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Chapter 10: "Patriarch Games"
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I helped her up. She seemed apprehensive. I suppose I couldn't blame
her -- we had hardly parted on the best of terms. Her eye makeup was
smeared and I could tell she'd been crying again. I looked into her
eyes and she tried to look away. The posture collar made that
impossible and I grabbed her chin and forced her to look at me.

As I looked into those need-filled eyes, I knew that I'd succeeded,
that over a period of just a few days I'd made Caroline Conway -- the
preacher's daughter, the good little girl -- hopelessly addicted to
sex. She thrust her hips against me again and moaned. She was
ungagged and perfectly capable of asking for what she wanted, but
these were animal needs and she begged as any animal in heat would.
There was more in that look, a silent capitulation that told me that
she was all set for another back down. If there was ever a time when
she was disposed to talk, this was it.

I led her to the toilet and removed the vibrator. She sat,
embarrassed as before to have me watching her. I looked at her damp
box, no surprise there. She was the juiciest female I'd ever known.
She squirmed a little but did her business and afterwards I cleaned
her up, finishing by pushing the vibrator back inside and upping the
setting slightly. Subconsciously, she thrust her latex covered twat
in my direction and her eyes asked a silent question. Just last week
she had been a struggling student living in a tiny apartment. Now she
stood next to me, a fetish queen begging a man to fuck her, almost a
nymphomaniac, and very nearly a slave. The thought amused me.

I smiled, caressing her naked breast for a moment to ensure that her
nipples had some attention too, then led her into the dungeon. I
forced her onto the bondage chair (without dildos) and started to
strap her in. I paused, letting my touch linger, as I fastened her
ankles to the legs. She was hot and ready so I reached down to her
throbbing crotch and as she gasped, begging soundlessly for more,
removed the vibrator. She cried out in frustration, horny but denied.
I just smiled. That would make things easier.

"Ok. I've calmed down a little and I want to hear what you have to
say."

"Please. . ."

"Want to cum, slave?"

"Oh. . .yes."

"Then you won't have any problem telling me what it's all about."

She looked up hopefully, "What, about my offer?"

"No, not about your offer."

"Please Master, I will do any. . ."

"Enough!"

She fell silent, sensing my annoyance. I reached down and forced her
to look at me. Best get this over with.

I smiled. "Ok, so you want to talk about your *offer*. So let's deal
with that first, shall we?" I wanted to make sure that she realized
the permanency of her position. It would perhaps persuade her to tell
me what I needed to know. "It is my intention to keep you forever,
but assuming that I did tire of you, what makes you think you would be
released? How do you know there isn't a shallow grave in your
future?"

She shuddered and for an instant a look of fear crossed her face, but
then she tried to shake her head. Finding that impossible she licked
her lips. "I don't think you could do that," she said quietly. There
was perhaps a little flicker of doubt behind those blue eyes, but she
did her best to sound sure.

I laughed. "What do you base that on?" I asked. "And I hope that
isn't a psychological opinion. I wouldn't bet my life on it, not with
your grades!"

"No," she said, her voice almost a whisper.

"Then what?"

"A slave must know her Master's mind," she said. "I don't, not
completely, but I do know that rules are important to you. I don't
think you'd kill me for no reason, I realized that yesterday."

I was beginning to see. "You thought I was going to kill you?"

She looked up, "I thought that it was likely," she admitted. "I
thought I'd have a couple of weeks, a month at most. I tried not to
provoke you, not to attempt to escape unless I knew it was going to
work. . .yesterday, when I tried to escape, I thought you would kill
me for sure, but you didn't. Then I realized that you were serious
about keeping me as a slave and that I had a future to plan for." She
looked at me with those big blue eyes, pleading. "My offer is good,"
she said. "I'll willingly be your slave, do anything in return, the
piercing, the brand, even a baby if that's what you want."

I smiled again, as I understood. "What you're offering is to be my
girlfriend," I said. "Well, it may surprise you to learn that I can
get a girl with no trouble whatsoever. If not from love then form the
fact that I am a very wealthy man." I brought my hand up and stroked
her cheek, again. She didn't try to stop me.

"If I'd wanted, I could have bought your pretty little ass," I said.
"You could deny it but think; how much did you owe? If I'd have come
to you and offered say a thousand dollars for one night would you have
really turned it down?" The look on her face told me she didn't know.
"We could go on," I said. "How much would the piercing cost me, or
the brand, or the baby? Probably a lot less than it's already cost me
to bring you here. You remember the outfit you wore last night.
Those boots were probably the most expensive footwear you've ever had,
that corset alone cost more than half your wardrobe. Taking a slave
is a very expensive hobby but it's worth it because in return I get
something I could never buy -- complete control of your life. If I
decide to throw you out in ten years and you are forced to make your
way in the world with no education, that's my choice. I could just as
easily sell you to a brothel in Mexico, that's my choice too. That's
what ownership buys me."

She'd looked upset, almost terrified when I mentioned the brothel.

I smiled as I explained, "Caroline Conway doesn't have a future to
plan for, slave. She died in that alleyway. My slave has a long and
interesting future ahead of her once she accepts her situation and
starts looking forward instead of looking back."

She was silent, fidgeting nervously like a schoolgirl in front of the
principal and perhaps sulking a little.

"Now, slave, what I want to know is why you almost hung yourself
today."

She said nothing. I thought back to Maggie.

"Did you have an abortion?"

She looked shocked, scandalized. "No. I. . ."

"Then what? Why such a dramatic reaction?"

Still nothing.

"Slave," I said as kindly as I could, "Ownership means responsibility.
You are my slave, I am your Master. I want to help you, and you must
need that help otherwise you wouldn't have done something so
melodramatic. Now tell me!" I could tell she wanted to but something
deep and old was fighting me for her soul.

"Tell me!"

Still nothing. Then I remembered what Maggie had said, that she may
have been threatened punishment if she told. Well, two could play at
that game. I allowed the vicious quality to creep into my voice.

"I don't have all day, Slut!"

"I'm sorry Master."

"That is nowhere near good enough," I said coldly. "What is rule
one?"

"Obey first time, every time." She said without hesitation.

"Or?"

"Be punished," she whispered.

"And this is the creed you live by, the rules you say I always keep."

"Yes." It was almost a gasp.

"Well then, I have given you a direct order. You are that far away
from a major punishment, Slave. That close. You are going to tell me
all about whatever it is that's going on here and I mean *now*." I
slammed the crop against the table.

She started crying. "Please, I can't," she moaned.

"A pussy whipping then? Twenty lashes?"

She stiffened. One had been painful enough, twenty must have seemed
unimaginable.

"Please!"

"Do I hear thirty?"

"No!"

"Thirty from the dumb bitch tied to the chair!" I said like a mock
auctioneer.

"Please!"

I could tell she didn't want to say it whatever it was. Coercion was
obviously needed and I had to sell her on the idea that major pain
would result from a refusal. In an instant my decision was made. I
brought the crop down hard on her unprotected nipple and yelled,
"Sold!" She screamed and cried but still said nothing. I waited a
few moments, then shook my head. "I see. A pussy whipping it is
then!" I said with a trace of disappointment in my voice.

"No, please!" she screamed. It was agony for her, torn between
wanting to obey me and the fear or embarrassment holding her back. I
stood and turned towards the cabinet. I'd deliberately left it open
so that the floggers hung on the back of the door were visible to her.
Of course I knew that these were designed for sexual play, and at
worst they could deliver only mild pain and discomfort. But God, they
looked marvelous. I heard the gasp as I went towards them.

"I. . .I. . .I'm a bastard!"

I stopped. Not the sort of thing you expect a lady to say, especially
about herself. It took me a moment to realize that she meant it
literally. Thinking about it, I kicked myself for not spotting it
sooner. Caroline's parents' wedding date had been one of the first
things I'd checked, as it wouldn't have done for the dutiful daughter
to miss such an important anniversary. The date popped into my head
and I realized immediately that it was wrong. Or rather, that it
didn't match up with Caroline's age. In my defense, a lot of my
married friends have cohabited for a while and I no longer tend to
directly link married time with length of relationship. The Reverend
Conway did not strike me as the cohab type.

A quick calculation told me that Caroline was almost eighteen months
old when the happy event happened. Then my words came back to me:

". . .if it's a girl, you can look after it yourself. I don't want to
be stuck with your bastards."

"You're illegitimate," I said with some relief, remembering the horror
stories told by Maggie. Part of me thought she had overreacted; after
all, huge numbers of kids are born out of wedlock these days. Then I
remembered she hadn't grown up in the real world but in the weird
twilight zone that was small town middle America. I could imagine the
comments, the knowing looks, the gossip -- and then, another part of
the puzzle fell into place.

"The Reverend Conway isn't your real father, is he?" I said softly.
"He married your mother after you were born."

"Yes," Her face flushed with shame. She looked like a heroine from a
Victorian melodrama, the foundling child born from sin.

I couldn't even begin to imagine the Reverend's motive for marrying a
single mother, but knowing the Bible Belt I felt sure he could find
some way to sell it to his loyal congregation. "So who is your real
father?"

She tried to shake her head. "I don't know." She started to cry and
my concerns returned. So she was a bastard, but even in darkest Iowa
it didn't constitute this much grief. Then I remembered her reaction
to my words, the begging letter home to her mother.

Mother.

"So the good reverend isn't your father. So what?" She said nothing.
I took a risk. "He still scares you that much?"

She looked at me in surprise, obviously disturbed now. "Y-you know?"

"Tell me!"

She wobbled her head, sobbing.

It was so clear. I don't know why I didn't spot it sooner. I turned
to her, making a sweeping gesture with my hand. "All this, all the
histrionics," I demanded. "It's all about your father, isn't it?"

A look came across her face, a strange mixture of fear and relief. If
Maggie was right, Caroline had carried a dark secret with her for many
years, afraid to tell anyone because she thought they would hate her.
Part of her mind wanted so desperately to tell, to free herself from
the guilt. Confession is a powerful aid to conditioning someone; it
builds trust because inside we all have something to hide. It's
hardly surprising that it is used extensively as part of the
brainwashing process.

I nodded to myself. "I want you to tell me all about it. Everything,
understand?"

"No, please--"

"Not the right answer!" I said. "Slave, there is nothing you can
tell me that can shock me in any way. It's not possible for me to
think any less of you than I do at the moment. Make no mistake -- you
will tell me, sooner or later. I have a lot of interesting and
painful ways to make you tell me. Speak now before I have to whip it
out of you, and you may buy a little of my respect."

She looked up at that. "Respect?" Her voice was quiet but emotional.

"Winning her Master's respect is the only thing that should matter to
a slave," I said. "It's the only way she'll ever be anything more
than an object."

"Please."

"What's the matter, afraid I'll spread it around? What do you think
I'd say?" I slipped into a fake Texas drawl. "Hey, Bob, old buddy
old pal. You'll never guess what I found out -- Caroline, the
kidnapped girl I have locked in my basement? Hell, I found out she
fucks farm animals."

That caused her to smile a little, but there was still the fear in her
eyes.

"No matter what you did, I'm not likely to throw you out," I
continued. "You might as well tell me. Now."

"He said he'd. . ." She closed her eyes, the tears gleaming on her
cheeks.

"You're afraid he'll hurt you!"

She would have nodded but the posture collar prevented it. "Yes," she
whispered.

I laughed harshly. "You've been kidnapped, taken countless miles
away, locked in a hidden room behind a door a tank couldn't get
though, and you're still afraid he'll punish you?"

"Yes."

"Well, he won't, " I said, leaning down until I was almost nose to
nose with her. "Because to get you he has to come through me, and I'm
the scariest thing in heaven or hell that bastard will ever meet."

She looked at me with those doe eyes. She wanted so much to believe.

"I am your Master, slave," I said, in the purr of a jungle cat. All
sleek and powerful and razor-tipped, something that could kill in an
eyeblink. "You are my property and I defend my property. No matter
what."

I released her, then, sitting down and pulling her onto my lap. She
curled up like a frightened little girl. I held her close, letting
her feel the warmth of my body, the tangible physical contact.
Remembering what Maggie had said, I gently brushed her breast in a
deliberately calming sensation, especially for someone as needful as
she was at that moment. "Tell me everything," I said. "No one will
punish you for what happened."

She looked up at me. It was so close to the surface.

"Tell me," I whispered. "I can free you from the guilt." For a while
she cried, but I knew it would be soon so I punched a button on the
remote. Somewhere upstairs the sound system started recording. . .

She had begun speaking like a child, using simple ungrammatical
sentences like a five or six year old. As the story progressed, her
use of language improved, almost as if she'd been hypnotically
regressed. Or perhaps she had rehearsed it in her mind for all those
years, waiting for that trusted adult that had never arrived to save
her from the hell that was her home. In any case, it took several
hours for her to get through it. She would periodically break down
and I would have to comfort her before she went on. She recounted it
slowly, and at my insistence she had described everything in a vivid,
almost grotesque detail. When she had finally calmed down, I
retrieved a bottle of whisky from the cellar and we drank ourselves
into a minor stupor. This time she hadn't argued, as grateful for the
liquor as I was. Then I had taken her back to the cell and reattached
the wire. She just looked up at me, and I felt the need to hold her.
She was stiff and tense, and I knew she could never sleep like this.

I started to caress her, rekindling the burning need buried deep
inside her womb, feeling her body relax, finally accepting absolution
and the freedom from guilt. Then I very gently parted her legs and
started to lick and tease her pussy, feeling the warmth, the need
sweep across her, obliterating all other concerns. I concentrated on
her clit, building the sensation still further, listening as she lost
control and her screams of lust filled the room. Then, when I judged
the moment was right, I stopped and shifted so that I could gently
play with her nipples, listening as the volume of her cries increased
still further. I prolonged the moment, kept her on the edge for
minute after minute, knowing that to her it was an eternity of sweet
agony, a torture far more intense than any pain. I found myself
thinking of Maggie and her moment earlier that night, had it been this
intense for her? Did I really care?

Then I slipped my cock into her warm hole and fucked her slowly,
feeling her tightness drawing me in, enveloping me completely. For
the first time, I was aiming to give her maximum enjoyment, matching
my stroke to her needs and feeling her body strain against the bonds
as she crawled over the edge. Then she came again and again, a
bursting chain of climaxes, as if all those orgasms her guilt had
denied her had finally found release. Slowly, finally, she smiled and
almost instantly fell asleep. I paused to loosen some of the straps
and relieve the pressure on her arms. She looked like an angel, fine
wisps of blond hair framing her beautiful face. She seemed calm, with
that strange look of peace in her face that you only associate with
children. It was as if all those terrible years had just slipped away
and she was a little girl once more, enjoying the deep sleep of a
renewed innocence.

I was not so lucky. At first I had been enthused by my new power. I
knew that the demons of her past were the only obstacle to my total
control of her, and went to bed in hog heaven; I had tied up and
fucked two beautiful women today, and perhaps Vicky would be number
three. I remembered the embarrassment of Maggie in her hooker outfit,
those huge begging eyes above her gag as we had traveled up in the
lift. I heard Caroline's screams as she came again and again,
remembered the sweet taste of her pussy, the look in her eyes that
told me she was nearly mine. I had drifted off feeling drunk and very
satisfied. It didn't last.

I awoke around three with the unpleasant feeling that I'd just had
another bad dream and a pounding headache. It had taken two Advil,
three cups of coffee and almost two hours of Animaniacs before I felt
I could sleep without nightmares.

The next morning I woke early. The suggestion of a headache still
lurked in the back of my skull so more tablets and coffee were in
order. A quick check showed her still asleep, so I cleaned myself up
and trudged into my office. I unpacked her little box, quickly
sorting the diaries and pictures from the rest of her life. Then I
replayed the recording, editing out the pauses and the worst of the
anguished cries. Over the next few hours I systematically took her
story and turned it into a continuous monologue, telling a harrowing
story of her life. I played it a few times to get a feel for it, then
used the pictures in the albums and those little locked diaries to add
in those little details she had missed.

She had begun with a simple statement.

"Momma didn't really want me. She never told me so, but I know. I
guess I was an accident. It's kind of weird to think about it like
that, but it's true. It almost sounds like a movie of the week -- a
cheerleader and some high school kid got together in the back seat of
one of those big old cars, took their clothes off, and. . .well, you
know. Momma said they had used protection despite her being Catholic,
but God had punished her anyway and she got me. I used to think that
I could remember the days. . .before, but Momma says that isn't
possible. My first real memory is of him throwing me to my mother and
ordering her to make me stop crying. If she couldn't, he hit her.
Somehow, I understood even then that the only way to stop him hurting
her was to do as he said. That was the first time he told me not to
tell the neighbors or anyone outside our house about what he did to
Momma. He said he would hurt her even worse if I did."

I looked at her first school photographs, of the sullen blond-haired
girl at the back of rows and rows of smiling children.

"I didn't understand that we were different until my first day at
school. Momma took me to the gate and waved to me as I went inside.
The other mothers waited around for a while. They stood there
talking, exchanging favorite stories about their children -- normal
stuff. But Momma went straight back to make his breakfast. If she
had stayed like the other mothers, he'd have gone hungry for a few
minutes. Then he'd beat her. That's when I started to understand.

The other kids told me that their parents married because they fell in
love. I guess I thought mine had, too. And maybe, if they fell out
of love, that maybe it was my fault. As I started getting older,
though, I realized that she had been young and pretty with a daughter
and no husband. Momma was -- I don't know. Vulnerable, I guess.
Vulnerable, and weak, and she couldn't stand the gossip and the
pointed fingers. So when he offered to make her respectable, she took
it even though he demanded her soul in return. You know, she actually
told me once that even though she knew he was cruel, she thought she
could change him. But he was the one who destroyed her."

I looked at the family portrait again. At that stern look, at the way
Judith looked down in subservience.

"She wasn't really human anymore, the way she'd do anything he said.
She. . .God. She degraded herself on demand. He'd make her do
horrible things. I could never understand why -- I didn't know about
what it was like for a single woman with a daughter. He held that
over her head. Every so often, he would get so mad and threaten to
throw us out, tell everybody that Momma was a ten-cent whore who would
sleep with anyone. She would cry and beg, and throw herself at his
mercy. He never did it, of course -- it was just a way of exercising
his power. But she couldn't take that risk."

I plucked out a picture taken on someone's backyard. Pretty little
girls in light summer dresses, smiling, laughing all except the blond,
freckled Caroline.

"When I was six, he started. . .he. . .he started getting interested
in me. Before that, he just used to call me "the Bastard" when we
where at home and hit me if I got in the way. But all of a sudden he
started to be nice, almost like other fathers. I could tell Momma was
scared, but I didn't know why. She kept trying to make sure we were
never alone together, but he started to beat her more and more. Then
one day he went out to visit a sick parishioner, some old woman who
didn't get a lot of visitors. He kept complaining that she'd almost
talk his ear off, but he had to go visit her. After he left, Momma
said we would play a game. She gave me a suitcase and said we would
pretend to pack for a vacation and would see how fast we could get
ready. I pretended we were going to Hawaii, and I packed all my
bathing suits so that I could be a mermaid when we got there.

We almost made it. We were on the stairs when he came home. I
remember his face, and his eyes -- they scared me so much. He ran
upstairs and grabbed me, then he told Momma to get upstairs into the
attic. I could tell she was scared -- she kept looking at me, then at
him. Looking back on it, I now know that he was standing by the rail
on purpose. If she put up any sort of a fight, he would have thrown
me over. he could always claim later on that it was an accident --
kids love sliding down banisters, she must have overbalanced, slipped.
.. .

I can still feel his hand holding my arm, almost crushing it, and how
Momma slowly put the suitcases down and walked up the stairs to the
attic. He sent me to my room, and then I heard his steps on the attic
stairs. I didn't see Momma again for nearly two months."

I listened on a ghostly chill spreading through my body, the almost
primeval feeling of being in the presence of pure evil. I stopped the
recording and made myself a drink. Then I spun on.

"After Momma went up to the attic, he found a lady to come in and do
the housekeeping. The Peterson's took Anna -- he told them that Momma
had gone on retreat, and he needed help with the baby. They were
happy to help out -- I mean, this was Reverend Conway, right? The
nicest man in town. Of course they'd take Anna. He kept telling
everyone about Momma's retreat, how she was trying to find some
spiritual strength and get some rest from caring for two small girls.
It was summertime then, and since school was out I'd stay in the house
all day long. I remember people would stop by and ask him questions
about the socials, or talk to him about church business. Sometimes I
went up to the attic, when I knew he was talking to someone, and I'd
tap on the door. Once, I thought I could hear something moving
inside. But nobody ever answered.

Then, one day, I came in from playing in the back yard. He was in the
kitchen, doing something at the sink. I don't know why I did it, but
I went up to the attic. The door was open, just a little bit, and I
stepped inside. I remember how dark it was, with just a tiny bit of
light coming in from the dirty windows. At first, I couldn't see
anything, and I thought maybe he let Momma come back downstairs.

Then I heard the noise. And I turned around.

She. . .oh, Momma. She was hanging from one of the roof beams. He
had tied her arms behind her with thin cord, the kind that you used
for baling hay. It was wrapped tight around her arms, from elbows to
wrists, and the skin was bulging purple at each end. It couldn't have
been used just to tie her -- it was there to punish. One leg was
trussed up tightly against her body, forcing her to balance on the
other leg. On that foot, she was wearing the highest heeled shoe I
had ever seen -- I didn't understand how she could even stand up in
it. Then I saw the rope above her. It was tied to her elbows,
yanking her arms back at this horrible, hurtful angle. She had to
stand there like that, her arms almost pulled out of their sockets
from the rope tied to the beam. She wobbled a little, and I saw all
these red marks and welts across her back, like somebody had been
whipping her.

Him. He had been whipping her.

I must've made some sound, then, because she turned around, and I saw
my Momma's face. I almost didn't recognize her -- she was gagged with
this filthy rag, and her eyes were huge. They stared at me, and she
tried to say something. I took a step forward. . .she didn't want me
to come any closer. She tried to stop me, and she lost her balance.
She made the most horrible noise, then, as she fell and her whole
weight came down on her arms. I could have sworn I heard a crack as
they jerked back in the air. She screamed behind the rag and wiggled,
wriggling until she could get her foot under her again. It was
horrible. She finally managed to get her balance back and stood
there, staring at me. And I stared back. The only place that wasn't
bruised or welted or hurt in some way was her face. Somehow, I knew
she wanted me to run away and hide.

I did. God help me, I did. And I almost knocked him over on my way
down the stairs -- he was coming back up for more. The bastard
grabbed me and clapped a hand over my mouth, then picked me up and
carried me into his bedroom. He threw me onto their bed and shoved a
handkerchief into my mouth, tying it there with one of Momma's summer
scarves. I couldn't stop him. I tried, but he was bigger than me,
and so strong. He tied my wrists behind my back, then tied them to my
pony tail, jerking my head back. I read about it later on -- it's
called a hammer lock. Then he started tying up my legs and all I
could think was oh no, oh no, not like Momma, please God not like
Momma. He would have, too -- he would've carried me upstairs and hung
me up next her, I know it. But the doorbell rang right then. He
swore at me and dragged me to the closet. He stood me on a clothes
hamper as he tied my neck to the clothes rail. Then he told me what
would happen if I moved. He said I'd fall over because I couldn't use
my legs, and I'd hang myself. I'd hang myself and die. That if I
wanted to live I should stay still and quiet. Then he closed the
closet door. I heard the key turn in the lock, and his footsteps go
upstairs. The attic door slammed shut, then he went downstairs and
answered the front door.

I don't know how long I stood there. I could feel my legs getting
numb from the ropes, and I stared into the darkness, praying for him
to come back soon because I didn't want to die. I started crying, and
I almost choked under the gag as my nose got stuffy. Then I heard
steps on the staircase, and a lady's voice. I screamed, then, as loud
as I could. All I heard was this muted sound, like a bird cry. I
kept screaming, and she walked right past the closet. I kept
screaming, and she never even heard me. She used the toilet because I
heard it flushing, then she went back downstairs. Finally, the door
slammed, and I heard him coming back upstairs for me.

He opened the door and untied the rope, then took me down off the
hamper. He was. . .nice. I don't know why. He started untying all
the ropes, rubbing my legs when they cramped. He said it was all just
a bad dream, and that everything was all right. I knew it wasn't, but
I thought he'd hurt me again if I said so, so I didn't."

Her father was kind to her for the next three days, playing and
laughing with her, to the point were she almost believed that that
terrible sight upstairs was only a nightmare. On the fourth day he
introduced her to the game.

"It started with syrup. He liked good maple syrup, not the stuff that
you got from the store but real maple syrup from Vermont. He'd pour a
few drops onto his finger, then tell me to pretend that I was a kitten
and lick them off. So I did. It was fun, and the syrup tasted good.
I never got candy because he didn't believe in it, so something like
the syrup was a special treat. Then he told me that if I was a good
girl and did all my chores, he'd give me another lick of syrup. I'd
clean up my room, and take out the garbage, and put the papers in the
bin on the porch, and he'd pour more maple syrup onto his fingers and
I'd lick it off. Like a kitten. Then, one evening, he took me into
his bedroom. He said we were going to play a new game with the maple
syrup. He took off his pants and got into bed, and told me to get in
with him. I didn't want to look at him -- it was all funny and hairy
between his legs, and there was this thing hanging there. He took the
maple syrup and poured a little bit onto his thing, and told me to
lick it off. It was just a game, he said. So I did."

I remembered the embarrassed look she gave me.

Gradually the amount of syrup was reduced and poor technique
discouraged by frequent beatings. By the time Judith "returned,"
quiet and broken, her daughter was an accomplished cock sucker. For
the next ten years, her warm mouth would service her father at least
twice a week. As Maggie had predicted, Charles moved the blame for
this abuse to his daughter, telling her that she was evil and that she
and her mother would be punished if anyone found out. He got his
broken and submissive wife to support him and the frightened child
never told.

I fast forwarded, moving through ten years of systematic and frequent
abuse in a matter of moments.

"Sometimes, it seemed like Momma was about to stand up to him again.
Then he'd take her back up into the attic for a few days, or a week.
She'd come back downstairs, quiet and moving carefully. You could
never actually see anything wrong with her -- he was too smart for
that. He made sure all the welts and bruises could be covered by her
dress. When I got old enough, he'd make me sleep in his bed during
these times. He'd make me suck him, and swallow afterwards, and he'd
push his thing into my ass even though it hurt horribly. But he
wouldn't actually fuck me -- he said it wouldn't do for the reverend's
daughter not to be a virgin. Then he'd laugh and tell me he was
saving that for when I was older. He did other things to me, too,
things he'd read about in books, and sometimes. . .I. . .I don't
know. Sometimes it felt. . . but he told me only bad girls liked
that sort of thing. If I liked it, I was a slut, I was evil and
worthless. Just like my Momma.

He never did any of this to Anna, though. Anna was his angel, pure
and sweet and born in holy wedlock. I was a bastard , I deserved
everything I got but Anna was a 'good girl.' She knew it, and she
made my life a living hell with it. If she broke something, or tore
her dress, or lost her homework, she blamed it on me. And he would
take me up to his bedroom and beat me while Momma and Anna waited
downstairs. When I came back down, she'd be sitting there in the
living room, smiling at me.

She got worse as she got older. When I was about twelve, I started
hearing the girls at school talk about sex. One of them, an older
girl, said it was supposed to be fun, and there was a way that you
could have fun all by yourself. What you had to do was find this
little nub between your legs and rub it gently. I didn't believe them
at first -- it sounded stupid. Sex wasn't fun, sex hurt. But one
time, when I was taking a bath, I decided to look for the nub. It was
kind of hard, but eventually I found it and rubbed it like they said.
At first, nothing happened, but then I started to get this funny
feeling down low in my stomach, all warm and tingly. Kind of like,
sometimes, what happened when. . .you know. I kept on trying it in
the bathroom, and sometimes in bed. One time, it felt like fireworks
were going off down there, it felt so good. That was my first orgasm,
I suppose. And that was when Anna walked in and caught me. I was in
bed, under the covers, but she knew something was wrong and started
chanting, "I'm gonna tell Daaaddy, I'm gonna tell Daaaaady." She ran
out before I could stop her, and a few minutes later I heard him
coming up the stairs. He opened the door and stood there, staring at
me. I couldn't move, couldn't even breathe, I was so afraid. He
closed the door and walked over to the bed, grabbing the covers and
ripping them off me. It happened so fast. He grabbed my legs and
yanked them apart, staring down between them, then said that I was a
wicked, sinful girl and would burn in Hell from what I just did.

He took one arm and one leg and flipped me over, onto my stomach, then
pulled up my nightgown. I hid my eyes in the crook of my arm and
waited. I heard the hissing noise before I felt it. It was a wire
hanger, just like in the movie 'Mommy Dearest.' And they hurt like
fire, thin lines of fire all up and down my back, my ass, my legs. I
started crying, then I started screaming. He stopped just long enough
to stuff a handkerchief in my mouth, tying it with a pair of panties,
then kept whipping me with the hanger. He spread my legs and started
whipping my thighs, then whipped me once right between my legs. I
screamed and fainted.

When I woke up, I was tied spread-eagle to the bed. He left me there
like that all night as punishment, and Anna laughed at me from the
doorway. I had to sleep on my stomach for two weeks. I never touched
myself down there again, until. . .until you.

This went on. . .God, for years, until I got into high school. Then,
about six months before my fifteenth birthday, I met Josh Peterson.
That isn't exactly right -- I mean, the Peterson's had lived in the
town all my life. Our families hung out together. I just never paid
very much attention to Josh before -- I mean, he was just some boy in
the neighborhood. But in my sophomore year we both entered projects
in the science fair. He had the table next to mine and we started
talking. We started to study together sometimes in the school
library. Since the Peterson farm was out of town he always offered
to walk me home after school. Our house was on the edge of town you
see, near the church.

That's when it started. He was so sweet and funny, and I loved
listening to him tell about his family's trips to the Grand Canyon or
what he wanted to do when he got older. He'd tease me, trying to make
me laugh, and I started to feel safe with him. Somehow, we started
holding hands on the way home, and then I let him kiss me. It was
nothing like. . .him. Josh was sweet, and innocent, and it felt so
wonderful when he put his arms around me. He asked me to be his
girlfriend, and I said yes.

Oh, God. Now, I wish I had said no.

But I didn't care then. I was so happy that Josh liked me -- it was
something all my own, something pure and good. On the other hand, I
was terrified that. . .he. . .would find out, from Anna or one of my
friends. I told Josh that we had to keep it secret -- I made up some
lie about reverends' daughters not being allowed to date until they
were sixteen. He believed me and promised he wouldn't tell a soul.

We kept it up like that for months. Sometimes, I'd manage to sneak
away and meet him at this little house on his parent's property. He
called it Patrick's house, and said that it would be his someday.
We'd wander through it, pretending that we were married and living
there, and it was the happiest time of my life.

Then, the day before my fifteenth birthday, Josh said that he had a
surprise for me and I was supposed to meet him at Patrick's
house in the afternoon. I told Momma that I had to stay after school
and help one of the teachers mark papers. I don't think she really
believed me, but she let me go anyway -- it sounded reasonable, and
would keep him happy. After school, I ran to Patrick's house, dodging
showers feeling somehow alive. Josh was waiting for me inside, and
swept me into his arms the minute I came through the door. We just
stood like that for a minute, the two of us safe against the world, as
he kissed my hair and told me that I was beautiful, wonderful, that he
loved me so much. I looked up at him, and saw the love in his eyes.
I knew, then, that he was the only one I wanted to spend my life with.

He led me up the dark, narrow stairs, to one of the little bedrooms.
There, he had set up a checkered red cloth on the floor with this
gorgeous little picnic lunch -- he even managed to filch a bottle of
wine from his dad's basement. We sat down, and he insisted on serving
me my fried chicken and salad and cookies. It was all part of the
service, he said, laughing. My first glass of wine was in one of
those little plastic wineglasses, like you can get in the grocery
store. It was the best meal I ever had, and I leaned over to kiss him
afterwards, as a thank you.

I'm not quite sure how it happened. I don't remember a lot of it -- I
thought later on that maybe I was blanking on some of it, because of
what he did to me. We lay down on the blanket, in a square of
sunlight that came streaming through one of the windows. It was a
funny day, sunlight and showers, like the world couldn't make up its
mind. I do remember watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight,
like golden bubbles in the wine. I remember I was happy, and I
remember Josh kissing me, and telling me that he loved me. I must
have helped him take off my dress -- I don't see how he could've
gotten it off in one piece, otherwise. He kept kissing me all over,
telling me I was beautiful, so white and smooth, like ivory.

He. . .we. . .made love, I guess. It wasn't just sex, like with
him. It was love, and Josh cried out my name at the end. I lay
there, under him, and felt the love coming out of him, and tried to
ignore the voices in my head telling me I was dirty, a whore. I
couldn't be -- someone like Josh wouldn't love a whore.

He held me afterwards, and told me not to worry -- he wanted to marry
me, and if I got pregnant he'd just marry me that much sooner. He
even brought out this little box, covered in velvet, and gave it to
me. It contained a thin gold band, his great-grandmother's wedding
ring, he said. It would do until he could afford a real engagement
ring -- then he stopped, and looked at me.

Will you marry me, Caroline, he asked. I said yes, and started
crying.

That's. . .that's when it started to go wrong. Josh wanted to talk
to him and get his permission to marry me. I told him he couldn't --
my father would never agree. He insisted that this was something he
had to do, that he was proud of his love for me and didn't want to
hide it anymore. We fought about it, and finally I stood up and
grabbed my dress, crying. I told him that if he really loved me he
would listen to me and not say anything to my father. I was so scared
-- for me, for him. Somehow, I knew what would happen if anyone tried
to take me away from the Conway house. I ran out of there, buttoning
my dress and crying. I could hear Josh calling my name, but I just
kept going -- I couldn't think, I was so confused and scared. The
next day, I had my birthday party. He had allowed me to invite some
of the kids from school, but Josh didn't come. I kept checking the
door, hoping that he would forgive me and come anyway. I wanted to
see him so badly. But he never showed up.

The party was nice, I guess. I had a cake, and candles, and presents
from everybody. I couldn't really enjoy it, though, I was so worried
about Josh. I didn't really notice as all the guests started leaving,
until the house was quiet again. Just us four. Anna wound up going
to sleep early -- I think she was mad that I was the center of
attention for once, and she couldn't do a thing about it. Maybe an
hour later, he took me by the shoulders and said that he had a special
present to give me. I still remember that smile, and Momma sitting at
the kitchen table, not daring to look up. He took me upstairs, to
their bedroom, and told me to pull my shorts down and unbutton my
shirt. I thought we were going to do what we'd always done, but he
pushed me on the bed and told me to stay on my back this time.

I closed my eyes, and prayed to God to let me die. I heard the
zipper, then the rustle of cloth as he took his pants off. The
bedsprings creaked as he climbed on. He. . .he. . .oh. He got on
top of me, and I could feel it between my legs, poking me. Then he
pushed it in, hard. He. . .I know now, he must have been trying to
break my maidenhead. Josh had been so careful, so gentle. All he
wanted to do was hurt me.

His face. . .changed. I could see it, see the realization that there
was nothing in his way. I wasn't a virgin anymore. He leaned back,
staring at me, then took his full weight on one hand and slapped me
hard with the other one. "You WHORE!" he screamed, right into my
face. "You filthy whore! You've been fucked before! You let someone
fuck you!"

He kept slapping me, knocking my head from side to side with the
blows. I tried not to make a sound, but soon I started screaming. I
couldn't help it. He pushed himself up, then, and grabbed me by the
hair, dragging me off the bed and opening the door so that he could
throw me into the hallway. My head slammed into the wall opposite,
and I shut up, breathless from the pain. I thought he was going to
kill me, somehow I got enough of my breath back and flung myself down
the stairs. I still don't know how I managed it but I kept my balance
and somehow realized I had to get to the door -- to Josh. He screamed
something and started down after me and I started wards the door
knowing he wouldn't reach me in time. Then suddenly someone grabbed
me by the hair, I spun around willing to fight to get away. If it had
been Anna I would have smashed that smug face into the wall...... It
was my mother. I couldn't believe it, and I don't think she wanted
to. She was broken you see, at the time I couldn't imagine why she
would side with him, didn't fully understand the fear and the
pain.....

Then he clamped his hand over my mouth and told her to get a rope.
She did, like a zombie and held me as he tied me up. He gagged me
with a knotted towel then her pulled and pushed me upstairs. I looked
down at her as she stood there and part of me knew he'd won, knew what
he'd do next. He'd tied my ankles but it was proving too hard to move
me like that so he pushed me over and retied them as a hobble. I
tried to kick but I knew it was useless.

Snarling, he grabbed me by the hair again and forced me to stand up,
then pushed me --

Pushed me --

Towards the attic stairs. He took me up to the attic, just like he
had taken Momma almost ten years before. And he retied me, with my
arms roped to a beam in the ceiling so high that I had to stand on my
tiptoes, then he spread my legs and tied each foot to old, rusted
eyebolts in the floor so that I was stretched even further. I read
later on that people could suffocate in that position, that it was the
way people died when they were crucified. I could hardly breathe, and
my face hurt so badly as he grabbed my cheeks, and pulled the gag
tighter. I could feel my lips puffing up, the blood making them sting
in the hot, stuffy air.

He cut my clothes off, shredded them with a craft knife, and I thought
he was going to cut me for sure. But he just stood there, examining
me like I was a piece of sculpture. And nodded, as he took a bullwhip
off a hook on the wall. He said I had sinned against my God and my
religion, but most importantly I had sinned against him. I had denied
him what belonged to him by marriage, and was now lower than anything
that crawled in the dirt. I had to be punished.

I couldn't move as he walked behind me. I could only wait, and
breathe, and hope to die.

I heard the sound first. Then I felt the burst of fire across my
back. It was the worst, most intense pain I had ever felt, worse that
his slaps, worse than the pain when he pushed into me. I screamed
into my gag, arching my back, trying to move away from the pain. He
whipped me again, and again. He told me later on that he had whipped
me 40 times, one more than Jesus because I was a worthless slut. I
didn't know -- I fainted after the sixth lash.

When I woke up, all I could feel was the pain. All up and down my
back, my ass, my legs. I blinked, trying to breathe through my
stuffed nose. And I saw him sitting on a chair in front of me. He
straddled the chair with an elbow propped on the back, chin on fist.
Just staring at me. When he saw that I was awake, he smiled at me,
and asked me who had fucked me first. I don't know how I did it, but
I shook my head. He said, very gently, that God would only forgive me
when I told him who had defiled me. But I wouldn't.

Afterwards, I found out that I had spent two weeks up there. Two
weeks in that hot, filthy attic, while he. . .experimented on me. He
had all these books and magazines, things that he bought mail-order
from special companies in the city, from farm supply stores, from all
kinds of places. And he tried them out, one by one, on me, always
asking me to tell him who had fucked me first. He tied my legs to a
board and forced my feet down until they were pointed, then strapped
them down and left me there while my calf muscles cramped in agony.
He smeared Ben-Gay on a huge dildo and shoved it up my ass. He told
me about female circumcision, and said he was gonna cut off my pussy
lips and clit and sew up my pussy so that I'd never enjoy sex again.
In between, he beat me and whipped me, just for the fun of it.

I held out until. . .he had installed a workbench up there, some kind
of heavy-duty wooden table. He strapped me to it. He forced my legs
into these homemade stirrups, spreading them wide so that he could get
at my pussy. He'd been at it a lot, pushing dildos and other things
into me, fucking me over and over, fisting me until I thought I would
die from the pain. But nothing he had done was as bad as this. I. .
..I didn't like needles. I didn't like the idea of things being stuck
into me, being broken off so that I couldn't get at them. He found
that out when he started sticking pins through my nipples, and . . .he
had this little board, made of thin wood and shaped like a butterfly
with an oval hole in the middle. He called it his butterfly board. I
thought it was because of the shape until. . .until he put it between
my legs and pushed it up against me, hard. Then he pulled my pussy
lips through the hole. He pulled and stretched them until I could
feel the wood scraping against my clit, the insides of my thighs.
Then he held up the pin. And I screamed. I screamed and screamed,
and he pushed that pin through my pussy lip, pinning it to the board.
I couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the feeling. And he kept doing
it, stretching the lips until they were completely pulled through the
hole and he could pin them to the board like a butterfly.

I. . .went crazy, I guess. I thrashed my head from side to side and
cried and begged underneath that gag, and all I could feel were those
pins opening me up, stretching me wide. Then he held up another pin,
and touched my clit. He was going to push it through my clit, he
said, and rip it through unless I told him what he wanted to know.

I could feel myself snap. I couldn't stand it anymore. I made these
animal noises and nodded as hard as I could, trying to make him come
up and take the gag off so that I could tell him, tell him all about
Josh. When he did take the gag off, I started babbling, saying that
Josh loved me, he wanted to marry me, I would never tell anyone about
this, oh please please. . .

He smiled down at me, and brushed the hair out of my eyes. He said
that I had finally pleased God. Then he pushed the gag back in my
mouth. And he went down and pushed the pin through my clit. And he
left me there like that, for the rest of the day, screaming.

I finally stopped screaming, I don't know when. I just drifted, blind
in the dusty darkness. He would always find me, always make me do
whatever he wanted, always hurt me. He enjoyed pain, enjoyed watching
it in other people. I. . .gave up. There was nothing I could do.
And that's when I heard the doorbell. Even up there, I could just
hear the voices at the door, and I recognized Josh's voice. He had
come for me, after all, but it was too late. I tried to warn him tell
him where I was but I was gagged. The voices faded, and I fell into
the darkness.

Sometime later, I felt an aching, gnawing pain and woke up. He was
standing at the foot of the table, pulling the pins out and pushing my
lips back through the hole. He told me that Josh had come and asked
for my hand in marriage. I said I needed time to consider the offer,
he chuckled, and asked Josh to come back in two days.

He unstrapped me from the table and helped me sit up. It hurt to
close my legs, both from the muscle strain and from the damage to my
pussy lips, but I managed it. Then he put a little padded bed desk on
my lap, with a piece of my notepaper, and pushed a pen into my hand.
I was to write down exactly what he said -- I was to tell Josh to meet
me in the woods, where he usually went hunting, tomorrow at three
o'clock. I wrote the words automatically, my mind blank, and I signed
it at the bottom. Then he pushed me back onto the table, strapped me
carefully into place, and covered me with a blanket. I stayed up
there for another five days, doing whatever he wanted when he came to
see me.

When I finally came down, I found out about Josh. He had gone
hunting, his mother said between sobs in our front parlor, and must
have slipped near a gully. Josh's body had been found at the bottom
of it, half his side blown away in the shotgun blast. His funeral had
been the day before. She sniffled and said she understood why I
couldn't come, being as sick as I had been. I shouldn't feel bad
about it -- Josh would understand, too. Then I remembered the note
and realized that my weakness had killed him, that if I had resisted
he could still be alive.

I sat there, silently watching as he held Mrs. Peterson's hand and
patted it. Then he turned his head and smiled at me. And I knew I
would never get away."

I stopped the tape again, the sick feeling returning to my stomach.
After this it all made sense, her actions, the way she always backed
down and those looks of fear always out of all proportion to what I
was doing to her. And above all there was that question, "Why me?"
Any kidnap victim may think it but they usually refocus on the more
basic questions of survival. In Caroline's case? Well to be
tormented by one maniac was bad enough but by two unrelated
individuals? I could see what she was thinking, did she attract them
in some way. I scratched my head remembering back to my first sight
of her. I was sure I'd been attracted to her amazing good looks but
was that true? Could I have instead reacted subconsciously to some
quirk, some submissive body language that marked her as a victim? Was
it important?

I looked again at Conway's picture. He was a large stocky man with
thin graying hair and a thick curly beard. In his middle to late
fifties I thought and more than a match for a terrified girl and her
mother. Then I thought of tall, lanky, naive, Josh --he hadn't really
stood much of a chance either. I looked at myself in the mirror. My
father's strong Irish temper had already brought a flush to my face
and once again I thanked my kind gentle grandfather for contributing
his strong Russian genes through my mother. Heavy, agile and
resilient I knew *He* would have a harder time with me. Even then I
knew that there would have to be a reckoning, that a slave can have
only one master. He was a sadist, but Maggie said I was a closet
sociopath, and I was infinitely patient. When we met it would be at a
time and place of my choosing and I knew I would take great delight in
crushing him.

It was almost time to wake Caroline I started towards the door when
the phone rang. Puzzled I answered it but with the exception of a few
booming noises there seemed to be no one there. I was preparing
coffee when it rang again.

"Hello?"

"Huuumph."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oomph Hee!"

"Sorry?"

"Ummph!" More insistent this time and my brain suddenly clicked.

"Maggie? Is that you?"

"Mmmmm!"

"Don't tell me, you decided to try self bondage and now you can't get
free?" There was an embarrassed silence.

"Mmmmph"

"Ok, I'll be there in two hours."

"Ummmphhhh!!!!!"

"I'm sorry that's the best I can do. I don't live in Boston remember!
If you like I can call the fire department for you?"

"Nnnnmmm!"

"Was that no? Grunt once for yes twice for no."

"Mmmm.......Mmmmm!"

"Ok about two hours then, try to sit quietly until I get there."

Nine in the morning and already a freaky day. I looked at Conway
again, at those cold dead fish eyes and shuddered. Then I headed off
to see my slave.