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Stockholm Syndrome - 2
by Joe Roberts (joe-roberts5666@virginmedia.com)

***

Part two, in which our hero has to plot his way out of 
the trap he has fallen into as he acts out his fantasy. 
(MM, reluc, d/s, bd)

*** 

Despite the excitements of the night before, my sleep 
was more untroubled than at any time since the burglary. 
My work as a corporate drone allows me think time during 
the day. I'm a data analyst so I translate the data in 
algorithms for managers. This job is a combination of 
intellectual effort and then making it palatable for 
managers. 

At university the statistics lecturer told us that 
Florence Nightingale invented the pie chart so that even 
the most stupid general could understand her analysis of 
casualties and deaths and sometimes I think of myself as 
following in her footsteps with a PowerPoint instead of 
a pie chart. Nobody can tell if I'm thinking for the 
company or myself. 

What spurred the development of a plan was the knowledge 
that what I had done was worth six years (rape), two 
years (bodily harm), false imprisonment (two years). 
Let's take off two years in mitigation and I serve half 
for good behaviour. I was still looking at four years in 
prison unless my slave could be shown to have consented. 
In the 1990's, a group of men were imprisoned for 
consenting to such activities but that judgement that 
they could not have consented had been struck down. All 
I needed to show was consent and by the end of the day I 
had a plan.

The first thing I did after work was to buy a digital 
camera with a tripod, a decent lens and an inbuilt mike 
which the reviews reckoned was one of the best. Then I 
rescued my sports bag from the back of the car and went 
to the gym. As I was buzzed in I saw the eyebrows go up 
at the length of my absence. I only worked the upper 
body so that I could concentrate on the legs tomorrow. I 
conscientiously went round all the relevant machines and 
then some cardio. I knew from experience that I would be 
stiff the next day but I thought the muscles would help 
with the appearance of a dominant male as my prisoner 
shrank on his reduced diet. 

Once in the house I opened the cellar door, turned up 
the lighting by a degree and shouted,

"Slave, ten minutes!"

I watched on the security cameras he jumped up and 
hobbled towards the shower. I had thought of using this 
camera for my plan, but in reality, I needed sound. 
While he was getting ready I came down the stairs and 
set up the camera out of his reach. I adjusted the 
framing and focus for my purpose. Keeping my face as 
expressionless as possible, I picked a cane and ordered 
him,

"Slave, get on the table."

To emphasise the point I swished the cane. This seemed 
to persuade him as he positively leapt onto the table 
top put on the gag and the mask. Starting with one of 
his arms he was soon pinioned. I moved behind him and 
inspected his buttocks. There was no sign of infection 
and his wounds seemed to be healing nicely although the 
bruising was more colourful.

"Slave, tonight I am going to give you a choice. Do not 
say anything yet. Last night you were always going to be 
flogged and fucked. Tonight you get to choose. You can 
be either flogged or fucked, it's your choice, what is 
it to be?"

He answered very promptly indeed.

"Sir, I want to be fucked"

"Are you sure?"

"Sir, oh yes, I would like to be fucked."

A small part of me sighed at this response, even 
although it was to be expected. I put the cane down and 
took out a latex glove from the box. Almost tenderly, I 
pushed one lubricated finger in and stretched him 
slightly. With the second finger his buttocks moved and 
I thought I heard a small gasp of pleasure which he 
muffled at the last moment. The third finger was used in 
silence except for his breathing which kicked up a 
notch. As I tossed the glove aside I looked at his cock. 
Well, well, a slightly stiff cock from my burglar as he 
about to be fucked. 

I stroked lubricant onto my cock and as I leaned over 
him and just touched his open anus, I managed to get my 
hand underneath the table and stroke his cock with my 
lubricated hand. This time, he couldn't restrain a tiny 
groan. I went very slowly indeed this time, pushing in 
very delicately and pulling out very slowly. With this 
restraint, I was able to delay my orgasm to the point 
when he began to breath very quickly and suddenly came. 
His spasms tightened his passage around my cock and I 
found myself coming in time with his rhythms.

"Tell me slave, did you enjoy that?"

"Sir yes, I'd like to do it again!"

I thought this was nonsense, an answer designed to avoid 
the cane, however, a deal is a deal. I took the rubbish 
and the camera upstairs and then cooked a meal for two. 
I brought his down, left it on the counter within reach, 
untied his arms and left him to his reward. After my 
meal, I became very busy. I collected every bit of 
alcohol in the house and poured it away. The smashed 
bottles in the bottle bin must have persuaded the 
neighbours that I was an alcoholic. The problem with a 
big secret is that it is just dying to be told. 

I was going to have to very disciplined about this 
secret, so, reluctantly, the bottles had to go. I 
downloaded the video from the camera to the software on 
the computer and reviewed it. I then grabbed some scenes 
and placed them on the storyboard. It wasn't perfect, 
some other camera positions would be necessary but the 
sound was as clear as a bell. This was the most 
important attribute. I also did some reading about 
hostages who identified with their captors after a long 
hostage taking situation. This was labelled the 
'Stockholm Syndrome' in the literature

The next few weeks saw me at the gym six times a week, 
cool off my guitar playing friends with tales of work, 
refuse any chance to drink, and I consorted with my 
slave downstairs. When I shot a particularly good scene, 
such as the one where I moved the camera and held it 
with one hand while I ploughed into him, I would reward 
him. 

For example, I brought a radio down and plugged it in 
near to his bed. He could switch it on and off but not 
change channels. I put on Radio 4 in the morning and 
Radio 2 at night. Call me a musical snob, but there was 
going to be no Radio 1 in my house, even in the cellar, 
even when I wasn't there to hear it. I could have 
tortured him with Radio 3 but I thought that would 
constitute 'Cruel and unusual punishment.'

I had always refused to socialise much at work, as I had 
always preferred to keep my work and my social life 
separate. Although I was sociable enough to be trusted 
with a copy of '50 Shades of Grey' and to return it. 
Now, I noticed some of the very fit women smiling a bit 
more at me and doing the hair tossing thing. This 
happened even before I had to move up a shirt size and 
seriously considered a new suit. I don't think this was 
because I was more muscular. 

I think it was because I had an air of what? Mastery? 
Danger? Ruthlessness? - all as a result of my nocturnal 
activities. Because I was now no longer drinking and had 
even brought work home to polish up the presentations 
when I wasn't fucking or caning a hapless would-be 
burglar in the cellar, the juxtaposition of these 
improbable activities would sometimes crack me up at 
work. My presentations became more polished, not in that 
the information was any different, it's just that I 
spent more time on explaining it to the slower managers 
and even risking a joke or two to keep it light. I even 
overheard a conversation about how I might be promoted. 
I thought, 

 "Well, if that's all it takes to get promoted in the 
corporate world, everybody should have slave in the 
cellar."

The time had come to put into place my exit strategy. 
The push came from an offer from the boss of my boss. 
They were short of an analyst at our headquarters in a 
different city. I asked why I couldn't do the analysis 
here, and e-mail the results to a relevant person there? 
I thought I detected a trace of embarrassment when he 
hinted that the prospective audience needed to be led 
through the analysis fairly gently and that the members 
of this audience needed to be told more than once, but 
that this was disguised by them asking questions. 

Diplomatic skills would be required so as not to offend 
them and so far, I had managed not to get up anyone's 
nose in my current post. I asked to think about it for 
twenty four hours. In reality, I had already decided and 
was constructing a timetable for my exit. I accepted the 
job offer the next day.

The job offer included a deal to pay a year's rent near 
to the new job. This meant that I could rent my current 
house out. I made a short film of the house and e-mailed 
it to a letting agent. I missed out the cellar and 
instructed the agent that I did not want any prospective 
clients coming round for four weeks but after that, the 
place would be ready for renting for one year as I would 
be away. Relevant contractors were supplied with dates 
and suitable preparations made. The thorniest problem I 
left until last. Other than feeding him, I left my 
prisoner for a week. I brought the meals silently and 
took away the plates silently. I rehearsed the scene in 
my mind so that I had it off pat. I was ready.

I gave him the ten minute warning to get ready. He had 
barely finished when I opened the cellar door noisily, 
stamped down the stairs and roughly restrained him. I 
made sure that he had the mask and gag in place. After I 
had switched on the camera, I walked up and down beside 
the table and swished the cane around.

'Tonight, you need to be flogged.' Said out loud, it 
sounded like a bad film but if I our roles had been 
reversed, I think that I would have believed it.

'I have held back long enough but now I need so see 
blood running down your legs! I was thinking about 50, 
no, make that 60 strokes.'

I could hear him swallowing nervously.

'What do you think about that?'

I pulled the gag down as an invitation to speak.

He managed a tremulous 'Sir, have I offended you?'

'Everything about you offends me but this is not about 
you but me. I just want to whip you because I can.'

Although I was hamming it up, there was indeed some 
truth in that. How Method, use what you know to 
construct a believable character.

'Sir, could we ….is it possible….that I could change 
your mind?'

Smart boy, he grasped where I wanted to go immediately. 
I left a long gap before I replied, not only for effect, 
but to make the job of editing the sound much easier.

'What did you have in mind?'

'I could suck you and then you could fuck me as well as 
flogging me.'

'So you want me to give you say, 20 strokes and you want 
to suck me and then have me fuck you?

'Yes sir, that's what I want.'

''You are sure that's what you want?'

I was willing him to say it.

'Yes, I want you to give me 20 strokes and for me to 
suck you and then for you to fuck me, that's what I 
want.'

Gotcha!

All that was left was to decide on what order this scene 
was to be played out.

I came to the front and unbuttoned. I knew that the 
camera was in a tight close up on his head and that the 
restraints would be out of shot. I took out my cock and 
let him lick it. Stiffening rapidly I then pushed 
further in so that most of it was down his throat. 
Enough of that, as I had to hold back for the main 
event. I moved the camera and then I positioned myself 
at the back of the table and took out a cane.

'Tell me again, what you want?' I demanded.

'To have 20 strokes and then be fucked.'

'You are sure about this?'

'Oh yes.'

He managed to sound convincing about this.

I put off the moment. The short period before, the 
anticipation, was one of the best moments in the whole 
scene.

His buttocks still had pale marks from his last caning. 
The cane sang and a new red mark appeared. He gasped but 
managed a 'One.'

I don't know what possessed me. Was it the knowledge 
that this would be my last opportunity to flog him? I 
don't know, but it took real resolve not to put all my 
strength into the strokes. As we passed 10 strokes he 
took longer and longer to gasp out the number.

 'Fifteen' 'Sixteen' 'Seventeen'

I waited, to put off these last moments. The memory of 
this was going to have to last for a long time. 

'Eighteen' 'Nineteen'

I looked for an unmarked section on his buttocks. There 
was none left. 

'Twenty'

I lubricated him and stared at the buttocks with their 
horizontal red marks and bruising. I gently parted his 
cheeks and almost tenderly entered him. His cock was 
limp until I managed the awkward reach round to stroke 
it. Despite his pain, there was a definite sign of 
arousal. My favourite result was when he came first and 
I could feel the throb around my cock. 

I could hear his breathing quicken and so I moved more 
forcefully. There it was, an indrawn breath followed by 
the familiar clench and muttered 'Yes' from him, another 
for the edit I thought, even as I experienced an 
almighty orgasm so forceful it felt as if it started at 
the soles of my feet and ran up to my neck.

*

I took the camera up with me when I left. There was a 
lot of work to do with that. I cooked us both steak and 
chips but for him, I added a beer in a plastic glass. 
Despite the end point of our relationship there was no 
need to be careless. I was still abstaining from 
alcohol, and anyway, I had to get on with the editing 
and then clean the hard drives.

The editing was a doddle. I used the last scene as the 
first scene and simply edited out my threat to flog him 
senseless. Unless you saw the original, it looked 
entirely consensual, even if brutal. I then added every 
scene where the restraints were not visible. As I had 
taken care to wear different tops, it was obvious that 
there had been many occasions where my slave had 
willingly participated in BDSM games. I burned off 2 
copies of this edited version of reality onto DVDs. I 
then had to download most of the material on the laptop 
onto a memory stick. 

The sex scenes remained on the computer. I then took out 
the hard drives from both the computer and the security 
set up. I popped the camera memory card. The hard drives 
I smashed with a hammer, the memory card I mangled and 
the pieces went into the bin. I replaced the hard drives 
with new ones bought from an E store and the memory card 
likewise. As the memory stick was uploading to the 
laptop I scanned my DVD collection. "Master and 
Commander", well that was appropriate. I put one of the 
sex DVDs into that case. I then put the other into a 
blank case.

The next day meant an early start; a lot to do; 
breakfast for us both, minister to his wounds in 
silence, then a break in the routine for the slave. I 
had allowed him water but no food so he was pretty weak 
and it was no trouble to unlock him and get him into 
some clothes. I had opted for the usual scally look – 
tracksuit, trainers, baseball cap – with the addition of 
dark glasses. 

I manacled his arms behind him and led him up the cellar 
stairs. He looked very apprehensive about this. He 
looked as if he might say something until I tapped him 
lightly with the cane I was carrying and he got the 
hint. I took him up to the bedroom and manacled him to 
the bed frame by both hands and feet. It looked 
uncomfortable but not unbearable.

Then off to the tool hire shop to rent a drill capable 
of breaking up concrete. Shot back home and went into 
the cellar to drill out the post for the chain, the 
brackets securing the bed and the sockets where the 
bolts were secured for the table. I could have used a 
hammer and chisel but I was on a schedule. Dismantled 
the bed and the table and carried everything up to the 
ground floor including the canes, except for the one 
which I had used to escort the slave. Back to the cellar 
where I mixed small amounts of cement, filled in the 
holes where the fixtures had been, rubbed some dirt onto 
them, and smoothed them over with a spatula. I inspected 
the space. 

Everything connected to the slave had now gone. Ran back 
upstairs and prepared the car for trips to the recycling 
centre. The drill I took on the way with the bed and 
some smaller bits. The table and everything else went on 
the second trip, when an afterthought led me to include 
the security light which I had used to blind the slave 
at first. The attendants at the recycling facility 
always ask what you want to get rid of so that they can 
send you to the correct container. 

I claimed that all the smaller stuff was domestic 
rubbish as I reasoned that this was filled and thus 
emptied, faster. The attendant did look curious when the 
post and chain which I had stuffed in a bin-liner hit 
the side of the metal container. I could see him 
speculating about what kind of domestic rubbish made a 
noise like that. I wasn't going to enlighten him. The 
rest of the day involved sticking different coloured 
stickers on my stuff.

Apart from allowing the slave occasional trips to the 
toilet, I had nothing to do with the slave until early 
next morning. It was a bright morning and he had been in 
artificial light for a long time so the dark glasses 
were a necessity. I handcuffed his arms in front of him 
led him to my car which I had parked outside the back. I 
had already packed it with my guitars, laptop and a 
sports bag with some toiletries and clothes. He was 
desperate to ask what was going on but the mere sight of 
my last cane kept him in check. I put his hands up when 
I had guided him into the back, and locked them to the 
headrest in front of him. 

I locked the doors and set off up towards the moors. 
This early there was almost no one about and I could see 
his apprehension mount as we wound up to the highest and 
most desolate part of the moors. Decades ago, they were 
the location of some of the most notorious murders in 
the post-war period and even my passenger must have got 
the connection. I pulled off what might be described as 
the main road and drove about two miles up a single 
track and pulled up. I slipped into my dominant persona 
as I unlocked him and gestured for him to get out. I 
stood back as he stumbled as he climbed out. 

'Don't worry, I am going to leave you here. Take this.' 
I handed over four things and ticked off their purpose.

'This is £100 which will take you home. I don't know 
where that is but there have been no tearful relatives 
on TV asking for your return. It will buy you a place in 
a B & B if you need one. This is an energy bar and water 
to get you to the junction back there. There will be a 
mobile cafe there in 30 minutes where you can buy 
breakfast. Lastly, this is a DVD, if you are thinking of 
going to the police about this then I strongly suggest 
you look at this first. Any prosecutor would laugh at 
your story when presented with this. I am leaving now.'

He looked as if he might burst into tears. I continued,

'I am not just leaving here, I am going away 
permanently. It is no use going to the house as I will 
not be there. Whoever is there will not know where I am. 
If I were you, I would give up the burglary business as 
you're no good at it.'

With that, I got in the car and drove off towards the 
motorway. In what had been my house, the removal 
contractors would be there by now. The stuff with one 
coloured sticker would be loaded up and follow me to the 
new flat. The other stuff was going into storage. This 
should take until midday. Then the cleaners would arrive 
with strict instructions to spend lots of time in the 
cellar. It might not pass a Dexter type of analysis but 
should pass most inspections.

I had one day to settle in my new flat, then it was off 
to my new job. At the end of the week the lettings 
agency contacted me to say there was a tenant willing to 
sign a contract, and why didn't I mention the cellar as 
the house achieved a better rent because of it? Why not 
indeed, I mused.

After two weeks there was no sign of any blowback from 
my adventures and I began to relax into the job. It was 
no more difficult than my last job had been, it was just 
a different location with more money. My tenant paid 
more than my mortgage, my flat was free and I sold my 
car as there was no point in keeping it in this city. My 
savings were going to pile up. I thought sardonically 
that all of this was the result of a crime. "Crime 
doesn't pay!" Well, it did for me.

But: I still could not let myself drink. My secret 
remained a dark weight. I would like to have played 
guitar with others but I would almost certainly take up 
drinking again if I did and that would be dangerous. Not 
only did I miss the company of guitar players, I was 
still confounded about what I had learned about myself. 
All my relationships in the past had been with women. 
What if I started one here but found myself hankering 
after the cellar with the canes? I didn't think I could 
use violence on a woman, even if it was consensual. My 
mum had been a nurse and had patched up many women who 
had come in as a result to male violence. Another murder 
would be on the news and she would point out,

'Well that's us on our way to this week's quota.' This 
was a reference to the two women a week killed on 
average year after year. Or, in response to a Home 
Office report,

'200,000 serious assaults on women not tackled by the 
criminal justice system, really?'

I had been thoroughly inoculated against the notion of 
violence against women, so I didn't think that was going 
to work for me. How was I going to negotiate the social 
side of work? I think I must still have had an element 
of my Master of the Universe persona. I could see some 
of the women eying me up and no doubt deciding that I 
was provincial eye-candy, ripe for induction into the 
wicked ways of the metropolis. Was I going to invent a 
girlfriend back in my home town? No, that was pathetic.

I was going to have to live with the self-knowledge that 
I had it in me to imprison a male, flog him and sexually 
assault him. On the face of it, I had got away with my 
crimes. The cliché ran around my head, be careful what 
you wish for.

At the end of the first month, my first tranche of re-
directed mail arrived, most of it bin-ready advertising. 
One however was addressed to,

"To the Owner, not the tenants. 

Only to be opened by the Owner."

A big shout out to the Royal Mail then for figuring out 
that was me.

It was a plain white envelope and the address was 
handwritten. Puzzled, I opened it up and two sheets came 
out. One was a still from my DVD. It showed my cock 
between a pair of buttocks with red horizontal stripes. 
My cock twitched. The other sheet of paper said simply,

"Why did you leave?

My life is empty.

I have told no one.

Come back and I will be your slave".

I wondered, if I saved all year, could I afford to buy a 
house here, one with a cellar?

To be continued...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
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