CHAPTER 1

 

The cellar, although not cold, felt as if it ought to be. It was gloomy, with a dim ceiling light casting long shadows of the sparse furniture over the stone walls. Along one wall, incongruously, squatted a large dentist's chair. Somewhat out of place in such surroundings a woman reclined on it, graceful and feline in a black leather catsuit. Although her upper face was obscured by a mask, the olive skin of her hands indicated her Eastern origins. Further, the glinting black eyes and thin lips gave an indication of dominance, harshness and cruelty. Not the sort of woman one would want to cross or to be at her mercy. Currently, however, she was totally relaxed, eating a Chinese take-away meal and watching television. Her demeanour was in total contrast to the only other occupant of the room.

The obvious sophistication and beauty of the other woman was only slightly marred by a despairing look on her pretty face, which was surrounded by a cascade of long dark hair. In her mid twenties and thus a few years younger than the masked woman, she was in some discomfort and there were several potential reasons for this.

Perhaps it was because she was holding above her head the small television being viewed by her relaxed companion, her quivering arm muscles testifying to the strain of doing so. Perhaps it was because she was hungry. Embarrassing rumbles emanated from her flat belly as the aroma from the other woman's meal drifted over her, causing her tongue to occasionally lick her full, sensuous lips. Added to her discomfort was the fact that she was naked beneath a man's white shirt and, with her raised arms, a pair of magnificent breasts threatened to burst free from the constraint of the buttons.

The posture of her raised arms and splayed legs was also revealing. It lifted the shirt to reveal, at the front, the glory of her mauve sex in its furry mound. From the rear was visible the lower half of the perfect roundness of her buttocks pouting cheekily. Across those magnificent globes run a couple of fading red lines, rather out of place on a woman of such obvious sophistication - a testament to a beating.

Finally, a length of chain snaked from the cellar's furthest wall to ensnare one of the woman's slim white ankles in a plastic and iron hoop. It was her principle problem. Not only did it, at full stretch, prevent her getting within a metre of the cellar door and freedom, it also contained an electric circuit which the relaxing woman could activate by remote control. It is mainly because of this that the victim continued her pointless task of holding the television aloft for the past hour whilst her tormentor watched her favourite 'soap.'

"Aarghh!" she suddenly yelped, jerking her ankle as the other woman's brown finger moved slightly on her remote-control switch. The portable television wobbled dangerously on the surge of brief pain before she heaved it aloft again on aching arms.

"Arms straighter - lazy slut!" The sharp command came from the relaxing woman in a crisp Turkish accent and brooks no dissent. Immediately the flagging arms again held the television higher. "Remember, I am your worst nightmare. I don't want to be forced to operate on you again but I shall do so if I don't get proper obedience, or if your husband doesn't co-operate," the voice snapped.

The standing woman winced, involuntarily clamping her mouth shut, the anguish on her beautiful face an obvious recollection of some unhappy event. She also knew - after two days as a hostage - that even forgetting the presence of the ankle band, her captor has greater physical strength than herself and could beat her in a fight. That has not, however, prevented her considering a desperate plan to throw the television at the smirking face. The problem was that the bitch never carried with her a key to the ankle lock. Even if her aim was good the Turkish woman would probably still have time to thumb the remote control, sending shards of pain into her foot. And even if she somehow managed to kill her tormentor, she would be trapped here forever! There was no way out.

 

***

 

At approximately the same time as the woman stood in silent misery in the cellar a man, many miles away, gazed at a photograph of her. He was tall and grey-haired, exuding a certain presence and sense of power. This was borne out by the plush surroundings of his expensive and well-equipped study, tastefully filled with mahogany furniture padded with deep soft leather.

He gazed fondly at the large upright photograph standing proudly on the highly polished desk. It showed the beautiful woman posing provocatively for the camera against the backdrop of a lush tropical island. Unlike her current predicament, in the photograph she was relaxed and happy. Her large brown eyes sparkled in the heart-shaped face. Sunlight danced through long, dark glossy hair that cascaded richly to brush the smooth lines of her bare bronzed shoulders.

She was wearing only a skimpy blue bikini designed to display rather than conceal the curves of the gorgeous 25-year-old body to which it clung like a second skin. The 36b breasts thrust proudly towards the camera with the indentations of her nipples peeking through the material like two buttons. Posing hands on her hips, turned almost coyly half away from the camera, the rounded dip of her spine was visible, panning out to form the swelling of each deliciously curved cheek of her bottom, clearly visible through the thin material of the swimsuit. However, any possible shyness in the pose was countered by the promise in the flashing white smile and the expectation in the wide eyes.

The photograph suggested a beautiful, rich, sensuous young playgirl used to enjoying herself to the full. For the hundredth time he turned the photo over to read the message on the back. In a clear bold hand it read:

'All this for you, my darling husband John.'

The man sighed, turning his eyes to the bulky brown envelope beside the photo, the writing on which, although somewhat shaky, was in the same slender hand as the lazy scrawl. It was in contrast simply addressed with a computerised label, 'John.'

A typewritten note was pinned to the envelope:

 

'You may be interested to hear from your wife. Do not tell or show anyone, her safety depends on it. She has been naughty and is now paying the price - as you must too. She may have strayed, or perhaps been lured would be more appropriate, but now she is ours. We decide when and if she eats, sleeps, if she is dressed, has sex or is punished. That cannot be pleasant for a man such as yourself who likes to be in control.

I'm also sure you wouldn't want news to get out that your darling wife had a minor fling and has been kidnapped, also for your bedroom secrets and any transgressions in your private life to be made public - especially with you trying right now for a knighthood. As an indication of possible intent, I enclose a chipping from one of her teeth, get it DNA matched if you doubt us. Also her pretty little bra and panties - she doesn't need them whilst she is with us - together with photographic evidence of her capture. All of her teeth will follow, followed by other tasty morsels if you fail to obey any demands. To minimise your wife's suffering you will now prepare an electronic transfer for 2 million pounds. You will be given account details within a week and you will then have exactly one hour to transmit the credit. You know who is responsible for the kidnapping and have our undertaking that afterwards no more money will be demanded, also that she will not be killed. More later.'

 

For the tenth time, and with a slight shake of his hand, the man slid the papers from the envelope. It also contained a plastic wrapper with a tooth particle wrapped within her underwear. Rage for her captors boiled within him as his fist closed around the wispy satin. Clipped to the letter were two coloured photographs of his wife. He could barely bring himself to look at them. In one she was strapped into a reclining chair, wearing a head-cage which kept her mouth wide open. The look of terror and pain in her face as a leather-clad figure sitting on his wife's lovely legs poked implements into her gaping mouth made his fists clench impotently. In another she was hooded, suspended by her wrists from ceiling chains. She stood on tiptoe wearing only the same man's blue shirt from beneath which the delicious mounds of her bottom just peeked. On her curvaceous thighs below stood out an angry red mark.

The letter was already slightly grubby when he received it but was now also well worn from constant re-reading. An observer would have seen several emotions flit across the man's features, anger, pain and frustration as he re-read the text. Again, although in the same hand as the message on the photo, the words were more spidery, conveying a sense of pressure and despair.

 

'To John & Gerald

I now know why you pursued me with such vigour and insistence, Gerald, but I've been trying to understand how in all humanity you could have possibly put me into this living hell. Your guards have told me that I must write down in honest, full and complete detail everything that has happened to me, my every feeling, or face even worse treatment than I have already experienced. They say they and you will know if I try to conceal anything. I have been told that the letter will be sent to my husband, John.

Please forgive me John - my darling husband. I've been foolish; a weak woman. I never stopped loving you and always will. I just craved some excitement and attention - you seemed so busy with work of late. I was stupid. Please get me out of here, darling, do whatever they ask.

My first letters have been torn up for being inadequate. The guards say that as I am a novelist I should be able to do better and that I will receive no food or water until I provide something more honest and suitable - so I pray that this is now OK.

Begin at the beginning, they told me. With my watch taken away I have lost track of time but it must be over a day ago when I was at Gerald's London flat. I have no choice but honesty now so, yes, we were more than friends, Gerald and I were lovers for a couple of weeks, John, but I think we both sensed it could go nowhere and it was drawing to an end.

I developed an excruciating toothache during that evening and, as you are a dentist, Gerald, you examined me in your surgery below the flat. I admit it was quite sexy really. I wore only your shirt and told you that I wanted you to do it to me afterwards in that big reclining dentist's chair. The injection didn't just numb me, however. Even you looked a bit surprised at how rapidly it knocked me out. You didn't have time to have your way with me again! All part of your plan, though, I guess.

Still dazed, I found myself in this cellar, windowless, illuminated by two bright naked bulbs swinging from the ceiling. It was cool and paved in stone, measuring ten feet by eight (I know its size exactly, having paced those slabs many times since). I awoke properly, still in the dentist's chair but with straps tying my wrists, ankles and throat to it. I couldn't move. A horrid head cage kept my head still and my mouth wide open. I still wore only your shirt. I was absolutely helpless and terrified.

A masked lady prowled up to me, almost purring with pleasure. She told me that you, Gerald, had transferred my 'safekeeping' to herself and another guard and that they were now going to look after me. I cringed. It felt so unnatural when she actually sat on my lap, her arm casually draped around my shoulders as if we were friends, lovers! Then I saw the dentistry implements in her hands. She said she'd always wanted to try this out. It was awful, terrible. The drill was at the back of my mouth, I could hear it whining, I was unable to move my head or close my mouth. Then the pain hit me, a jagged white shaft piercing my jaws, tearing me apart. I could only shake, tears wetting my cheeks as she made me suffer so much. My mouth felt as if it was on fire.

At first thoughtful, yet soon disgusting and unnatural, she unbuttoned my shirt, easing it down my shoulders to stop any blood staining it. She then continued driving white hot splinters of pain into one of my back teeth. It went on and on. Every now and then, still sitting on my lap, she would wipe the tears, comforting me like a monstrous mother. Finally, with a horrible tearing sound, she pulled a bit of my back tooth out. She said that she might have to take them all out soon if you don't co-operate, John - and that would be just the start! I screamed and grunted at her desperately through the clamp but she just smiled cruelly. I was just as unable to do anything when she grabbed my bare boobs with some extractor tongs, squeezing my nipples, making me gasp through my clamped mouth.

Thankfully she then released my head cage and held a glass of water to my lips to rinse my poor aching mouth and quench my raging thirst. As the pain eased I became aware of another person in that cellar, another masked guard, a teenage boy. I think he had been taking photographs of my torture. His laughing smirk made me feel uncomfortable and I felt so vulnerable and ridiculous strapped in that chair wearing only a half-unbuttoned shirt.

Before they untied me, the boy fixed around one of my ankles a clamp, attached by a chain to the wall. They explained that it was long enough for me to walk around my cell but not to reach the door, also that the key to unlock it was kept in the house upstairs. The woman then took great pleasure in activating an electronic coil in the clamp, using a remote control around her neck. The agony was excruciating - as if my foot was being burned off. She said that I would remain chained up and that if I stepped out of line or was disobedient I would suffer at the touch of her button.

I refused at first when they told me to raise my arms so they could attach wrist cuffs hanging from the ceiling, but when she touched her remote control I fell screaming to the floor, trying in vain to undo the ankle cuff. I didn't argue the second time, even when they took the lovely expensive watch you bought me John, and pocketed it.

It took little effort on their behalf to lock the leather wrist cuffs on me and adjust the pulleys from the ceiling, hauling me up so that I was practically hanging before them on tiptoes frantically scrabbling to take my weight. Before a cloth bag was roughly pulled over my head, rendering me sightless, muffling my pleading, I saw with horror the boy undoing his thick leather belt. With a whistling crack, indescribable pain then scorched across my thighs, making me screech and yelp.

That stroke was like a white-hot band, almost as bad as the drill. I twisted and turned, squirming frantically, stumbling off my toes to hang painfully from my upraised wrists. My legs throbbed with hot pain, as if expanding and contracting rapidly. I pleaded for mercy, screaming until my throat was sore, but I was ignored, they could probably hardly hear me anyway under that hot smelly hood. I thought then that I had never been treated so cruelly!

The woman told me I would remain hanging exactly like that whilst I composed this letter. When they thought I was ready I would write and re-write until they were satisfied, also that I would receive no more water, or food, until they were happy with it. Finally, the woman told me that they would give me a complete and thorough medical examination tomorrow to ensure I was fit for confinement and punishment, followed by a caning on my bare bottom. She said I would be caned with an increasing number of strokes every day to encourage your compliance, John.

A deafening iron-like clang of the door locking left me in shivering isolation! Eventually I stopped calling out for help, my cries were muffled anyway under the bag. I could hear nothing apart from the occasional dripping of water. I might just as well have been buried, forgotten by the world. It was obvious that no-one could hear me or would ever find me. With a shock I realised that I was alone and absolutely helpless.

Beads of sweat sprung out all over me, trickled down from my armpits despite my shivering. I am (was?) someone important, with assistants and secretaries, normally expecting to snap my fingers to get things done. Hanging there, I realised I had never felt to totally frustrated and frightened in my life.

For what seemed like hours I alternated between taking my weight on my wrists and straining up to stand on tiptoe, absorbing the throbbing pain in my legs. How dare the lad do that to me! But I knew that in reality, he could do whatever he chose and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. I called out again vainly for help.

Then I heard the door open and I fell silent. It was the boy, he told me that it was no use crying out because no-one would be able to hear me. He said that if I did continue to make noise - even talking without permission - I would also be gagged. But if I behaved I would soon be rewarded by being released from the pulley. I didn't dare say any more, just nodded. It must have looked silly, a woman wearing just a shirt and a sack, the sack bobbing up and down. Then I jumped, crying out at the renewed pain on my straining toes as I felt his hand gently stroke over my sore legs, making me wince. I tensed, scarcely daring to breath as his hands crept upwards to pat the cheeks of my bottom with total possession and familiarity. A lad, barely out of school, doing this to me!

Why am I writing all this down? Because I'm told I must. If I omit or suppress anything, besides certain details, as I did in my first letters, they are torn up and I have to start again.

I heard the echo of his retreating footsteps and the door slam shut and lock with a horrible echo of finality.

More hours seemed to pass. I knew that I'd have to go to the loo before long and just as I thought about calling out the door opened again. I felt soft hands around my shoulders, stroking down the curve of my back. It made me uncomfortable. Then the woman asked me if I would be good. I promised and then, feeling more confident, told her I had to visit a lavatory. She screamed at me to be silent, saying that I was not in a position to tell them anything, not to talk unless asked, that I had learnt nothing. I heard the door clang shut once again on my helplessness, making me sob pitifully.

I had to frantically clench and unclench my tummy, holding myself to prevent me peeing. Shame flooded me when I later heard that door open again and the boy laughed at my predicament. Somehow I kept silent and was rewarded by having my arms released and the hood dragged off my head.

After blinking in the sudden light, taking a deep breath of air without that smelly sack, I looked around desperately for a loo. With a smirk, the guards pointed to a bucket in the corner - making no attempt to leave or look away. I could no longer afford any pride. To avoid disgracing myself I clanked across to the bucket, holding the slack of my chain. I squatted, facing the wall, hearing the sniggers as I relived my aching bladder, my face crimson.

It must be the next morning by now and my belly rumbles with hunger as I write this. I can have nothing to eat or drink until I finish it to their satisfaction. Sorry about the smudge, I had a little cry. Bitterness mixes with my anger that I am here having to do this. I should have been at the retreat having a facial and massage and then opening your new supermarket. Instead I am sitting chained in a creepy cellar somewhere having to pour out my heart to Gerald's guards. They say they will also interrogate me to obtain all of our 'bedroom' secrets which they will make public to 'encourage' you if you don't co-operate with their demands.

This is a nightmare from which I know I shall not awake. I can only look forward to them deciding this letter is sufficient, then more tortures tomorrow! Why oh why? Yet I must play their game, they make the rules and I can only follow - hopefully you will too, John. They are coming again. I just hope this letter is OK. - Miranda.'