CHAPTER 1
In a dim and forbidding cell a beautiful girl cries inwardly. She longs to cry
openly, to sob her heart out but daren’t; she is terrified of drawing attention to
herself. The only sound she can hear is that of her own laboured breathing. Her bleak
terror extends to her doing anything at all which might get her hurt again. She has
decided that she must do whatever they say, whatever is necessary to avoid that pain, to
stop it happening again. Her absolute obedience to the fiends who are subjecting her to
this hell is the only way she knows to try and reduce her suffering.
Where is she? she ponders. Somewhere deep in the country is her best guess,
somewhere underground, a cellar or something, maybe? It didn’t matter, she knew nobody
would ever find her; she is on her own, no one had seen her kidnapped and the people are
too well organised and ruthless to allow her any thoughts of escape. In fact they seemed
to be sadists who enjoyed inflicting pain and suffering on her helpless body.
A tear of fear and self-pity wells up but she bravely stifles it. She’d like to
wipe it away but she has been forbidden to move; her hands must remain clasped to her
head. A shiver of dread and cold ripples down the perfect arch of her spine to the
enticing swelling of her hindquarters, making her bare breasts bounce very slightly. How
she wished that she could close her long toned legs from their blatant and obscenely wide
pose. It was degrading, allowing anyone watching - and she was sure that they were
watching - to see all of her exposed femininity.
She was a sophisticated girl used to the trappings of power and having men fawning
over her. But now she is alone, stark naked and under observation from creeps who have
already shown their absolute contempt and hate for her.
Her belly quakes in dread whenever her terrified thoughts flick to whatever
humiliation and pain they may next have in store for her. Only one thing is for sure, she
couldn’t avoid it and must just try to endure it.
She licks her dry and quivering lips in fear as a trickle of sweat runs down the
delectable curve of her breast.
***
The knock on the door startled Damien out of a misery of introspection. He simply
couldn’t understand why his long-term girlfriend, Liz, hadn’t got in touch since leaving
London for the West Country a day earlier with a film production assistant – it was so
unlike her not to even ring. And she wasn't answering her mobile. He guessed she had
become too obsessed with researching to think about others. Typical Liz, he decided with a
bitter shrug.
She was a film actress and had been trying to hunt down leads for her next possible
role, planned for next year, on a woman-only sect - the Sisterhood of Silk. Yet, he
thought with some accepted selfishness on his part, Christmas wasn’t that far away. They
hadn’t spent any festive seasons apart since they had become an item. All of the
preparations and present buying would be left to him the way things were going, he decided
gloomily.
He knew little and indeed was not sufficiently interested to care much, about this
Sisterhood sect that Liz was investigating. What little he had guessed and surmised on the
apparent popularity of the secretive order he had put down to a current fad connected with
demands for greater opportunities for women by women without the need for men.
No-one really knew much about this order or their origins and goals, hence Liz’s
research to aid her chances of landing a starring part in any film about them. They seemed
to have come to people’s attention a few years back with demands for more empowerment for
women, pyramid selling for housewives and its anonymous backers were now demanding frozen
fertilised eggs for the sole use of females. The outcry about reducing the role of men to
mere studs had been enormous and Damien had imagined that it was simply a fad, which would
die.
Yet apparently some film producer with an over-active imagination had thought it
could be a defining moment and worthy of a film. Liz had been hooked on the project with
the lure of her having a starring role.
Some of Liz’s attempts to access this ‘cult,’ as Damien had come to see them, had
been unsuccessful and this had lent an embittered slant to her televised interviews on
chat shows where she had asked the organisers to at least meet with her. In her
frustration at her lack of success so far she had not fallen far short of publicly
castigating them. Damien thought that, as usual, Liz was taking things too far and was not
aiding her quest for co-operation and information. In his view she should accept that the,
no doubt dowdy, women of the Sisterhood had no interest in a glamorous ‘star’ like Liz
portraying them, with a probable sexual slant to assist the box office receipts.
However, Damien knew that Liz needed this possible role. Her career had not exactly
been soaring of late and something like this, which fuelled controversy, would help her.
He guessed too that it would help prove to herself that at twenty five she wasn’t over the
acting ‘hill’ for the young glamorous parts in which had made her name.
“I’ve the clothing that the lady living here - your wife or girlfriend? - ordered
from her catalogue, probably for Christmas? There’s not that many shopping days left now,
you know,” announced the pretty yet severe blonde woman to whom he answered the door.
“Look, I’m afraid that she’s …”
“If she’s out she said for her partner to sign for it,” the woman breezed in
before Damien’s befuddled brain could react. Automatically he closed the door behind her.
“You recognise these?” In the privacy of the house the woman produced a tiny red
bra and pants set from her bag. It was of the style Liz often wore and it only served to
remind Damien to worry anew about his absent girlfriend.
“I-I well … they … er … look like the sort of thing she wears, I’m sure she’ll be
happy with them. Do you want me to sign?” he stuttered, trying to appear interested.
However, he had to concede that the thought of his lovely Liz wearing such things did stir
his loins a little.
“Oh yes indeed,” the woman beamed. “They are not ‘just the sort of style’ but they
are in fact the actual style. In fact these are the same pretty bra and knickers she was
wearing the other day. They still have the rather nice scent of her on them, you’ll find.”
The woman beamed again into Damien’s confusion. “Yes, she took them off and now she’s
wearing … well, right now she’s not wearing anything, actually, and I think she'd rather
be covering her rather delightful charms but well … she's not allowed to at present.” The
woman’s smile was now sadistic, her eyes holding and penetrating his.
“What! I’m afraid I don’t understand! You’re saying you’ve seen Liz?” Damien just
couldn’t take in why this woman would claim to have his girlfriend’s underwear – unless
she had an accident? “Is she…? Where is she? Is she OK?” Now he was beginning to panic.
“She’s fine … the Sisterhood in which she was so interested in finding is now
looking after her … at the moment. But how well she continues to be looked after, or
suffers, and indeed her whole fate depends rather a lot on you.” The woman’s smile was
positively wicked. “Take a look at these.” She took out some coloured photos.
Damien’s belly flipped.
In the first picture Liz was sat bound facing backwards into a large and sturdy
old-fashioned wooden dining chair facing its uncompromising backrest. Her elegant legs
were necessarily splayed wide either side of the chair’s back and thick twine bound her
knees to its upright pillars. More twine similarly bound the top of her toned thighs and
tied equally tightly fastened them to the chair seat. Her slim ankles were bound to the
back legs. Further, her wrists were twisted up behind her back and secured with more of
the same black twine between her shoulder blades. Her face, half turned towards the
camera, showed her large pretty green eyes distended wide with fear above a large cloth
gag. The beads of sweat and the lines creasing her lovely features were indicative of the
tight pain of her binding. There were angry red marks flushing her white skin where the
twine bit deep into her softness. It obviously held her quite helpless and immobile.
Worst of all though perhaps was the fact that she was stark naked apart from a slim
steel collar around her slim throat. The camera caught the gorgeous swelling of her
hindquarters, which had a few thin red lines of torment across them. Her lush curves
covered in an enticing sheen of fear also seemed to attract the lurid gaze of the masked
fat man standing beside her. The photo showed his hand casually resting, with complete
possession, on one of her elegant, bare shoulders.
The pose, the revealing photograph as a whole, said it all. The man did indeed have
possession of his girlfriend. She looked so completely helpless and vulnerable before him.
“What the hell! Is it s still from some weird film? If it is I don’t think much of
…What have you done to her? Where - where is she?”
Half formed thoughts and questions crashed across Damien’s befuddled brain. He only
knew that he wanted to be with his girlfriend, help and comfort her. He somehow knew that
this wasn’t from some film. He didn’t think she’d ever been in any really perverted films
such as this. And if he was honest, he doubted whether she was a sufficiently good enough
actress to show such fear. She looked so utterly lost and frightened that he could indeed
imagine her fear. It made him sick with apprehension, as if a deep pit had suddenly opened
in his belly. He was not a naturally brave person but it made him want to ride in on a
white charger and rescue her from her captors.
“Keep looking - there’s lots more.” The woman smiled brightly as if showing off a
catalogue.
If indeed it was a catalogue it was a catalogue of fear and pain. In the second
picture Liz she was still in the chair but this time instead of the gag bulging her cheeks
she was wearing a kind of clear glass helmet resting on her bare shoulders above a tight
black rubber collar around her neck. It was a bit like a heavy old-fashioned diver's
helmet. But instead of it being sealed to keep out the water there was instead a funnel in
the top of the helmet into which the masked man was pouring water. A thick black belt
around Liz’s neck, together with the collar, pulled her upper body forwards to the chair
back whist keeping her head upright to throw out her back in an enticing curve emphasising
the curve of her perfect bottom. The bondage also thrust into stark relief each delicate
nodule of her spine, also ensuring that she couldn't tilt her head to any great extent and
dislodge the helmet.
The fourth shot showed the hideous helmet full of water. Liz’s eyes were
desperately wide within it, bubbles coming from her gaping mouth as she fought to breathe
whilst the masked man's hands held her smooth shoulders. Damien went cold at the thought
that she had been killed, his fists clenched into hams. Then, relief, of sorts, flooded
him as the next shot showed the helmet removed and her delicious body shining with water.
The masked man’s fist was bunched in her drenched hair so that her pain-dulled eyes faced
the camera. His other hand obscenely cupped one of her glistening breasts, his dirty
fingers cruelly pinching its red peak.
“She survived her ordeal by water, you see, but that kind of thing could happen to
your lovely girlfriend over and again. Look at this.” The woman produced a digital viewer.
In the tiny moving coloured clip, Liz was still bound to the chair, naked, her long
dark hair still drenched; she coughed but was then speaking.
“D-Damien, please, I’ve been kidnapped by the Sisterhood. Please-please oh heavens
please do whatever they want or they say they’ll do - do horrible things to me and you'll
n - never see me again. Please, I’m begging you do something …whatever they want … help
me!” The clip ended on Liz’s desperate plea.
In a final still photograph she was still naked and bound, gagged again and now
lying on her belly on the floor, her ankles pulled back and fastened to her bound wrists.
Again her bonds were tight, the twine eating into her limbs. In this shot a masked woman
in a leather cat-suit viewed his girlfriend’s naked body. The woman’s high-heeled boot
rested on Liz’s bare bottom. The pose emphasised the several red lines running across the
delightfully curvaceous cheeks of her bottom as if she had been caned. Liz's eyes were
wide with fear. The smirking woman's foot rested on his girlfriend’s helpless nudity like
a white hunter with a trophy, making bitterness and panic froth desperately in his heart.
Yet the sight of his lovely Liz in the hands of those terrible people, their hands
on her body simply served to remind him of him being with her. She was a wonderful girl
making such a beautiful and enthusiastic f--k. He recalled his hand sliding down the curve
of her spine to hold her gorgeous bottom, squeezing and stroking as the liquid heat of her
sex slid just as enthusiastically slid deeply over his straining erection whilst her mouth
and tongue darted with his.
“That just about sums up the predicament in which your lovely girlfriend has found
herself, Damien.” The blond girl spoke in a matter-of-fact tone as if discussing a medical
prognosis or a business deal. “She belongs to the ladies of the sect and will remain ours
until we say otherwise, even if she doesn’t enjoy all of the … er … attention’ which I
thought actresses always craved. There’s no way that anyone, least of all you, could ever
find where she is being held. But be assured that if by chance anyone did stumble across
her – her fate would be very – er - precarious, in fact probably fatal.” The girl looked
him squarely in the eye for emphasis.
Damien knew that Liz was totally heterosexual and yet now she was in the hands of
the lesbian dykes in the sect and he couldn’t get her away. She would have to do as they
told her while they played until they chose to release her. He knew that he was helpless
to intervene. His only thoughts were what he could later say to the police.
He was too shocked to react when the girl opened the door to a helmeted lad dressed
in motorbike gear.
“The sect uses men and we are planting surveillance devices around your house,” she
explained. “You may be thinking of telling the authorities. But let me assure you,” she
placed her hands on his shoulders, “if you tell anyone, anyone at all about what has
happened to Liz, we’ll know about it. I’m afraid then that will seal Liz’s fate. You would
never see her again and would always have the, painful, manner of her passing on your
conscience,” She finally released his shaking shoulders. “You will be followed, your phone
will be tapped and we have friends in high places.” She lied convincingly to the worried
man. “If anyone asks you will say that Liz has gone away to do some research for a film;
the film company have been told that too. If you say anything different she will suffer
the torment of the damned for days before we finally grant her the peace of oblivion.” Her
tone was totally convincing.
“But why…?”
“Well I’m afraid your little prissy girlfriend became too nosey and rude about us
too. Despite her being, as she would see herself, as a ‘famous’ actress, she now needs to
be taught the meaning of respect and female bonding – and she will be – you can be assured
of that,” the girl added harshly.
“Please don’t-don’t h-hurt her,” he practically sobbed. “I’ll do whatever you say
if you’ll let her go but how? When …?
“Have no fear, she will be allowed to go when she is ready. It may be a week, two
weeks, two years whatever it takes before we are satisfied with her educational progress
and contrition. The important thing is for you to act totally normally, get on with your
life, obey the instructions we give you, just as Liz must obey us to avoid unnecessary
suffering. She may be out before you know it.” The girl and the leather-clad boy prepared
to leave.
“But... but can I speak to her, see her just so I know …”
“We will keep in touch and we will in fact require a small initial financial
donation tomorrow to pay for her … er … 'training' by the Sisterhood, fifty thousand. We
know you can easily afford it by cashing in one of your bonds. Liz has given us details of
such holdings. Then maybe we can let you know more of her progress towards sisterhood.
Until then, her fate depends on your silence.” The girl smiled coldly before closing the
door on him.
Damien experienced a few minutes of silent shock whilst he absorbed the enormous
and life-changing impact of the girl’s visit. The money meant nothing. It was true he
could afford it - and so could Liz - what mattered was his girlfriend's safety. He mixed
himself a stiff drink then buried his face in his hands. He tried to imagine what she must
be going through.
***
It was as if Damien’s fevered mind had made some kind of link through time and
space with his lover. Many miles away and at that same moment Liz was almost jolted by
what almost felt like some kind of brief mental contact with him. Maybe, she wondered, it
was the intensity of her fear? Certainly her feelings were crying out for help and maybe
he was thinking of her too and they had formed a brief mental link? Thoughts of her
boyfriend made her eyes further mist with tears, but she knew that she must forget him and
concentrate on her survival.
Unlike Damien, she had no need to imagination her ordeal; she was bitterly
experiencing it first hand. Rather than sitting comfortably with a drink, she was still
sitting bolt upright on a small hard stool, hands clasped obediently to the back her head,
her legs spread blatantly wide. She was still stark naked.
Another tear of pity sprang to her eyes at the brief recollection she had of her
previous normal and loving life. Then she again pushed it aside, she had to and instead
tried to concentrate on her own predicament. She sat in silence in the tiny cell-like room
where she was confined. It was a small room, its furnishings consisted of two bunks, a
toilet/shower cubicle and little else besides mirrored walls, speakers and a make-up
table. The mirrors reflected from every angle her tense, strained face and every lush
exposed curve of her charms. She knew that behind them were people or cameras viewing her,
presumably watching her with sadistic glee or for their perverted pleasure.
Admittedly she was used to cameras pointing at her and to parading before them. But
that was when she was in control, especially if the director was soft on her. She would
strut her stuff, posing provocatively, imagining the viewing audience, especially the men,
lusting after her, yet knowing that they could never have her. Instead she would have the
fame and their money. She would never normally expose too much of her modesty before the
camera, just enough to entice. But this situation was totally different. Here she had no
control whatsoever in that matter, only fear and terror.
She longed for the sake of her modesty to close her legs, but that wasn’t allowed.
Instead she must sit on the hard stool, her bottom cheeks now feeling uncomfortably like
two lumps of raw meat. It throbbed in pain, more so as she recalled the humiliation of
bending over like a naughty Victorian schoolchild to receive the cane. A brute of a man
had administered the punishment and the hard rod biting into her tender flesh had made her
scream in previously unimaginable pain. It had felt as if it was eating into her softness,
each stroke setting her skin aflame and making her feel sick.
The spread mauve slash of her sex in its fur-fringed nest with the darker ring
below gaped obscenely back at her from the harsh mirrors surrounding her. Every now and
then questions would be shouted at her through the speakers, making her jump. Or the voice
would demand that she stiffen her position if she had slouched in any way. Or maybe they
would maybe make her adopt a new obscene pose equally designed to enhance her shame and
fear.
It seemed that every muscle in her tense body screamed for relief, but she daren’t
relax her posture.
Previously they had her lying on her back holding her ankles behind her ears. It
was a crude, blatant and enticing pose which before she had only very occasionally adopted
in the privacy of a bedroom with someone she loved. But such was her fear of these swine,
of what they could do to her, that she now held nothing back. No matter what pose they
demanded or any questions about her family, sex life, anything, she obeyed and answered
promptly and truthfully; she had to. She couldn’t face the risk of them thinking she was
lying. If they did she knew she’d face maybe the burning pain from the electric torture
necklace she now wore or the cane across her bottom, which still throbbed against the hard
stool. Or maybe even worse would be going back in that chair and nearly drowning in that
helmet. She was now spoilt for choice in a totally unreal world of pain. It was a world
where she could be made to suffer horribly at another’s whim and to avoid that required
absolute obedience to her captors. Her mind strayed back to how her ordeals had begun –
just the day before.
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