Pavlov's Dog By Trystl 1 The video's picture quality wasn't very good. The image was too grainy to see anything very well in the dim light; but the young woman who was watching didn't need to see the picture to know what was happening. Despite the poor sound quality, she could clearly hear the muffled protests of someone who was gagged and the scuffling and scraping of boots as two men led a reluctant young girl into the center of a basement. It was too dark to see how many men there were for sure. They wore dark clothes, including black gloves and ski masks; but she strongly suspected that there were at least three; definitely more than two. The girl wore a clingy creme colored sweater and a pair of white go-go boots that rose to just below her knees. Her light skin and the white clothing made her much easier to see than the men. Her mouth was stuffed with a black rubber ball-gag. A rope crisscrossed between her breasts and was wrapped several times around her arms and chest, pinning her limbs securely to her side at the elbows. The young woman who was watching unzipped the fly of her shorts and slipped her hand inside, rocking her hips slightly forward as she pressed against her pubic mound. With the fingers of her other hand, she twisted one of her own nipples through the sheer fabric of her clingy sweater. Just the thought of what was going to happen to the girl on the video was making her very hot and bothered. Snuff films always did. She reached over to her bag of toys without taking her eyes off the screen and pulled out a wooden clothespin. Her muscles stiffened for a moment and she gave an involuntary gasp as she clamped it onto her nipple, then she was reaching in for another clothespin. The girl on the video was trying to fight the men. There was nothing faked about her struggles; they reflected the very real fear in her eyes. But against multiple strong men, and bound as she was, her efforts did little more than force her body into provocative postitions. The men obviously knew this too, but they seemed to delight in grabbing various parts of her body: a leg, a breast, an arm, a hip or the side of her stomach. They began pushing and pulling her, sometimes in several directions at once, so that her body seemed to jerk about like a marionette with a novice (or perhaps a demented) puppeteer at the strings. Someone flipped a switch. The screen went white for a moment as a spotlight flared on. Then the automatic adjust brought the basement back into focus: the small circle where there was adequate lighting was a little less grainy, but the blackness around it was much darker than before. In the center of the lighted circle, only a few steps away from the girl, was a metal horse or wedge: like an upside down V. A length of rope at either end attached the roughly two foot long metal horse to a piece of metal of equal length; suspended maybe five feet above it. A rope was threaded through an eyelet in the center of this piece of metal. The whole thing was supported by a pulley; the rope passing through it tied off to a metal ring along the far wall. This way, one rope could quickly raise or lower the horse to any position desired. Right now, it was hanging fairly low to the ground. Directly in the center of the horse was a very large metal dildo that appeared to be permanently attached. It looked rather thin, but that was an illusion caused by its extreme length: at the minimum ten inches, but the woman watching guessed at least two inches longer than that. And an ominous looking electrical wire ran from underneath the center of the horse, and disappeared into the darkness. If the girl on the video was struggling before, she became frantic now. She pulled so hard that for a moment her captors almost lost their grip and it looked as if she might even break free, but the men recovered quickly. The girl had obviously been struggling for a while; and was growing fatigued. Her last burst apparently used up the last of her energy, leaving her a bit listless. It was so easy for the men to drag her back towards the horse again that it looked almost fake. One of the men knelt down and looped a short length of rope in a slipknot around her booted foot, then standing, he walked around to the other side of the horse. He used the rope to pull her leg up, forcing her to step across the metal horse despite her renewed, but weak struggles. She tried to step away again, but two of the men held her legs in place while another disappeared into the darkness. A moment later the horse began to rise, and the men holding her legs helped guide the dildo inside her. The camera zoomed in for a close-up on the girl's face. She winced and shook her head back and forth as if trying to deny what was happening to her. Then the camera zoomed back out, showing the dildo as it sunk the last few inches inside her. She stood very still now, as if paralyzed except for the movement of her head. Her legs were forced to bow out unnaturally by the forty-five degree angle of the wedge. She stood this way for a few seconds, obviously dreading what was coming; then the man pulled on the rope again, hoisting the metal horse a little higher into the air. Slowly the girl's feet left the floor. She leaned to one side as the horse tilted. Her legs swung freely, but the woman watching knew that she was using the position of her legs to help keep her balance, and the men weren't helping. One pulled her left wrists to the ring at the back of the metal horse. This caused it to start spinning very slowly, and forced the girl to turn somewhat sideways because the rope pinning her elbows to her side didn't allow her arm to swing straight back. Even twisting sideways, it obviously put an uncomfortable torque on her elbow joint. She leaned back a little, trying to ease the pressure, but this caused the horse to tilt backwards as well, rather like one of those mechanical bulls, bucking in very slow motion. If the ropes at either end of the metal horse had been tied to the wall independently, the contraption would have been fairly stable. But by attaching these ropes to a separate bar, with one rope attached to its center, the horse was given more freedom to move. It tilted backwards when she leaned back because more of her weight was distributed towards that end of the horse; and the more in tilted the more she was inclined to lean. Instinctively, she moved her legs to counter. Before long the horse reached its low point and started back the other way, allowing the girl to shift her weight comfortably forward again. For a moment the horse threatened to swing too far the other way, but one of the men steadied her with a hand about the waist, his fingers digging into her flat, but supple belly as he reached around her. He held the stretchy fabric of her sweater away from her breast, then snipped a small hole just the perfect size for her breast to show through. He repeated the process for the other breast; then carelessly snapped an alligator clamp onto one of her large nipples. While he was doing this, one of the other men was tying her right wrist to the ring at the front of the horse. Before he could finish the first man had snapped a second alligator clamp on her other nipple. Then he dug out a set of weighted hooks, which he hung from the clamps. One of the men was pushing a small, control-box, with several gauges and dials, out into the spotlight. He took two wires and handed them to the man who had just applied the alligator clamps, and the wires were connected to the metal chains. The girl looked down with sudden understanding and growing disbelief. She began to shake her head; but as the other men stepped back, the man at the control-box began to turn a knob. She arched her back and cried out in pain. The girl watching the video was rubbing her fingers feverishly against her clit and panting with excitement at the pain from the clamps at her own breasts. This wasn't the first time she'd watched this video, and she knew the girl's real ordeal had only just begun.
2 If you'd asked her, Sally wouldn't have been able to say with any certain just when her fascination with snuff material began, or exactly how it happened. Even to her, it seemed like an unlikely thing to fascinate a young and attractive girl. And she was attractive. Boys told her she was all the time, even boys she'd just meet. Even boys who couldn't possibly know how much money her father had; and as an only child, how much she would inherit one day. Her own eyes told her she was attractive too. She liked looking at attractive women almost as much as she liked looking at attractive men, and when she looked at herself in the mirror she was pleased by what she saw. Her breasts were perhaps a trifle small, but they were firm enough that when she wrapped them in rope they made an attractive little ball. They didn't swell up like gross, vein-etched balloons the way really large breasted women usually did. Nor did they become the shriveled little parodies of smaller breasted women. And her nipples were unusually large, so even when her breasts were wrapped they made inviting targets for a pair of clamps. Sally's nipples were her favorite physical feature. Men usually seemed to prefer her ass or her long slender legs, but she thought they were a little too thin. When Sally was young, and her mother was still alive, she'd referred to Sally's legs as being coltish. This had caused her father to frown, and declare that when she became older Sally's long legs would undoubtedly lend her an air of elegance and grace. His prediction had proven true, but Sally's mother hadn't lived long enough to notice. The only part of her body that Sally actively disliked was her hips. They were much too narrow. She thought a woman should be full bodied, with womanly curves. Not that she had the hips of a young female gymnast or anything, but they certainly didn't lend her frame what she would call the curvaceous look, either. Sometimes she wondered if God hadn't made a mistake. How could the head of a newborn child ever pass between such a narrow space? She used to worry about that when she was younger and saw the pain women endured as they gave birth in the movies. Surely the pain she would endure, if she ever gave birth, would be even greater, because her hips were so narrow. And perhaps that was where her fascination with pain, (and the possibility of dying from it,) began-but Sally didn't think so, because even her earliest memories of thinking about giving birth were tainted as much with fascination as they were with fear. There was something about the helpless, inevitability of it. Once you passed a certain point you couldn't turn back. Regardless of how you felt or how it went, you were in for the long haul-no more choice left in the matter. That was what appealed to Sally the most: the idea of being helpless, with the fate of your very existence hanging in the balance. Pain was something she'd gotten used to gradually. The first time she remembered experimenting with it was probably the time she'd placed a clothespin on her nipple as she masturbated to an adult book she'd found in a garbage can. It was odd the way pain made her wet. Her body broke out in a sweat; and her orgasm was so much stronger than it had ever been before. That was more than a year before she started surfing the Internet, looking for pictures and stories and video clips, anything to satisfy her restless imagination. No, the birth of Sally's interest in bondage had nothing to do with the Internet itself, but the internet had provided her first real exposure to the harder, fringe aspects of bondage: like extreme torture and snuff. And she hadn't found those things until she remembered finding the secret place, taped to undersurface of the pull out shelf of her father's desk, where her father kept his passwords written down. In retrospect, Sally thought that taping something you're trying to keep secret (at least from a child) to the underside of anything was probably not the smartest idea in the world, however intuitively sensible it might seem to an adult. Children were always crawling around on the floor-at least she was. Although she had to admit that her father never left that shelf out when he wasn't using the desk; and when he was using it, he didn't let her play under his feet. It was mostly a coincidence that in the course of playing her make-believe games she decided to pull out the shelf. And there in her father's handwriting was a mystery-for at the age when she found it she didn't have the slightest clue what the strange words and numbers on the small piece of paper might be for. But the words and the paper fascinated her. They had obviously been hidden, and that meant they were something her father was trying to keep secret. And because of that, she desperately wanted to know what they were for. It was impossible to ignore, like finding a deteriorating treasure map in the attic would be. A pirate didn't come right out and say, "Here be my chest of precious treasure!" And he certainly didn't give clearly written, step-by-step directions on where to find it. Even at that age, Sally knew that much. What he wrote down would be bits and pieces-mental notes: just enough to help spark his own memory. And that was what Sally had: her father's mental notes. It was a puzzle to be solved. And gaining the prize would give her access to something her father had tried to keep secret. A part of himself so valuable he kept it tucked away from the rest of the world. She'd puzzled over this mystery for several days, perhaps even weeks, before her lack of progress caused her to slowly loose interest. And over the years she'd almost forgotten all about it. Around the age of ten, Sally stumbled across the gardener and one of the maids doing something strange in the stable's hayloft. They giggled and pressed their bodies against one another in a most peculiar way. Fascinated, she'd watched for several moments without being seen: they were too involved with themselves to notice anything else. And that in its self was very strange. The servants were always alert and very watchful; they always seemed so stiff and formal, even when they smiled at her. Not like these two, who completely ignored her and acted more like children. Sally managed to watch for several moments, in fact, before being noticed-and then everything changed. They jumped up, yelling at her to go away as they tried to cover themselves with their clothes. Sally might have found their antics comical if she hadn't been so alarmed by their behavior. Her father would surely scold her if he found out she'd been spying on them. She still remembered the time he caught her rummaging through his desk: his face had suddenly become something terrible and frightening. It was the only time in her life that she remembered him striking her. And later she would think how it was as if something had crawled inside him, turning him suddenly into this frightening and alien creature. She never wanted to see that look again, so she ran-afraid they would tell; and still a little confused about why they should. Obviously she had found them doing something they would never do in public. But it was just as obvious it was something good; and enjoyable. Why should they hide when they did this? And why should they be so angry when they realized she was watching? Angry enough to yell at her instead of simply telling her in their normal manner that she should go away now. "Fuck! What do you think she saw?" She heard the gardener saying as she climbed down the ladder. "I don't know," the maid replied angrily. "But you can be sure it was an eye full." Before the age of ten, Sally's fantasy life had a well-developed sexual flavor, although it was based mostly on mystery and intrigue. Adults clearly had a secret that they didn't want to share. She explored her own body, trying to figure out why those two in the loft had been groping each other that way, and had not been able to figure it out. Then it happened. She didn't even remember how old she was at the time, but as she was washing herself she felt an odd sensation. And suddenly she thought she was beginning to understand what it was the adults had been hiding. It wasn't long before she was exploring her own sexuality on a regular basis. Masturbation had become a mysterious and guilt-laced obsession that frequently kept her up late at night. Then, at the age of fourteen she discovered her second great obsession: the Internet. This one she had discovered while researching an English paper for school. The topic of sex seemed like the perfect marriage of her private interests, and the necessity of passing her class. She'd given up on the idea long before actually writing the paper, but she'd given the idea enough thought to run an Internet search on the word SEX. She was amazed at the sheer number or responses her query returned. It was obvious an awful lot of people had an awful lot to say on the subject. There were pages about safe sex, sex education, discrimination and censorship; even websites that focused on TV shows and rock bands with SEX in their name. Much of what she found didn't interest her much, but it gave her ideas for other keywords to search and soon she had found plenty of things that did fascinated her. When she started following the links a frustratingly large number led to a pop-up dialog-box, which rudely inform her that she was trying to enter an adult site and if she didn't have a password she couldn't enter. This, of course, she took as just one more sign of the adult conspiracy. It was a frustrating impasse, but she was used to that sort of thing from adults by now. It was their way of keeping children separate and excluded from the adult world. Even the house servants, who were usually more lenient with her questions than her parents, would only glance at one another nervously when she asked about sex. Then one of them would pat her on the head and say something to dismiss her, like: "Gracious child, you're too young to be worrying about that. Why don't you go outside and play?" Sally understood their smug, condescending smiles. They were afraid she would discover their secret a little too soon, and then she would know what they knew. She wasn't sure what would happen then, but she knew it had to be something wonderful. Every shred of evidence seemed to confirmed it: the secrecy of adults, the wealth of information hidden on the Internet, the none-to-subtle inferences to it: in the movies and magazines and on TV. Even the increasingly tantalizing whispers of her own body screamed that it was something fascinating and precious. It was everywhere, and yet it remained stubbornly just beyond her reach: a prize waiting to be won, if she could just figure it out. Once again she was caught up in a mystery to be solved-and this time she was not so young that she could become bored with it in a mere few weeks. She began reading everything she could about the Internet. She created and maintained her own site, just to learn more. By this time she had learned to gain access to a great many tantalizing pictures, but as hard as she tried, and as far as she got-there were still continual blocks to her progress. Which meant that as lurid and enticing as the pictures she could access seemed, the one that were hidden inside were even better. She had her own computer, but her father had carefully supervised setting up the password protection, and she couldn't figure out how to bypass it to change the settings that she knew kept her out. All that changed when, out of the blue one day, she remembered finding her father's secret hiding place, and the small, mysterious slip of paper. She had recalled this memory before, from time to time, but now everything clicked. Suddenly, with a clarity of thought that startled her, she realized what the strange words and numbers were for. After that, she'd snuck into her fathers study. The maid had already finished cleaning his room and he was at work, so her chances of getting caught were slim-but she still felt a thrill as she crept towards his desk. The slip of paper was still in the same place, looking much the same as it had way back then. She stood beside his desk, furiously writing down all the passwords, and freezing every time she heard a floorboard creak or the wind rattling the window. Then she scurried back to her own room and started really surfing for the very first time. The only thing she really had to worry about was the off chance that her father might try to log onto the same site she was on at the same time she was on it. But she didn't think he was likely to do that at work, and even if he did, he still wouldn't know who was using his password. She decided not to use her credit cards to join anything stronger than the vanilla sites her father seemed to like. He received a monthly list of her purchases, and she didn't want to risk him wondering what one of them was for. Sally had a vivid memory of her parents fighting when her mother was still alive. Her father had asked what one of the expenses on just such a list was for. Sally couldn't remember exactly what her mother had said but her husband's prying hadn't made her happy. Even with the limited vanilla sites she could access without raising suspicion, Sally was able to find all sorts of bizarre stuff-things she wouldn't even have imagined before. Things that made her feel a bit nauseous the first time she looked at them, and yet there was something about them that she found it difficult to take her eyes away from. A lot of it was impossible to believe. It had to be faked: like the special effects in a movie. There were needles, as much as a foot long, dozens of them, piercing a bound woman's breasts; while another woman's orifices were being shoved full of baseball bats and Champaign bottles. One man had his forearm shoved in nearly up to the elbow joint. It was truly amazing how many sites she found where women-especially young women-were being tortured and abused. It made her wonder just how much pent-up male hostility there really was, hiding just under the surface of our seemingly civilized society. It frightened her. She wondered if all men were angry simmering pots, just waiting to explode, and despite her very real fear the thought intrigued her. She couldn't get it out of her mind. She imagined the world suddenly gone mad with all men banding together to brutalize and abuse all women, the way they seemed to in their fantasies on the web sites. Men were bigger and so much stronger; what would stop them? They dominated the police force, the military and the government. Couldn't they pass virtually any laws they chose and easily enforce them? Couldn't they turn all women into little more than slaves, if they really wanted to? So why didn't they? And more importantly, if they didn't really want to, why were there so many websites based on that fantasy. Sally found herself masturbating as she fantasized about a world where all women were slaves and men were viciously cruel. What would such a world be like and what the men do to her specifically? What frightened her most of all was the persistence with which she fantasized about such things. Despite the revulsion some of the pictures caused, she couldn't take her eyes off them. And she found that she preferred the pictures where the women were bound and appeared to be in pain, instead of compliant and willing, with the freedom to get up and leave if they wanted to. Maybe this was some subconscious expression of hostility that she felt towards herself. That was the kind of crap they taught in her high school psychology classes, but she didn't believe it. It was easier to imagine that she was just another one of Pavlov's dogs, like all those frustrated bastards out there, responding to bells and whistles she wasn't even aware of, and couldn't remember where or when they began. She tried. Sometimes she spent hours trying to remember the first time she'd ever thought about bondage or torture or snuff; trying to track down that exact moment when the seed of obsession was planted in her brain. The exact event that that given it such a fascinating hold over her. As early as she could remember, her favorite parts of movies or TV programs were the scenes when the helpless female was being kidnapped-and then later when the cops swarmed to the site of the crime and they showed that tantalizing glimpse of the mutilated body. Especially when she was younger, she liked the scenes where the hero's lady friend was all trussed up and waiting for the hero to come save her, but as she became older she developed a distinct preference for those earlier scenes, the ones with the real victims. Where no one was ever going to save them. Even in early grade school, she'd daydreamed of being kidnapped. These were, of course, rather innocent fantasies. Some cute boy would always come along to save her-but somewhere along the line, more and more of her fantasy was spent imagining the feel of the ropes, the coarseness of the villain's hands on her naked body. By then, being rescued was anti-climactic, almost an afterthought, thrown in simply as a means of closure. She wondered if the fact that her tastes were changing meant that she was becoming attuned to the harder stuff, or if she'd simply figured out that the hero almost never arrived too late. Sally was never a terribly social person. As an only child, she'd become used to playing alone and rarely missed the company of other children. Her mother never wanted her to play with the children of the servants; and even though Sally's father seemed to sense the depth of her isolation, he didn't actually encourage her to play with them either, at least not until after his wife's death, and by then she was already set in her ways. Sometimes he would all but insist that she play with them. And so, outside of her school, they became her only consistent playmates. But much of the time she preferred to play by herself. There were three girls and one boy, among the servant's children, and none of them were quite her age. Nor did they seem to share her interests. It amazed her how long the girls could play with dolls; while she quickly became bored having absolutely no interest in that sort of thing. And she never quite felt like one of them. She was that stranger, who while living among them had always kept her distance. And so, for the most part, she understood that they didn't like her any more than she liked them. She had more luck with Jimmy, the boy, despite being several years older than him. He felt a bit isolated too, being the only boy. He didn't like playing house or dress up all that much either, and the girls often told him to go away. They didn't want him around while they played their games and told their little girl secrets. Jimmy was willing to follow Sally's lead when she created her exotic fantasy worlds. "Let's pretend that we're brother and sister," she told him once, as they lay on top of the huge, blue gas tank that was next to the stables. It was so tall they had to stack three bales of hay in a set of steps so they could climb to the top. They would lie on it for what seemed like hours, feeling the warmth of the sun's rays and the deeper, more immediate warmth that radiated from the tank and didn't go away when the sun went behind the clouds for a few moments. It felt almost like a living creature, and Sally liked to press her ear against the metal and listen while she spoke or hummed. She created an eerie sort of music that made her think of strange beings and alien worlds. The vibrations made it easy to imagine that the tank was something alive. "Let's pretend that we've gone to the beach," she said. "And we've lain down on a rock and fallen asleep under the sun." Jimmy closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. "And when we wake..." He opened his eyes and rubbed his knuckles against them as if just waking. "We're not really on a rock at all, but the back of a huge sea creature that's speeding across the water." Jimmy's eyes widened in fear, heightening Sally's owns sense of the story. She could almost feel the sea wind blowing in her hair, and the creature's muscles rippling beneath her hands. It's melodious breath punctuated by the plumes of water that it blew from its spout, like a whale. "Is he going to dive," Jimmy asked looking nervously about. "I don't think so." She pointed her finger to the distance, and said: "Look, I see land. It must be taking us to the shores of some strange and mysterious place. A place that no one we know has ever heard of, because this is the place where animals are like people and people are kept in cages as their pets." And sure enough, they were meet on the shore by a group of talking animals, who stripped their captives of their clothes, because beasts never wore clothes, and bound them because from now on the laws decreed that they could never be free. Then they were chained together in a long line with other newly captured humans and taken to the slave market. This was the hayloft in the stables. It was the sight of most of their games; and even when Jimmy wasn't with her it was one of her favorite places to play. When no one was around she would steal bits of rope. There was always plenty, and if the servants noticed that it was gone, they never accused her of taking it. She kept the rope hidden in the hayloft, a secret place where she kept all of her most interesting toys: a small clamp and the bit from a horse's harness that she'd taken from the foreman's work shed, along with a single pair of lacy, black underwear she'd snatched from the laundry when one of the maids was washing her own clothes. Sometimes, she would have Jimmy tie her up, as part of the stories she spun out. And although she was a little afraid his mother might call, and he would wander off, leaving her helplessly bound, the possibility made her wet with anticipation. The very thought made her tingle, even though she was afraid of what her father (or even one of the servants) might do or say when they found her. When Jummy wasn't around she would tie up herself. Slipping out of her clothes, she would step into the lacy black panties. They were a little loose on her, but she had stolen a needle and thread, cut the panties at the side and sewn the pieces back together so that they fit more snuggly. Wearing only the black panties and a T-shirt that she'd cut off to expose her waist, she would wrap her body in a tight webbing of rope. It was difficult to tie her hands or arms together and she worried about not being able to get undone if she did too good a job, so usually she would simply loop a piece of rope around her hands and pretend that they were tied. Sometimes she would put a loop in both ends of the rope. One loop she would place over the end of the ladder, and the other she would slip around her elbows. Then she would turn herself around, wrapping the rope around her body as she turned. When she got to the end she would slip the loop of the end of the ladder and hold it in her hand, pretending that her animal owner had tied her up and given her a chore to do. She always picked something that was difficult but not impossible, like taking the equipment from one of the shelves at about chest level, and placing it in a gunny sack, imagining that she was packing so the animals who owned her could travel. Then, when her owners returned, they would release her from her prison and she would have to place everything back on the shelf where it had originally been. This was not as easy as it sounds with her elbows tightly tied behind her back. Sometimes, after a hard rain, Sally would pull her clothes back on over the black panties and a rope harness that she had installed around her chest and hips, then she would walk to the creek that ran through her father's property, following the length of it from one end to the other and back again. She imagined that she had escaped and was fleeing from her animal owners, her body and arms were still bound, but they'd made the mistake of leaving her alone while her legs were free. Hiding among the reeds along the flooded banks, or beneath the tree roots that hung a few inches above the water, she would creep carefully forward, listening for sounds of pursuit. Occasionally she would chance across one of the worker tending the lawn that stretched to within a dozen or so yards from the creek; and she would crouch down, her fear of being seen lending added realism to the fear of her fantasies. Sally lived for such moments. She didn't particularly like school, although good grades always came easily for her. She was quiet and shy. "Stuck up", some of the children called her; but she never wanted for friends in high school. They latched on to her. She was attractive, intelligent and always impeccably dressed in expensive clothes. But she continued to be bored by the kinds of things the other girls talked about. Even when they talked about sex, it was mostly idle, vanilla gossip: who had just broken up with who, who was sleeping with who, or who they would sleep with if given the chance. Such things didn't interest her. And when they asked her to do things after school, she usually found some way to politely decline. By then, she preferred spending much of her time on the Internet. When she did go to a party, she seemed to spend most of her time clinging to the walls, and the exit doors always seemed terribly inviting. She wished she had something worth saying and someone worth saying it to. Not that the boys ignored her. They would ask her to dance, but they rarely had anything more interesting to say than the girls did. She had no interest in their occasional offers of forming a permanent relationship. And after the silence became awkward they usually thanked her politely and moved away. Before long, most of them seemed to assume she was a closet lesbian; or that she thought she was too good for anyone else. The rest seemed to think she was really a good little girl who couldn't possibly be thinking about being tied to a bed in one of the back rooms and flogged with a belt until her whole body was bright red, then fucked in the ass with a broomstick or better yet, a baseball bat. The few who were bold enough to make some kind of sexual suggestion, tended to be so utterly cocky and obnoxious that she found it impossible to generate any interest in them. She might imagine what it would be like if one of them would clamp his hand over her mouth as she was leaving and drag her kicking and screaming into one of those rooms in her imagination, but she had little interest in going with them willingly. Nor could she bring herself tell them what she really wanted. The people she met on the Internet were different. They were more likely to have something in common with her, and since she didn't have to face them in person, it was far easier to ask them the kinds of questions that were needed to find out. It was also easier to tell them to get lost when things didn't work out. On the Internet, she always had time to think about what she wanted to say. None of the same kinds of social pressure existed in a chat room-she could say whatever she wanted. But more important were the things they said to her. She meet Darin on one of those art-based snuff sites, although she didn't learn his real name until months later when they meet in person. He was one of the sites featured artists, and she'd emailed to tell him how much she liked his work. When he'd emailed back they'd struck up a conversation and it hadn't taken long for him to discover that she was a female, which seemed to surprise him a bit, and sparked his interest even more. From the pictures he sent, she learned that he was a good-looking, young man, with dark, curly hair. "I'm too short to be called tall, dark and handsome," he wrote in his instant message. He went on to tell her how recently he'd taken the plunge, trying to make a go of his art. "But calling the existence I manage to scratch out struggling is like saying a rock is dying. LOL" He was desperate for commission work, and he was very, very good, so Sally decided to write back and asked if he would be interested in doing a snuff piece using her as a model. Before she knew it, she was making arrangements to fly to Denver, where he lived. She could hardly believe it. They were actually going to meet IRL. In Real Life. Just thinking the phrase made her palms begin to sweat. Everything she'd ever read said it was foolish to meet a stranger like this. Especially one who obviously had a fascination with dying women. It was undoubtedly the craziest thing she'd ever done in her life-and by far the most exciting. She didn't care about the danger, she was willing and eager to take that risk; and a small part of her actually wanted something unpleasant to happen. She was so eager, in fact, that she found it impossible to wait. She wrote back and asked if they could move the date up a little. "Something else has come up," she explained. "Couldn't we do it this coming weekend instead?" She told her father she wouldn't be coming home from college for the weekend: she was going away on a skiing trip. Then she flew to Denver, and they spend the first half of the morning meeting and discussion their plans. They bought a bottle of wine at a liquor store and had a few drinks when they got back to his apartment, then he took her into the spare bedroom which he'd turned into a photo studio and she posed for the camera while he snapped the photographs he'd need to work from. She was surprised how easy he made it to take off her clothes and pose in front of the camera. She didn't feel self-conscious at all. He had this sparkling personality that somehow managed to be unassuming and demanding all at the same time; a personality she could as easily imagine as the villain who was tying her up or the hero who was coming to save her; and she never stopped to wonder which way she preferred to think of him. "You seem to like the camera," Darin observed, as she pranced before him. "And I know it likes you. Ever thought of doing a bondage shoot? You can make a little money and I think you'll have fun at the same time." He shrugged, looking at her to gage her reaction. She shook her head. "I don't need the money," she said, realizing that they hadn't actually discussed an amount for the commission he was going to paint. The way she had worded it, he might not expect any money at all. "Besides, my father surfs the adult sites on the net," she said. "I don't think he'd appreciate finding me there." "Just a thought," he shrugged. "You're beautiful, and you obviously like it. I think you'd make a great model." She'd heard that before, but suddenly she didn't trust him. He'd already taken several dozen compromising pictures of her, several of them completely nude, and many with her fingers groping her own breasts or probing between her legs. The only way to be confident that he wouldn't betray her was to prove to him that it would be worth a lot more if he didn't. She hadn't thought much about what she was going to pay him either. Her father provided her with a weekly allowance that was more than she'd ever spent, except for the one time when she'd bought the new car she drove around at college. She hadn't even told him her plans, and his only response was to say that if she was going to spend the money she should have bought a Mercedes or a BMW. She'd just batted her eyes like a dingy blonde and told him she'd test driven plenty of the more expensive cars and this one had everything she needed. Then she'd kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "besides, I don't want to seem so different from the other kids." No, she could make it well worth Darin's time without raising much of a fuss from her father, especially if she had something to show for what she'd spent. Her father was an avid art collector-although he tended toward proven and thus the really expensive artists. But Sally thought he would approve of her newfound interest in collecting; and Darin's work was good enough that her father just might consider it a reasonably good investment, which seemed to be the only reason he could imagine for buying art. Sally smiled. "We can still take the pictures," she said. "I just don't want them plastered all over the Internet. The same goes for the paintings you'll be doing for me. They're mine." She noticed the change in his expression. His mind was obviously already churning at the implications. And he was looking at her again, reevaluating what he saw in light of this new and unexpected attitude. "I'm to own full rights," she went on. "I expect that you and I will be the only ones who ever see them, at least until my father dies. I don't even want you to show them around in your portfolio. Not only that, but every time I commission you, I want you to make two paintings-not just one-that way if my father should ever question why I've paid you five thousand dollars, I'll have something I can show him." It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Five thousand dollars! It was obviously a lot more than he'd ever imagined. He handled it well though. "No problem, babe," he said with a smile and a casual shrug. "Good," Sally said. "Now what kind of bondage gear have you got to go with that camera?" After that she'd slipped smoothly back into a more passive sort of role. And after that, she and Darin began to meet regularly. Instead of flying home from college every weekend, she would fly to Denver about once a month. Her father thought Darin was a new boyfriend, and even asked when he was going to meet the young man. She'd just smiled noncommittally and told him she didn't think it was that serious. But in a sense Darin was her first real boyfriend. He was clearly polyamorous by nature, but she didn't mind. She wasn't the jealous type, and she didn't think of him in an exclusive sort of way, either, even if she didn't take advantage of that freedom. Sometimes, Darin even let her watch his bondage photography sessions with other women, which was something that she enjoyed almost as much as her own sessions. After her second commission, and the promise that there would be many more, Darin bought himself a small house, with a mortgage that wasn't much more than he was paying for his apartment. It had an unfinished basement that he began turning it into a dungeon; and every time Sally visited she brought him another toy for it. Sometimes it was just something small and simple, like a pair of cuffs or nipple clamps. Other times it was something more elaborate, like a piece of bondage furniture or a fitted body-harness. Then one visit he mailed her a copy of his key. She'd called from the airport, and knew that he would be out when she arrived. That was part of the plan. She washed the dishes, and started vacuuming the floor; and was just beginning to suspect that he had devised a clever way to get all his cleaning done when someone grabbed her around the arms from behind and wrestled her to the floor. Carefully, he secured her arms and feet. Then he gagged and blindfolded her, so she wouldn't know what was coming next. There would be no safe words, as they had agreed. And although she was quite sure it had to be Darin, there was no way to be absolutely sure, since he was wearing a skiing mask and never spoke. The uncertainty was as exciting as the things he did to her. That evening he'd bound her spread eagle to the dining room table and covered her body in hot wax. Darin always had plenty of lit candles around his apartment when he was home. He was a bit of a romantic, and liked to light them at the table whenever they ate in-and by the time he was done, she suspected that Darin would have to go out and buy more if he wanted to set the mood for their next meal. The first drop of wax splashed down just between her legs, on the tender flesh just below her clit. She gasped and arched her back at the unexpected sensation. He stopped then, having given her just enough of a tease to know what was coming; and began to cover her breasts with clamps. Then he shaved her pussy, and began to whip her cleanly shaven mound, more gently at first but quickly building the intensity until she was screaming into her gag. At last he stopped, but he was far from done. He began to drip more hot wax on her tender, red flesh; moving around on her body but always coming back, saturating her crotch until there wasn't a single patch of skin that wasn't covered. Then he began to whip her again, taking the wax back off. On her next visit they decided to play the same game, but this time Darin brought along a friend. Together they overpowered her, and bent her over a chair, her hips resting on the wooden back, her legs spread precariously wide and bound securely at the ankles and knees. They'd stretched out her arms and tied them securely to the seat of the chair; then placed clamps on her nipples. She cried out as they added weights. Then Darin's friend had taken pictures with a video camera while Darin fucked her doggy style. He'd rammed into her so hard that the weights bounced, and each time they did she felt little orgasmic waves, like tiny symbiotic creatures inside her, tugging at her breasts It was long and eventful. Their best session yet, and Sally knew the video would be great. She paid Darin's friend, Mark, $300 in exchange for the video, then asked if he was going to join them again the next time she dropped by. "I like it," she said, "when Darin can give his total attention to me." Sally's photo scrapbook was growing. Each time she visited, Darin lead her into something new-something a little more daring and painful. When she was at home, she would look at her pictures and watch the videos. It was almost like reliving the experience all over again. But her favorites was the snuff art that Darin had done. She didn't bring them out very often. They were large, and she didn't want them to be seen by anyone else. In one, she was fatally impaled on a long stake. A thick flow of blood ran down her legs and a smaller trickle leaked from the corner of her mouth. In another, she was being electrocuted. Her body was still arched as the electrical currents ran through her, but it was obvious she wasn't going to survive. Her skin had already begun to blacken where the electrodes were attached at her nipples, clit and tongue. Her favorite, however, was the one where she was being fucked from behind as she hung from a rope. Her violator was a huge, lizard-like creature. It could easy have supported her weight so that the rope wasn't really a threat to her life, but instead he had chosen to pull her backwards at a sharp angle; and it was obvious that each time he pulled her down on his monstrous cock, the slipknot tightened a little more around her neck. Her wrists were securely tied behind her back; her legs had been left free and at one time she must have been kicking frantically at the air, but now she had almost lost consciousness. Her eyelids had begun to flutter and her legs hardly moved at all. She could sit and look at that one for hours, masturbating as she imagined what it would feel like as her air ran out and she became too weak to fight anymore. Sometimes she would hold her breath for as long as she could. But she knew it wasn't the same. There was no fear and no pain, and most importantly she could quite any time she wanted to. It wasn't enough. She wanted to experience it all. "Ever seen a real snuff film," she asked as she and Darin were eating their dinner at the kitchen table, after a vigorous session. Her ass still stung, and it felt damp where it pressed against the chair. Darin looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before he spoke. "That shit's illegal, you know. I mean, the stuff I do in my art, that's a fantasy... and maybe it's better left that way. When you start talking about the real thing, you're talking about taking a person's life. And if you get busted trying to buy it, destroying your own." He laughed then, making a joke of it. "Besides, there aren't enough beautiful women in the world as it is." "I'm serious," she said. He was avoiding her eyes, staring a little too hard at his plate as he rolled the spaghetti onto his fork. "No, I've never seen one. I've rented those Masks of Death movies, but that's about it. "I'm thinking of making one." "Are you serious?" "Yeah, I'm serious." "Better ask yourself if you think it's worth going to jail for!" "It's worth fifty thousand dollars to me," she said. "Plus expenses." He looked at her for a long moment, frowning, and she wondered what was going through his head. Was he excited? Was he disappointed? Was he thinking it was time to get rid of this psycho bitch? She was just about ready to laugh and tell him she was only joking when he nodded. "Alright," he said. "If you're really set on doing this, there's this guy I know. I've never really seen him, just someone I meet surfing... but he told me once that he's seen a snuff film for real. For all I know, he could've been shitting me; or it could have been a fake. But it was good enough that he's convinced it's for real." "I don't want him, Darin. I want you to do it." "Oh, for God's sake!" He pushed back in his chair and stood up. "You can't ask me to do something like that, Sally." "I have someone specific in mind," she said. "And you're the only one I can trust to do it right." "I can't believe you're talking about actually killing someone." "One hundred thousand, then. That will give you another fifty to help pay for Mark and whoever else you want to bring in on this. Mark can work the camera while you do the actual tying." Darin looked at her for a long time then shook his head in wonder. "You must hate this person an awful lot." Sally smiled. She was starting to have fun with this. "Believe me," she said. "I want this very badly." After another moment he sighed and asked her whom she had in mind. "Me," she said, without as much as a smile.
3 Sally was having second thoughts. She had been for a long time-even before she felt the padded hand being clasped over her mouth and breathed in the soporific fumes. Her last thoughts before falling unconscious into the awaiting arms was to wonder if this nauseating smell was chloroform; and then to hope that this was really Darin and not someone else. She still wasn't completely sure-that was part of the thrill. These men might be total stranger, with an agenda all their own. The intensity of her fear made it all the more exciting. Certainly, there were more men than she'd expected, and she hadn't been able to recognized Darin or Mark's voices, either. But then the men hadn't spoken more than a few words. They obviously knew what they were planning to do, and the few gestures they used were enough. One thing was absolutely certain, beyond all others: she had passed the point of no return a long time ago. It didn't matter who it was, it was too late now to make them stop. Even if the ball gag hadn't been there to prevent her from calling it off, she didn't think they would believe her. She was supposed to be the frightened victim. No, it was far too late to change her mind now. The inevitability of it overwhelmed her, her entire body vibrating with the thrill of it, as if she'd downed a few too many cups of strong coffee. Darin had already taken her a lot further during this session than he had during any of the others. That was exactly what she had asked for, although she hadn't specified any specific tortures. She preferred to leave that to his discretion, for it would make it harder to determine if it was really him. And she knew that he could come up with tortures that she wouldn't have dared suggest on her own. But now, her crotch seemed to be on fire as she straddled this horse. She wouldn't have believed that her own body could feel like such a crushing weight. It tingled with a feeling of numbness that did little to quiet the pain. She was long past the point when she'd begun to think she simply could not stand it any longer. But the session seemed to go on and on. Her body felt battered, both inside and out. It ached with fatigue and stung where the whips had raised welts. Muscles she didn't even know she had felt strained, especially the ones in her pussy that cramped when they'd used the electric currents. And yet, the fact that she was helpless to prevent whatever they were going to do next was enough to make her giddy with erotic delight. Her stomach was anxiously fluttering with nervous butterflies as she breathed heavily around her gag and waited. They were lowering the horse again. She had been riding it, on and off, for such a long time that removing the pressure from between her legs was almost better than an orgasm: like sitting down after a long day of endless walking and letting someone massage your feet. It felt good to have the floor beneath her again. When they began to untie her hands, she breathed a mental sigh. It meant they wouldn't be using the horse to hoist her off the floor again. She stepped over it almost eagerly when one of the men pulled on her nipple chains. She wondered what they were going to do to her next. Her only stipulation had been that they couldn't do anything that would cause permanent damage, and nothing that would be visible when she was wearing normal street clothes. Darin's expression had been almost comical when she'd told him she was the intended target of the snuff film she wanted him to make. "I can't do that," he shouted, becoming so agitated about it that it had taken her a very long time indeed to make him understand that she didn't actually want to die. She wanted him to revive her once she was unconscious. "That means you can't kill me in a violent method." "What's not violent about dying?" "Well, I don't actually have to die, I suppose." She put her hand up to her throat and firmly gripped her own windpipe, wheezing excessively as she sucked in her next breath of air. Then she smiled. "I just want it to look like I have. I want the realism of actually loosing consciousness and lying there for a few seconds. We can make it look longer when we edit. I want this to be a fairly high-quality production." "And what if you don't wake up when we try to revive you?" "Then you don't get the money," she said with a smile. "Just a snuff-film for real. That ought to be worth a few thousand on the black market..." Sally turned to the sound of something scraping across the concrete floor and saw one of the men pulling something heavy into the light. When she got a good look at the narrow table he was dragging, she pulled back, causing the chain the man was holding to tug at her nipple clamps. The table's top surface would come to about her hips and its surface was covered with short, little needles. They were no more than a quarter-inch long, but they were plentiful and looked sharp enough to break her skin. She knew what they wanted from her, and she knew that eventually they would get it, but she fought as hard as she could. It took two of the men to force her face down over the table. She tugged at the ropes that still pinned her elbows to her side, trying to get her hands into a position to hold her self back. But they batted her hands away easily and forced her down. The sharp points pricked at the skin of her belly and breasts, and she tried to keep as still as possible. Struggling now would only rip at her skin. She felt the weight of one of the men as he pressed himself down on top of her; forcing her all the way down on the spiked bed. It didn't hurt as much as she'd expected. Her skin began to itch, like a hundred mosquito bites rather than the stab of a half-dozen swords. She could feel something trickling from at least one of the wounds. Was it blood? Her creme sweater was already ruined. It would have been even if they hadn't cut holes for her breasts, but soon it would be soaked with blood as well as sweat. It no longer took two men to hold her down. One was enough, his hands gripping her head and the back of her neck, as he pressed her erection closer to her mouth. She hadn't noticed when he'd taken it out, but now she could smell it: musty and hot. It pulsed in front of her eyes. Mesmerizing her, like a snake. Was he going to undo her gag? She felt a strap being pulled tightly across the small of her back and tightened down with a buckle at the side of the table. Another strap was pulled across her shoulder blades. Then she felt hands spreading her legs, tying them to the metal rings on either side of the table. The man in front of her was covering his erection with a large, ribbed dildo harness. It was hollow in the middle, allowing him to slide his length inside; giving him another half-inch in diameter and a good two extra inches in length, once he'd strapped it into place. Only when he began to walk around behind her, did she realize that it wasn't for her mouth. He had shown it to her so she would know exactly what he was going to do. He gripped the cheeks of her ass, forcing them apart. She felt something cool and greasy, as fingers probed her sphincter. Then the rubber shaft was pressing against her ass. Involuntarily, her muscles tightened. The shaft pressed harder and she could feel her hole slowly opening up, stretching well beyond its design's parameters. And then he was sliding more freely; forcing himself the rest of the way with one quick, deep thrust. She screamed into her gag, as her body shook with delightfully intense pain. The shock of his body collided with hers, caused her to move against the needles. They seemed to rip at her skin, but she was tightly strapped to the table. There couldn't be much real movement. The needles began to tear again as he pulled out of her. Then he was shoving back inside her again. In-out, in-out. He found a steady rhythm, using his hands against her hips to help force his way in and out. In and out. At first there was only the pain, and she reveled in it; but slowly it began to mix with a deeper pleasure. She began to breathe a little harder and before long she was moving her hips to meet each new thrust. Her body was dripping with sweat. As if they could tell just where the pleasure was coming from, someone had slipped a finger between her legs and was working her there at the same time. It seemed to go on and on, and she didn't even notice the belt as it was slipped around her neck. Not until she felt the gentle pressure slowly beginning to block off her air. It didn't take much, just a gentle twist of the wrist to make her breath come in labored little wheezes. Another thrust seemed to force the air out of her, and she couldn't force her lung to fill again. Her head seemed to growing lighter. A vibrating sensation filled her chest, quickly becoming more erotic as it intensified; swelling, its center moving down in her body until it was centered at the focus of her pain and pleasure. Fingers tugged at her clit. The ribbed dildo was an avalanche washing over her in waves. Her body went rigid. An incredible new level of pleasure filled her so completely; so profoundly. All she could see was white. All she could hear was an ecstatic buzzing: like bugs in her ears. She wished these wonderful feelings could go on forever. Then the world began to fade to black.
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