CHAPTER FOURTEEN: PATRICIA DOLL - Trish's Story

 

By the end of the second night that I'd spent chained up in the holding cell in the basement of Bilboes, all manner of thoughts had passed through my brain as to why this had happened to me and where it was all leading. Warren O'Rorke's unexpected arrival and my capitulation to his taser gun had sparked a myriad of questions, many of which related to the passing of time. When would Monica get back from her luxury sojourn? Why hadn't there at least have been a phone call? Would Warren have answered it and spun some story? Otherwise the phone would remain on message bank by default if nobody picked it up. When would Jillian and Emma return from visiting Jill's parents in Sydney? Would they phone first? Had they already done so? When was Shawnee getting back?

I lay on my back on the iron framed bed with its thin mattress, fingering the heavy steel collar locked around my neck and the chain anchoring me to the heavy eyebolt in the wall. Warren had been ultra-careful with me in the four days since he had taken control of Bilboes. At no time had he allowed my limbs to be free without some back-up, like the ubiquitous neck chain. He knew that if I tried anything in this state - even if I knocked him unconscious - I could still not get free, since he was always careful to leave the key to the chain lock well out of reach. Warren was a pro. He knew bondage and he knew how to control a girl.

He also knew what he wanted from a subbie - not that I put myself into that category, oh no. Warren's turn-on was a Domme forced into a submissive role. That was where the bastard really got off. A little humiliation for someone not used to it or unable to handle it - someone who would fight back, who would resist in a situation where, as they say, resistance is futile. That was just what he liked. Well, Mr O'Rorke had had as much resistance from me as he was going to get. He didn't know how patient I could be. I would bide my time, and sooner or later he would make a mistake of some sort.

It had been a long and painful four days. Not one of my better Christmases, though I suppose it could be called one of the more memorable ones. I had been kept bound the whole time, usually with my wrists crossed behind my back. Warren liked women that way, it seemed. I was rapidly becoming an expert on the exact nature of Warren's likes and dislikes, from bondage positions to the clothing appropriate to someone in those positions.

That was something I suppose I should have been thankful for. Any sort of clothing usually meant some degree of protection from the whip or the cane, or at very least the tightness of ropes. Warren's favourites were boots and latex, with the result that I had spent much time in a black rubber catsuit with high heeled boots to match. Ordinarily this made me feel as sexy as hell, for when you see yourself in shiny latex in a mirror, there is a look about the slick curves that does something for a girl. In my own case, the normal circumstances in which I would wear such an outfit would be in dealing out a punishment to a deserving sub, where the self-same outfit imbues one with a sense of power and dominance. It is the icing on the cake, of course, for the dominance must come from within, but sexy clothes make everything worthwhile, somehow.

Seeing myself in the mirror this time, the slick latex clinging to my curves and stretched taut over my breasts was all well and good. As usual the high heeled boots added an extra elegance to my legs, and I'm not just being vain here. In terms of age, I'm the second senior Domme in the house after Mary, and - if I say so myself - I reckon I'm wearing pretty well. Put my hair up and a whip in my hand and I'll scare the pants off any client who might be bound in my presence.

The problem was, admiring my latex-clad figure in the mirror took on a whole new dimension when I was stretched in a star-shape between two posts in the Post Room downstairs, my ankles separated by a spreader bar and my wrists roped and pulled wide and high. With a rubber ball strapped tightly in my mouth and the strategic slits in the costume providing access to my tits and pussy, I was not the figure of dominance I would normally have been.

That had been yesterday morning. I 'd been forced to watch myself get fucked from behind by Warren, to see his hands coming from behind to grope my breasts and to tease the nipples erect through the slits in the front of the catsuit - white hands and two white sensitive spots against a glistening black surround. More significantly, I had been forced to watch my struggles of resistance come to nothing, my attempts to keep my muscles clenched to prevent penetration amounting to nothing. And when the entry had been forced, heedless of my stifled protests, I had been compelled to see my body slowly succumb to the remorseless thrusting, until I, too, was moving with him, my objections cast aside in the rising heat from my loins.

How I hated myself then for capitulating so easily. I hated Warren, too, for doing this, but mostly I hated myself. At least during the caning I received before this final ignominy, I could focus my rebellion on him alone, as my body cried out under the impact of the cane and the searing lines of agony being drawn on my latex-clad buttocks. Pain was one thing, and it helped me focus on my loathing for this man in a complete and uncomplicated way. How dare he do this to me! Things were simple - he beat me, and it hurt like crazy.

My confusion began when he cast the cane aside. First there was the blessed relief from the blows, though my bottom still hurt with a fire that radiated through the rest of my body. Mixed with the relief was an underlying gratitude that he had not continued, then - after an initial protest - a slow slide down the slope of pleasure as his groping hands found my hidden, vulnerable spots that erupted into unexpected warmth as he teased and tantalised them. My struggling in my ropes was pointless, though I went through the motions as any girl would. In my innermost consciousness I knew what was going to happen. I knew that Warren was good at what he did. I had experienced this before and I knew why Monica - in our early days with him as a legitimate client - had kept him to herself.

When he drove himself inside me and had eventually driven me into a frenzy of sweaty struggling, he forced me to look at myself in the mirror. I saw the shiny black-clad woman chewing on her gag and tugging against her ropes as she climaxed, once, then twice, before her tormentor exploded inside her, then brutally withdrew, leaving her hanging limply.

That had been yesterday. Now I lay on the mattress, running my fingers over the slick latex suit that I still wore. The memory of yesterday - and the other times I had been used in various ways since his arrival - made me flush, and brought a stirring to my loins. I could see why Christina had stayed with him so long. He was a submissive's delight, provided you could stand the pain that came with the pleasure. But I was no submissive!

He had left me here, chained by the neck to the wall, my wrists handcuffed and my ankles manacled with a short hobble chain. It was unnecessary restraint, but was implemented to enforce his dominance and my helplessness. Every time I moved I would feel the cold steel about my wrists, ankles or neck. I was his to do with as he damned well pleased, and nothing was going to stop him.

The preceding three days had been full of just that - Warren doing to me whatever he wanted. I was truly his Christmas present, a live action figure accompanied by a big house full of accessories with which to encase, adorn or restrain his Patricia Doll. Warren was the bondage devotee equivalent of a kid in a sweet shop - if such a simple metaphor still remains relevant in this day and age, when kids tastes seem to have gone haywire. Everything is now electronic stimulation, and I was no exception. Batteries certainly were included with Warren's toy.

It had been years since I had been bound continuously like Warren had forced on me. A long time ago I had been bound for forty-eight hours as part of my early training under Mary in Sydney. Part of that had been to get me off the drugs that were screwing me up at the time, and it had not been a pleasant experience. I discovered very quickly that you couldn't do much in the way of snorting or swallowing stuff without help, and Mary provided none. There had been cold turkey, and a whole lot of unpleasant experiences I associated with those times.

This time it was different. I was towed around by Warren like a dog following its master, every so often being secured to a chair or table leg, or to one of the verandah posts. Sometimes I had been blindfolded, sometimes gagged, sometimes both, just for variety and to amuse Warren, who never seemed to get tired of the game. It occurred to me that he had been dreaming of this moment for a long time - dreaming and planning and obsessing, and I was sure there was a lot more to come, given the range of equipment we kept at Bilboes.

Oral sex on the verandah with a ring gag was evidently a favourite, with Warren the master seated on a wicker lounge while I, the beaten, subservient woman knelt obediently to suck him off while he gripped my hair and manipulated my head over the big, engorged dick that he was so confident in using.

Again, I hated him for these moments as he grunted and shot forth into my mouth, while I sucked hard and tried not to choke on the creamy liquid. At such times my clarity of thought left no doubt in my mind - that Warren was a no-holds-barred bastard and no revenge could be too painful for him when the time came - as it surely would.

But then would come the time in Monica's huge four-poster bed, when, after a hot shower - still bound of course - he would take me and screw me in more civilised and comfortable surroundings, first from the front and then from behind. He liked to have me gagged by some means in such encounters, and was not above using balls, tape or anything else that was to hand. I knew it was all part of his plan to humiliate me and make me hate myself, turning the focus away from him.

Warren was no idiot. A little self-obsessed, maybe, but whatever else his failings, he knew the way a woman's mind - and a woman's body - worked. He knew about the Stockholm Syndrome, where the kidnap victims come to love their captors, and he knew that by forcing me to submit, then to listen to my own cries and grunts of pleasure as the warmth flooded over me in a way that I couldn't resist, he would eventually weaken my resolve. Warren was aiming to turn me into another Christina, accepting of the pain, dependant on the pleasure in a way that only a junkie can understand.

He may have understood women in general, and perhaps have had a justifiably high opinion of his prowess, but he didn't understand this woman, and the determination I held that he would one day be punished for this.