Message-ID: <7912eli$9804151631@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: exdaedalus@aol.com (ExDaedalus) Subject: Claudette's Story - Part One (M/F N/C) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-Id: <1998041515483000.LAA23862@ladder01.news.aol.com> Here is the first part of Claudette's Story. All the usual caveats apply. This material is not intended for minors. Anyone wishing to read more of this saga is invited to send an e-mail request. Claudette's Story i I entered a tiny, windowless room, allowing the heavy door to shut behind me. Claudette hung from the ceiling, bathed in light, and suspended by her wrists near the center of the otherwise featureless cell. She wore a long-sleeved dress closely fastened at her neck. The dress would have modestly covered her thighs when she stood. Her hose shone. Her shoes lay on the floor. I approached the adorable creature. She whimpered, but said nothing. She had been brought there at some time during the night and it was then mid-morning. I have no idea how long she had been hanging, but I suppose long enough for all hope to drain away. I studied her from close up. She was twenty-two or twenty-three - a year or so out of college - and had that intelligent expression that young women adopt in their sophomore year, perhaps as a result of being intellectually bedded. Her face was exquisite; rather, the expertly applied cosmetics made her face exquisite. But it was a face you wanted to be close to, yet not kiss: despite the intelligence, an innocence resided there as well, an innocence that would be better wrested by other means. The dress was pink; entirely pink apart from a tiny collar of white lacework, and matching fringes at the cuffs. A narrow white, patent belt encircled her waist. The discarded shoes could have been cut from the same material as the belt. Her figure still retained some adolescent plumpness, but that would have naturally disappeared in a year or two. I approached her and lightly grasped her knee. Drawing my hands up, I lifted the dress so that I could see, as well as feel, the enticing curve of her thigh. Anticipating my intention, she trapped my hand between her legs; but not before I discovered she was wearing stockings in place of the more of pantyhose. The experience of having my fingers caught was far from unpleasant, and I left them there while I let my free hand move up further beneath the dress. I stroked her tummy, which was firm and flat, and then moved down to that intriguingly feminine rise at the base of her belly. She shuddered as I gauged it, no doubt fearing that I intended to intrude there and then. But, for the time being, I had done with that part of her anatomy and withdrew both hands. I felt her breasts. They were what some called 'ample'; I would describe them as plentiful. They moved in a way that only some women's breasts move: as if balloons, loosely filled with water, were concealed inside her brassiere. They were not firm, nor did they boast a definite shape, but they were nonetheless erotic to fondle, perhaps because the pair of small nipples pressed solidly into my fingers. I gestured to the face staring through a grille in the door, and a few moments later heard the hum of well-oiled machinery. Claudette descended slowly. Her feet touched the floor but she stumbled, unable to catch and keep her balance at first. I waited until her arms were bent and her hands only just above the level of her head before signaling to the eyes still watching at the grille. The machinery stopped. "W-what are you going to do?" the young woman asked, unable to keep fear out of her voice. "Punish you. Hurt you," I replied. "Why? What have I done? Why am I here?" Now she was becoming terrified. She struggled, even though she well knew that her wrists were still secure. "Let . . me . . Go!" she cried, frantically tugging at the bindings. I watched silently for a few moments, then left the cell. "See that her shoes are replaced. And fasten her feet so that she can't kick," I said to the guard outside the door. The man threw me an inept attempt at a salute and grinned. He would enjoy himself for an hour or so, I presumed. When I returned, I wheeled a small, wooden cart before me. Claudette's gaze fell upon the tray of instruments sitting on top of the cart, and her eyes widened. She was horror-struck. I could see her throat moving as she attempted to swallow. I parked the cart next to her, deliberately close so that she could better study the contents of the tray. She watched my fingers select a large-bladed scalpel, then, unable to form coherent speech, she backed away from me as far as her bonds would allow, shaking her head from side to side, and uttering a series of voiceless exhalations. Yet she found her voice quite suddenly when I took hold of the lacework at her neck. "Please don't hurt me," she implored. Her knees bending, she sagged subserviently. Then her eyes focused on mine. "I . . . I can't stand pain," she confessed in a bold voice, but the tears still welled up. I raised my eyebrows, uncaring, and parted the front of her dress with a single downward sweep of the blade. It was the work of moments to reduce the rose-colored garment to an unusable heap of material. Claudette shivered and, although it was not cold in the cell, gooseflesh appeared on her arms and the tops of her thighs between the stockings and her culottes. The young woman watched me with fascinated horror while I undid the left shoulder- strap of her brassiere. Her breast fell slightly without the support, but the smooth, upper curve continued to heave alluringly as she breathed heavily. I folded back the satin material forming the cup until her nipple became exposed. It was small, the size of a pea. (I considered how prolonged the sessions would be if the nipple were forcibly enlarged.) I picked up a fine, hollow needle, as long as my finger, attached to a tiny, rubber ball. Holding the ball between my finger and thumb, I squeezed gently and a droplet of clear liquid formed at the end of the needle. The liquid hung for a moment before dropping onto the surface of the cart. Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then the light-colored wood turned black, and a wisp of fume arose from the spot where the droplet had landed. Grasping Claudette's semi-bared breast while the young woman's gaze was still transfixed upon the smoking acid, I pressed the tip of needle against the nipple. Claudette squirmed and tried to retreat, but it was too late for her to react successfully: I had a firm, unshakable grip on her breast, and the needle was already poised. There was a slight resistance at first as the small, solid, protuberance opposed the needlepoint. Then all hindrance dissipated, and the fine, hollow shaft began to disappear into the pliant tissue. Claudette cried out, more panic-stricken than hurt, but I continued to press until the entire length of the needle was embedded within her breast. Then I squeezed the rubber container again. It took a few moments for the effect to communicate itself to Claudette's senses. Her face assumed an expression of wonder. Then her mien evolved slowly into astonishment, then amazement, and then stupefaction and, finally, shock. Her mouth opened and a low moan escaped, followed by a moment's silence before the full extent of her agony erupted; announced by a protracted shriek filling the cell, and the corridors beyond. Claudette screamed for more than hour, but when I returned to her cell in the early evening, she was quiet once more. She hung from straightened arms, her knees buckled and almost touching the floor, sobbing silently. But when she saw me enter, she raised herself and pulled away from me as before, dreading the intention she recognized in my face. "The other breast, now," I said. The acid caused Claudette more agony than trauma. The breasts would heal, but the memory of the horrifying pain would never go away. That was what we wanted. We wanted her to know the rewards of disobedience. We wanted her to understand what waited for her in the cell. We wanted her to want to be what we wanted her to be. Our method worked well, and we had little doubt that Claudette would soon be contributing to the pleasure that the other young women were already giving to our guests. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |