Wrong Number
by Peter Loaf

My adventure started with a telegram. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon and I was just getting ready to go out shopping for my dinner. The doorbell rang and I cautiously peeked out to see a boy in a uniform cap holding up a telegram envelope. I opened the door and looked at the uniformed boy in dread. I thought, Telegrams are only for bad news, everyone knows that.

On second glance I noticed that he was not a boy at all but a middle-aged woman who was short of stature and fine of feature. When I opened the storm door to take the message, she struck like a cobra, hitting me in the chest with a taser. Before I knew anything more I was being manhandled into this crate by two rather large, smelly gentlemen who were dressed like dock workers.

I tried to scream but found my mouth had been packed with a bagful of Styrofoam beanbag stuffing that seemed to absorb my cries like a rainy night absorbs light. When I tried to push the mouth packing out, I discovered it was fastened inside. There was a wide rubber mask that covered my lower face from just under my eyes down to my throat. There must have been nose holes but they weren’t big enough to get much air. I found that I could make nasal grunts and not much more.


By the time we’d got to the depot I knew I would never get free. When you are in the hands of professionals you tend to be professionally handled, it’s just the way it works. I was naked, tightly bound, gagged, head-boxed, and crated cargo. I couldn’t see, hear, move or call out. I screamed when the crate tilted and lifted but I doubt anyone heard me. I felt myself being trundled on a luggage trolley and pictured a platform full of commuters, intent on getting home for their dinners.

Packed in Styrofoam and getting my air through a tube, I was wheeled out and loaded into the door of the freight car. The train ride was forever. Time seems to stop when you are alone, helpless and terrified.

When I couldn’t hold it any longer I was forced to wet myself. I felt the hot liquid gushing from me, warming my legs and then growing cold. I was dying for a drink of water, or a flicker of light, or a chance to move. I could not see, move or make myself heard. I fell asleep, at some point.

When I awoke I was again being trundled on a freight cart. The air in the breathing tube was now thin and cold and I guessed we must be in the mountains. Cut off from my surroundings, my senses had narrowed to the one I had left, taste. The air tasted of pine forests and few humans.

The baggage truck stopped and my crate was lifted into what sounded like a pickup truck. The truck took several more hours of winding mountain roads before stopping. I was lifted down and carried like a piece of luggage for a few yards and set down. The taste of the air told me I was indoors, perhaps a house.

Then, after a moment there came a blast of cool air on my sweaty flanks and the lid was removed exposing my naked, tightly bound body to several questing hands. I was lifted out, the head box still in place, to be laid out on my side on a carpeted floor. The head box was turned so that I was forced to look upward and a little door on the front opened. The Western Union messenger grinned down at me. She began to sing.

Welcome to Billings, from sugar dad
Come be my candy, I’ll make you glad
Your Master’s mate
Your subbie’s fate
High on my mountain, come and be bad

With that she closed the little door, plunging me back into complete isolation. But I was definitely feeling better about my prospects. This was probably not going to be my last stand. I would survive, somehow, perhaps even thrive. No one who wrote such crude poetry could possibly be that bad. Or so I hoped.

On the other hand, I’d been attacked, stunned, stripped, bound and boxed. Who were these people and how had they known about my secret submissive side? I felt the ropes on my wrists being untied and my wrists being buckled to the ends of a long bar so that they were held nearly a meter apart with the connecting bar beneath my back.


The head box was removed and I met my new Master. While he worked on me I got a good look at him. He was a hugely muscled man who looked like Mr. Universe. He was wearing a golden key on a chain around his neck and nothing else. He was hung like a mule and looked about as strong as one to boot. I hoped he was going to be my Master.

I tried to protest, just for the look of the thing but I was secretly hoping he would punish me for doing so. He looked down at me and spoke, “Welcome to my mountain, slave Georgia, I will be your trainer, your guide, your agony and your ecstasy. I will be your sun, your moon and your planets. I will be your Master.”

“Just for the record, my name is Mary.” I said, the best I could manage with my gag-cramped mouth. My captor looked surprised, then asked, “Aren’t you Georgia Anderson of 3906 Clark Street, Chicago.” He asked, looking at a photograph he picked up from a table.

“I think there has been a mistake, I live at 3609!” I said, smiling up at him. “But don’t let that stop you, I find I kind of like this so far.”

“What are you saying?” he asked, looking around at his crew of “Professional” kidnappers. “They got the wrong girl?”

“Not that wrong,” I said, “they got what they came for, after all, a submissive slave slut. Now, how about a little action, and try to be careful, will you.”

You must understand, by this time I had recognized him. It all fell together like the pieces of a puzzle. This was the infamous Mountain Man, of internet fame. Somehow, in a stroke of wonderful luck, I was up on his mountain top pony farm and internet broadcast studio. This Georgia woman was probably sitting at home, right now, in tears of bitter disappointment. A visit to the Mountain costs a lot. She’d paid her money and the dumb kidnappers had got the wrong girl. Too bad for her, some girls win, some girls lose.

Mountain Man looked down at me and smiled. I shivered in anticipation, secure in the knowledge I could not escape my fate.

“How about we start with a caning?” he said, lifting my feet to hang then on a dangling chain so that only my head and shoulders touched the carpet.


The three men who’d brought me were circling, one shooting video, one shooting stills and the third doing lights and sound.

The cane whistled and my suspended ass exploded in sharp hot agony. I was sure I’d been cut, certain that blood would soon be flowing down my back.

His second cut hit me across my suspended feet, leaving two angry welts across my upturned soles.

I screamed and thrashed, helpless to escape, knowing my pussy must be swelling like a blister, smelling like a fish. The third through twelfth cuts of the came were across the backs of my thighs, leaving a tiger stripe pattern of agony from bottom to knees.

He bent down and sampled my pussy froth with his finger, carelessly giving my swollen clit a brush that nearly set of my orgasm. He nodded approval and stood up, the ash rod in his fist. “Fit her with the inflatable cock, I think she’ll like that.” he said to the small woman who hurried to an equipment table and returned, a shit-eating grin on her face, a long rubber dong in her hands. From the dildo’s root end hung a short piece of tubing and a squeeze pump.

I could only lie there and watch as the huge thing was greased and then shoved deep into my pussy, clear down to my cervix. Two seconds later the little woman was pumping air into the monster inside me, stretching me and expressing pointed hard rubber barbs that would hold it in place, no matter how hard I tried to expel it. Then she switched on the vibrating motor. Then there was a period of time where they used a paddle, a flogger and a riding crop on me as I writhed my way through more orgasms than I could count. When I thought I was nearly spent they brought a vibrating clitoris wand that proved me wrong.

When the show was over and all three of my male captors were limp and swinging limber I remained in my bondage, mindful that the little dyke’s strap-on was still as potent as ever. This was only day one of my week on the mountain. I was no longer sure I would survive. I wouldn’t have traded places with a Queen.