by Peter Loaf
I wish that masked bastard hadn't been so good at tying. My God, I can hardly move. Wrapped tightly together at wrists, elbows, knees and ankles, I am helpless to either fight or fly.
I'd scream if he hadn't gagged me.
As it is I can only hum.
I look around, finding myself in an almost empty basement.
I wonder if there is anything sharp in that cupboard? But how to get there? Can I roll?
The way he's tied my elbows to my back, rolling is not going to work. The best I can do is a kind of crippled snake slither. On my belly, I set off across the floor. I'm moving less than a foot a minute.
How long will he be gone?
Come on you stupid body, Move!
Ok, I'm here, now what? Get the door open. I wiggle around so I can use my feet. God these ropes are tight! I should have scratched his eyes out, I should have kneed him in the balls. But it was so quick. Before I knew I was in danger, it was already too late.
It was after cheerleading practice, I was fumbling for my keys in the parking lot. Suddenly there was someone right behind me, a big someone. As I turned to face whoever, the lights went out and then the rope noose tightened around my throat. I was too busy trying to get air into my lungs to worry about much else. Finally, in a swirl of shooting stars, I passed out.
Next thing I knew, I was hogtied in a car trunk, trying to get a mail sack off of my head. My noose had been loosened, allowing me to breathe, but not so far as to let me wiggle out of it. I have no idea where I am, it could be anywhere on the planet. Or off, for that matter.
The cupboard door finally opens and what do I find? A gallon jar of molasses. Now there is just the tool I needed.
I could break the jar and use a sharp piece of glass. God it would be a mess. Crawling around on my belly in molasses mixed with broken glass? A bloody mess.
Maybe if I hid? I could maybe get in there and pull the door closed. I look around the bare basement walls. I wonder if it would take him two seconds to find me?
Perhaps there is something sharp up on the counter top. God I hope not. I shudder with the unwelcome thought of a set of scalpels, all laid out and ready.
I wonder if I can sit up?
Maybe sitting, I can get a better look up there.
Maybe I could even climb those stairs.
Shit these ropes are tight!
I can stick my toes under the edge of the cabinet, and get some leverage . . . Ah, that's the ticket!
So now what?
I hear footsteps!
The door at the top of the stairs opens, admitting my masked, naked captor.
He's hung like a pony, has a body like the Hulk
He's carrying a large roll of butcher paper, and a video camera.
He comes down the steps, says, "Sorry I was gone so long." and sets to work.
The paper is rolled out on the basement floor, making a ten foot square. Using silver gaffer's tape, he fastens down all four edges.
Picking me up in his powerful arms, he sits me down in the middle of the paper. Stepping back to the cupboard, he gets out the big jar and takes off the cover. Before I know what he intends, he upends it over my head. As it oozes down over me, he pulls on a pair of rubber gloves.
I am soon blind, unable to risk even trying to open my eyes.
He pushes me down, rolling me around in the sticky goo. He forces my chest into the stuff, my belly, my thighs.
He leaves me, stuck.
I hear him moving around, shooting his video I guess.
I find I can only wiggle, getting anywhere is not happening. I wiggle and plead through the packing in my mouth.
He chuckles. I feel his hands on me again. He's cutting my sweater! I struggle in the goo, unable to keep my clothing.
I feel his rubber covered fingers, smearing the goo, caressing.
It is worse than rape, it is more exciting than sex.
I feel the tide rising, the need blooming, the cums cuming.
I revolt, thrashing my helpless body in the goo, gaining nothing, earning a sudden slap to my bare breast.
I freeze, aware that I am about to have an orgasm.
The caressing resumes, the rubber covered finger slipping, in and out of my creaming vulva. I hold back my orgasm, afraid of what it will bring.
He slaps his rubber glove covered hand across my breasts, again and again, not hurting me so much as stoking me.
He bends down and suckles the molasses from my burning nipples. Lightning zaps around my nervous system. Behind my stuck down eyelids, my eyes bulge, my muffled screams reach a crescendo.
His two fingers find and massage my "G" spot. I can not hold it! The orgasm sweeps me away, carrying with it all that I think I am.
"Let the games begin!" He whispers into my one useable ear.
i am content that it is so.
* * *
My Master lets me calm down. He gets up from beside me and begins filming again, circling around my helpless form, recording my post-coital bliss.
After a few minutes of this he returns, armed with a new length of rope.
Lashing my knees tightly to my chest, he makes me into a ball.
He rolls me over so that i am balanced, my bare butt high in the air, my face in the goo.
He begins to lick the molasses from my pussy. It feels wonderful. It feels urgent. i know soon its going to feel better.
i am drifting, unaware of anything much, other than the pleasure. i feel Him taking position behind me, i feel my pussy opening to Him, i feel the touch of Him, i feel my deep, burning need for Him.
i wiggle myself back onto His throbbing organ, impaling my hunger with His flesh. i grip on Him, feeling every vein and bump, as He strokes His big organ, in and out of me.
i rejoice, feeling His pleasure, feeding His passion, needing His semen. The life force blooms within me, opening out like a star shell.
Again orgasm wipes the slate clean.
* * *
i become aware that i am being licked. Licked in several places at once. i smell doggy breath, hear dog tags, feel the fur sticking to my goo covered body, feel a dog's tongue licking the goo from my face, feel other tongues cleaning other places.
i struggle to open an eye, sacrificing my lashes in my need to see. i count five dogs, three large, two small.
The big one licking my pussy has a talented tongue.
i wiggle furiously, trying to escape.
The one licking my pussy nips my bottom, warning me to hold still, then returns to his feast.
Behind them, my masked Master circles and shoots, zooming on the action, recording my reactions, grinning so wide i can see it in the corner of His eye.
When that video hits the market, i am going to get my fifteen minutes of fame.
Moll Flanders, my friend, I'm gonna get you for this.