The Taking of Pamela Harris (MMMF/F, D/s, humil., spankng.)

By Don Winslow

According to the police report, when Pamela Bryce Harris, heiress to the Harris millions, was kidnapped, she was wearing nothing but her bathrobe and a pair of panties; she still wore the same things now as she sat in

total darkness on the bare wooden floor of a narrow closet. The small-breasted blonde looked like she had collapsed in place. Her slumped shoulders rested back against the far wall, her sagging head

lolling down on her chest, extended legs angling out before her so that her bare feet were pressed up against the closet door. Slack-limbed, like some rag doll that had been tossed into the corner to be neglected,

the bedraggled girl’s mind floated, while her body slipped further into its dull lethargy.

Scattered thoughts came to her, bits and pieces of the frantic night when she had been taken, the chaotic events playing over and over in her

mind. It all happened so fast so that even now she couldn’t quite believe it had really happened. It might have been a nightmare; one from which she would soon wake up.

She remembered…coming home from school, having decided to make Stephen a nice meal, complete with candles and wine. Afterwards, she would

change, and take a shower. Coming out of the shower, she ran a comb through her damp hair, stepped into a fresh pair of underpants, and pulled

on her blue terrycloth bathrobe, loosely cinching it at the waist as she padded into the living room. The couple intended to spend the rest of

their evening curled up on the couch watching a movie on television. Just another quiet evening at home.

At the knock on the door, they turned to each other, puzzled. It was pretty late and they weren’t expecting anyone. Stephen went; Pamela

could hear the sounds of muffled voices. A woman’s voice, she thought, pleading, asking for something. Mildly curious, Pamela was about to go

to the hallway to see what it was all about, when the door was suddenly slammed open, and the gang crashed into the room in a violent whirl:

three men and a woman, in camouflage and ski masks, screaming at them, and yelling orders to one another. She watched in stupefied amazement

as a weakly protesting Stephen was easily flung aside. She remembered his wide, disbelieving eyes as he lay on the floor, gazing up at the

booted, combat-clad attackers, stepping over him to get to his girlfriend. They dragged the bathrobe-clad girl, shrieking and yelling

hysterically, towards the front door. She was lifted off her kicking feet, and carried down the stairs to a waiting car that stood with

engine running; its trunk lid open. The terrified heiress was bundled inside the trunk and the lid slammed shut, sealing her off from the

outside world, imprisoning her in total darkness. Curled up and holding herself, she whimpered as she felt the car begin to move.

During the long ride, her terror had grown so she was paralyzed by fear by the time the car came to stop. The trunk flew open, and they grabbed

her and hauled her out into the warm summer’s night. She remembered begging in desperation, pleading all the while with her kidnappers,

who went about their job with methodical precision, paying not the slightest attention to her shrill babbling. Someone brought her arm up

painfully behind her, pinning it there to hold the struggling woman in place, while someone else tied a blindfold over her eyes. Two of the

men picked her up under the arms, and they dragged her limp body up some stairs, then into a house. She was thrown into this closet, and the

door slammed behind her. Her heart sunk at the definite click of a deadbolt.

Then the girl was alone, in total darkness…had been for how long? Hours? Was it really hours ago?…Long hours?…or had it been days? Left

alone for hours on end, her world reduced to the dark confines of her little prison. It was close, hot and stuffy in the closet, and she was

sweating freely. But she no longer bothered to wipe her brow. The captive soon found herself drifting; her mind, a blank.

She had passed beyond those first wild, frantic dreams of rescue, and now she had slipped into a sort of torpor, a hopelessness that came with

the realization that she could do nothing; only wait for others to do with her what they would. In such a state, prisoners have been known to

sink into despondency, unthinking, uncaring. In this way time slowly passed for Pamela Harris, seated on the floor of her closet.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the door flew open and the small closet was abruptly flooded with a blinding light. The shock of brilliance

caused Pamela to cry out, and her dilated eyes, long accustomed to the darkness, snapped protectively shut. And when she managed to blink them

open, she found herself staring up at the tall, bearded one, the one she thought of as their leader. Behind him three others crowded closer, one

of them was the girl with the short-cropped hair. She had recognized that one of her captors was a female even though she had been masked and

clad in baggy army fatigues. The girl was still in her loose fatigue pants although she had on a black tanktop, and the mask was gone.

However, Pamela still could not see her face, as she was now holding a camcorder to her eye, aiming it down at their cringing captive.

Terrified, Pamela whimpered and cowered back on the dusty floorboards although there was nowhere to retreat to, hemmed-in as she was by the

close confines of the closet’s walls. Her abductor took a step closer till he stood half-straddling her, looking down on the huddled girl.

“What do you people want with me?” she cried, desperation making her voice higher than she expected. There was a wavering shrillness that

verged on hysteria.

The man said not a word, but a truly evil grin came over the bearded face that he looked down on the helpless captive. Staring into her

frightened eyes, he reached for the zipper on the front of his jeans. He watched her watching him -- saw her panic-stricken eyes widen as she

followed the hand that lowered the zipper and reached into his opened pants.

“No!” she cried in sudden alarm, as the horrible realization sunk in – the bearded man was about to extract his penis. And she knew what for!

“Get up, cocksucker! On your knees!” he ordered gruffly, fingering the swelling prick he held cradled in his right hand. Pamela cringed even

further back into the closet walls, looking wildly from one to the other, hoping that one of them might be moved by her plight, at least

the woman. But the girl never reacted, just kept the running camera pointed at her, while the others stood watching intently, and the

leering man stepped closer. Instantly, his left hand shot out to grab a

fistful of her thick blond hair. She whined and squirmed as he twisted

his clenched fist and lifted her by the hair, bringing tears to her big brown eyes. She struggled, desperately scrambling to her knees in order

to keep her stretching hair from being pulled out by the roots.

“Open!”

To his surprise he found the girl would not obey. Her time in solitary confinement had not yet broken her spirit. ‘Good,’ he thought, smiling

down on her. ‘I’m going to enjoy this!’

Pamela had overcome her fear just enough to summon up some reserve of courage. Now, she was determined to keep her clenched teeth tightly

shut even as her kidnapper yanked her toward his hairy crotch. He grunted at her mute obstinacy.

Instantly, she was flooded with relief as he eased the painful grip on her hair. Had he accepted her refusal? But, no, he let go of her hair

only so that he could get a better grip on her head. Now clamping her face between his big hands, he held her immobilized while he thrust his

hips forward, bringing his fully-erected cock into contact with her for the very first time, squirming his hips to lavishly rub his stiffened

manhood all over her scrunched-up face: over her closed eyes, down her nose, across her soft cheeks, over her tightly-pressed lips, laughing at

the way she shuddered in disgust.

“You got a lot to learn, Miz Rich Bitch,” he hissed, as she struggled in vain to turn her pretty face away from his lewd offering. “And the first

thing you gotta learn is how to obey.” With hands over her ears, he held her face pressed tight up against his upright cock, relishing the

triumphant thrill of having the rich girl’s soft face mashed against his surging, hardened sex. “See the thing is, when any one of us tells you what to

do, you do it.” He moved, rubbing himself lewdly up and down along the side of her nose. “See it’s not like we’re asking you, like you’re some sort of

princess, or something. No. We’re telling you -- like you’re some sort of slave. Our slave. ‘Cause that’s what you are. ‘Pammy the Cunt’ –

our little sex slave. And before I’m through with you, you’re gonna be a real good little slave. You’re gonna beg me to suck my cock. In fact,

you’re gonna do whatever the fuck I want with you, and thank me politely, with big shit-eatin’ grin!”

During this monologue, Pamela struggled weakly in the guy’s iron grip. Meanwhile, he started bucking his hips in a parody of fucking, sending

his prick pumping up and down along her contorted features. He ground his hips into her; held her squashed against his crotch. Pamela, her nose buried in pubic hair, was suffocating, hands fluttering helplessly. Panic stricken, she suddenly realized that the guy meant to use her to masturbate… and he was about to ejaculate, right on her face!

She whimpered when she felt a massive surge shoot through his rampaging prick. Abruptly he jerked back, grabbed his throbbing cock to

aim it at squarely at her wide-eyed face –-just as he felt the unstoppable rise of creamy pleasure surging up in him. He arched up on

his toes, and holding his erupting prick between his fingers, moving the pulsating head to paint Pamela Bryce Harris’ aristocratic blonde face

with his surging spunk. He laughed when she clenched her eyes shut, and turned away in disgust. Again the hand grabbed a fistful of hair, and

he held the blonde’s twisting, contorted face with one hand while he laid a thick line of cum across her forehead, running it down along her

nose to where it puddled under her right eye. Her brows and lashes were left thickened with the sticky cum. Slimy rivulets dribbled down her

cheeks; dripped down to dangle from her chin in long, gooey strands.

The gang broke into raucous cheers. And when the last of his copious discharge weakened into a thin gruel, the bearded man used that handful

of fine blond hair he still clutched to pulled her head back till her face was upturned to the camera, and that was how she saw herself when

they later forced the humiliated girl to watch her very first video -- with the cum of their leader decorating her pretty features like a

sticky spider web. Even her beautiful hair was festooned with strings of the glistening stuff.

*****

Continuing to use her hair as a convenient handle, he hauled the stumbling, cum-bespattered blonde to her feet and forced her before him,

into the main part of the room, where the others stood waiting. They were all there -- the ones who had taken her: the bearded leader; the

“butch,” for that was how Pamela thought of the short-haired, hard-looking girl; a small wiry guy with the look of a weasel; and a

husky blond with coarse features and cold gray eyes. They were all dressed in black or olive drab t-shirts and the ever-present fatigue

pants that she later learned was the uniform of their self-styled “Sexual Liberation Army.”

“Please don’t hurt me, please…YEEOUCH!” She cried out as her hair was given a single vicious twist that brought tears to her eyes,

and made her knees buckle. She would have fallen, but he held her up by the hair, so that she had to scramble wildly to keep her feet under her.

“Shuddup, Cunt!! You not to speak unless spoken to!”

Pamela stood barefoot in the center of the room breathing heavily, her shoulders heaving, her head sunk low. She was terrified,

afraid to utter a sound. No one moved.

Even though she kept her eyes on the floor, the captive was able to take in her surroundings for the first time: a small, high-ceilinged

room, like so many of the old Victorians of San Francisco. Brightly painted in the upscale neighborhoods, and worn and shabby in the poorer

ones, the big wooden houses defined the many faces of the City. This place had the temporary, nondescript quality of a cheap hotel room. It

might have been one of those abandoned houses, hastily furnished, with a few items of shabby, secondhand furniture; the kind that gangs of hippy

squatters left boarded up while they happily moved in, coming together in the spirit of sharing food, music, drugs, and each others bodies.

The room was brightly lit and warm, although, thankfully, not as hot as the intolerably stuffy closet. Heavy brown paper had been taped over

all the window. This meant they couldn’t be opened. That probably accounted for the hot-house atmosphere as the place trapped the heat of

the summer’s night.

They all stood watching her as the bedraggled, bathrobe-clad girl was shoved into their midst. No one said a word. Pamela, her downcast eyes

still on the dusty floorboards, brought up a weary hand to wipe her sticky face.

“No!” the leader warned from behind her. “Leave it! Tell her, Bandit.”

The butch girl folded her arms under her the taut curves of her plump braless breasts and smirked, preening in the new-found role of borrowed

authority.

“When Cap here, or any other guy, decides to honor you by presenting you with a load of his cum, you smile and say: ‘Thank you, Sir.’ And you

leave it alone..right where he put it, till he tells you can wash it off. Get it?”

They waited till they saw the low-hung blond head stirred and looked as though it were about to nod. Then, in a flash, the girl was bolting for

the hall in a desperate attempt to make it to the front door! For a moment the conspirators stood there, staring a one another, listening to

the bare feet pounding down the wooden floor of hallway. Then Cap turned to the two men. “Go get her,” he said, shaking his head in mock

resignation.

Her pursuers caught up with the escaping prisoner, just as she was trying to frantically claw her way through the myriad of complicated

locks that secured the heavy oak door. She was grabbed, roughly manhandled, and dragged, kicking and screaming her shrill protests, all

the way back to the where the other two waited.

This time the stocky guy had her, and he was none too gentle. Holding her from behind, he had forced her arm up high behind her back,

bringing her to instant tears, and causing the poor girl to bend forward to alleviate the sharp hint of pain. He steered her this way, using the

leverage that the wrestling hold provided to exert his will over her. A hissed command, accompanied by a nudge of additional pressure, instantly

quieted the nearly hysterical girl.

Cap looked her over, and shook his head. Then he strolled over to the well-worn sofa to sprawl out on the middle of the ratty cushions. He

leaned back, spread his booted legs, and flung his long arms up along the sofa’s padded back. He ordered that the prisoner be brought before him.

The pressure on her arm was increased, bringing the girl up on her toes and arching back, as she stepped hastily to comply. In the struggle her

bathrobe had come undone, and now the smooth front of her panty-clad body was partly exposed between the parted flaps.

With her guard propelling her, she shuffled along, half bent-over, head hung low, the mass of blond hair falling like a curtain to partially

veil her defiled face with its residue of slowly drying sperm.

“Let her go.”

And to his pretty prisoner: “Stand up…straight!” The pressure was released; the blond guy took a step back.

The weary blonde straightened up, giving a quick toss to her head to throw back her heavy mane and stand with hands at her sides before

the one they called ‘Cap.’ The cold blue eyes of the bearded man silently looked her up and down, noting the way the open bathrobe hung

from her shoulders, the generous gap revealing the insides of her

minimal breasts.

“I think it’s time we got some things straight. First of all, you are a prisoner of the Sexual Liberation Army. I’m Cap; this is Bandit,” he

nodded to the girl; “Maggot,” a nod to the skinny guy, and “Wizzer,” a third nod went to the husky guy who stood behind her. And you are

…’Cum-Bucket’.” He smiled, pleased with his cleverness, while the others laughed at the distraught girl who stood before him, burning with

humiliation.

“Now, say your name.”

“You people are crazy! LET ME GOOO!!” Pamela shrieked.

Cap’s eyes tightened and he gave just the slightest nod to his waiting henchman. Instantly, the man behind her grabbed her wrist and yanked

her arm up in back, causing Pamela to wince and cry out in pain.

“Wrong answer. You just don’t get it, do you, Cum-Blucket? We can hurt you any time we want to…maybe you like pain?” He nodded, again a

searing stab of pain shot through her. She gave out with a whimpered plea, desperately begging him to please, please stop.

“Look at me!”

Pamela raised her eyes to find herself staring into the cold, implacable eyes of the man called Cap. She felt an involuntarily shudder go through

her.

“You got a lot to learn, Cum-Bucket. Like, that all girls, even female POWs, have a definite place in the SLA.”

“Yeah, on their backs!” chimed in the one called Maggot, and the other two men snickered.

“Yeah, on their backs and on their knees, and however else they can serve the cause,” Cap merrily agreed. “Anyway, you’re a POW see, and in

a little while you’re going back in that closet. If you’re a goodgirl, we might let clean you up a bit, let you out from time to time,

even feed you. I’ll bet you’d like that wouldn’t you? Or how about letting you use the bathroom for a piss, or a shit? Of course, you can

do all those things in the closet too, you know, or we can let you out. These are sort of ‘privileges’; you gotta earn ‘em. Of course, if

you’re a bad girl-- no privileges, you get punished, then back in

closet you go. Do you got it?”

The pretty blonde dropped her eyes and nodded. Immediately, there was a shock of pain.

“Yeeoooch, Yes, I understand! I understand!”

“Wrong answer, Cum-Bucket. You forgot to say: ‘Sir’.”

“Oh, yes, Sir,” she mumbled quickly, I “I understand, Sir.” Desperation in her voice; anything to avoid the sharp pain.

“Good. Now, tell us your name.”

Pamela took a deep breath.

“Wait! Look at me! I want you looking at me whenever I’m talking to you!”

Her soft brown eyes rose up to find the hard blue steel of that unflinching gaze. Then, she looked her captor right in the eyes, as

burning with deep humiliation, the girl summoned up all her strength to say the degrading words he wanted to hear.

“Cum-Bucket. My name is… Cum-Bucket…Sir.” Blushing a deep red, she barely managed to stammer out the half-choked words, words that would

deepen her degradation at the hands of these lecherous criminals.

Someone chuckled. Their stern-visaged leader allowed himself a pleased, half-amused grin.

“That’s better.”

He nodded to Wizzer. “Let her go.”

“Now come here, Cum-Bucket,” he pointed to a place on a threadbare scatter rug placed between his widely splayed legs. Her bare feet

stepped onto the thin, worn rug.

“Go on. Say it again. Loud and clear this time.” He ordered, looking up at her. Remembering his injunction, Pamela looked down into his eyes.

Blushing furiously, her pretty, sperm-encrusted face a dark red, the thoroughly humiliated prisoner of the SLA took a deep breath, and

enunciated in clear, but expressionless voice: “My name is Cum-Bucket, Sir.”

“That’s better. Now, lose the bathrobe, Cum-Bucket. We wanna see your tits.”

By this time Pamela was beyond caring. Utterly defeated, she moved with numb indifference, simply exposing herself as ordered. Her hands

rose automatically, moving with a life of their own to pull the loose robe back off her shoulders and let it fall down her arms, presenting

her captor with her bare breasts. The others crowded around to get a better look at their prisoner, standing there in nothing but her thin, powder blue hip huggers. Her hands were held loosely at her sides, letting them look at what she had to offer: slight rises on

the lithe chest she now exposed. Barely perceptible, flattened mounds, shaped like small pancakes, those petite breasts sported tight,

precisely-made nipples, of soft fleshy pink.

“Not much in the tits department,” sniffed the girl they called Bandit,pointedly eyeing up the flat-chested blonde. And once again, Pamela

felt an onrush of embarrassment sweep over her.

“I dunno. Let’s see ‘em,” the Cap demanded. “Straighten up.

Stick your chest out and show us those pretty little titties of yours.”

Pamela did as she was told, holding herself erect, she raised her chin and drew back her shoulders, standing at loose attention, her eyes

on some distant horizon.

“Yeah, they are kinda tiny, but I like ‘em,” Cap declared.

“Maybe if she played with them a little? Do you think that would help…give ‘em, you know, a little exercise?” Maggot asked with a sly

leer. Pamela felt distinctly uneasy. The repulsive creep made her flesh crawl, but she kept her pose, her expression blank, her smooth

slim chest arched outward.

“Yeah, let’s try it. So come on, Cum-Bucket, play with your titties for us. Show us how you do it.”

They waited. No one spoke.

Pamela closed her eyes and took a deep breath, she bit down on her curled lip, and the small audience watched in rapt attention as, slowly,

both hands rose up. Flattened fingers pressed in on the gentle mounds, indenting the raised pads of pliant flesh that defined that maidenly

bosom. For a few minutes she fondled herself, pressing on the little disks to move them in small circles.

“Pull on them, Cum-Bucket. See if you can make ‘em stick out,” she heard Maggot say. Growing excitement crackling though in his voice.

Obediently, she plucked the fleshy tips, stretched them out, gently tugged on them. Even with her eyes closed she was aware of the gang

looking at her, like she was on stage -- watching her playing with herself! The wicked thought sent an erotic thrill shooting through her.

With eyes still tightly shut, she brought two extended fingers to her mouth, moistening the tips. She did this with both hands. Then she

plucked the rubbery nubbins, holding them in a pincer grip between two fingers, tugging on them, pulling the pliant flesh outward, and letting

the taut elastic breasts snap back.

“Hey man, this is great!” Maggot giggled. “Do it some more.”

Her nipples were definitely swelling, thickening between her toying fingertips. She rolled the fat nubbins between thumb and forefinger,

gently pinched the excited tips, which we definitely blossoming under all this attention, and soon she had her hardened wet nipples sticking

out in stiff salute. Pamela was having trouble standing still: her shoulders shifted in a tiny wiggle, and she tried to stifle a low moan.

“Open your eyes! Look at me! Feel yourself up!” She heard the iron commands of Cap, and her eyes fluttered open to look down on his

sprawled form and find those deadly snake eyes.

Pamela looked down on her captor with heavily lidded eyes as she resumed the slow, circular massage, pressing firmly, moving the thickened disks

around, as waves of pleasure rose up in her. The healthy young woman struggled to keep her eyes open, to keep her eyes staring into those

gray, hypnotic eyes. But she lost that battle. Her lashes fluttered, her eyes slid closed; she arched back and squirmed upward, all the while

fondling herself. They watched her sway, caught up in rising lust.

“She loves it! It’s turning her on!!!” Maggot crowed. “Lookat them sexy little nipples, sticking right out there.”

The blond girl blushed; ears burning furiously. She knew her nipples hardened quickly, got quite prominent when aroused, and she felt ashamed, that they would betray her like this, yet she felt curiously proud at the same time—to be flaunting her sexuality like this before these randy men. She was

torn, agonized by powerful conflicting emotions. What was she doing!

“Stop!” the command rang out loud and clear. Her hands froze in place, protectively covering her slight bosom.

“That’s enough.” Open your eyes. I TOLD you to keep your eyes open, Cum-Bucket.”

Pamela quivered with a tiny aftershock and gulped for air. Her shoulders were heaving; she was panting like a racehorse. She was

flushed; her brow damp. Suddenly it struck her! She became acutely aware of her situation: how she must look! Standing there in her

low slung panties, her stimulated nipples wet and hard and gleaming. Her hair was a mess, and the dried cum still decorated her flushed face. What was she doing!!! An inner voce screamed the warning. Her eyes fluttered open to find him staring

at her.

“Now take your panties off.”

For some reason the words shook her; hit her like a sledgehammer. The girl stood paralyzed; standing straight and tall, rooted to the spot; a

woman wracked by indecision.

“Go on, drop your drawers!” Cap urged hotly. He was not a patient man.

Still, the blonde girl didn’t move a muscle.

Abruptly, Cap shot to his feet, his sudden lunge startling the still-woozy girl who fell back before him. Before she knew what was

going on, he had grabbed her, dragged her around the back of the couch, then shoved her over the padded back.

“Maggot!” he called for help.

Instantly, the wiry guy sprang into action, grabbing the struggling, shrieking Pamela by the wrists and pulled them downward, forcing the

girl to bend way down over the couch. Without releasing his grip, he squatted down in front of the squirming girl to hold her folded over the

back of the couch, his evil-grinning face just inches from hers,half-hidden by her fallen hair.

The bent-over pose pulled Pamela’s panties tight, the legbands riding up so that a good portion of her sleek haunches and her pert cheeks

escaped from the tautly-drawn silk of the panties’ seat. Upended, the tall blonde burned with humiliation, well aware that the mandated pose

was one of lewd offering, with her bottom served up in the air like some common slut.

“Noooo,” it was a long, wavering, pitiful moan.

It was ignored.

“Now listen to me Cum-Bucket, Cap said bending down to bring his lips to within inches of her right ear. You failed to obey. More than that, you

tried to escape. And we can’t allow that. It’s time you were punished – just so you see we mean business. And every time you fail to do what

we say, even if you just hesitate a fraction of second, you’re gonna be punished again. See, that’s just the way it is, and you might as well

get used to it. You’re gonna be here a long time.”

With that he eased back, and turned to look over his shoulder at Bandit.

“Get the paddle.”

Pamela waited uneasily, held tight in the awkward pose, her fear growing by the minute. She shut her eyes to avoid looking at the weasel’s

grinning face. She felt a hand come to rest on her pantied bottom. It patted her lightly, then cupped her tight rearcheeks. The hand began to

caress her, sliding the slippery silk all over the rounded domes of her jutting ass. She felt the man clutch a handful of the back of her

underpants and yank up She grunted involuntarily as he hauled up on her silky underwear, forcing the gusset of her stretching panties deep into

her crotch. He playfully tucked the strip in back into the crack of the girl's tight-cheeked young bottom, fully exposing her cheeks;

laughing when he poked a finger between her buttocks, watching the cheeks clench

instinctively to trap the rude intruder.

As the man amused himself with his captor’s ass, Bandit returned with a paddle, a rather ordinary ping pong paddle its thin wooden blade covered

with a textured rubber facing. Behind the bending woman, she handed it over ceremoniously. Cap took it in both hands with an elaborate bow.

Now he went about restoring the panties to their proper place and took his time with this pleasent diversion, delighting in the feel of the

girl’s slick pantied seat.

“Nice panties,” he mused, straightening them out, smoothening the slippery seat over the provocative curves of Pamela Harris’ sleek butt. “But

they’re gonna have to go. Way too much protection. Bandit, you do the honors.”

Pamela felt small fingers slip into the waistband of her underpants, felt them being peeled down from behind, exposing her butt to anyone who

cared to look.

“Lookat that ass! Nice ass, huh?” Her shut eyes tightened, but she couldn’t cut out the scalding words that made her cringe.

For a moment no one spoke. Pamela knew they were appraising her bare bottom: the smooth white cheeks pulled taut, the narrow crack that

tightened spasmodically with the lewd exposure. They were struck by the sight of the beautiful heiress with her panties pulled down; displaced

underwear slovenly left spanning her thighs.

“Not bad,” the woman gave her opinion.

“Bet you’d like a piece of that, wouldn’t you, babe?”

“Well…”

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait in line. Maybe we’ll draw straws. But plenty of time for that later on. Right now, we got a job to do.”

Now, with the others gathered around to watch, Cap fingered the paddle as he stood admiring those tautly-drawn curves of Pamela Harris’ lovely

behind. He seemed in no particular hurry to get on with it, knowing that the anticipation increased the girl’s growing apprehension.

Tucking the paddle under one arm, he placed both hands on his prisoner’s properly presented behind. A whimper came from the girl’s inverted head,

as he ran his hands lovingly over the tautly elongated rearmounds.

Grabbing two handfuls of that choice butt, he squeezed and jiggled the mounds, enjoying the way they wobbled -- soft, yet with an

underlying firmness. Pamela grunted. Then she tensed up as she felt his thumbs being inserted into her crack, and holding her cheeks in two

hands he pried her open. The woman burned with humiliation to realize he was holding back her straining buttocks, to expose her cringing anus

to the world. She heard someone mumble something, heard them snicker. She whimpered. He held her like that for a long time, while Pamela

barely stifled a plaintive moan. Then her captor seemed to tire of playing with her ass, and her rubbery cheeks were released to snap back

into place. Pamela tensed in expectation.

For a moment nothing happened. She waited, still tense, not daring to allow herself to relax. Then she felt the paddle lightly tapping her

bare bottom. It amused the man to see her anxious butt clench in fearful reflex, the coiled muscles tightening down, the crack drawn

into a narrow slit as Pamela resolved to steel herself, waiting with eyes tightly clenched, her rigid body electrified with fearful anticipation.

Now the bearded man started in on her, spanking the pretty blond heiress with short, choppy strokes; delighting in each slap of the paddle as

it ricocheted off the firm elasticity of the slender blonde’s bouncy rearend. He worked slow and deliberately, pausing after each slap of

the paddle so that the shimmying mounds could settle, and Pamela could fully experience the mild tingling he was generating in the her bottom.

Then, without warning, he hauled off and gave her vulnerable ass a quick decisive whack, crisply meeting the proffered rump, flattening the

jutting curves with a solid smack of authority that sent the juddery mounds dancing and had the woman jacking up and letting out a squeal at

the sudden shock.

WHAP!…...WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!.

Again and again the wooden paddle bounded off the taut, upraised cheeks of Pamela Harris’ aristocratic behind. Her squeals quickly escalated

into high-pitched yelps that rang out in the mostly bare room; cries of anguish punctuated by the crisp staccato of that thin wooden blade

rhythmically re-bounding off those merrily bouncing mounds.

WHAP!...WHAP!...WHAP!

Soon he had his shrieking victim frantically squirming, hopping from one foot to the other in fiery agitation; while her supple

rearcheeks clenched, tightening down in futile defense. The wiggling girl was gyrating wildly, twisting her hips to try to avoid to avoid the

relentless paddle. Cap’s brow wrinkled in annoyance; he nodded to Wizzer who placed a beefy hand on the small of her back, pinning the

tall blonde in place over the padded couch.

Starting in again, Cap alternated between solid smacks and glancing slaps, fascinated by the bouncy resiliency of the wobbling mounds that

danced under his punishing paddle.

WHAP!…WHAP!…WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

He couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear, as he listened to her yelp, each time he gleefully whomped the rich girl's gyrating bottom.

Wildly excited now, and sporting a tremendous erection, Cap tossed the paddle aside, and brought a cupped hand down delivering a hard whack to

the frantic girl. Without pause, he established a quick rhythm, happily spanking Pamela Brice Harris’ wiggling ass, savoring the bouncy resilency of

that naked rump as his cupped hand rebounding off those juddering cheeks. Their pinkish blush began to darken under this methodical

assault, while the punished girl’s squeals turned in plaintive whimpers. But he couldn’t maintain the pace. Soon he slowed down to a

stop, to stand looking down on the girl’s well-punished ass with his palm tingling.

Between her quiet sobs, Pamela was gasping for air. Maggot released her wrists and they helped her righten herself. Pamela’s bottom was on

fire, ablaze with a surface tingle and the more pervasive, painful throb of a deep-seated ache. As she stood with her bedraggled head hung low,

sniffling, and gasping to catch her breath, Cap smiled at her. Her panties were still at half-mast, but as she numbly reached down to haul

them into place, he stopped her.

Cum-Bucket, nee Pamela Bryce Harris, was to spend the most unforgettable night of her long captivity standing in the corner like a naughty

schoolgirl, her panties lowered to expose her pink, throbbing ass while she contemplated her fate.

The End

Copyright 2003, Don Winslow