Painful Pathway, page 5
Left alone with this threatening stranger, Sophie stood trembling with anticipatory fear - who was this man and what would he do to her? But surely nothing could be worse than what she had been subjected her to so far, she thought to herself naively ...
“Open your legs,” he ordered; he spoke with a slight American or transatlantic accent. Sophie altered her stance to stand with her legs apart. Although she had her eyes tightly shut now, she could sense him circling around her like a predator, his deep-set eyes feasting on her flesh. She started when he reached out a callused hand to stroke her breast. He pulled roughly and painfully at the silver loops and then proceeded to play with her aching mounds, kneading them like bread dough and twisting and pulling at the dark nipples so roughly that her eyes grew moist with tears once more and she bit her lower lip to suppress a sob.
“Lie down on your back with your legs open and up,” he told her. She obeyed silently, lying down with her legs spread apart and her knees raised. He took the pack from his back, rummaged about in it, and produced some object.
“Know what this is?” he asked, thrusting it in her face. She nodded. It was a vibrator but fashioned like a hand grenade and startlingly realistic. “It’s going up you,” he told her and then proceeded to part her lips and force the large vibrator into her passage, stretching her more than she would ever have imagined possible; only the ‘pin’ remained visible to aid removal. “And this” he told her, brandishing a metallic torpedo-shaped dildo at her, “is going up your fanny.” She was puzzled for the briefest of moments before she recalled that in America ‘fanny’ was vernacular for backside not vagina as in English. Using no lubrication and struggling against the resistance her sphincter he thrust the missile into her rear passage. She screamed and struggled but he was easily able to pin her down and force her to accept the alien intrusion. He then produced a special leather girdle that he used to keep the sex-aids in position and a length of plastic-coated wire that he used to bind her ankles together; he used another length to bind her wrists.
“I like to fuck red cheeks,” he told her and for a moment she was confused again; he couldn’t take her with the girdle and dildoes in place. But he meant her face, not her ass and began to smack her again and again until she was sobbing and her cheeks were ruby with harsh slapping. He then removed his defence-green trousers and Y’s and positioned himself to push his erection into her mouth. He shoved his short but thick member in and out of her mouth, causing her to gag more than once. At last he spilled into her, the hot sticky fluid tasting bitter. He withdrew quickly and held a hand over her mouth so she was forced to swallow down the sex juice.
Then he went to his backpack and produced a strong latex full body-sack, with a high collar and a heavy-duty zipper from toe to neck just like the one that Rabanne had used. She could barely even struggle once he had secured her tightly within its confines. Just for good measure he also gagged her before rearranging his clothes, retrieving his pack, and leaving.
It was not Vic who came to fetch Sophie this time but a young woman. She was about twenty-five with cropped black hair and hazel eyes; she was naked, with a ring in her navel and Sophie could not help noticing that her breasts were scarred and disfigured. She released Sophie from the body-sack, removed the girdle and sex-aids and helped her to her feet. Then she rummaged about in a leather-topped ottoman chest and produced yet another outfit for her to change into; this time it was a very short frilly pink baby-doll dress, white frilly knickers, white ankle socks, and black plimsolls.
“Please, I need help,” Sophie pleaded. “I’m a prisoner here. Can’t you help me to ...?” The woman looked utterly terrified and frantically shook her head, putting her hand to Sophie’s mouth in a silent gesture for her to stop speaking. Sophie suddenly wondered if the room was bugged. And most likely this poor frightened woman was as much a helpless prisoner as she was herself. With a disheartened sigh, Sophie took a rag doll that she held out to her and then followed silently as she led her from the playroom and down the hall. She rapped on the door, opened it and nudged Sophie forwards. Trembling with nerves she went in.
The small room was decorated in dark colours and dimly lit. There were two armchairs, a small office desk and chair in a corner, a high bookshelf crammed with books and a portable TV. Sitting in one of the armchairs by a small log fire was a middle-aged man reading the daily newspaper. At her entrance he put the paper aside and glared angrily at her. She stood still near the doorway, nervously clutching the rag doll and fidgeting her feet.
“Come here, Lucy-Anne,” he snapped and Sophie hesitantly went over to where he sat. She kept her head lowered, afraid to meet his gaze.
“Mummy tells me you were a very naughty little girl this morning. Is that right?” Sophie hesitated and the man snapped at her, “Answer ‘yes, Daddy’.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Sophie gave a half-whispered reply, still staring down at the floor, her face blazing scarlet.
“What must daddies do to naughty little girls, Lucy-Anne?”
“I don’t know, Daddy,” Sophie replied in a small voice.
“Spank them, of course. Lean over my lap.” Sophie leaned over the man’s broad lap. She could feel his erection jabbing against her stomach even through the fabric of his trousers and underwear. He raised the pink frock and began to stroke her cheeks through the thin cotton of the white frilly knickers. Then he brought his open palm down hard on her ass and she yelped out at the sudden smart; there followed another smack and another, as he spanked her soundly. She bit into the rag doll to stifle her cries. When he eventually ceased the chastisement she was weeping bitterly.
“Now go and lean forward over the desk,” ‘Daddy’ ordered. He grabbed the elastic of her knickers and slid them down to her ankles. “This is another way to punish bad girl’s bottoms,” he told her with a malicious laugh and suddenly rammed himself savagely into her tight rear hole. Sophie shrieked and struggled but she was no match for her abuser, who simply found her protestations exciting. He drummed and slammed against her reddened cheeks as she grasped the edge of the desk tightly and howled. At last he exploded into her with gusto and she screamed out, her body convulsing with the sudden savage spasms. He withdrew, wiped himself on her knickers and pulled them up over her cheeks again.
“Thank me for your punishment and tell me you’ll be good now, Lucy-Anne,” he told her.
“Thank you for punishing me, Daddy. I’ll be a good girl now,” Sophie replied obediently, her voice choked. He pulled a bell-rope near the fireplace, sat down in the armchair, and resumed reading his newspaper. Moments later the voiceless young woman appeared once more and led Sophie from the room.
The silent slave girl showed Sophie to a small bedroom, prettily decorated with soft pastel colours, but with a barred window and a bondage bed accompanying the usual furniture of a wardrobe, chest of drawers and dressing table. Yet another change of clothing was already laid out on the bed.
The outfit proved to be a pervy version of the traditional French Maid’s outfit - a very short but full black rubber skirt with frilly French knickers to wear beneath; a brief white rubber apron; a white maid’s cap; a pair of black fishnet hold-up stockings; and a pair of black stilettos with ankle straps that had tiny padlocks to prevent removal. Sophie changed into the sexy garment; the cool clingy rubber actually felt strangely comforting, which confused her. To Sophie’s further surprise and horror the woman now produced two pairs of handcuffs, a ball gag and nipple clamps from the bottom tray of the bathroom buddy. She swiftly fastened the nipple clamps in place beneath the rubber apron, causing Sophie to squirm and bite back tears, and then she fitted the ball gag. Still holding the handcuffs, she signalled for Sophie to follow; she took her downstairs to the kitchens where the Victorian image of the house was dispelled by the ultra-modern stainless steel environment. A chef and two assistants did not even bother to glance up at their entrance. She handcuffed Sophie’s wrists to the handle of a silver hostess trolley.
“When the bell rings, push the trolley to the dining room. It’s the room right opposite,” she instructed her briefly in a half-whisper before leaving the kitchen.
Sophie stood in mute and humble silence, her heart racing, the adrenaline rushing, as one of the chef’s assistants began to stack the trolley with hors d’oeuvres - Carciofi, Giardiniera and Acciughe in Salsa Verde. Just as the last dish was laid upon the tray a bell rang out and the assistant held open the door for Sophie. She teetered slowly on the high heels, grateful for the support of the trolley, to the small but elegant dining room where Rabanne was seated with his handful of guests around a large round walnut dining table. A young man stood near the table in a sexy rubber adaptation of a waiter’s outfit complete with bow-tie, having just served a light, dry Pinot Grigio and now ready to serve the dishes from the hostess trolley. Schubert’s Symphony number five was playing low in the background.
The meal was a relaxed and leisurely affair with Rabanne and his guests taking time to enjoy the food and the conservation in a laid-back and unhurried fashion. They seemed barely aware of the presence of the sexy rubber-clad waitress hovering nearby as small talk ranged from politics to sport to tentative plans for a Goth Wicked Hallowe’en party.
One of the guests was showing an open interest in the waiter. He touched the young man’s hand each time he placed a new dish on the table in front of him or poured him more wine - once he slipped his hand to his crotch and gave a playful squeeze; the youth, Sophie observed, was playing it cool but polite, his hand completely steady as he poured the wine.
An Il Primo of Risotto con Porcini followed the antipasto, served with Frascati that Rabanne described as ‘fruity with a vibrant sweetness’ when he tasted it. The final course was Focaccia with a selection of cheeses - Pecorino, Caciocavallo and Taleggio; the choice of wine was now Chianti. Then everyone sat back with a mug of coretto - expresso with a dash of alcohol.
Sophie was silently praying that she would now be dismissed - her feet were aching dreadfully after spending so long standing still or journeying to and fro twixt kitchen and dining room in the stilettos and she was longing to sit down at last. Rabanne must have Italian as well as middle-eastern blood, she mused dismally; surely only a Mediterranean could make lunch last nearly two hours - a wonderful concept if you were eating but a nightmare if you were serving.
Over coffee the waiter’s enthusiastic fan leaned forward to mutter something to Rabanne, who chuckled amusedly and then called him over. A protracted, whispered conversation ensued before the waiter, apparently with some reluctance, left the room in the company of his admirer. Two other guests, a portly middle-aged man and a woman who wore far too much make-up, thanked Rabanne for his hospitality and departed together. That left just Rabanne himself and two other male guests. As the company dwindled and she had still not been dismissed, Sophie began to feel alarmed.
Anticipatory fear was thrilling through her; her cheeks became flushed and her palms sweaty. She kept her gaze lowered, anxious not to make eye contact at all, but knew all the same that they were looking at her, talking quietly together about her. One, whom she had heard addressed as Cliff, was in his forties with greying hair and rugged features; the other, Gary, was in his late twenties or possibly early thirties with fiery red hair and a Viking physique to match, well over six feet, broad, muscular and fit. Their eyes were hot, hungry and devouring. Sophie could hear her heart pounding, feel the blood coursing through her veins and feel the sweat trickling between her breasts and down her spine. This could not be happening to her.
It was Gary who approached her first. Rabanne and Cliff sat casually drinking coffee and chatting whilst Gary went over to Sophie, stood behind her and lifted up her rubber skirt to reveal her frilly French knickers. He pulled the panties down to her ankles and spread her legs apart, forcing her to lean forward over the trolley to which she was still cuffed. He unzipped his flies to release his manhood, already erect, and - grasping her tightly by the hips - drove it savagely into her lust tunnel without foreplay or ceremony. She shrieked in agony and terror and struggled but to no avail. He was well endowed, a generous nine inches and very thick and Sophie moaned and sobbed pitifully as he rhythmically thrust in and out. She grasped the trolley for dear life, teetering dangerously, a fire rising rapidly inside her. She bit onto the gag and screamed throatily behind it when he exploded into her with force. Zipping up his flies, he spoke briefly to Rabanne and then left, not once having spoken to her.
She had barely recovered from the force of his ejaculation when Cliff was upon her, standing behind her and reaching around to maul her throbbing breasts through the taut white rubber of the apron. The nipple clamps biting into her nubs were dug into the flesh of her creamy rounded mounds and she struggled to fight back tears once more. Having manhandled her breasts for a while he then moved back to stroke her firm globes. He obviously wanted to take things far more slowly than Gary had done, wanted to take as much pleasure as he could from this firm young nubile before coming to his ultimate purpose. He went down onto his knees and pressed his face against her rear, nuzzling against her crack and flicking his tongue at her tight rosebud. Then he suddenly sank his teeth into her fleshy globe, drawing blood and Sophie cried out from behind the gag. He bit her again and again, leaving bleeding bite marks all over her cheeks and she sobbed hysterically. He stood, leaned forward over her and drew his nails firmly down her back from collarbone to waist, again drawing blood and Sophie howled in unbelievable agony. She watched through a mist of tears as Cliff then went to the table and picked up a red candle; but Rabanne caught his wrist.
“The dye in coloured candles can cause blood poisoning,” he advised his friend. “Use one of the white ones. Or better still there are some bees’-wax candles in the sideboard drawer - that has a much higher melting point so that the wax really burns.” He threw the terrified Sophie a malicious smile as Cliff went to open the sideboard drawer and took out one of the yellowish handmade beeswax candles.
He lit it on one of the table candles and then proceeded to drip the hot molten liquid onto Sophie’s cheeks. He varied the height from which he dripped the wax so that the temperature too varied and Sophie never knew just how much pain to anticipate. She was biting against the gag and crying bitterly, silently pleading for this torture to cease.
At long last Cliff blew out the candle and discarded it on the hostess trolley. But her ordeal was far from over, for now he removed the leather belt from his trousers, positioned himself carefully and brought it down hard across her back. She screamed out and struggled, the trolley teetering; if it had not had a brake it would have careered forwards, as it was it nearly toppled over sideways. Cliff threw a questioning glance to Rabanne, who nodded his consent, and then released Sophie from her restraints. She at once fell to her knees, too shaken and aching to stand unsupported.
Cliff nudged her in the small of the back with his booted foot, indicating that she should lie down. She obeyed in tearful silence. Once she was lying down on her front he proceeded to administer the beating, slashing the belt across her back again and again. At long last he threw aside the belt, removed his trousers and Y’s and lay himself down on top of her. He pushed her legs apart, grasped her hair tightly in both hands and rammed himself into her tight rear tunnel. He rode her furiously, slamming against her tortured flesh, until at last he climaxed, spurting into her with force. He withdrew, manhandled her onto her back, removed the gag and pressed his mouth firmly against hers in a painfully passionate kiss that made her lips swell; she could taste her own blood in her mouth. Then he dressed, shook hands with Rabanne and left.
Rabanne rose languidly from his chair and strolled almost lazily over to the naked, bleeding and weeping young woman sprawled out on his dining room carpet. He stood astride her, gazing down on her with malevolent amusement on his face. Then he spat at her and left the room.
Chapter Five
After five minutes or so the youthful waiter appeared. He was a rather feminine-featured young man in his late teens or early twenties with sultry cerulean eyes and full pouting lips. He was no longer wearing the rubber waiter’s garb; he wore only a tight pair of PVC shorts that accentuated his generous bulge - his slim upper body was naked and his nipples ringed. He took Sophie gently by the forearm, helped her to her feet and led her from the room.
“I’m Alan - or Ellen, if you like, I answer to either,” the striking youth told her rather oddly. He took her to a bathroom where he undressed her, bathed her wounds in cool water and then he tended them with antiseptic ointment before taking her, naked, back to the small bedroom with the barred window, promising to bring her a meal soon.
As soon as Alan left, Sophie tried the bedroom door but of course it was locked. She went to the small window - that was certainly no escape route for the bars were solidly secure, and anyway it was a long drop down to the ground below. She gazed across the acres of landscaped gardens to the deer park beyond and wondered if she would ever leave this place. Was the rest of her life to be spent here, being abused and violated by strangers or perhaps forced into pregnancy and placed in the dairy with those other maltreated wretches?
A short while later Alan came with some late lunch for her. No, not Alan, she realised - Ellen. She understood now why he had given both names for he was definitely Ellen right now - the young man was carefully and subtly made-up and wore a flattering creamy silk frock with padding at the hips and breasts to create a convincing female figure and low-healed creamy court shoes. He placed the tray he was carrying down on the chest of drawers. There was a generous portion of macaroni cheese with tomatoes and salad and an apple pie for dessert. Sophie picked at the meal half-heartedly for a few moments before suddenly bursting into tears.
