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Message-ID: <43514asstr$1058904604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anais ninja <anais_ninja@hotmail.com>
User-Agent: Xnews/5.04.25
Subject: {ASSM} The Sociopath's Daughter [Part One] (Fb Mg nc bond caution)
Date: Tue, 22 Jul 2003 16:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

[This is a re-submission.  Part Two made it through moderation but Part
One got lost somehow.]

The Sociopath's Daughter [Part One] (Fb Mg nc bond caution)

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja
anais_ninja@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/www/


Note: This is the darkest piece I've ever written.  I've done non-
consensual (i.e., rape) scenes before, but this goes past that, stopping 
just short of snuff/torture.  Consider this a warning if you're squicked 
by this sort of thing.


                                  * * *


The boy wouldn't stop squirming and struggling.  He'd been tied up in my 
basement for six hours and showed no sign of getting tired.  Of course, 
there was no use fighting the chains that connected the leather cuffs 
around his wrists and ankles to the heavy wooden bedframe, but he didn't 
know that.  They all tried to free themselves from their restraints, 
though none had lasted as long as this one.  And none had ever gotten 
free.

I'd been checking on the boy every hour, looking for some sign that he was 
tiring.  For the last hour I'd sat in the chair across from him, watching 
him struggle, listening to his screams and cries for help.  I'd come twice 
while I watched him, dipping my hand in my panties and rubbing my swollen 
clit, eager to feel him inside me.  I liked to wait until they were quiet, 
compliant, obedient before I took them, but now I was getting impatient.

Patience.  You have to be patient if you want to do this and not get 
caught.  That's one of the lessons Will taught me, that patience is 
everything.  He'd stalk his prey for weeks, months even, and he had no 
qualms about calling it all off if something didn't seem right.  That's 
why he died of natural causes in his own bed and not in some stinking 
prison.

The boy looked like he'd had enough.  He gave one last pull at his 
restraints and, with a sigh of resignation, relaxed against the mattress.  
I could see the tears begin to flow from beneath his blindfold.

Without a word, I rose from my seat and sat down on the edge of the bed, 
gently running my hand over his smooth chest.  I'd undressed him before 
the sedative had worn off, and I'd already had a chance to admire his 
young body.  Just two weeks shy of his thirteenth birthday -- I knew 
almost as much about my prey as his mother -- he'd already started to grow 
hair on his chest and groin, a fine blond fuzz that felt like velvet.  His 
cock was soft, of course, but that would soon change.

"Who...who are you?" the boy stammered.  "What do you want with me?"

"Shhh..." I whispered.  I never spoke to my boys.  The less they knew, the 
better.

"P-p-please...let me go.  Lady, please..."

"Shhhh..."  This one knew I was a woman.  Not all of them did, at least at 
first.

He was trembling in fear and when he felt my mouth make contact with his 
cock he gasped in surprise.  The boy began to stiffen immediately, filling 
my mouth with his hard, hot meat.  Not all of my boys could get it up when 
I did this, but most of them did.  For the rest, there was that little 
blue pill that Bob Dole is so fond of.  Only once did a boy fail to 
respond.  Only once.

"What...what are you...?"  The boy knew what I was doing, but this just 
didn't fit into his expectations.  Perhaps he thought he was going to be 
sodomized, tortured, or even murdered.  Getting his first blow job was 
probably the last thing he expected.

My Daddy was a creature of habit but I wasn't stuck to a routine.  Will 
always started his girls with oral, licking their little cunnies until 
they begged for mercy.  Sometimes I'd start my boys with a suck, sometimes 
I'd cut to the chase and mount them.  And then there were those times when 
I'd tease myself, doing everything but take their smooth young cocks 
inside me and only giving in to my urges when the anticipation of a new 
lover was too much to bear.

Tonight there wasn't enough time.  Had this boy stopped struggling after 
the second or third hour I might have treated myself to an evening of 
delicious anticipation.  Now I had to find my pleasure quickly if I was to 
return the boy in time, before his parents even knew he was missing.  I 
released his glistening erection from my mouth and stood up.

The rustling of clothing caught his attention.  I could even see his ears 
perk up like a dog's.  Denied the use of his sight, he could only rely on 
sound and smell to get some idea of what was going on, what was going to 
happen to him.  He could hear my skirt coming off, the snap of the elastic 
waistband of my panties as I removed them, the imperceptible sound of my 
clothes being carefully folded and placed on the chair.

"P-p-please, lady," the boy whispered, his voice hoarse from screaming.  
"D-don't hurt me.  Please?"

"Shhhhh..."  The bed creaked as I climbed in and straddled his slim hips, 
reaching down to guide his stiff penis inside me.  He gasped again at this 
new sensation.  Slowly, I settled down on his young spear, engulfing it 
within my hungry sex until my carefully shorn mons met the fuzz that 
covered his pubic bone.

"Oooh..." the boy cooed as I began to slide up and down on his stalk.  My 
wet cleft made a quiet squishing sound as I rode his young cock and I 
could feel his hips start to move, bucking against me as I fucked him.  
Not all of my boys seemed to like this and I didn't expect this one to get 
into it either, not after all the struggling he'd done.  But he did.

To tell the truth, there were times when I liked the non-compliant ones 
better, the ones that struggled against their bonds as I rode them.  There 
was something extremely pleasurable about having a young boy buck and 
thrash beneath you, trying to escape, trying to get free from the 
restraints, away from my sex.  Like a living Sybian, hips twisting, body 
heaving, a challenge to stay on top of.  But I was glad that this boy was 
cooperating.  Time was running out and I needed my release.

"We...we're fu-fucking..." the boy stammered.

"Shhhh..."  I leaned forward and grabbed his wrists, wriggling my hips 
against his, feeling his throbbing boyhood as it stirred my needy slit.  
I'd already come twice while waiting for the boy to settle down, but that 
was  nothing compared to what was about to come.  That gnawing feeling in 
my belly gave way to a delightful tingle, anticipation of my hard-earned 
release.  Two months of stalking this beautiful boy were about to pay off.

"Oh...oh...oh..."  The boy was getting into it, and though there was the 
possibility that he'd come too soon, I preferred boys this age for a 
reason.  Most of them would stay hard after a dry orgasm, and even the 
ones that didn't would soon be ready for another round.

Discipline was another thing Will had taught me.  I could climax without 
making a sound, not a moan, not a gasp, not even a whimper.  The loudest 
sound that escaped my lips was a nearly-silent sigh, even during the most 
intense orgasms.

So it was that night.  As my pleasure took me in its grasp, my body 
trembling and quivering with delight, I let out a soft "Ahhhh..." and 
ground my sex against the boy's shaft, rubbing my swollen pearl on his 
pubic bone until I found my release.  The boy still hadn't come, so I rode 
him to another, lesser climax, and only then did he utter that 
characteristic groan and let loose.  I could feel a spreading warmth 
inside me, a sign that he'd released his seed.  Though I preferred the 
ones that were old enough to squirt, it wasn't a necessary part of my 
pleasure.  In fact, the ones that couldn't were usually more manageable, 
easier to grab, less of a risk.  Of course, the risk was half the fun, if 
not more.

I released his glistening cock from my pussy, dismounting him and taking a 
sip of water from the glass on the bedside table.  I had a squeeze bottle 
with a straw as well, filled with chilled water, and I gave the boy a 
drink, the only thing approaching a kindness I would allow.  He was my 
plaything and I took care of my toys, but I wasn't here to be his mother, 
lover, nanny, or nurse.

I rode his smooth young boycock once more before the endgame, enjoying 
another delightful climax.  By now the boy's struggles had stopped, either 
through fatigue or because of the narcotic in the water I'd been giving 
him.  I chose a hypnotic agent, one that produced a dissassociative state 
and hindered short-term memory.  That made the endgame easier.

Endgame was the hardest part of all.  I suppose killing the boys would 
have been easier, at least until the question of where to dispose of the 
remains came up, but killing them would have attracted too much attention.  
I was a serial rapist, like my Daddy, not a serial killer.  Not that I 
wasn't capable of that; I just didn't get off on killing.  It was more 
pleasurable to know that these boys lives were changed forever, just from 
an evening in my basement.

Endgame started with an injection of the same narcotic that laced the 
water, at a spot on his body that no doctor would think of checking.  Once 
the boy was out cold, I'd unchain him, bathe him -- no sense letting the 
police pick up the odd bit of DNA or fiber -- and dress him.  Then it was 
back into the van for the drop-off.  My van was just like my Daddy's only 
newer, a non-descript white cargo van on which I'd paint a different 
corporate logo each time.  A wire-mesh cage behind the driver's seat kept 
my boy confined until we reached the drop-off point.

Tonight the drop-off point was a rail yard where the city's transit system 
stored out-of-service subway cars.  I parked the van near a break in the 
chain-link fence I'd made the night before, unlocked the cage, and led the 
boy by the hand out of the van.  In my other hand was a knapsack I'd 
bought at a thrift shop, filled with cans of spray paint.

I led the boy through the fence and helped him into the nearest subway 
car, an old model that had lost most of its window glass.  The boy was 
tired from the drugs and the sex and he fell asleep as soon as he laid 
down on the hard bench.  I removed the opaque sunglasses from his face, 
the glass painted  black to keep him from identifying me.  After leaving 
the bag of spray paint next to him, I climbed down from the subway car and 
went back through the fence.

Back in the van I dialed the transit police from a cloned cell phone I'd 
bought from a kid in the park behind the library.  In my best "concerned 
citizen" tone of voice, I told the operator that I'd seen some boys 
painting graffiti on some of the cars in the train yard.  She thanked me 
for the call and I hung up the phone, starting the van and driving away.  
I took a circuitous route back home, just in case I was being followed, 
and flung the phone out the window as I crossed the river.

For the next two weeks I watched the evening news and scanned the papers 
for any sign of a police investigation.  Nothing.  Chances are the boy 
tried to tell his story, at least what he could remember.  Too bad no one 
would believe him.  I'm sure he'd catch hell from his parents, not to 
mention the transit police, who were nuts whenever graffiti was involved.  
I didn't care at all.  He was just a plaything.  The world was full of my 
playthings.  That's what Will used to tell me.

"We're special people, princess," he'd say as he held me in his strong 
arms.  "We have a gift.  We don't worry about petty things like how some 
plaything feels.  The world is ours for the taking, princess."

"I love you, Daddy," I say, feeling safe in his embrace.

"I love you, too, princess," Daddy would reply.

Well, he wasn't really my Daddy.  He was the man who grabbed me off the 
street and took me to his basement.


                                  * * *


When I was taking Abnormal Psychology in college, the professor told us 
that one in 100 people had sociopathic tendencies, that they were unable 
to empathize, unable to perceive the emotions of other people.  Of course, 
like most things human, the line between "normal" and "sociopathic" isn't 
so cut and dried.  There's a spectrum, varying degrees of pathology, from 
the schoolyard bully to Vlad the Impaler.

Nowadays, much of the research into the causes of sociopathic behavior is 
concerned with brain function, and the tool of choice is the PET scanner, 
able to take real-time pictures of brain activity.  But when I was in 
college it was nurture, not nature, that was suspected as the cause.  
Certainly that fit in with my own experience.

I wasn't born this way.  And though I'm loathe to blame my natural 
parents, it was the way they held me at arms length throughout my 
childhood that turned me into the person I am now.  I was raised by an 
endless succession of nannies and au pairs, none of whom lasted more than 
six months in my family's service.  When I was old enough, I was sent off 
to boarding schools, the best ones money could buy.  My summers were spent 
at camp.  From when I was seven until I was twelve I must have seen my 
parents a total of three whole weeks.

There were other kids in much the same situation as I was, but they didn't 
act out the way I did.  I would tease my classmates mercilessly, until 
tears began to flow, after which I would get the attention I craved from 
the teacher or the Dean.  Negative attention, to be sure, but attention 
all the same.  When I was ten I discovered a new way to get what I wanted: 
sex.  I would masturbate so often -- and so loudly -- that my room mates 
begged to be reassigned.  Eventually I was given my very own room at the 
school.  Perfect.

It didn't stop there.  I'd masturbate in class, I'd come on to my teachers 
(both male and female), and I would constantly draw the dirtiest 
imaginable doodles on my notebooks, reports, and test papers.  I'm sure 
that if I'd kept this up, the people who grade the SATs would have 
received an answer sheet filled with giant penises penetrating dripping 
vaginas, all in Number Two pencil, of course.

And I didn't leave this at school, either.  On winter break at home when I 
was eleven I would constantly grab at my real father's crotch and at the 
breasts of our beleaguered English au pair.  Over the course of Christmas 
Dinner, I came three times, once with the bone from the drumstick of a 
turkey.

I didn't care if this humiliated my parents at all.  All I cared was that 
they acknowledged my presence, something they always seemed reluctant to 
do.  They tried to get me help, sending me to a series of therapists, none 
of whom had the slightest idea of what to do with me.  I don't suppose it 
helped that I'd spend my 40 minutes on the couch rubbing my cunny and 
inviting them to join me.

When I wasn't masturbating and thinking up creative ways to embarrass my 
parents, I'd fantasize about my death, constructing elaborate methods with 
which I would end my life in a manner as messy and gothic as possible.  
Merely slitting my wrists had lost its appeal by the time I was twelve.  
Instead, I daydreamed about swan dives from the Opera House proscenium, or 
strapping myself with explosives and crashing a beauty pageant, or 
attacking a politician with a vial of acid, my variation on the "suicide 
by cop" scenario.

I would spend hours on the ledge of my window, dangling my feet over the 
edge.  Unfortunately, our apartment was only on the third floor because of 
my mother's fear of heights.  Chances are, I'd only end up with a pair of 
broken legs or, at worst, be paralyzed for life.


                                  * * *


I met the man I call my Daddy when I was twelve, after winter break.  I 
was waiting at the train station, about to head back to school.  My 
parents had just dropped me off and left, afraid that I'd humiliate them 
by masturbating on the platform.  A man in a dark suit and trench coat 
approached me.  He had a thick mustache and shaggy hair that spilled out 
from beneath his fedora.

"Elizabeth Hudson?" he asked.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Come with me, please," he said, showing me a gold badge in a leather 
case.

"What's this about?" I said.  I'd shoplifted some cassettes over winter 
break.  Was I getting busted for that now?

"I'll explain at the precinct."  He grabbed my suitcase and I followed him 
out of the station.  I had a feeling something was wrong when he led me 
down an alley to a non-descript white van, but before I could say anything 
he grabbed me from behind and held a moistened cloth over my mouth and 
nose.  The last thought I had before I passed out from the chloroform 
fumes was that my parents had hired him to kill me because they were tired 
of their masturbating daughter.

I woke up in a windowless room, tied to a bed.  My blouse and skirt had 
been removed, leaving me in my training bra and panties, staring at the 
stained plaster ceiling.  I strained at the ropes that held me to the bed 
for a while and then gave up when it was clear that I wasn't going to free 
myself.  Then I tried screaming until my throat felt like sandpaper.  It 
was no use.  The walls were constructed from stone blocks.

That's when I started to cry.  As my salty tears streamed down my face my 
thoughts raced through my mind, going a mile a minute like the train that 
had left without me.  My first thought was that I was being held for 
ransom.  That man had known my name so he must have known that my parents 
were fairly wealthy.  They could have easily raised a million dollars for 
my release.  Maybe that man is on the phone with them right now, I 
thought.

But my thoughts soon took a darker turn.  I was bound hand and foot and 
nearly naked as well, more than was necessary for the garden variety 
kidnapping.  My heart pounded as I imagined my fate, torture, rape, death.  
I was nearly hysterical when I heard the door to the room open.  A man 
entered, dressed only in his boxer shorts and wearing a blue woolen ski 
mask.

I suddenly realized that I might make it out of here alive.  Why would he 
bother with a mask if he was going to kill me?  True, I saw his face at 
the station, but I couldn't really remember what he looked like.  The 
mustache could have been fake and his hair did have the shaggy look of a 
cheap wig.  Yes, I was grasping at straws here, but I needed something to 
hope for, a way out.

"W-what are you g-going to d-d-do to me?" I stammered.

"Shhhh..." was all he said in reply.

"P-please, mister.  Let me go."

"Shhhh..."  He walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge.  There was 
a table next to the bed from which he picked up a pair of scissors.  My 
heart pounded faster as he aimed them at my chest.  This is it, I thought.  
He's going to stab me in the heart.

But he didn't.  Instead, he clipped the front of my bra, right between the 
cups, exposing my budding breasts.  I watched as he stared at them for a 
while, as if he was getting up the courage to touch them.  When he finally 
did graze my nipples with my fingers, I recoiled, straining at the ropes 
that held me.  His hands were cold.

"I'll...I'll do anything you want, Mister," I pleaded.  "Just let me g-
go."

"Shhhh..." he whispered.  The man snipped the sides of my panties with the 
scissors.  Then he grabbed the crotch and pulled, leaving me naked on the 
bed.  By this time I had my eyes closed, trying to steel myself against 
what was going to happen.  I felt his cold fingers on my cunny lips, just 
lightly grazing them, and I knew I was going to feel his cock next, 
pressing inside me.  I heard the bed creak as he climbed between my legs.

The next thing I felt wasn't his cock, though.  It was his tongue, warm 
and slimy, licking the length of my slit, probing me, opening me.  That's 
when I had the strangest thought: I could actually get into this if I 
wasn't tied up and about to be murdered by this sick fucker.  Maybe it was 
because I had nothing to lose at this point.  Perhaps it was due to the 
fact that I hadn't masturbated since that morning and I'd gotten used to 
doing it six, eight, ten times a day.  Regardless, his tongue felt pretty 
good down there, especially when he licked my button.  

I felt a comfortable warmth begin to spread through my belly and I began 
to move my hips, urging him to linger at my clit.  When I opened my eyes I 
saw him looking up at me from between my legs as he licked me, and though 
his face was obscured by the ski mask, I could see his arched eyebrows 
through the eye holes.  It was as if he was surprised or something.  He 
stopped licking me and got up on his knees.

"Wait...don't stop..." I said.

"Shhhh..." he replied, shaking his head.

"But...but I was getting close."  Just a minute or two more and I would 
have come.  One last orgasm.  Was that too much to ask for?

He didn't reply.  Instead, he began to push down his boxer shorts, 
revealing his hard cock.  There was something wrong, though, and it took 
me a moment to realize what it was.  That's when I did something that 
saved my life.

I laughed.

The man had completely shaved his pubic hair and, even though he had a 
normal adult-sized cock and balls, his denuded genitalia looked like they 
belonged on a preteen boy.  For some reason I found this incongruity 
hilarious and I laughed hysterically, until I was out of breath and tears 
clouded my vision.  Even when I thought I would stop laughing, one look at 
his hairless crotch would send me back into hysterics, and the more I 
tried to keep from laughing the harder I laughed.

My captor didn't think this was so funny though.  He leaned over me and 
reared back his hand, like he was about to slap me.  This didn't keep me 
from laughing, though.  If anything, I laughed harder.

"What's so fucking funny?" he snapped.

"Your pubes..." I said between gasps for air.  "They look so..."

"What?"

"You look like a horny toddler," I giggled.

"A what?!?"  The man was pissed off now, and his erection had all but 
disappeared.

"A horny toddler," I said.  Even though I was still trying to suppress my 
laughter, I couldn't stop giggling.

"Fuck," he spat, climbing out of bed and tearing off his ski mask.  I'd 
been right about the fake mustache and wig he'd worn when he picked me up 
at the train station.  Without the mask I could see that he had thinning 
hair and a clean-shaven face, and even though I was still laughing at this 
point, I tried to memorize his features.  Sharp nose, weak chin, hazel 
eyes, brown eyebrows, and a small mole on his cheekbone.  I guessed his 
age at somewhere between 35 and 45, not too tall, a bit paunchy, and very, 
very pale, as if he lived in a cave.

"I'm sorry, Mister," I said, still chuckling.  "You just look so funny 
without your pubic hair.  I can't help it."

"Fuck," he repeated, sitting down on the chair next to the bed.  "You 
ruined the fucking mood."

"I said I'm sorry."

"No one's ever laughed before," the man said.  "No one."

"Well, I'm sorry but I couldn't help it," I said.  "Why do you shave?"

"So I wouldn't leave any hairs on you," he said.  "They can identify you 
from just a single hair."

"Oh, I see," I said.  "Could I have some water, please?  I'm really 
thirsty."

"Yes, of course," the man said, getting up from the chair and leaving the 
room.  He returned a minute later with a glass and he held up my head so I 
could take a sip.  I tried not to look at his hairless cock and balls, but 
I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye and the laughter returned.

"You're getting on my nerves," he said.

"Sorry," I replied.  "Can't help it."

"Aren't you scared?"

"Not really."  All that laughter had left me feeling strangely relaxed, as 
if I didn't care what was going to happen.

"You're not afraid of what I'm going to do to you?"

"My life sucks anyway," I said.

"Why do you say that?"  The man sat down and placed the glass of water on 
the bedside table.

"My parents don't care about me," I said.  "School is like hell on earth.  
I think about killing myself all the time.  I figure you're going to fuck 
me and kill me, saving me the trouble of doing it myself."  I wasn't 
laughing anymore.

"I wasn't going to kill you," the man said.  "Fuck you, yes.  But not kill 
you."

"You're not?"

"Well, I should since you laughed at me," he said.  "Just kidding."

"Ha ha.  Very funny," I said.  "But..."

"But what?"

"I saw your face."

"Not a problem," the man said.  He opened a drawer in the bedside table 
and pulled out a syringe and a brown glass vial.  "50 CCs of this and you 
won't remember anything that happened here."

"So why do you wear that mask?"

"Force of habit," he said.  "I've always worn it."

"You've done this before?"

"Yes."

"How many...?"

"Thirty-two girls in the last six years," he said.  "You're number thirty-
three."

"Why me?"

"Actually, I'd planned on picking up another girl today, but she's home 
with the flu.  I was saving you for this spring, when you came back from 
school for Easter break."

"How long have you been following me?"

"About four months," he said.  "These things take a lot of planning."

"Oh," I said.  "Why do you do it?"

"What?"  The man frowned, as if he never expected to hear this question.

"Why do you do this?" I repeated, glancing at the ropes that held my 
wrists.

"Because I can," he replied.  "Because the world is filled with pretty 
playthings like you, there for the taking."

"Are they always girls my age?  Wouldn't you rather have sex with a grown-
up woman?"

"Not always," he said.  "My oldest plaything was twenty-two, the youngest 
only ten.  Most of them are around your age, old enough to fuck, too young 
to put up much of a fight."

"Do you always lick them first?"

"Always," he said.  "I can taste the fear."

"I wish you hadn't stopped."

"What?"  The man's eyebrows arched again, a look of surprise crossing his 
face.

"I was getting close," I said.  "You almost made me come."

"Really?" he said.  "You want me to lick your pussy?"  I could see his 
cock begin to stir in his lap and I tried hard not to laugh again.

"Yeah, I do."

The man got up from the chair and climbed into bed, kneeling between my 
legs.  He looked at me for a while, a puzzled expression on his face, and 
then he lowered his face to my pussy.  I could feel his breath on my lips, 
followed by his warm, wet tongue as it parted my labia and probed my slit.  
As before, he licked me up and down.  The warm feeling returned and there 
was a tingling in my lower belly.  This felt way better than my finger 
ever did.

"Mmmm...yeah, right there," I moaned as he homed in on my clit, swirling 
his tongue over my little button.  "Good...that's good..."  As he lashed 
my swollen nubbin I felt my pleasure begin to rise, starting at my center 
and spreading outward.  There was something weirdly sexy about being tied 
up, helpless, splayed open for this strange man's pleasure, and knowing 
that he wasn't going to kill me afterwards allowed me to lose myself in 
this new sensation.

"Oh...oh...yes...lick me..." I was getting close again, and I hoped he 
wouldn't stop.  That tingling had grown intense, like my whole body was 
buzzing, and for a second I wondered what it would be like to have his 
cock inside me.  That's when it hit me, a climax that made me quiver and 
shake and strain at the ropes that held me.  The man kept licking and 
licking, ravishing my cunny, and then he stopped, looking at me with that 
puzzled expression again.

"Was...was that okay?" he asked.  His face was wet with my juices and he 
wiped it with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, that was great," I said.

"I've never..."

"You've never what?"

"I've never seen a girl come," he said.  "They're always too scared."

"I'm not scared," I said.  "Not anymore."

"You're different," the man said, leaning over me, his face just inches 
from mine.  His cock was hard again and pressed against my tummy.  I could 
feel his heartbeat as it pumped blood through his shaft.  "You're not like 
the others."

"I know.  Are you going to fuck me now?"

"Yes," he said.

"Could I touch it first?  I never touched one before."

"Never?"

"No.  Could I?"

He thought about this for a moment and then he loosened the ropes that 
held my wrists.  I sat up and rubbed the red marks that marred my skin.  
He was still kneeling between my thighs, and his hard cock bobbed 
rhythmically.  I reached out to touch it and he flinched, inching back on 
the bed.

"Don't worry," I whispered.  "I won't hurt you."

"Be careful," he said.

"I will."

He didn't flinch this time.  I ran my fingers along the length of his 
shaft, tracing the bluish veins that lurked under the skin and the rim of 
the purple helmet-shaped glans.  The man gasped when I touched his 
testicles, feeling how soft they were, softer than the skin on his dick.  
Since he was hairless down there, it was easy to see how his scrotum 
contracted when I touched it, the way his cock widened at the base, and 
the pad of fat that covered his pubic bone.  He gasped again when I 
encircled his shaft with my fingers and began to stroke it.

"Like this?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said.  "Just like that."  He was breathing heavy now as I slid 
his foreskin back and forth, moving his hips ever so slightly.  I cupped 
his balls with my other hand, caressing them as I jerked his cock.  
Suddenly they began to twitch and contract, and the man let out a low 
groan.  His cock started spurting in my hand, shooting a thick, ropy 
stream of semen all over my chest.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he said, reaching for the panties he'd cut from my 
body and wiping his cum from my chest.

"It's okay," I said.

"No, really.  I'm sorry."  He had a worried expression on his face, his 
brow furrowed as he cleaned me.  "No one's ever done that for me."

"Did you like that?"

"Yes," he said.  "Did you?"

"Yeah.  That was neat," I said.  The man dropped the panties on the bed 
and sat back on the bed.  His expression softened, the corners of his 
mouth curling into something that resembled a smile.  Then he began to 
untie my ankles.

"I'm going to take you back to the station now," he said.

"Aren't we going to fuck?"

The man stopped fiddling with the knots and looked at me.  Actually, he 
looked through me.

"You mean you want to...?"

"Well, I'd like something to eat first," I said.  "I'm really hungry."

"You are different," the man muttered as he freed my ankles from the 
ropes.  I rubbed my sore skin until the circulation returned and followed 
the man out of the room.  He'd put his boxer shorts back on and handed me 
my blouse, which was hanging from a hook in the hallway.  Then he took me 
by the hand and led me up from the basement.  I noticed that it was 
already dark outside.

The man was richer than my parents.  While they had a nice apartment in a 
good neighborhood, he owned an entire brownstone, four floors in all, 
nicely furnished and well kept.  The man brought me into his kitchen where 
a large pot sat simmering on the stove.  As I took a seat at the table, he 
ladled something into a bowl and placed it in front of me.

"Lamb stew," he said.  "It's my special meal for nights like this."

"Smells good."

"Here," he said, placing a fork and a spoon on the table.  He ladled some 
stew into another bowl and joined me at the table and we ate together, 
dipping slices of buttered brown bread into the stew to sop up the gravy.

"This is really good," I said.

"You like it?"

"Yeah.  I never eat good food like this."

"But your parents have a cook," he said.

"She's a drunk.  Can't cook for shit."  I thought it funny that there were 
things he didn't know even after stalking me for months.

"That's too bad," he said.

I had a second helping of stew and washed it down with a nice cup of tea.  
We sat in the warm kitchen sipping our oolong when he spoke again.

"I can take you home now," he said.

"What if I don't want to go?"

He looked at me with that surprised expression again.  Later, when we'd 
reminisce about that day, he'd always tell me that I was the one in 
control, despite the ropes, despite the difference in our sizes.  He'd 
tell me that he didn't know what to do with me, and that he was almost 
afraid of me because I wasn't predictable.  I wasn't like the others, 
screaming and crying and trying to bargain their way out of the situation.  
I'd remind him that I had nothing to lose, that when I wasn't masturbating 
I was fantasizing about my own death.


                                  * * *


We didn't end up fucking that night, but I spent the night in his bed, in 
his arms, just talking about things.  He told me his name -- William 
Beekman -- and he explained that this place belonged to his family, that 
he lived on their fortune, though he served on the board of directors of 
the city's largest bank.  Will, as he liked to be called, never really had 
a girlfriend.  Like me, his parents kept him at arms length.  He was 
raised by nannies, shipped off to boarding schools, abused by cruel 
classmates.

We talked, held each other, and we kissed.  My first real kiss.  I hadn't 
felt this close to someone since I was six, when I used to cuddle with my 
parents' au pair Michelle.

As we ate breakfast the next morning, there was no question that I would 
stay with him, for as long as I wished.  That day he showed me how he 
gathered his information on me, showing me a folder full of photographs 
he'd taken of me, grainy shots taken with a telephoto lens and developed 
in a darkroom in his basement.  He could find out anything about anyone 
with just a phone call and an authoritative tone of voice.  He even had my 
medical records and school transcripts.

It took two days before anyone knew I was missing.  Though Will didn't own 
a television, I heard about the search on the radio and read about it in 
the newspapers.  One paper had an old picture of me on the front page, and 
there were quotes from my parents, who assumed I'd been kidnapped and 
pleaded for my safe return.  In a way this was the fulfillment of one of 
my suicide fantasies, the one where I walked into the surf and let the sea 
take my body.  I imagined my parents at my funeral, weeping over an empty 
coffin, and I couldn't help but smile at the thought.

Will bought me some black hair dye, and I cut my long hair into a pageboy  
before changing from a blonde to a brunette.  A pair of dark sunglasses 
completed my disguise.  It was a big city but I'd always run into someone 
I knew.  Now I could hide in plain sight.

On the second night after he abducted me, Will took my virginity.  I know 
it sounds strange, but even though he was a serial rapist, old enough to 
be my father, it was really romantic.  We had lamb stew for dinner again 
(it's much better the second day) and Will gave me a snifter of brandy 
afterwards.  He didn't know that I'd managed to shred my hymen the year 
before with the handle of a hair brush, during a frenzied masturbation 
session in my dorm room.  He thought the brandy would ease the pain, and I 
wasn't about to disabuse him of this notion.

Will carried me upstairs to his bedroom and laid me on his bed, slowly 
undressing me by the light of a single candle on the nightstand.  Then he 
doffed his dressing gown and knelt between my thighs, licking my pussy 
until I squirmed and cried with delight.

It was a night of firsts for both of us.  I'd never performed fellatio 
before and Will had never had his cock sucked.  I suppose he was afraid 
one of his playthings would bite him or something.  I expected his semen 
to taste bitter but it wasn't that bad, and though the slimy consistency 
reminded me of phlegm, I choked it back anyway.

It took another snifter of brandy and some more sucking before he was hard 
again, and as the candle flickered I straddled his hips and mounted him, 
guiding his glistening shaft into my cleft.  Will held my hips with his 
strong hands as I rode him, and I couldn't help but feel like I'd tamed a 
wild animal, one who could turn on me any second.

It was everything I'd hoped for.  With all the masturbation I'd done, I'd 
developed a rich fantasy life, picturing lovers of all sizes and shapes, 
entering me, filling me, making me writhe and moan as they took me.  
Will's cock touched me in places I never imagined.  He caressed me, kissed 
me, suckled my tiny nipples until I convulsed with pleasure.  When he came 
inside me it felt like an explosion of pure joy, a welcome feeling of 
warmth on a cold winter night.  I collapsed on his chest, struggling to 
catch my breath, my eyes filled with tears of happiness.

"Was that okay?" Will asked me afterwards, as we were cuddled together 
under the duvet.  I realized once again that he was just as inexperienced 
as I was, despite all of the unwilling partners he'd had.

"Yes," I whispered.  "That was great."

"Good," he said.  "I liked that, too."

In the nights that followed, I came to know what a creature of habit he 
was.  Every other night was just like that first one, the snifters of 
brandy, the single candle, oral sex first, and then we'd fuck.  The only 
variation was the position we used, and that was only after my insistence.  
We must have done it with me on top for a month before I could get him to 
take me from behind or even the missionary position.

Our life out of the bedroom fell into a solid routine as well.  Will spent 
most days in his study, with occasional forays out of the house to a board 
meeting or an afternoon at the club.  "Showing the Beekman flag" he called 
it.  My days were mostly spent with the private tutor he'd hired for me, 
though I sometimes made a shopping trip downtown with one of Will's credit 
cards.  He had no interest in waiting around while I tried on clothes, so 
he'd just give me the card and return to his study.

To the housekeeper, the tutor, and the odd visitor to Will's home, I was a 
"distant cousin" sent to stay in the city while certain family issues were 
resolved.  It was a paper-thin fiction, but good enough to deflect any 
questions.  After six weeks my trail grew cold and my disappearance was no 
longer newsworthy, though sometimes there would be a mention of my name in 
the paper, usually after a body was found in the river or washed up on the 
beach.

I'm not sure I could say that we were in love, but I'd also hesitate to 
attribute my affection for Will as the result of Stockholm Syndrome.  For 
one thing, I was free to leave whenever I wanted.  I wasn't being held 
against my will, at least not after that first day.  I just didn't have 
anything to go back to.  And Will was affectionate in his own way.  I came 
to realize later, after he'd passed away, that he was emotionally 
immature, that he'd never had a chance to develop the skills one needed to 
have an honest, healthy relationship with another person.  Neither did I, 
but I learned, and Will learned with me.  We took halting steps together, 
and we were both reluctant to admit it, but after a few months we grew 
quite fond of each other.


                                  * * *

(c) 2003  Anais Ninja
anais_ninja@hotmail.com
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/www/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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