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From: "joy paine" <joypaine@hotmail.com>
Subject: betrayed beauty 5-7
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Betrayed Beauty, Chapters 5-7 NC M/F tort
by Joy Paine
If you are under legal age, please do not read further. This story is
not for you.
This is another story in which the characters exist only in imagination,
and have no intentional
resemblance to any person, living or dead, except one--the author likes
to picture himself in the
shoes of one or more of the characters.
BETRAYED BEAUTY 5
"So if you get any ideas about going to the police, we have evidence
that you loved the whole
bit. As a matter of fact, I think that you'll decide not to raise a
fuss, just to keep these pictures
from being passed around. In fact, I'm betting that the mere threat of
these pictures turning up
among your family and friends will keep you eating out of my hand. After
a little training, of
course.
"Well, not out of my hand, exactly," he added with a grin.
He was right, she thought glumly. Anything would be better than having
this horrible evidence of
her degradation seen back home. Anything at all.
The fat man finished zipping up, headed for the door. Then he turned
back with an afterthought.
"That certainly is a lot of woman you've got there, friend.
Maybe some time I could come back and screw her proper, after you've
broken her?"
"Always ready to talk business," the other replied. "But I'm afraid
that you'll find the price is
rather steep. No more freebies. Unless... " He leered at the helpless
girl. "Unless I find your
services necessary to help keep her in line."
"Well, I can always dream. So long, now."
He kissed her mockingly, then closed the door, leaving her a
helpless captive, alone with the tall man. The one with the terrible
eyes.
He had started taking off his shoes...
She shrank helplessly before his lecherous stare, acutely conscious of
her near-nudity, which
was relieved only by the wispy bikini panties. Her hands were securely
manacled behind her
back, and the thongs on her ankles kept her legs spread painfully wide.
The man tugged a bit on
the line binding her pony-tail to the hook in the ceiling, so that she
had to rise up on her toes--
doubly difficult with her legs spread--to ease the pain in her scalp.
He savored her lush helplessness to the utmost with his eyes and his
hands, running both over
the seductive curves of her healthy young body, lingering fondly at the
areas of greatest interest.
Her body was perfectly formed, he noted with gratification--richly
rounded in places where a
woman should be round, but without a single ounce that would be
considered excess, even by
the most exacting critic.
"Betsy will have a great time with you," he promised the trembling girl.
"Especially with your
breasts." He increased the pressure of his cupped hands, not enough to
really hurt, but to
remind her of the rich dark reservoir of pain that was waiting to be
tapped.
"You'll set to know Betsy intimately, my dear--intimately in every sense
of the word. She will
explore all the secret parts of your body, and caress you in ways that
you will remember as long
as you live."
The girl's panic was nearing the breaking point. She had long since
assumed that she would be
subjected to every sort of sexual degradation that the man's warped mind
could envisage. That
alone was more than she could stand. But this sinister, unknown Lesbian
ordeal that he hinted
at sounded even worse.
He left her for a moment walked to the table at the side of the room,
and opened the drawer. He
had a superb sense of the dramatic, and of the inevitable response of
his one-girl captive
audience. At one level, the respite from his physical contact allowed
her to get a new measure
of control over herself--to drag herself back from the brink of
hysteria. And this was what he
wanted, of course. He had learned from long experience that there was
no fun in torturing a
hysterical girl. To serve his purpose, she had to be fully rational,
fully aware, fully able to react
and respond. True, he wanted to keep her near the edge of breakdown--to
drive her again and
again to the very brink. But if she slipped over that brink, it would be
as bad as if she had lost
physical consciousness--her period of irrationality would be just time
wasted.
On another level, the respite he was granting allowed the fundamental
horror of her plight to sink
deeper into her consciousness--to convince her, against all her hopes
and rationalizations, that
this was really happening to her--to seep into those layers of her
subconscious where they would
erode her willpower, and confirm and enrich his conquest.
So he carefully kept his body between the girl and the table, hiding
what he had taken from the
drawer, and held his hands behind his back as he approached her again.
Then, timing his move
for the exact psychological effect, he slowly brought his hands into
sight.
"Darling, meet Betsy."
The girl's pent-up terror boiled over into a single scream of pure
horror--a scream that was stifled
by the tape covering her lips.
She clenched her fists and closed her eyes tightly, fruitlessly willing
herself to awaken from this
ghastly dream. Her tormentor's remarks about Betsy's caresses--how they
would explore her
breasts and other intimate parts of her nubile body--re-echoed in her
ears, blending with her
captor's grating laughter.
BETRAYED BEAUTY 6
Betsy was a whip!
The man brandished it slowly, noting with satisfaction that the helpless
girl's eyes followed his
movements as if she were hypnotized. And he kept his voice pitched
hypnotically, lulling her
emotions into a sense of security, even while his words drove her
intellectually into deeper and
darker corners of terror than she had ever dreamed of.
"I'm proud of this beauty," he crooned. "She was designed and
constructed to my personal
specification in every detail. Her lash is shaped and finished so that
it will absolutely not break
the skin, no matter how hard it is swung. Besides being esthetically
desirable, this has a
practical side as well. First, there is no danger of scars or infection
or other possible
complications. And it is really difficult to keep a lash in good
condition if it gets blood on it.
"But more important, if the skin is not broken, a whipping can be
administered over much longer
periods--and at more frequent intervals. For the pain--although many
times you will swear (and
possibly pray) that the next stroke will kill you--the pain is a
different type than it would be if the
flesh were shredded. A woman can endure a much higher overall level of
this type of pain, and
for much longer periods of time, without the nuisance of her losing
consciousness.
"And you will learn another thing about her design. Although she is
very effective when she is
used in the normal whipping mode, her tongue is long and supple, with
the weight concentrated
out near the end, so her kiss is also delightful when it is delivered
with a snapping action, like a
schoolboy snapping a towel. Watch!"
The man's wrist shot out with a precision that bespoke many hours of
practice, snapping the lash
at the exact moment to make it land with maximum force, delivering its
message of pain to the
accompaniment of a miniature supersonic boom. Although he took no
apparent aim, the blow
landed precisely on target--just below the nipple, where the tender
flesh was compressed ever
so slightly by the weight of the girl's breast. The whip's weighted tip
struck with the force of a
rubber truncheon, sending a nauseating surge of raw agony through the
girl's entire body. She
struggled with the wave of blackness that welled up within her, somehow
blinked her way back to
consciousness.
Her scream of pain, muted by the gag, emerged as a pitiable moan.
The man chuckled, licked his lips in delight. "Betsy always likes to
begin her love affairs with the
three formal kisses of domination," he explained, drawing his arm back
ostentatiously for the
second blow.
His aim was perfect again. The now-familiar wave of torture spread from
the girl's other breast,
eclipsing for the moment the sickening after-pain that remained from
Betsy's first kiss. This time,
she tried to embrace, to reinforce, the wave of unconsciousness, but her
torturer had gauged the
force of his blow perfectly, and she was denied the release of fainting.
Bit by bit, she floated
back to full awareness, her breasts throbbing with remembered agony, her
body still held
helpless in that absolutely exposed position. Her terror mounted with
the realization that there
was more--much more--pain and humiliation yet to come.
The man gave her another moment of calculated respite, while he got a
pair of scissors from the
drawer. He bowed mockingly.
"And for the third kiss, my dear, I must remove this last wisp of a
garment that our departed
friend so gallantly let you keep."
Two snips, and the bikini fell to the floor. She knew that it had been
too skimpy and transparent
to afford any effective concealment of her private parts, but its loss
was like the death of a friend.
Symbolically, the tiny piece of cloth had represented the security of
her body against the ultimate
invasion of her privacy, and its loss--as her torturer had fully
intended--gave her a feeling of final
and inescapable vulnerability.
Closing her eyes, she could visualize herself as she stood
there--utterly naked, utterly helpless,
her legs held firmly in a wide inverted V.
V for victim, she thought. V for virgin. V for vagina.
This time the man made a big deal of positioning Betsy for her kiss,
sighting along the handle,
and cocking his arm far back.
V for vanquished, her mind continued the inane countdown. V for vulva.
V for violated.
The man's hand snapped forward.
"Get her, Betsy!" he hissed.
BEAUTY 6
Betsy was a whip!
The man brandished it slowly, noting with satisfaction that the helpless
girl's eyes followed his
movements as if she were hypnotized. And he kept his voice pitched
hypnotically, lulling her
emotions into a sense of security, even while his words drove her
intellectually into deeper and
darker corners of terror than she had ever dreamed of.
"I'm proud of this beauty," he crooned. "She was designed and
constructed to my personal
specification in every detail. Her lash is shaped and finished so that
it will absolutely not break
the skin, no matter how hard it is swung. Besides being esthetically
desirable, this has a
practical side as well. First, there is no danger of scars or infection
or other possible
complications. And it is really difficult to keep a lash in good
condition if it gets blood on it.
"But more important, if the skin is not broken, a whipping can be
administered over much longer
periods--and at more frequent intervals. For the pain--although many
times you will swear (and
possibly pray) that the next stroke will kill you--the pain is a
different type than it would be if the
flesh were shredded. A woman can endure a much higher overall level of
this type of pain, and
for much longer periods of time, without the nuisance of her losing
consciousness.
"And you will learn another thing about her design. Although she is
very effective when she is
used in the normal whipping mode, her tongue is long and supple, with
the weight concentrated
out near the end, so her kiss is also delightful when it is delivered
with a snapping action, like a
schoolboy snapping a towel. Watch!"
The man's wrist shot out with a precision that bespoke many hours of
practice, snapping the lash
at the exact moment to make it land with maximum force, delivering its
message of pain to the
accompaniment of a miniature supersonic boom. Although he took no
apparent aim, the blow
landed precisely on target--just below the nipple, where the tender
flesh was compressed ever
so slightly by the weight of the girl's breast. The whip's weighted tip
struck with the force of a
rubber truncheon, sending a nauseating surge of raw agony through the
girl's entire body. She
struggled with the wave of blackness that welled up within her, somehow
blinked her way back to
consciousness.
Her scream of pain, muted by the gag, emerged as a pitiable moan.
The man chuckled, licked his lips in delight. "Betsy always likes to
begin her love affairs with the
three formal kisses of domination," he explained, drawing his arm back
ostentatiously for the
second blow.
His aim was perfect again. The now-familiar wave of torture spread from
the girl's other breast,
eclipsing for the moment the sickening after-pain that remained from
Betsy's first kiss. This time,
she tried to embrace, to reinforce, the wave of unconsciousness, but her
torturer had gauged the
force of his blow perfectly, and she was denied the release of fainting.
Bit by bit, she floated
back to full awareness, her breasts throbbing with remembered agony, her
body still held
helpless in that absolutely exposed position. Her terror mounted with
the realization that there
was more--much more--pain and humiliation yet to come.
The man gave her another moment of calculated respite, while he got a
pair of scissors from the
drawer. He bowed mockingly.
"And for the third kiss, my dear, I must remove this last wisp of a
garment that our departed
friend so gallantly let you keep."
Two snips, and the bikini fell to the floor. She knew that it had been
too skimpy and transparent
to afford any effective concealment of her private parts, but its loss
was like the death of a friend.
Symbolically, the tiny piece of cloth had represented the security of
her body against the ultimate
invasion of her privacy, and its loss--as her torturer had fully
intended--gave her a feeling of final
and inescapable vulnerability.
Closing her eyes, she could visualize herself as she stood
there--utterly naked, utterly helpless,
her legs held firmly in a wide inverted V.
V for victim, she thought. V for virgin. V for vagina.
This time the man made a big deal of positioning Betsy for her kiss,
sighting along the handle,
and cocking his arm far back.
V for vanquished, her mind continued the inane countdown. V for vulva.
V for violated.
The man's hand snapped forward.
"Get her, Betsy!" he hissed.
BETRAYED BEAUTY 7
Straining her muscles to the utmost, the girl managed to swing her hips
slightly to the side, so
that the whip landed high on her inner thigh. The man burst into sudden
laughter.
"Great!" he roared. "Too bad we don't have any music. C'mon, baby,
let's see you dance the
hula-hula."
He began the cat-and-mouse game, telegraphing his blows, giving her
plenty of time to dodge,
timing his strokes so that her hips swung rhythmically and sinuously, in
seductive cadence.
>From time to time, he would vary the sport by shifting his aim abruptly
at the last moment, to
deliver a stinging slap to one or the other of her full young breasts,
which swayed enticingly in
rhythm with her hips.
Bit by bit, the girl began to tire. The strain of standing continuously
on her toes began to tell on
her healthy muscles, and the repeated blows of the whip on her inner
thighs took their toll, and
her movements became more and more perfunctory, losing both strength and
control.
And her torturer began to tire of the game.
Drawing his arm back for the coup de grace, he feinted to one side, then
shifted his aim to meet
her swing. Betsy's kiss went true, right to the central, most tender,
flesh.
Every muscle in the girl's being strained in protest at the excruciating
pain, stiffening her body
into a single agonized, soundless scream. She collapsed, sobbing
uncontrollably, her full weight
hanging from the line that bound her hair to the hook in the ceiling.
He unfastened the end of the line from the wall, and paid out the line,
lowering her carefully to
the floor, guiding her descent so that she ended on her back, her ankles
still held securely apart.
He fastened her hair to a ring in the floor, to hold her in this
position. Then, to keep her from
hiding her nakedness with her knees, he fastened another pair of straps
to her calves, just below
the knees, spreading her legs apart, and fastened the straps to another
pair of rings in the floor.
And there she was, in a position of complete vulnerability, with
everything she had on open
display--and accessible to whatever use or abuse he might have in mind.
And he had plenty in mind.
First, there was Betsy. Rationing his strokes carefully for the fullest
physical and psychological
effect, he slashed methodically at her breasts and the tender region
between her thighs,
systematically reducing her to a mass of quivering, whimpering flesh.
Again he paused, just
before driving her over the edge of insensibility, whether from
unconsciousness or from hysteria.
He waited a moment so she could collect herself--and so she could savor
to the fullest the
greater mental and physical anguish yet to come.
He knelt between her outstretched thighs.
"Now, Miss Virgin..."
* * *
*
And there the story ends, according to my present intentions. But of
course the young lady's
ordeal is far from finished. However, my reading habits were influenced
by the literature of the
'50's (the 1950's, for you Y2K enthusiasts), and it was quite customary
in those days to draw the
curtain of discretion as soon as the resolution was obviously
inevitable. I find that approach to be
a stronger one, as it leaves me free to imagine whatever outrages suit
my taste of the moment.
But some of you do not feel that way. If you are discontented, I invite
you to continue the story.
Take the poor girl anywhere you want, but with two provisos:
1. Please do me the courtesy of sending me a copy of any sequel you
release. My address is
Joypaine@hotmail.com. This is not to give me the chance to censor your
work (although I will be
glad to offer comments, IF ASKED), rather the natural concern of a
parent to know of his or her
child's development.
2. Try to publish some sort of record of the way your contribution fits
into the thread. This can be
as simple as a preface which says "this episode fits at the end of Ms
Fortune's chapter 11" or the
like.
Oh yes, and 3. If you want advice in developing some theme, just let me
know.
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