CHAPTER ONE

 

      There was no question in Carly’s mind that Blackjack Jackson, her captor, was a sociopath. She remembered studying about sociopaths in her senior psychology class. It was a form of mental illness. They couldn’t help the fact that they couldn’t experience empathy with other human beings. The normal feelings of guilt which most of us feel when we have injured someone are not felt by them. Other people exist only to serve their needs. It was, she thought at the time, unfair that they be treated in the same way as common criminals, punished for their crimes instead of sent to psychiatric facilities where they could be treated and studied. Someday, there might be a cure.  

      She felt much different about it now.

      After enjoying the benefits of her body and being the recipient of her enforced, untrammeled lust, the man had locked up her body with nary a word to her, filled her orifices with offensive, degrading instruments, petted her like she was his dog or his cat, and then fell asleep as easily as an infant with a belly full of milk.

      Although she knew she was barely more than a thing to him, she realized she had to be grateful he had continued use for her. When she heard it announced on the newscast that he had abducted her, she thought it was all over. And it almost was. But somehow his desire for her body and the services it could provide overrode his instinct for self preservation.  

      She knew that it was not just the sex. That was an important part of it, no doubt. He had spent 12 years locked up with hundreds of angry, cold, cruel and calculating men. He had undoubtedly been dreaming about having the use of a woman’s body all that time. And now he had one. Carly was not one for false modesty and she knew that her body was much more than merely appealing, that her face was much more than attractive. She didn’t let her knowledge of her comeliness rule her life, but having that self knowledge did provide her with a little more self confidence, a little more self satisfaction than if the opposite had been true. And she knew that the fact that she was what most people would consider a beautiful, young woman was a source of extra satisfaction to the man. It was kind of like hitting the lottery. Of all the females he could have captured, he had been awarded her.  

      But it was more than that which had motivated him to let her continue to live. It was the fact that he exercised complete and thorough control over her, that he held himself so superior to her, making her eat from the floor, keeping her gagged and bound almost all the time, playing with her body like it was his own private amusement park. He even insisted on washing her, as if she were his favorite toy that he wanted to take good care of. She didn’t fool herself into thinking that there was any actual tenderness in his gentle touch. It was just that he perceived her as a valuable possession that needed to be carefully handled.  

      She was lying next to him now, on her belly, her face turned away, listening to him snore. Her arms were bound behind her and her ankles were joined. His body was jammed up against her right side. It was hot, large, unignorable. He was, as she was, naked. She had tried to edge her body away so that they were not touching, but the bed was too small. It was a double, not a queen. He was heavier than her and the bed tended to make her slide towards him. And every time she moved just a little bit, feverishly anxious that she not awaken him, within a minute or so he had moved too so that their bodies were back in contact. She finally gave up, afraid that she would fall off the bed. He would almost certainly awaken and would probably assume that her being on the floor was part of some plot to escape. He would beat her and then probably hogtie her in the bathtub like he had done before. He might even drown her this time.  

     Carly realized fully that her life depended on him viewing her as worth the trouble of keeping. This very morning, in the woods, he had had a pistol to her head, was a split second from sending her to eternity, but had changed his mind. Just thinking of it sent shivers down her spine and she was sure that if by some magic she was able to survive her captivity, she would have horrible nightmares about it for years.  

      One thing she was grateful for was the fact that she had been able to stop crying. When he had eased the thick black probe into her rear just before he bedded her down for the night, a terrible sadness had gone through her. He had used her there yesterday and he was going to use her there again. That was the whole purpose of the device, to make her ass more amenable to penetration. Well, maybe not the whole purpose. It was also, she was sure, for the purpose of accentuating his mastery of her, humiliating her, emphasizing her helplessness, and making clear her status as a convenience for his prick and nothing more.

      It had hurt and had made her cry. She cried for about a half hour, silently, long after he had fallen asleep. She had thought that she might never stop. But she had finally exhausted her grief. Crying was so stupid anyway. It just made her humiliation and shame more thorough.

      She was having trouble sleeping. Not that she wasn’t tired. It was just that it was such a horrible thing to be the man’s prisoner, to be living her life on the edge of a precipice. Dismal thoughts kept racing through her mind: dark thoughts about death, yearnings to be free, self pity for her abject helplessness, fear of what pain and misery the man would inflict on her tomorrow. But most of all, she thought about how he played her body like a violin, forcing ecstatic rushes of lust from her, bringing her to the apotheosis of pleasure and ecstasy.  

      She had never had fantasies that included being someone’s sex slave. Well, maybe not never. As a young girl, her fantasies had included being whisked away by the traditional tall, dark, handsome stranger who would relieve her of all guilt and responsibility for her lusts, impose on her the vague but very real pleasures that she hungered for. But that was as far as it went. She hadn’t had those fantasies for years. She had learned to take responsibility for her sexual needs, to satisfy them freely when she wanted to.  

      So what was wrong with her? Why did his use of her drive her to the heights of passion so easily? Every time he put his hands on her, her pussy began to burn. When his tongue entered her mouth, she felt compelled to kiss him, to feed on him. And when his cock was between her lips, and it had been there three times now, after she had gotten over her initial revulsion at being forced to suck it, she felt like she was being honored by its presence. She reveled in its soft textured hardness, its girth, its length, its heat, its power, even its taste, all the while experiencing shame at her licentiousness, her meek submissiveness, the humiliation of being used without consent.

      Yet, in spite of how hot it made her, she felt repelled by his enforced use of her, her lack of choice, the callous way that he treated her, the fact that his manhood was rudely inserted within her body in this most personal way. It was just a hole to him, like her other holes. Each one brought its particular pleasures. And this one was, she imagined, the best of them all because it involved her total attention, her total focus, her total concentration on his satisfaction.  

      The man groaned. It startled her. Her body stiffened. She was so afraid of him. It was understandable under the circumstances. He was at least twice her size and he had spent 12 years with nothing better to do than bulk up his already powerful body in the prison exercise yard. But it made her feel cowardly that she did not at least mount some defense or protest against his abuses. And there it was again, that feeling of hopelessness and despair that brought on the tears. It made her conscious all over again of the penis like probe he had forced between her lips, the awful confinements her had placed on her limbs, and the fiendish object inserted so callously in her rear.

      She started to sniffle and writhe once more in her bonds, testing them futilely, pulling at her imprisoned wrists behind her back, trying to force her ankles apart, biting down fiercely on the long, thick, cock-like probe in her mouth.  

      The door was only maybe five feet away from the foot of the bed. All she had to do was to somehow get over there, slide open the chain lock, turn the handle to the door and flee. If she was able to slip out of bed without him noticing, she might be able to hop over to the door. Doing it quietly would be the trick. She might be able to stand on her tippy toes and, with her back to the door, take hold of the doorknob with her bound hands and turn it.  

      But how would she deal with the chain lock? If she stood near the door it would be about level with her chin. She could use her teeth, but her mouth was fully covered. Maybe she could use her nose. Yes, that might work. But she knew that she would not even try it. The likelihood of success was so low that it was not worth risking the whipping she would surely reap when he caught her. Even if she got through the door he was sure to awaken when he felt the cold air come flowing into the little cabin. She was in no position to run away with her ankles still bound. He would easily catch her and drag her back.

      And she knew that he was always just a razor’s edge away of getting rid of her. A foiled escape attempt would likely tip the balance.  

      It was hard to live under such a cloud all the time. As of now, she couldn’t see any likely scenario in which he set her free. And if he didn’t set her free, there was only one other alternative. She just hoped that it was swift and clean and not long and gruesome.

      Something would happen though. She had to believe it. Somehow she would get away. Somehow she had to believe that she would be able to return to her life, albeit as a drastically changed and ravaged woman. She had to believe that or else despair would close in all over her and she wouldn’t be able to go on.  

      She must have dozed off after that, for the next thing she knew she was springing awake. It was, as it had been since he had turned out the light, pitch black all around her. His body had moved. It had come closer so that his shoulder was over on top of her back. His arm had dropped over her. His hand was sliding down her bound arms. It passed over her useless hands and then crossed her buttocks, giving them a soft caress and then moved down over the backs of her thighs.  

      She held her breath, hoping that his contact was not a prelude to further abuse. Maybe he was just moving in his sleep. Maybe he would sink back into somnolence. Maybe he would leave her in peace at least until the morning. She made a little prayer.  

      His hand lingered on the back of her thigh. His breathing was deep. His body seemed at complete rest. She released her air, needing to breath, and in the hopes that the crisis had passed. She swallowed, causing her mouth to compress on the faux cock in her mouth. Her hands twisted in her bonds unconsciously. His hand and arm were hot against her skin.

      And then the hand moved again. It slipped up over her arms and slid across her shoulders. It held itself there for a few seconds. Then she felt his body shift. The hand slid under her arms and began to caress her back. Her skin tingled at his touch. He had rolled to his side and come up against her. His stiffened cock was lying against her thigh. When his large, heavy, hot hand slid down and he gave each of her rear mounds a thorough, firm caress, her heart sank and her stomach rolled over. He was awake.

      The hand kept moving about her confined body. She squirmed and whined unhappily. “Please don’t let this happen,” she called out in her mind to no one. She knew, though, that it was a futile plea.  

      All hope that it was just a rumbling of the man’s dreams came to an end when he rose to his knees and moved behind her on the bed. He straddled her confined ankles and ran his hands, both of them now, up and down the back of her shins, her thighs and over her rump. She heard him release a long, lustful sigh. His hands moved up over her hips and up her torso, over her shoulders and back as if he was trying to awaken the cells of her skin all over her body. If that was his intent, it was working, because her body began to burn and she felt a pull in her loins.  

      “Nooooooooooooooo, please don’t,” she begged in her thoughts.  

      His hand, his right hand, dug into her hair at the back of her head. She felt him grasp it firmly. And then he began a slow, steady pressure, pulling it upwards. Carly had no choice. She raised her head and then followed the man’s lead, moving her torso up, arching her back. His left hand slid under her, crossing over her breasts and guided her up. Between the pull on her hair and the hand across her chest, she was brought up to her knees. Her buttocks were resting on the back of her joined thighs. Her back was against the man’s chest. He was so big, she felt like he was towering over her. She knew what was going to happen next and she asked the heavens to forestall it. But, as she had surmised, his strong, hot hands crept around her sides and seized her breasts.

      He squeezed them gently. His thumbs ran over her nipples. His fingers took hold of her teats, pinching them lightly, tugging on them, pulling her breasts from her torso. Then they encircled her breasts again, massaging them, caressing them, conveying their heat and their passion to them. It made Carly moan with unhappiness and the genesis of lust. His right hand slipped down over her belly while he continued to stroke and caress her breasts with his left. His hand pressed against her belly, rubbing it all the way down to the ‘Y’ formed by her jammed together thighs. Then it slid over her thighs, caressing them, warming them, stoking her fires.

      He was pressed up firmly against her back and she could feel his stiffened cock against her bound hands. She resisted a perverse urge to seize it. Everything was pitch black. The man had always seemed devilish, but he had never seemed more like a demon than now. He wasn’t a man as much as he was a presence. He was all around her. His invisible, disembodied hands were tormenting her. Somehow, she had to stop it or she would go mad!

      She whined and began to squirm in the man’s arms. “Don’t do this! Don’t do this!” she thought desperately. She erupted into rebellion. She shook her head and her hips. She tried to bend over to escape his grasp. “Nnnnnnnnnnnn! Nnnnnnnnnnnnnn!” she called out in protest.  

      He didn’t say anything. He merely reached up and took her teats between his thumbs and forefingers and began to twist them. She groaned from the pain, but refused to surrender. It went on and on. He twisted harder and harder. Finally, she could take it no more. She screamed, a sound that barely penetrated her gag, and became still. He loosened his grip. She issued a miserable, defeated whine. He pulled her torso straight again. She leaned back against him, sobbing.