by Peter Loaf

My mother never stopped telling me, 'Donít take candy from strangers!'

Did I listen? Do I look like I listened?

I didnít listen then, and not now. Iíve always been a 'trusting' kind of girl. In my experience almost everybody you meet turns out to be nice, once you get to know them.

Almost is the most important word in the last paragraph.

I was at Carnival, dancing in the street. A masked man in a dungeon masterís costume offered me a drink from his bottle. After that things got . . . confused . . . and then someone was loading me into a van that smelled of fish.

When I awoke I was right here, tied up like a Christmas goose, trapped in a cellar, helpless to do anything but sit here, waiting to find out what comes next.

My head is swimming, I want to, need to, vomit.

My mouth is filled with an inflatable gag! To vomit is to die! I fight back the sick and try to take stock.

I am bound in common cotton clothesline, lots of it. My arms are tied together across my back and reinforced with breast-squeezing upper body bindings. My legs have been folded and bound so that I cannot hope to defend myself. As I said, like a Christmas goose, complete with stuffing. My ass feels as if there is a beach ball stuffed up inside.

I am tethered to an overhead pipe so I must sit here, on the exposed stub of the inflatable butt plug, and await the pleasure of a masked degenerate.

The final tie, the cruelest of all, is the one cutting me up the middle. It holds the butt plug in place and mashes my clitoris against my pelvic bone, driving me nuts, stimulating that part of me that needs stimulation least.

My bare breasts ache from the ropeís constant squeezing, my nipples are betraying my inner excitement by extending into tight rosy knobs, like invitations to the suckle.

The degenerate is walking around upstairs. I can hear the floorboards creak. I want to escape. I need to shit, piss, and vomit.

The door to the cellar opens. I hear footsteps coming down behind me. I hear a tuneless whistling. I strain against my bondage, trying to see my captor.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and stands gazing down at me. There is a black leather mask covering his face and a leather apron covering his stiff and protruding cock. Other than sandals, that is the full extent of his wardrobe.

He has a lot of body hair, almost a pelt. He could lose perhaps fifteen pounds around the middle, but the rest of his body is as hard as his cock. Looking up into his eyes, I see a glow that would scare the shit out of me if I could shit.

He bends over me and touches my left nipple, caressingly at first, then, taking my erect nubbin between the knuckles of his first two fingers, he pinches and twists it until I think it has burst. Holding my left nipple in its agony he bends over and suckles the right one, sending pleasure to wash away some of the pain. Both actions excite me. Both actions terrify me. I donít know weather to shit or go blind.

He fumbles with the rope above my head and lets me lie down on the cold stone that has been my seat. He pushes apart my feet and kneels down to shove his face into my rope split pussy. He begins to tear away my panties with his teeth, his hot breath scorching my wet and suddenly naked pubes. His tongue worms its way past the stretched rope and his lips suckle my swollen labia, making me forget the pain in my nipple, the fear I have been feeling, the pain in my bound, helpless, excited body. I feel something entering my vulva then scream as a third balloon inflates inside my body, becoming in an instant bigger than any man Iíve ever known.

He presses a big powerful vibrator against my rope-mashed clit and holds it there, despite my wide eyed, writhing response. I hum imploringly but he just continues to whistle through his teeth as he works on me.

I am nearing explosion and he is tying down the safety valve. I hump myself against the vibrator trying to get myself off, but he takes it away instead. He spanks my pussy, once, twice, three times then puts clothes pins on my nipples before returning the vibrator to my clitoris.

It is too much, I convulse into the mother of all orgasms.

Whoís the degenerate now? I think as the post coital bliss makes me forget the pain for a few minutes longer.

He stands over me, a flogger in his fist. I know my trials have just begun.

I rejoice, even as the thongs whistle down into my naked groin.