.  "Just kidding."

"Ha ha.  Very funny," I said.  "But..."

"But what?"

"I saw your face."

"Not a problem," the man said.  He opened a drawer in the bedside table
and pulled out a syringe and a brown glass vial.  "50 CCs of this and
you won't remember anything that happened here." 

"So why do you wear that mask?"

"Force of habit," he said.  "I've always worn it."

"You've done this before?"

"Yes."

"How many...?"

"Thirty-two girls in the last six years," he said.  "You're number
thirty-three." 

"Why me?"

"Actually, I'd planned on picking up another girl today, but she's home
with the flu.  I was saving you for this spring, when you came back
from school for Easter break." 

"How long have you been following me?"

"About four months," he said.  "These things take a lot of planning."

"Oh," I said.  "Why do you do it?"

"What?"  The man frowned, as if he never expected to hear this
question. 

"Why do you do this?" I repeated, glancing at the ropes that held my
wrists. 

"Because I can," he replied.  "Because the world is filled with pretty
playthings like you, there for the taking." 

"Are they always girls my age?  Wouldn't you rather have sex with a
grown-up woman?" 

"Not always," he said.  "My oldest plaything was twenty-two, the
youngest only ten.  Most of them are around your age, old enough to
fuck, too young to put up much of a fight." 

"Do you always lick them first?"

"Always," he said.  "I can taste the fear."

"I wish you hadn't stopped."

"What?"  The man's eyebrows arched again, a look of surprise crossing
his face. 

"I was getting close," I said.  "You almost made me come."

"Really?" he said.  "You want me to lick your pussy?"  I could see his
cock begin to stir in his lap and I tried hard not to laugh again. 

"Yeah, I do."

The man got up from the chair and climbed into bed, kneeling between my
legs.  He looked at me for a while, a puzzled expression on his face,
and then he lowered his face to my pussy.  I could feel his breath on
my lips, followed by his warm, wet tongue as it parted my labia and
probed my slit.  As before, he licked me up and down.  The warm feeling
returned and there was a tingling in my lower belly.  This felt way
better than my finger ever did. 

"Mmmm...yeah, right there," I moaned as he homed in on my clit,
swirling his tongue over my little button.  "Good...that's good..."  As
he lashed my swollen nubbin I felt my pleasure begin to rise, starting
at my center and spreading outward.  There was something weirdly sexy
about being tied up, helpless, splayed open for this strange man's
pleasure, and knowing that he wasn't going to kill me afterwards
allowed me to lose myself in this new sensation. 

"Oh...oh...yes...lick me..." I was getting close again, and I hoped he
wouldn't stop.  That tingling had grown intense, like my whole body was
buzzing, and for a second I wondered what it would be like to have his
cock inside me.  That's when it hit me, a climax that made me quiver
and shake and strain at the ropes that held me.  The man kept licking
and licking, ravishing my cunny, and then he stopped, looking at me
with that puzzled expression again. 

"Was...was that okay?" he asked.  His face was wet with my juices and
he wiped it with the back of his hand. 

"Yeah, that was great," I said.

"I've never..."

"You've never what?"

"I've never seen a girl come," he said.  "They're always too scared."

"I'm not scared," I said.  "Not anymore."

"You're different," the man said, leaning over me, his face just inches
from mine.  His cock was hard again and pressed against my tummy.  I
could feel his heartbeat as it pumped blood through his shaft.  "You're
not like the others." 

"I know.  Are you going to fuck me now?"

"Yes," he said.

"Could I touch it first?  I never touched one before."

"Never?"

"No.  Could I?"

He thought about this for a moment and then he loosened the ropes that
held my wrists.  I sat up and rubbed the red marks that marred my skin.
 He was still kneeling between my thighs, and his hard cock bobbed
rhythmically.  I reached out to touch it and he flinched, inching back
on the bed. 

"Don't worry," I whispered.  "I won't hurt you."

"Be careful," he said.

"I will."

He didn't flinch this time.  I ran my fingers along the length of his
shaft, tracing the bluish veins that lurked under the skin and the rim
of the purple helmet-shaped glans.  The man gasped when I touched his
testicles, feeling how soft they were, softer than the skin on his
dick.  Since he was hairless down there, it was easy to see how his
scrotum contracted when I touched it, the way his cock widened at the
base, and the pad of fat that covered his pubic bone.  He gasped again
when I encircled his shaft with my fingers and began to stroke it. 

"Like this?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said.  "Just like that."  He was breathing heavy now as I
slid his foreskin back and forth, moving his hips ever so slightly.  I
cupped his balls with my other hand, caressing them as I jerked his
cock.  Suddenly they began to twitch and contract, and the man let out
a low groan.  His cock started spurting in my hand, shooting a thick,
ropy stream of semen all over my chest. 

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, reaching for the panties he'd cut from my
body and wiping his cum from my chest. 

"It's okay," I said.

"No, really.  I'm sorry."  He had a worried expression on his face, his
brow furrowed as he cleaned me.  "No one's ever done that for me." 

"Did you like that?"

"Yes," he said.  "Did you?"

"Yeah.  That was neat," I said.  The man dropped the panties on the bed
and sat back on the bed.  His expression softened, the corners of his
mouth curling into something that resembled a smile.  Then he began to
untie my ankles. 

"I'm going to take you back to the station now," he said.

"Aren't we going to fuck?"

The man stopped fiddling with the knots and looked at me.  Actually, he
looked through me. 

"You mean you want to...?"

"Well, I'd like something to eat first," I said.  "I'm really hungry."

"You are different," the man muttered as he freed my ankles from the
ropes.  I rubbed my sore skin until the circulation returned and
followed the man out of the room.  He'd put his boxer shorts back on
and handed me my blouse, which was hanging from a hook in the hallway. 
Then he took me by the hand and led me up from the basement.  I noticed
that it was already dark outside. 

The man was richer than my parents.  While they had a nice apartment in
a good neighborhood, he owned an entire brownstone, four floors in all,
nicely furnished and well kept.  The man brought me into his kitchen
where a large pot sat simmering on the stove.  As I took a seat at the
table, he ladled something into a bowl and placed it in front of me. 

"Lamb stew," he said.  "It's my special meal for nights like this."

"Smells good."

"Here," he said, placing a fork and a spoon on the table.  He ladled
some stew into another bowl and joined me at the table and we ate
together, dipping slices of buttered brown bread into the stew to sop
up the gravy. 

"This is really good," I said.

"You like it?"

"Yeah.  I never eat good food like this."

"But your parents have a cook," he said.

"She's a drunk.  Can't cook for shit."  I thought it funny that there
were things he didn't know even after stalking me for months. 

"That's too bad," he said.

I had a second helping of stew and washed it down with a nice cup of
tea.  We sat in the warm kitchen sipping our oolong when he spoke
again. 

"I can take you home now," he said.

"What if I don't want to go?"

He looked at me with that surprised expression again.  Later, when we'd
reminisce about that day, he'd always tell me that I was the one in
control, despite the ropes, despite the difference in our sizes.  He'd
tell me that he didn't know what to do with me, and that he was almost
afraid of me because I wasn't predictable.  I wasn't like the others,
screaming and crying and trying to bargain their way out of the
situation.  I'd remind him that I had nothing to lose, that when I
wasn't masturbating I was fantasizing about my own death. 


                                  * * *


We didn't end up fucking that night, but I spent the night in his bed,
in his arms, just talking about things.  He told me his name -- William
Beekman -- and he explained that this place belonged to his family,
that he lived on their fortune, though he served on the board of
directors of the city's largest bank.  Will, as he liked to be called,
never really had a girlfriend.  Like me, his parents kept him at arms
length.  He was raised by nannies, shipped off to boarding schools,
abused by cruel classmates. 

We talked, held each other, and we kissed.  My first real kiss.  I
hadn't felt this close to someone since I was six, when I used to
cuddle with my parents' au pair Michelle. 

As we ate breakfast the next morning, there was no question that I
would stay with him, for as long as I wished.  That day he showed me
how he gathered his information on me, showing me a folder full of
photographs he'd taken of me, grainy shots taken with a telephoto lens
and developed in a darkroom in his basement.  He could find out
anything about anyone with just a phone call and an authoritative tone
of voice.  He even had my medical records and school transcripts. 

It took two days before anyone knew I was missing.  Though Will didn't
own a television, I heard about the search on the radio and read about
it in the newspapers.  One paper had an old picture of me on the front
page, and there were quotes from my parents, who assumed I'd been
kidnapped and pleaded for my safe return.  In a way this was the
fulfillment of one of my suicide fantasies, the one where I walked into
the surf and let the sea take my body.  I imagined my parents at my
funeral, weeping over an empty coffin, and I couldn't help but smile at
the thought. 

Will bought me some black hair dye, and I cut my long hair into a
pageboy  before changing from a blonde to a brunette.  A pair of dark
sunglasses completed my disguise.  It was a big city but I'd always run
into someone I knew.  Now I could hide in plain sight. 

On the second night after he abducted me, Will took my virginity.  I
know it sounds strange, but even though he was a serial rapist, old
enough to be my father, it was really romantic.  We had lamb stew for
dinner again (it's much better the second day) and Will gave me a
snifter of brandy afterwards.  He didn't know that I'd managed to shred
my hymen the year before with the handle of a hair brush, during a
frenzied masturbation session in my dorm room.  He thought the brandy
would ease the pain, and I wasn't about to disabuse him of this notion. 

Will carried me upstairs to his bedroom and laid me on his bed, slowly
undressing me by the light of a single candle on the nightstand.  Then
he doffed his dressing gown and knelt between my thighs, licking my
pussy until I squirmed and cried with delight. 

It was a night of firsts for both of us.  I'd never performed fellatio
before and Will had never had his cock sucked.  I suppose he was afraid
one of his playthings would bite him or something.  I expected his
semen to taste bitter but it wasn't that bad, and though the slimy
consistency reminded me of phlegm, I choked it back anyway. 

It took another snifter of brandy and some more sucking before he was
hard again, and as the candle flickered I straddled his hips and
mounted him, guiding his glistening shaft into my cleft.  Will held my
hips with his strong hands as I rode him, and I couldn't help but feel
like I'd tamed a wild animal, one who could turn on me any second. 

It was everything I'd hoped for.  With all the masturbation I'd done,
I'd developed a rich fantasy life, picturing lovers of all sizes and
shapes, entering me, filling me, making me writhe and moan as they took
me.  Will's cock touched me in places I never imagined.  He caressed
me, kissed me, suckled my tiny nipples until I convulsed with pleasure.
 When he came inside me it felt like an explosion of pure joy, a
welcome feeling of warmth on a cold winter night.  I collapsed on his
chest, struggling to catch my breath, my eyes filled with tears of
happiness. 

"Was that okay?" Will asked me afterwards, as we were cuddled together
under the duvet.  I realized once again that he was just as
inexperienced as I was, despite all of the unwilling partners he'd had. 

"Yes," I whispered.  "That was great."

"Good," he said.  "I liked that, too."

In the nights that followed, I came to know what a creature of habit he
was.  Every other night was just like that first one, the snifters of
brandy, the single candle, oral sex first, and then we'd fuck.  The
only variation was the position we used, and that was only after my
insistence.  We must have done it with me on top for a month before I
could get him to take me from behind or even the missionary position. 

Our life out of the bedroom fell into a solid routine as well.  Will
spent most days in his study, with occasional forays out of the house
to a board meeting or an afternoon at the club.  "Showing the Beekman
flag" he called it.  My days were mostly spent with the private tutor
he'd hired for me, though I sometimes made a shopping trip downtown
with one of Will's credit cards.  He had no interest in waiting around
while I tried on clothes, so he'd just give me the card and return to
his study. 

To the housekeeper, the tutor, and the odd visitor to Will's home, I
was a "distant cousin" sent to stay in the city while certain family
issues were resolved.  It was a paper-thin fiction, but good enough to
deflect any questions.  After six weeks my trail grew cold and my
disappearance was no longer newsworthy, though sometimes there would be
a mention of my name in the paper, usually after a body was found in
the river or washed up on the beach. 

I'm not sure I could say that we were in love, but I'd also hesitate to
attribute my affection for Will as the result of Stockholm Syndrome. 
For one thing, I was free to leave whenever I wanted.  I wasn't being
held against my will, at least not after that first day.  I just didn't
have anything to go back to.  And Will was affectionate in his own way.
 I came to realize later, after he'd passed away, that he was
emotionally immature, that he'd never had a chance to develop the
skills one needed to have an honest, healthy relationship with another
person.  Neither did I, but I learned, and Will learned with me.  We
took halting steps together, and we were both reluctant to admit it,
but after a few months we grew quite fond of each other. 


                                  * * *

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja
anais_ninja@hotmail.com
/~anais_ninja/