Chapter 1 - Cynthia

 

"Get your hands up, what the fuck do you think you are doing," the voice behind Cynthia shouted angrily.

Cynthia put her hands up in the air and stood up straight, a pearl necklace dangled from her fingers, fear gripped her, and she tensed.

She looked in the dressing table mirror in front of her, and she could see her captor holding a pistol, which he was pointing at her.

His hand never wavered, as he pointed the gun at her. She had no doubt that he would use the gun, if she tried anything.

"Very slowly, put the necklace down, and turn around," he instructed her.

Cynthia placed the necklace carefully back in its box, and then she put her hand over her head again, and turned around to face him.

The man, who stood before her, was a portly man, in his late fifties. His jowls hung, because of being overweight, and the fact that he hadn't looked after himself, he was overweight and flabby. His hair had receded to a thin band around the edge, which had been trimmed extremely short. She looked at his dress, jeans and a polo neck shirt with a country club logo emblazoned on the breast.

"Mister, please I-I, please don't," Cynthia pleaded with him.

"Little Miss, I can shoot you, you do realise that, don't you? But you're too pretty, so I'll just ring for the sheriff, you're going down, for this," he said, the hint of a smile creased his face, or was it anticipation?

"I'll do anything, please I, well it's my third count. I will go down for life, please, the money was for my little brother, he," she paused to make it more realistic, "He has debts with the mafia, please mister. I am begging, anything, I'll do anything," she said, pleading with her eyes.

He looked at Cynthia; his eyes looked up and down, at the young woman, before him.

She was a pretty little thing, slight, with a flat stomach and proud breasts. Her breasts pushed the tight fitting top out at almost right angles. A sports bra supported, them, firm and secure. The skin tight leggings hugged every inch of her slender hips. Her legs slightly apart so that the elastic material showed her mound of Venus to its best, whilst it also clung to the curves of her muscles that highlighted her athleticism, and nimbleness. Long auburn hair now tied up in a bun, and a face of a child, apart from the scar, from a bar room brawl, which ran from her left ear to her nose, dissecting her cheek.

"Anything, you mean anything?" He asked, almost too enthusiastically,

"Yes, I'll even fuck you, if you want, anything, please," Cynthia pleaded, and got down on her knees to emphasise her pleading.

"Hum lovely tight bum, yes, ok, I agree. You lead, go back the way you came," he said, waving the gun at her indicating the door she had entered through.

Cynthia led the way, her hands high above her head, back down the broad semi-circular staircase of the mansion. She walked across the marble floor of the entrance hall, and left down a short corridor into the kitchen. Cynthia glanced over her shoulder at the open window through which she had gained access, and walked past it, to the door facing her, he had indicated.

"One hand; open the door, drop two hands, and I shoot," he said.

Cynthia did as told, and then went through the doorway and down the steps into the basement.

The route was known to her, she had been here before, and now as usual looked around the cellar at the array of whips and canes on the wall, a look of shock and awe was needed, to please him.

"What, oh, what are you going to do to me? I, I." she whimpered, as required

"You said anything, now go on, and go to the box, and strip." he demanded.

"Mister, please, not," she left the sentence hanging, he liked that, the begging, the pleading, followed by dumb acceptance of what he was about to do to her.

"You said anything, now strip down to your knickers," he said, still pointing the gun at her.

Cynthia did as told, worried now because her bottom had only just healed from the last beating he had given her. If he were in an agreeable mood, then he would spank her bottom till it glowed and burned, if as today, when she felt he was in a bad mood. He would tell her to go to the box, then he would spank her, followed by the cane, and leave her tied to the box, aching.

Tears were also obligatory to show real atonement for her crime, this she found hard, she wasn't the type to cry easily, hardened by the beatings her father had given her, for no reason, after he had been out drinking

"On the box, slut," he ordered her.

Cynthia stripped and lay down on the box, spreading her legs, so that he could tie them to the ankle points. Then she dropped her hands to the wrist straps, and waited whilst he put a strap over her back, and fastened it tightly, holding her firm to the box.

Her bottom now pushed out tight by the protruding lip. He walked around her, looking at her, touching her bottom and back, running his hand down her back to the edge of her knickers. It was always the same; he enjoyed the touch of her firm skin, the sense of his power over her, strapped to the box, restrained and unable to defend herself.

After three turns around the box he would then pass his hand gently down her back, grip her knickers and yank then down, sometimes ripping them with the force, as far as her stretched legs would allow. He now rubbed his hand over her white, perfect bottom, cheek by cheek, and then slapped each of them in turn. A few more spanks then his hand would wander and slip between her legs, and feel at her clit. Again he rubbed it as he hummed, at the pleasure he derived from the feel of her now moist clit, from his attentions.

He never allowed the finger to enter, just rub the outer mound. Stimulating her, then leaving her wanting him to enter, but not doing, he enjoyed the torment.

The paddle came next, several strokes of this before another feel at her bum. This time a stray finger might enter her. The thin leather strap was next, leaving red lines on her flushed bum, not too hard, he didn't want to punish her, just yet, there was more to come. It was just enough to make the area red and inflamed. A cat o' nine tails stung her next, a myriad of points stinging individually, yet giving overall warmth to the affected area. He felt her bum again, and then used the paddle to even the redness, and so complete his preparations for the cane, his favourite.

"I think twenty four," he said.

Cynthia tried not to show her relief at the amount, he wasn't in such a foul temper, after all, "That will do for the invasion of my sanctuary, then twenty four for the upset, you caused me," he said all the while he ran his hand over her inflamed buttocks.

Cynthia became concerned, he wasn't finished. He never had when he added more to the basic punishment, of twenty four strokes.

"I think another twelve, for actually having the audacity to touch my possessions; that should suffice. You will count aloud, each and every stroke, miss count, and we begin again, so be very careful about the number," he said in an excited tone, enjoying his conquest.

Cynthia felt the cane touch her bottom, then raise then touch then raise, and she called out, "One," as the first stroke landed, touch raise, touch raise, "Two," touch, raise, touch, raise, "Three," and so it went on, the touch, raise touch, raise and a stroke, "Five, six, seven." She called out adding a degree of pain to her voice, as the strokes mounted.

With each touch, and raise she tensed, then the cane would strike her aching and sore buttocks, she was still counting through the sobs, she knew he wanted to hear, as he carried on. Fifteen, twenty, and thirty, on and on it went. She had no-option now. He was in full swing, and revelling in the pain he was causing her. Forty, forty five, fifty, on and on it went. She was crying, she was yelling, but mostly out of her need, to please him, but with her bottom having just healed, it was still tender, and the pain she now felt, was real. As it reached fifty five, fifty six, fifty eight, fifty nine, he stopped and ran his hand over her buttocks. Feeling the heat, and admiring the bruises he had made.

He stepped back, she knew it was the last one, and he liked to make that one count, really make it count. He placed the cane on her buttocks and raised it, placed it, and raised it, placed it, and raised it; four times he placed it and raised it, holding the cane up in the air for a few seconds to increase the psychological pain, before he gave her the final stroke. A rub with his hand, and then he walked away, leaving her to weep, genuinely now, he had gone too far.

He was pleased that he had broken her. She had refused to cry the first time. Biting her lip and making it bleed, just so that she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Now, she had become wiser, having learned quickly what he wanted, and cried after the first twelve. She pleaded for him to stop, by the mid-twenties. Today he was in a vile temper, and she had felt the brunt of it, no matter how she pleaded or cried, he was not going to reduce the sentence.

He left her for half an hour, before coming back. When he did again he ran his hand over her battered buttocks, before, releasing her. She stood as she was supposed to, her knickers around her thighs, whilst he gazed at her front and back. Running his hand over her battered buttocks, and then her clit, before allowing her to dress, again she dressed whilst he watched her, then it was up to the back door, and she left.

Cynthia walked around the side of the mansion, and down the drive to the waiting car, and got in. A woman in a prison guards uniform was sat on her left, and the woman who had got out allowing her in, also in a prison guards uniform, sat on her right. She was handcuffed, and driven back to the prison.