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                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
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don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Stockholm Syndrome
by Joe Roberts (joe-roberts5666@virginmedia.com)

***

A burglar is confronted by a householder who is 
expecting him. (MM, forced, d/s, bd)

*** 

'Well,' the policeman stated, 'you should upgrade your 
security. Burglars often return to the same house when 
they think that the insurance has paid out.'

'I'll do that.' It was a bit of a grumpy reply but 
then I was severely pissed off. 

I had just moved my stuff into my new house when I had 
been burgled. Some expensive guitars and a lap top had 
gone while I had been going to and fro between the old 
address and the new one. The new address was much 
closer to the city centre, so less commuting, and it 
was much more space for the money. 

The downside was that it lay on the border between a 
newly gentrified section and an older, rougher area; 
presumably the home of my opportunist burglars. It 
wasn't the money – honest – it was the thought of 
someone invading my space and helping themselves to my 
gear, maybe someone who had been watching me. I raged 
internally and thought of physically attacking the 
next person who tried to burgle me. A perfectly normal 
reaction I thought.

Another reason I had chosen this house was that it had 
a good sized, dry cellar with electrics and plumbing. 
I had arranged with a local builder to use special 
soundproof plaster board to re-plaster the walls. The 
cost was only £10 a sheet more than normal plaster 
board. With the addition of a shower, toilet, small 
stove, fridge, and a camp bed, someone could live in 
it. I didn't intend to rent it out, but for occasional 
use as a spare bedroom if necessary. 

Its main purpose was as a music room where the 
elevated sound levels would not bother the neighbours. 
I bought two heavy, insulated doors, one as a back 
door and the other for the cellar. As a test, I played 
music through a 100 watt speaker. There was no sound 
leakage to the upper floor. There, the matter might 
have rested except for the trivial coincidence of a 
female colleague lending me 'Fifty Shades of Grey' at 
this point in my life.

I have to say that I enjoyed it although it was the 
exchange of e-mails which I enjoyed most. It was 
almost like reading Jane Austen for the 21st. century. 
The BDSM sections which caused the notoriety didn't do 
much for me except pique my curiosity about what an 
authentic scene would involve. I found a relevant site 
in about sixty seconds on the internet. The first clip 
was of a couple who enjoyed spanking. There was 
nothing to scare the horses there I thought. 

The next one left me aghast. If this had come from a 
police cell somewhere, Amnesty International would 
have organised a demonstration outside the relevant 
embassy in three days flat. A naked woman was led to 
what looked like a picnic table with the legs 
shortened. She kneeled down, on the seat as it were, 
and stretched out her body and arms across the table. 

Two women in stereotypical dominatrix clothes strapped 
her ankles and wrists so that her body was pinioned 
and her buttocks prominently displayed. One of the 
dominatrix barked instructions in a language which was 
not English. She then chose a cane from a bundle and 
swished it as though to test it. Up to this point I 
thought that I was watching an unthreatening role 
play. The cane was poised and then swung horizontally. 
The noise of it connecting with solid flesh was no 
pretence. 

The naked woman gasped and then counted what 
presumably was 'one!' This had left a livid weal 
across both buttocks. I started to feel a bit uneasy 
about watching this. This was repeated until there 
must have been ten blows. The camera moved in and the 
screen filled with the buttocks which were bleeding 
and bruised. Another woman was led to the device. I 
clicked off and sped to the end of the video. There 
were four naked women kneeling on a couch with their 
backs to the camera which framed the buttocks. All had 
presumably been flogged in the same way as the 
buttocks and sometimes the tops of the thighs bore the 
marks of the cane. 

Despite my unease at what I had seen, that image began 
to colonise my mind. To have someone bound and unable 
to resist physical punishment, indeed, to be complicit 
in it, seemed most attractive. Particularly when I 
transferred the image to the person who had burgled 
me, how good would that be? I began to visualise the 
burglar in the same position, counting the strokes and 
displaying the marks of abuse; how satisfying would 
that be?

I began to develop a bit of split personality, 
preparing for such a scheme while denying that it 
could ever take place. Ikea provided a solid table and 
a bed, both to be bolted to the floor. Internet sites 
provided the restraints for the table, manacles, 
canes, some new security items and a curious ex-
government hardware store from which I collected a 
chain, sold by the metre. It looked as if it could 
restrain a tank. The last thing was a baseball bat. I 
wrapped an old sheet around it and taped it down. 

The tricky bit was measuring where I wanted to bolt 
the chain to the floor. It had to be long enough to 
reach the shower, the toilet, the table and the bed 
but nothing else. The new security cameras were 
expensive, as I had bought ones which were designed to 
be discreet, and which contained an infra-red option 
and were connected to a computer hard drive which 
could store months of data. Was I ready? Yes.

I left my replacement stuff out on display with the 
curtains open. I would drive off in the evening and 
leave a small light on to invite interest. When I came 
back, I would review the security recordings. With a 
fast-forward option, this only took a few moments per 
evening. I was beginning to think that my burglar or 
burglars had no interest in me when I caught something 
on the fast forward. Someone was definitely interested 
in the house and the entrance at the back. Game on!

The next time I left the house I just parked a block 
away and quickly came back. I let myself in through 
the back gate, then the back door and left them both 
unlocked. Everything I needed was to hand. All I 
needed to do was hide myself where I could see the 
monitor for the cameras. Two hours later, he appeared. 
He crept past the back once and then twice. He 
hesitated, "Come on!" I thought.

"Yes!" He took the bait and opened the gate, and 
insinuated himself up to the door. Luckily for him I 
had oiled the hinges so it opened silently. This 
appeared to give him some confidence as he came in, 
found nothing of interest in the kitchen, so he 
entered the room where I was waiting. He couldn't help 
himself. He went straight to the laptop and lifted it 
up. Even with my eyes shut and with dark glasses which 
I had put on as he came in, the blinding light was 
light watching the 1950's atomic bomb tests. The 
security searchlight only came on for a few seconds 
but it was designed to blind any thief who lifted an 
item off the pressure pad which was connected to the 
device. I bought it from America and the leaflet which 
came with it suggested that it might be illegal in the 
UK. I cared?

My burglar was swearing and staggering around holding 
his eyes. "Now or never," I thought. I gripped the bat 
and swung at his head. A soft thump was followed by a 
precipitate collapse. The first pair of handcuffs went 
around his wrists, the second around his feet. I 
picked him up with my arms round his chest and dragged 
him to the cellar. I went down first and he followed 
with his feet banging down the stairs. When I had been 
really mad, I envisaged doing this the other way 
around with his head banging on the stairs. 

I unshackled the cuffs on his feet, wrestled off his 
shoes and socks, attached one foot to the free end of 
the chain. Checked his breathing, dragged him onto the 
table face down with his torso flat and his feet on 
the ground; tied his lower legs with the restraints 
bolted to the table leg, cut off all his clothing with 
scissors, unshackled the handcuffs and tied his wrists 
with the restraints bolted to the top of the table. 
Checked his breathing once again, checked his arms for 
tracks, put a mask over his eyes and a ball gag over 
his head onto his neck. 

Now naked and completely unable to move off the table 
I picked up a bucket and put it between his knees and 
inserted the tube from a rubber ball filled with soapy 
water into his anus. I squeezed and his reflex pushed 
the water out to the bucket. He urinated as well; a 
good sign. I did this a few more times and threw the 
contents of the bucket down the toilet. I used an 
anti-bacterial wipe to clean everything, including his 
buttocks.

There is now a line and I was about to cross it. I 
picked up a latex glove, put it on and smeared 
lubricant onto the fingers. I gently inserted one 
finger. I carefully moved it around. The second finger 
was also no trouble while the third took a little more 
delicacy but soon moved in and out. I took off the 
glove and looked at my burglar. He was young, his 
buttocks were a bit too skinny I thought and he was 
about to experience the worst night of his life. The 
stretching seemed to have brought him back to life.

"Where am I?"

So far, so stereotypical.

"I hope you are going to listen carefully to me," was 
my helpful reply. This produced a stream of invective, 
as I had hoped. I put the ball gag in his mouth and 
chose a cane. I swished it near his ears and then 
rested it across his buttocks. That certainly got his 
attention. The cane slipped through the air, 
apparently with no help from me. A livid weal marked 
its presence across the buttocks. It might have been 
screams which leaked from the gag or not. I couldn't 
tell. I didn't care. 

"I had hoped that wouldn't be necessary," I purred in 
what I hoped was a menacing fashion, "so, we need to 
start again. Are you listening carefully?"

He nodded.

"Tonight, you have no choice about what happens next. 
You will be flogged and you will be fucked." As I had 
hoped, there was more noise from the victim. I 
carefully placed the cane just lower than the first 
stripe and again it seemed to whip across of its own 
accord. When the mewling stopped, I changed my grip on 
the cane and gave his cock a small tap which I 
repeated on his testicles. 

"Have you got the point yet? You do not make a sound 
unless I allow it. You will address me as sir. I am 
going to flog you and you're only sound will be to 
count out each stroke. If you do not follow these 
rules I will flog you until you do, and then we will 
start on the number of strokes which I have decided 
and you will count. Do you understand?"

Quite a lot of muffled something. Once more the cane 
sang through the air. I repeated the rules; silence. I 
pulled the ball gag down measured the stroke and let 
go.

"One," he shouted.

"A bit quieter," I ordered.

"Two ... Three ... Four ... Five ... Six."

It had worked. I had bent him to my will and here he 
was, my would-be burglar, counting out the strokes as 
I decorated his buttocks with red stripes. I had been 
concerned that I would be turned off by actually doing 
this and sabotage the next act of revenge; needlessly 
worried as it turned out. I put his gag back on, 
unbuttoned my jeans and strode forward. His arse 
wasn't quite at the most comfortable height but all-
in-all that was a small impediment. I pulled his 
cheeks apart. I mentally scolded myself for not 
shaving this while he was still unconscious. I put my 
cock at his entrance. A moan from the gag ensued. 

I squeezed his balls very lightly to remind him of the 
silence rule. He was a quick learner as he shut up. 
The head of my cock seemed to hesitate. Perhaps more 
lubricant was necessary? This was soon remedied. Very 
gradually I slipped past the tight ring and slid in 
and out with ease. I must have been very turned on as 
in no time I felt an orgasm building from the bottom 
of my cock and exploding out, again and again. 

A small part of my brain began to wonder why flogging 
someone against his will excited me so much. This 
clearly wasn't just a vengeful householder taking 
revenge for feeling violated. This was much darker and 
presumably had always existed, but suppressed. The 
burglary was merely the opportunity to put into 
practice something which had lain dormant. The revenge 
was sweet but what did it say about me?

From the fridge I took out some cloths which I had 
soaked and put in the freezer. I smothered the wounds 
in an antiseptic first and placed the now iced cloths 
on the wounds. I slipped off the gag and asked if he 
wanted a drink. He nodded. I removed the eye mask, 
released one arm and placed a bottle of water with a 
straw on top in his hand. On the counter there was a 
toaster and a micro-wave. I made toast and beans. For 
the first time, the practicalities of keeping someone 
prisoner began to dawn on me.

"I'm going to put this on the table and release your 
other arm. You should be able to release your legs 
yourself after that. You will be able to reach the 
toilet, shower, washbasin and bed from here. When I 
come again at night, I will give you a ten minute 
warning when you must use the rubber ball and have a 
shower. Failure to do this promptly will add to any 
punishment which I choose to administer. If you have 
any question, start with 'Sir'."

"Sir, when can I go?"

"Not for a long time"

He looked as if he was about to say something but my 
expression changed his mind.

With that I put his clothes, shoes and various other 
bits and pieces into a bin liner and set off up the 
steps. My parting shot was

"Maybe you would have been better off if I'd called 
the police."

I slammed the cellar door for effect. Once the bins 
had been removed, there would be no record of my 
unwilling guest in the house. 

The End?

Maybe a part 2, depending on the reaction to this.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out any
of the scenarios in this story should seriously 
consider seeking professional help.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 79