Escape

 

The young woman, wearing a black knit cap, nylon windbreaker, black tights and knee boots, ran through the deep woods at a jogger's pace, panting heavily because she could only breathe through her nose. Her mouth was jammed full of cloth packing held in place by three separate retaining bonds: a tightly tied narrow band of red cloth that held the packing in place, then another flat, square pack the filled the narrow space between her teeth and then several meters of stretched adhesive tape that formed an air and sound proof seal.

Yet she still ran, somewhat haphazardly, until she realized she was perhaps now in deeper trouble than she was before she escaped from the crazy, sadistic bitch who kept her locked in the cellar. Her first concern was that she was lost - terribly lost. Her small window of opportunity to flee had been complicated by her lack of any real knowledge of the wooded area behind the house and she ran blindly, with no intention other than to get as far away from her mad keeper as she could, as quickly as possible. Her second problem was that she was overheating badly and had no way to control that except to slow down and try to cool off, despite the many meters of clear monofilament fishing line wrapped around her body. The strong fishing line was cunningly placed in such a way that as she moved the line cut into her nipples and crotch, digging deeper with every breath. Above and below her braless, youthful breasts, many meters of line pressed the nearby skin into deep crevasses, framing the breast and forcing the nipples outward only to have them cruelly bisected by a single strand of line that was centered over each jutting tit. No matter how she twisted and shook, the cutting single strands only dug deeper. The same was true of the multiple strands that wound through her crotch, anchored snugly by the torturous waist belt of dozens more strands of nylon line. The fishing line crotch cutters were symmetrically arranged with four or five strands on each side of her pouting sex lips and there were another half dozen strands of the brutal line slicing through the center of her sex, neatly framing her clit. One strand, deeply dug in, like the one on her tits, was at the center of her cunt, perfectly aligned to bisect the clitoris and to provide her with endless waves of alternate discomfort and erotic excitement as the thin cords pummeled the tiny sex pinnacle and made any movement a mix of disconcerting arousal and frustration. Her cotton shirt and panties were soaked in sweat and as she slowed down to try to figure out where she was, the bitter wind and below freezing temperature bit into her body as cruelly as the securing nylon line

Third, although she stopped several times to rub against what looked like a promising tree trunk or old fence post, she still had not been able to free her hands or arms from the tight and limb-numbing constriction of the thin and cutting line that wound around her arms from elbows to wrists and bound each finger and thumb to the opposite one on each hand. One old fence post seemed to offer salvation with a sharp, rusted metal projection that looked like it should cut the monofilament, but as soon as she rubbed against it, the rotted post collapsed and she toppled over with it, crying with pain and frustration as the line dug deeper into her clit and tits.

Her greatest fear remained that she would be caught and dragged back to the cellar where she had spent so many days and weeks, subjugated to the whims and will of her captor. She shivered with a curious mixture of fear and anticipation, thinking about the punishments she would have to endure if she was captured. As she rounded yet another sharp turn in the old and overgrown forest path, she suddenly realized that she had been there before. She was running in desperate circles.

Chapter One

Set-up

 

The town seemed too small to support two florists and tree nurseries, but the Garden of Weedin Florist & Nursery was an apparently thriving business, as was its only competitor, Ellen's Flowers & Landscaping. Local retailers who sold flowers, plants and evergreens; gardeners and others from distant parts of the country traveled considerable distances and went to one or the other business for everything from a wedding bouquet to small evergreens for landscaping.

Both enterprises had been there seemingly forever, but before taking their present form, the properties were part of a single, sweeping, eight thousand acre estate that encompassed forests, lakes, ponds, mountain caves, game lands, a tree farm and several cottages and out buildings. Eventually, when the original lord of the manor died, the greedy surviving relatives elected to subdivide the lands and split them into two nearly equal plots, a north section and a south section, and sold them with the strict qualification that the plots could not be further divided for one hundred years. The town fathers, equally prone to seeking the maximum return, decided that since there were now two taxable entities, they would roughly double the tax assessment and thus gain sorely needed revenue to help provide future pension income for themselves. So, although the lands were sold for a fraction of their worth, the taxes and upkeep alone meant that only a very few well to do buyers bid in the eventual auction.

Both new owners were very attractive, thirty something, single women and those qualities were just about the only similarities they shared. But less apparent was their common interest in the esoteric and erotic pursuits that they chose not to list on their CVs. While inspecting the properties, the real estate brokers handling the sales noted that both women displayed a rather odd fixation with the cellars in the houses and barns, as well as a remarkable fascination with the multiple caves in the nearby hills.

Speculation in the local pubs held that the reason one prospective buyer sought bids on adding electric power to a group of deep caves and the other woman was concerned about the bearing strength of the floors and ceilings in the main house had something to do with the occult.

"Isn't it a bit odd," Doctor Frances LaMont, the only local physician, was saying one night in The Raven, a popular hang-out for many of the town's people and best known for its requisite double measures of any bottled spirit it served. "They both seem to want their privacy, but are attractive enough to bring the flies to the bait, so to speak."

"Ay, that's for sure," answered Claus, the pub owner and barman. "If I had my choice though, it would be the Southern lands owner, Miss Ellen. What a piece of ass that is."

"Well, I am sure there are a lot of things we don't yet know about either of them," remarked LaMont. "As bits of tail go, I'd not be too choosey about which one I'd wish to examine or prang, in a non-professional way, of course," he added with a laugh. "There's always a secret or two that surface only when you've got them on their back."

"True enough," said Claus, refilling their glasses.

 

What wasn't generally known was that in the pub's attic, the owner kept Dora, his young wife, chained and silent year after year. Townspeople thought she had died years before, but in fact, Claus, the owner, arranged her fake death and put her away in the air conditioned attic for their mutual enjoyment. Gagged, hooded and nearly immobilized by her iron shackles and manacles, the wife waited for closing time when Claus would come slowly up the creaking staircase, a covered tray of food and drink carefully balanced as he unlocked the triple doors.

Upon his arrival, he waved the laden tray under her hood-enclosed nose and asked "before or after?" a question she would sometimes answer with one or two quiet groans from behind the soaked gags, hood and heavy steel brank. One sound meant "eat before" and two meant "eat after". It was usually the former and Claus would then remove the hood and the gag, allow her to use the exotically designed marble bathroom, clean herself up and sit while she ate her meal and drank her wine or beer. They would chat about the day's events and Claus would, as always, remind her that she could leave any time simply by activating any one of the multiple emergency alert devices he had carefully designed and maintained. By the time they finished, it was early morning. She again used the toilet, brushed her hair and put on a lace bra and panties with four suspenders attached, slipped into a fresh pair of dark, lace-topped hose that reached nearly to the tops of her fine thighs and slowly, while Claus watched with perpetual fascination, snapped the garters to the tops of the sheer hose. She then stepped into the area where the peaked roof was high enough to allow them both to stand upright and still reach upwards without touching the insulated, vaulted ceiling. Claus had already selected a pair of her tallest stiletto heels and slipped them onto her small feet, locking the ankle bands so that they were snug, but not too tight.

Her wrists were then again locked into padded cuffs, her gag reinserted and her ankles tied and pulled outward to the sides of the room. Claus adjusted the hanging chains so that she was standing on her toes.

"Ready now?" he asked.

Dora nodded. The brank making a slightly metallic sound as the pad lock of the head enclosure rattled against the chromed steel. Claus stood back a bit, smiled and swung the cane or whip or cat of his choice. Dora lurched, her knees bent as much as the ankle ropes allowed, feet left the carpeted floor and she let out a long sigh from behind the gag.

Usually she received a dozen strokes. At midpoint, Claus halted his work, pulled down the sweat-soaked panties and fucked her front or back, sometimes both. He did so slowly, with grace and skill, making sure that his wife enjoyed each deep thrust, each twist of her swollen nipples, each pinch and squeeze of her ripe, burning buttocks. He usually did her streaming cunt first, but on holidays and other occasions when he felt like it, he screwed her ass initially, taking his time and hanging on to her full and pendulous breasts while he rammed his stiff member as deep as it would go, often telling her that he would fuck her ass until his dick came out her nose. She would sweat and groan with pleasure, trembling and squeezing his deep-drilling prick until he and she both came.

Then Claus would revert to the beating device of choice and complete the dozen. The evening, or more rightfully, the morning, ended with a more conventional cunt drilling, again slow and easy so that both parties were assured that the other was enjoying it the most. Then he'd place her back in her usual posture, kneeling with wrists and elbows chained behind with a short chain up to her steel collar, ankles closely locked together and knees bent in a semi-hog-tie, but with enough slack to allow her to move around on the deeply carpeted floor. Unless he felt otherwise inclined, he'd leave her ungagged so that if, in semi conscious sleep, he'd want her to suck his cock, it was an easy accommodation. If he was in some way feeling less affable, he'd gag her with one of the larger penis gags, pull a lycra hood over her head so that the nose holes were aligned with her nostrils and then cap it with the unpleasant, chromed steel brank that forced the gag deeper into her stretched mouth and locked around her already collared throat. Claus would take his blanket and curl up next to her and they'd sleep until midday when he'd go downstairs and reopen the pub.