This story MIGHT contain snuff. 
It involves two short but somewhat intense bondage scene(M/F) at the beginning and end of the story. In between deals with explaining how these scenes came about, so to speak. It deals with the psychological aspects that cause one to develop a certain sexual predilection. 

If you are below the arbitrary age set for your area, don't read it.
If for any reason it is illegal for you to read this story, don't read it.

Copyright (c) 1998 Trystl.  ALL Rights Reserved
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author.  This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached.  

All the characters and events in this story are fictional, any resemblance to real people or events is entirely coincidental.
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Pavlov's Dog

By Trystl



1

The video's picture quality wasn't very good.

The image was too grainy to see anything very well in the dim light; but
the young woman who was watching didn't need to see the picture to know
what was happening. Despite the poor sound quality, she could clearly hear
the muffled protests of someone who was gagged and the scuffling and
scraping of boots as two men led a reluctant young girl into the center of
a basement. It was too dark to see how many men there were for sure. They
wore dark clothes, including black gloves and ski masks; but she strongly
suspected that there were at least three; definitely more than two.

The girl wore a clingy crème colored sweater and a pair of white go-go
boots that rose to just below her knees. Her light skin and the white
clothing made her much easier to see than the men. Her mouth was stuffed
with a black rubber ball-gag. A rope crisscrossed between her breasts and
was wrapped several times around her arms and chest, pinning her limbs
securely to her side at the elbows.

The young woman who was watching unzipped the fly of her shorts and
slipped her hand inside, rocking her hips slightly forward as she pressed
against her pubic mound. With the fingers of her other hand, she twisted
one of her own nipples through the sheer fabric of her clingy sweater. 
Just the thought of what was going to happen to the girl on the video was
making her very hot and bothered. Snuff films always did. She reached
over to her bag of toys without taking her eyes off the screen and pulled
out a wooden clothespin. Her muscles stiffened for a moment and she gave
an involuntary gasp as she clamped it onto her nipple, then she was
reaching in for another clothespin.

The girl on the video was trying to fight the men. There was nothing
faked about her struggles; they reflected the very real fear in her eyes.
But against multiple strong men, and bound as she was, her efforts did
little more than force her body into provocative postitions. The men
obviously knew this too, but they seemed to delight in grabbing various
parts of her body: a leg, a breast, an arm, a hip or the side of her
stomach. They began pushing and pulling her, sometimes in several
directions at once, so that her body seemed to jerk about like a marionette
with a novice (or perhaps a demented) puppeteer at the strings.

Someone flipped a switch.

The screen went white for a moment as a spotlight flared on. Then the
automatic adjust brought the basement back into focus: the small circle
where there was adequate lighting was a little less grainy, but the
blackness around it was much darker than before.

In the center of the lighted circle, only a few steps away from the
girl, was a metal horse or wedge: like an upside down V. A length of rope
at either end attached the roughly two foot long metal horse to a piece of
metal of equal length; suspended maybe five feet above it. A rope was
threaded through an eyelet in the center of this piece of metal. The whole
thing was supported by a pulley; the rope passing through it tied off to a
metal ring along the far wall. This way, one rope could quickly raise or
lower the horse to any position desired. Right now, it was hanging fairly
low to the ground.

Directly in the center of the horse was a very large metal dildo that
appeared to be permanently attached. It looked rather thin, but that was
an illusion caused by its extreme length: at the minimum ten inches, but
the woman watching guessed at least two inches longer than that. And an
ominous looking electrical wire ran from underneath the center of the
horse, and disappeared into the darkness.

If the girl on the video was struggling before, she became frantic now.
She pulled so hard that for a moment her captors almost lost their grip and
it looked as if she might even break free, but the men recovered quickly.
The girl had obviously been struggling for a while; and was growing
fatigued. Her last burst apparently used up the last of her energy,
leaving her a bit listless. It was so easy for the men to drag her back
towards the horse again that it looked almost fake. One of the men knelt
down and looped a short length of rope in a slipknot around her booted
foot, then standing, he walked around to the other side of the horse. He
used the rope to pull her leg up, forcing her to step across the metal
horse despite her renewed, but weak struggles.

She tried to step away again, but two of the men held her legs in place
while another disappeared into the darkness. A moment later the horse
began to rise, and the men holding her legs helped guide the dildo inside
her.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up on the girl's face. She winced and
shook her head back and forth as if trying to deny what was happening to
her. Then the camera zoomed back out, showing the dildo as it sunk the
last few inches inside her. She stood very still now, as if paralyzed
except for the movement of her head. Her legs were forced to bow out
unnaturally by the forty-five degree angle of the wedge. She stood this
way for a few seconds, obviously dreading what was coming; then the man
pulled on the rope again, hoisting the metal horse a little higher into the
air.

Slowly the girl's feet left the floor. She leaned to one side as the
horse tilted. Her legs swung freely, but the woman watching knew that she
was using the position of her legs to help keep her balance, and the men
weren't helping. One pulled her left wrists to the ring at the back of the
metal horse. This caused it to start spinning very slowly, and forced the
girl to turn somewhat sideways because the rope pinning her elbows to her
side didn't allow her arm to swing straight back. Even twisting sideways,
it obviously put an uncomfortable tork on her elbow joint. She leaned back
a little, trying to ease the pressure, but this caused the horse to tilt
backwards as well, rather like one of those mechanical bulls, bucking in
very slow motion.

If the ropes at either end of the metal horse had been tied to the wall
independently, the contraption would have been fairly stable. But by
attaching these ropes to a separate bar, with one rope attached to its
center, the horse was given more freedom to move. It tilted backwards when
she leaned back because more of her weight was distributed towards that end
of the horse; and the more in tilted the more she was inclined to lean.

Instinctively, she moved her legs to counter.

Before long the horse reached its low point and started back the other
way, allowing the girl to shift her weight comfortably forward again. For
a moment the horse threatened to swing too far the other way, but one of
the men steadied her with a hand about the waist, his fingers digging into
her flat, but supple belly as he reached around her. He held the stretchy
fabric of her sweater away from her breast, then snipped a small hole just
the perfect size for her breast to show through. He repeated the process
for the other breast; then carelessly snapped an alligator clamp onto one
of her large nipples.

While he was doing this, one of the other men was tying her right wrist
to the ring at the front of the horse. Before he could finish the first
man had snapped a second alligator clamp on her other nipple. Then he dug
out a set of weighted hooks, which he hung from the clamps.

One of the men was pushing a small, control-box, with several gauges and
dials, out into the spotlight. He took two wires and handed them to the
man who had just applied the alligator clamps, and the wires were connected
to the metal chains. The girl looked down with sudden understanding and
growing disbelief. She began to shake her head; but as the other men
stepped back, the man at the control-box began to turn a knob. She arched
her back and cried out in pain.

The girl watching the video was rubbing her fingers feverishly against
her clit and panting with excitement at the pain from the clamps at her own
breasts.

This wasn't the first time she'd watched this video, and she knew the
girl's real ordeal had only just begun.

2

If you'd asked her, Sally wouldn't have been able to say with any
certain just when her fascination with snuff material began, or exactly how
it happened. Even to her, it seemed like an unlikely thing to fascinate a
young and attractive girl. And she was attractive. Boys told her she was
all the time, even boys she'd just meet. Even boys who couldn't possibly
know how much money her father had; and as an only child, how much she
would inherit one day.

Her own eyes told her she was attractive too.

She liked looking at attractive women almost as much as she liked
looking at attractive men, and when she looked at herself in the mirror she
was pleased by what she saw. Her breasts were perhaps a trifle small, but
they were firm enough that when she wrapped them in rope they made an
attractive little ball. They didn't swell up like gross, vein-etched
balloons the way really large breasted women usually did. Nor did they
become the shriveled little parodies of smaller breasted women. And her
nipples were unusually large, so even when her breasts were wrapped they
made inviting targets for a pair of clamps.

Sally's nipples were her favorite physical feature.

Men usually seemed to prefer her ass or her long slender legs, but she
thought they were a little too thin. When Sally was young, and her mother
was still alive, she'd referred to Sally's legs as being coltish. This had
caused her father to frown, and declare that when she became older Sally's
long legs would undoubtedly lend her an air of elegance and grace. His
prediction had proven true, but Sally's mother hadn't lived long enough to
notice.

The only part of her body that Sally actively disliked was her hips. 
They were much too narrow. She thought a woman should be full bodied, with
womanly curves. Not that she had the hips of a young female gymnast or
anything, but they certainly didn't lend her frame what she would call the
curvaceous look, either. Sometimes she wondered if God hadn't made a
mistake. How could the head of a newborn child ever pass between such a
narrow space? She used to worry about that when she was younger and saw
the pain women endured as they gave birth in the movies. Surely the pain
she would endure, if she ever gave birth, would be even greater, because
her hips were so narrow.

And perhaps that was where her fascination with pain, (and the
possibility of dying from it,) began--but Sally didn't think so, because
even her earliest memories of thinking about giving birth were tainted as
much with fascination as they were with fear. There was something about
the helpless, inevitability of it. Once you passed a certain point you
couldn't turn back. Regardless of how you felt or how it went, you were in
for the long haul--no more choice left in the matter. That was what
appealed to Sally the most: the idea of being helpless, with the fate of
your very existence hanging in the balance.

Pain was something she'd gotten used to gradually. The first time she
remembered experimenting with it was probably the time she'd placed a
clothespin on her nipple as she masturbated to an adult book she'd found in
a garbage can. It was odd the way pain made her wet. Her body broke out
in a sweat; and her orgasm was so much stronger than it ever was before. 
That was more than a year before she started surfing the Internet, looking
for pictures and stories and video clips, anything to satisfy her restless
imagination.

No, the birth of Sally's interest in bondage had nothing to do with the
Internet itself, but the internet had provided her first real exposure to
the harder, fringe aspects of bondage: like extreme torture and snuff. And
she hadn't found those things until she remembered finding the secret place
where her father kept his passwords written down.

As a young child, she hadn't known what the strange words and numbers on
the small piece of paper meant. But the words and the paper fascinated
her. They had obviously been hidden, and that meant they were something
secret. And because they were something her father had kept secret, she
desperately wanted to know what they were for.

It was an intriguing mystery, like finding a deteriorating treasure map
in the attic. A pirate didn't come right out and say, "Here be my chest of
precious treasure!" And he certainly didn't give clearly written,
step-by-step directions on where to find it. Even at that age, Sally knew
that much. What he wrote down would be bits and pieces--mental notes: just
enough to help spark his own memory. And that was what Sally had: her
father's mental notes. It was a puzzle to be solved. And gaining the
prize would give her access to something her father had tried to keep
secret. A part of him self so valuable he kept it tucked away from the
rest of the world. She'd puzzled over this mystery for several days,
perhaps even weeks, before her lack of progress caused her to slowly loose
interest. And over the years she'd almost forgotten all about it.

Around the age of ten, Sally stumbled across the gardener and one of the
maids doing something strange in the stable's hayloft. They giggled and
pressed their bodies against one another in a most peculiar way. 
Fascinated, she'd watched for several moments without being seen: they were
too involved with themselves to notice anything else. And that in its self
was very strange. The servants were always alert and very watchful; they
always seemed so stiff and formal, even when they smiled at her. Not like
these two, who completely ignored her and acted more like children. Sally
managed to watch for several moments, in fact, before being noticed--and
then everything changed. They jumped up, yelling at her to go away as they
tried to cover themselves with their clothes. Sally might have found their
antics comical if she hadn't been so alarmed by their behavior.

Her father would surely scold her if he found out she'd been spying on
them. She still remembered the time he caught her rummaging through his
desk: his face had suddenly become something terrible and frightening. It
was the only time in her life that she remembered him striking her. And
later she would think how it was as if something had crawled inside him,
turning him suddenly into this frightening and alien creature. She never
wanted to see that look again, so she ran--afraid they would tell; and
still a little confused about why they should. Obviously she had found
them doing something they would never do in public. But it was just as
obvious it was something good; and enjoyable. Why should they hide when
they did this? And why should they be so angry when they realized she was
watching? Angry enough to yell at her instead of simply telling her in
their normal manner that she should go away now.
"Fuck! What do you think she saw?" She heard the gardener saying as she

climbed down the ladder.

"I don't know," the maid replied angrily. "But you can be sure it was
an eye full."

Before the age of ten, Sally's fantasy life had a well-developed sexual
flavor, although it was based mostly on mystery and intrigue. Adults
clearly had a secret that they didn't want to share. She explored her own
body, trying to figure out why those two in the loft had been groping each
other that way, and had not been able to figure it out.

Then it happened. She didn't even remember how old she was at the time,
but as she was washing herself she felt an odd sensation. And suddenly she
thought she was beginning to understand what it was the adults had been
hiding. It wasn't long before she was exploring her own sexuality on a
regular basis. Masturbation had become a mysterious and guilt-laced
obsession that frequently kept her up late at night. Then, at the age of
fourteen she discovered her second great obsession: the Internet. This one
she had discovered while researching an English paper for school.

The topic of sex seemed like the perfect marriage of her private
interests, and the necessity of passing her class. She'd given up on the
idea long before actually writing the paper, but she given the idea enough
thought to run an Internet search on the word SEX.

She was amazed at the sheer number or responses her query returned. It
was obvious an awful lot of people had an awful lot to say on the subject.
There were pages about safe sex, sex education, discrimination, and
censorship. Websites that focused on TV shows and rock bands with SEX in
their name.

Much of what she found didn't interest her much, but it gave her ideas
for other keywords to search and soon she had found plenty of things that
did fascinated her. When she started following the links a frustratingly
large number led to a pop-up dialog-box, which rudely inform her that she
was trying to enter an adult site and if she didn't have a password she
couldn't enter. This, of course, she took as just one more sign of the
adult conspiracy. It was a frustrating impasse, but she was used to that
sort of thing from adults by now. It was their way of keeping children
separate and excluded from the adult world.

Even the house servants, who were usually more lenient with her
questions than her parents, would only glance at one another nervously when
she asked about sex. Then one of them would pat her on the head and say
something to dismiss her, like: "Gracious child, you're too young to be
worrying about that. Why don't you go outside and play?"

Sally understood their smug, condescending smiles. They were afraid she
would discover their secret a little too soon, and then she would know what
they knew. She wasn't sure what would happen then, but she knew it had to
be something wonderful. Every shred of evidence seemed to confirmed it:
the secrecy of adults, the wealth of information hidden on the Internet,
the none-to-subtle inferences to it: in the movies and magazines and on TV.
Even the increasingly tantalizing whispers of her own body screamed that it
was something precious. It was everywhere, and yet it remained stubbornly
just beyond her reach: a prize waiting to be won, if she could just figure
it out.

Once again she was caught up in a mystery to be solved--and this time
she was not so young that she could become bored with it in a mere few
weeks. She began reading everything she could about the Internet. She
created and maintained her own site, just to learn more. By this time she
had learned to gain access to a great many tantalizing pictures, but as
hard as she tried, and as far as she got--there were still continual blocks
to her progress. Which meant that as lurid and enticing as the pictures
she could access seemed, the one that were hidden inside were even better.
She had her own computer, but her father had carefully supervised setting
up the password protection, and she couldn't figure out how to bypass it to
change the settings that she knew kept her out.

All that changed when, out of the blue one day, she remembered finding
her father's secret hiding place, and the small, mysterious slip of paper.
She had recalled this memory before, from time to time, but now everything
clicked. Suddenly, she realized what the strange words and numbers were
for.

After that, she'd snuck into her fathers study. The maid had already
finished cleaning his room and he was at work, so her chances of getting
caught were slim--but she still felt a thrill as she crept towards his
desk. The slip of paper was still in the same place, looking much the same
as it had way back then. She stood beside his desk, furiously writing down
all the passwords, and freezing every time she heard a floorboard creak or
the wind rattling the window. Then she scurried back to her own room and
started really surfing for the very first time.

The only thing she really had to worry about was the off chance that her
father might try to log onto the same site she was on at the same time she
was on it. But she didn't think he was likely to do that at work, and even
if he did, he still wouldn't know who was using his password. She decided
not to use her credit cards to join anything stronger than the vanilla
sites her father seemed to like. He received a monthly list of her
purchases, and she didn't want to risk him wondering what one of them was
for. Sally had a vivid memory of her parents fighting when her mother was
still alive. Her father had asked what one of the expenses on just such a
list was for. Sally couldn't remember exactly what her mother had said but
her husband's prying hadn't made her happy.

Even with the limited vanilla sites she could access without raising
suspicion, Sally was able to find all sorts of bizarre stuff--things she
wouldn't even have imagined before. Things that made her feel a bit
nauseous the first time she looked at them, and yet there was something
about them that she found it difficult to take her eyes away from. A lot
of it was impossible to believe. It had to be faked: like the special
effects in a movie. There were needles, as much as a foot long, dozens of
them, piercing a bound woman's breasts; while another woman's orifices were
being shoved full of baseball bats and Champaign bottles. One man had his
forearm shoved in nearly up to the elbow joint.

It was truly amazing how many sites she found where women--especially
young women--were being tortured and abused. It made her wonder just how
much pent-up male hostility there was, hiding just under the surface of our
seemingly civilized society. It frightened her. She wondered if all men
were angry simmering pots, just waiting to explode, and despite her very
real fear the thought intrigued her. She couldn't get it out of her mind.
She imagined the world suddenly gone mad with all men banding together to
brutalize and abuse all women, the way they did on the web sites. Men were
bigger and so much stronger; what would stop them? They dominated the
police force, the military and the government. They could pass any laws
they chose and easily enforce them. They could turn all women into little
more than slaves, if they wanted to. Sally found herself masturbating as
she fantasized about what such a world would be like and what the men might
do to her specifically.

What frightened her most of all was the persistence with which she
fantasized about such things. Despite the revulsion some of the pictures
caused, she couldn't take her eyes off of them. And she found that she
preferred the pictures where the women were bound and appeared to be in
pain, instead of compliant and willing, with the freedom to get up and
leave if they wanted to.

Maybe this was some subconscious expression of hostility that she felt
towards herself. That was the kind of crap they taught in her high school
psychology classes, but she didn't believe it. It was easier to imagine
that she was just another one of Pavlov's dogs, like all those frustrated
bastards out there, responding to bells and whistles she wasn't even aware
of. And couldn't remember where or when they began. She tried. Sometimes
she spent hours trying to remember the first time she'd ever thought about
bondage or torture or snuff; trying to track down the exact moment when the
obsession began. The exact event that made it hold such a fascination for
her.

As early as she could remember, her favorite parts of movies or TV
programs were the scenes when the helpless female was being kidnapped--and
then later when the cops swarmed to the site of the crime and they showed
that tantalizing glimpse of the mutilated body. Especially when she was
younger, she liked the scenes where the hero's lady friend was all trussed
up and waiting for the hero to come save her, but as she became older she
developed a distinct preference for those earlier scenes with the real
victims. Perhaps this was a sign that her tastes were changing, becoming
attuned to the harder stuff. But sometimes it just seemed that she'd
finally figured out that the hero almost never arrived too late.

Even in early grade school, she'd daydreamed of being kidnapped. These
were, of course, rather innocent fantasies. Some cute boy would always
come along to save her--but somewhere along the line, more and more of her
fantasy was spent imagining the feel of the ropes, the coarseness of the
villain's hands on her naked body. By then, being rescued was
anti-climactic, almost an afterthought, thrown in simply as a means of
closure.

Sally was never a terribly social person. As an only child, she'd
become used to playing alone and rarely missed the company of other
children. Her mother never wanted her to play with the children of the
servants; and even though Sally's father seemed to sense the depth of her
isolation, he didn't actually encourage her to play with them either, at
least not until after his wife's death, and by then she was already set in
her ways. Sometimes he would all but insist that she play with them. And
so, outside of her school, they became her only consistent playmates. But
much of the time she preferred to play by herself. There were three girls
and one boy, among the servant's children, and none of them were quite her
age. Nor did they seem to share her interests. It amazed her how long the
girls could play with dolls; she quickly became bored having absolutely no
interest in that sort of thing. And she never quite felt like one of them.
She was that stranger, who while living among them had always kept her
distance. And so, for the most part, they didn't like her any more than
she liked them.

She had more luck with Jimmy, the boy, despite being several years older
than him. He felt a bit isolated too, being the only boy. He didn't like
playing house or dress up all that much either, and the girls often told
him to go away. They didn't want him around while they played and talked.

Jimmy was willing to follow Sally's lead when she created her exotic
fantasy worlds. "Let's pretend that we're brother and sister," she told
him once, as they lay on top of the huge, blue gas tank that was next to
the stables. It was so tall they had to stack three bales of hay in a set
of steps so they could climb to the top. They would lie on it for what
seemed like hours, feeling the warmth of the sun's rays and the deeper,
more immediate warmth that radiated from the tank and didn't go away when
the sun went behind the clouds for a few moments. It felt like a living
creature, and Sally liked to press her ear against the metal and listen
while she spoke or hummed. She created an eerie sort of music that made
her think of strange beings and alien worlds. The vibrations made it seem
like the tank was almost alive.

"Let's pretend that we've gone to the beach," she said. "And we've lain
down on a rock and fallen asleep under the sun."

Jimmy closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep.

"And when we wake..." He opened his eyes. "We're not really on a rock
at all, but the back of a huge sea creature that's speeding across the
water."

Jimmy's eyes widened in fear, heightening Sally's owns sense of the
story. She could almost feel the sea wind blowing in her hair, and the
creature's muscles rippling beneath her hands. It's melodious breath
punctuated by the plumes of water that it blew from its spout, like a
whale. "Is he going to dive," Jimmy asked looking nervously about.

"I don't think so." She pointed her finger to the distance, and said:
"Look, I see land. It must be taking us to the shores of some strange and
mysterious place. A place no human has ever seen or heard of, because this
is the place where animals are like people and people are kept in cages
like their pets."

And sure enough, they were meet on the shore by a group of talking
animals, who stripped their captives of their clothes, because beasts never
wore clothes, and bound them because from now on the laws decreed that they
could never be free. Then they were chained together in a long line with
other newly captured humans and taken to the slave market. This was the
hayloft in the stables. It was the sight of most of their games; and even
when Jimmy wasn't with her it was one of her favorite places to play.

When no one was around she would steal bits of rope. There was always
plenty, and if the servants noticed that it was gone, they never accused
her of taking it. She kept the rope hidden in the hayloft, a secret place
where she kept all of her most interesting toys: a small clamp and the bit
from a horse's head-harness that she'd taken from the foreman's work shed,
along with a single pair of lacy, black underwear she'd snatched from the
laundry when one of the maids was washing her own clothes.

Sometimes, she would have Jimmy tie her up, as part of the stories she
spun out. But she was always a little afraid his mother would call, and
he'd wander off, leaving her helpless and bound. The thought made her
tingle, but she was afraid of what her father (or even one of the servants)
might say if he found her tied up and alone. So she preferred to tie up
herself. Slipping out of her clothes, she would step into the lacy black
panties. They were a little loose on her, but she had stolen a needle and
thread, cut the panties at the side and sewn the pieces back together so
that they fit more snuggly. Wearing only the black panties, she would wrap
her body in a tight webbing of rope. It was difficult to tie her hands or
arms together and she worried about not being able to get undone if she did
too good a job, so usually she would simply loop a piece of rope around her
hands and pretend that they were tied. Sometimes she would put a loop in
both ends of the rope. One loop she would place over the end of the
ladder, and the other she would slip around her elbows. Then she would
turn herself around, wrapping the rope around her body as she turned. When
she got to the end she would slip the loop of the end of the ladder and
hold it in her hand, pretending that her animal owner had tied her up and
given her a chore to do. She always picked something that was difficult
but not impossible, like taking the equipment from one of the shelves at
about chest level, and placing it in a gunny sack so the animals would be
packed for traveling. Then, when they returned, they would release her
from her prison and she would have to place everything back on the shelf
where it had originally been. This was not as easy as it sounded with her
elbows tightly tied behind her back.

Sometimes, after a hard rain, Sally would pull her clothes back on over
the black panties and the rope, then walk to the creek that ran through her
father's property, following the length of it from one end to the other and
back again. She had escaped and was fleeing from her animal owners, her
body and arms were still bound, but they'd made the mistake of leaving her
alone while her legs were free. Hiding among the reeds along the flooded
banks, or beneath the tree roots that hung a few inches above the water,
she would creep carefully forward, listening for sounds of pursuit. 
Occasionally she would chance across one of the worker tending the lawn
that stretched to within a dozen or so yards from the creek; and she would
crouch down, her fear of being seen lending added realism to her fantasies.

Sally lived for such moments.

She didn't particularly like school, although good grades always came
easily for her.

She was quiet and shy. "Stuck up", some of the children called her; but
she never wanted for friends in high school. They latched on to her. She
was attractive, intelligent and always impeccably dressed in expensive
clothes. But she found the things other girls talked about boring. Even
when they talked about sex, it was mostly idle, vanilla gossip. It didn't
interest her much. And when they asked her to do things after school, she
usually found some way to politely decline. By then, she preferred
spending much of her time on the Internet.

When she went to a party, she seemed to cling to the walls and the doors
always seemed so inviting. She wished she had something worth saying and
someone worth saying it to. Not that the boys ignored her completely. 
They would ask her to dance, but rarely had anything more interesting to
say than the girls did. She had no interest in their offers of forming a
permanent relationship. And after the silence became awkward they usually
thanked her politely and moved away. Before long, most of them seemed to
assume she was a closet lesbian; or that she thought she was too good for
anyone else. The rest seemed to think she was really a good little girl
who couldn't possibly be thinking about being tied to a bed in one of the
back rooms and flogged with a belt until her whole body was bright red,
then fucked in the ass with a broomstick.

The few who were bold enough to make some kind of sexual suggestion,
tended to be so utterly cocky and obnoxious that she found it impossible to
generate any interest in them. She might imagine what it would be like if
one of them would clap his hand over her mouth as she was leaving and
dragged her kicking and screaming into one of those rooms, but she had no
interest in going with them willingly. Nor could she tell them what she
wanted.

The people she met on the Internet were different. They were more
likely to have something in common, and far easier to ask the kinds of
questions one needed to ask in order to find out. It was also easier to
tell them to get lost when things didn't work out. On the Internet, she
always had time to think about what she wanted to say. There was no
pressure in a chat room, she could say whatever she wanted. But more
important were the things they said to her.

She meet Darin on one of those art-based snuff sites, although she
didn't learn his real name until months later when they meet in person. He
was one of the sites featured artists, and she'd emailed to tell him how
much she liked his work. When he'd emailed back they'd struck up a
conversation and it hadn't taken long for him to discover that she was a
female, which seemed to surprise him a bit, and sparked his interest even
more. From the pictures he sent, she learned that he was a good-looking,
young man, with dark, curly hair. "I'm too short to be called tall, dark
and handsome," he wrote in his letter. He went on to tell her how recently
he'd taken the plunge, trying to make a go of his art. "But calling the
existence I manage to scratch out struggling is like saying a rock is
dying. LOL"

He was desperate for commission work, and he was very, very good, so
Sally had decided to write back and asked if he would be interested in
doing a snuff piece using her as a model. Before she knew it, she was
making arrangements to fly to Denver, where he lived. She could hardly
believe it. They were actually going to meet IRL. In Real Life.

Just thinking the phrase made her palms begin to sweat. Everything
she'd ever read said it was foolish to meet a stranger like this. And he
obviously had a fascination with dying women. It was undoubtedly the
craziest thing she'd ever done in her life--and by far the most exciting.
She didn't care about the danger, she was willing and eager to take that
risk; and a small part of her wanted to something unpleasant to happen. 
She was so eager, in fact, that she found it impossible to wait. She wrote
back and asked if they could move the date up a little. "Something else
has come up," she explained. "Couldn't we do it this coming weekend
instead?"

She told her father she wouldn't be coming home from college for the
weekend: she was going away on a skiing trip. Then she flew to Denver, and
they spend the first half of the morning meeting and discussion their
plans. They bought a bottle of wine at a liquor store and had a few drinks
when they got back to his apartment, then he took her into the spare
bedroom which he'd turned into a photo studio and she posed for the camera
while he snapped the photographs he'd need to work from.
She was surprised how easy he made it to take off her clothes and pose
in front of the camera. She didn't feel self-conscious at all. He had
this sparkling personality that somehow managed to be unassuming and
demanding at the same time; a personality she could as easily imagine as
the villain who was tying her up or the hero who was coming to save her;

and she never stopped to wonder which way she preferred to think of him.

"You seem to like the camera," Darin observed, as she pranced before
him. "And I know it likes you. Ever thought of doing a bondage shoot? You
can make a little money and I think you'll have fun at the same time." He
shrugged, looking at her to gage her reaction.

She shook her head. "I don't need the money," she said, realizing that
they hadn't actually discussed an amount for the commission he was going to
paint. The way she had worded it, he might not expect any money at all. 
"Besides, my father surfs the adult sites on the net," she said. "I don't
think he'd appreciate finding me there."

"I just thought," he shrugged. "You're beautiful, and you obviously
like it. I think you'd make a great model."

She'd heard that before, but suddenly she didn't trust him. He'd
already taken several dozen compromising pictures of her, several of them
completely nude, and many with her fingers groping her own breasts or
probing between her legs. The only way to make sure he didn't betray her
was to prove to him that it would be worth a lot more if he didn't. She
hadn't thought much about what she was going to pay him either. Her father
provided her with a weekly allowance that was more than she'd ever spent,
except perhaps for the one time when she'd bought the new car she drove
around at college. She hadn't even told him her plans, and his only
response was to say that if she was going to spend the money she should
have bought a Mercedes or a BMW. She'd just batted her eyes like a dingy
blonde and told him she'd test driven plenty of the more expensive cars and
this one had everything she needed. Then she'd kissed him on the cheek and
whispered in his ear, "besides, I don't want to seem so different from the
other kids."

No, she could make it well worth Darin's time without raising much of a
fuss from her father, especially if she had something to show for what
she'd spent. Her father was an avid art collector--although he tended
toward far more proven, and thus expensive artists. But Sally thought he
would approve of her newfound interest in collecting; and Darin's work was
good enough that her father just might consider it a reasonably good
investment, which seemed to be the only reason he could imagine for buying
art.

Sally smiled. "We can still take the pictures," she said. "I just
don't want them plastered all over the Internet. The same goes for the
paintings you'll be doing for me. They're mine."

She noticed the change in his expression. His mind was obviously
already churning at the possibilities. And he was looking at her again,
reevaluating what he saw in light of this new and unexpected attitude.

"I'm to own full rights," she went on. "I expect that you and I will be
the only ones who ever see them, at least until my father dies. I don't
even want you to show them around in your portfolio. Not only that, but
every time I commission you, I want you to make two paintings--not just
one--that way if my father should ever question why I've paid you five
thousand dollars, I'll have something I can show him."

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Five thousand dollars!
It was obviously a lot more than he'd ever imagined. He handled it well
though. "No problem, babe," he said with a smile and a casual shrug.

"Good," Sally said. "Now what kind of bondage gear have you got to go
with that camera?"

After that she'd slipped smoothly back into a more passive sort of role.

And after that, she and Darin began to meet regularly. Instead of
flying home from college every weekend, she would fly to Denver about once
a month.

Her father thought Darin was a new boyfriend, and even asked when he was
going to meet the young man. She'd just smiled noncommittally and told him
she didn't think it was that serious. But in a sense Darin was her first
real boyfriend. He was clearly polyamorous by nature, but she didn't mind.
She wasn't the jealous type, and she didn't think of him in an exclusive
sort of way, either.

Sometimes, Darin even let her watch his bondage photography sessions
with other women.

After her second commission, and the promise that there would be many
more, Darin bought himself a small house, with a mortgage that wasn't much
more than he was paying for his apartment. It had an unfinished basement
that he began turning into a dungeon; and every time Sally visited she
brought him another toy for it. Sometimes it was just something small and
simple, like a pair of cuffs or nipple clamps. Other times it was
something more elaborate, like a piece of furniture or a fitted
body-harness.

Then one visit he mailed her a copy of his key. She'd called from the
airport, and knew that he would be out when she arrived. That was part of
the plan. She washed the dishes, and started vacuuming the floor; and was
just beginning to suspect that he had devised a clever way to get all his
cleaning done when someone grabbed her around the arms from behind and
wrestled her to the floor. Carefully, he secured her arms and feet. Then
he gagged and blindfolded her, so she wouldn't know what was coming next.
There would be no safe words, as they had agreed. And although she was
quite sure it had to be Darin, she hadn't been able to get a glimpse of his
face. He was wearing a skiing mask and he never spoke.

The uncertainty was as exciting as the things that he did.

That evening he'd bound her spread eagle to the dining room table and
covered her body in hot wax. Darin always had plenty of candles. He was a
bit of a romantic, and liked to light them at the table whenever they ate
in--and by the time he was done, she suspected that Darin would have to go
out and buy more if he wanted to set the mood for their next meal. The
first drop of wax splashed down just between her legs, on the tender flesh
just below her clit. She gasped and arched her back at the unexpected
sensation. He stopped then, having given her just enough of a tease to
know what was coming; and began to cover her breasts with clamps. Then he
shaved her pussy, and began to whip her cleanly shaven mound, more gently
at first but quickly building the intensity until she was screaming into
her gag. At last he stopped, but he was far from done. He began to drip
more hot wax on her tender, red flesh; moving around on her body but always
coming back, saturating her crotch until there wasn't a single patch of
skin that wasn't covered. Then he began to whip her again, until all the
wax had flaked off.

On her next visit they decided to play the same game, but this time
Darin brought along a friend. Together they overpowered her, and bent her
over a chair, her hips resting on the wooden back, her legs spread
precariously wide and bound securely at the ankles and knees. They'd
stretched out her arms and tied them securely to the seat of the chair;
then placed clamps on her nipples. She cried out as they added weights. 
Then Darin's friend had taken pictures with a video camera while Darin
fucked her doggy style. He'd rammed into her so hard that the weights
bounced, and each time they did she felt little orgasmic waves, like tiny
symbiotic creatures inside her, tugging at her breasts

It was long and eventful. Their best session yet, and Sally knew the
video would be great. She paid Darin's friend, Mark, $300 in exchange for
the video, then asked if he was going to join them again the next time she
dropped by.

"I like it," she said, "when Darin can give his total attention to me."

Sally's photo scrapbook was growing. Each time she visited, Darin lead
her into something new--something a little more daring and painful. When
she was at home, she would look at her pictures and watch the videos. It
was almost like reliving the experience all over again. But her favorites
were the works of art that Darin had done. She didn't bring them out very
often. They were large, and she didn't want them to be seen by anyone
else.

In one, she was fatally impaled on a long stake. A thick flow of blood
ran down her legs and a smaller trickle leaked from the corner of her
mouth. In another, she was being electrocuted. Her body was still arched
as the electrical currents ran through her, but it was obvious she wasn't
going to survive. Her skin had already begun to blacken where the
electrodes were attached at her nipples, clit and tongue. Her favorite,
however, was the one where she was being fucked from behind as she hung
from a rope. Her violator was a huge, lizard-like creature. It could easy
have supported her weight so that the rope wasn't really a threat to her
life, but instead he had chosen to pull her backwards at a sharp angle; and
it was obvious that each time he pulled her down on his monstrous cock, the
slipknot tightened a little more around her neck. Her wrists were securely
tied behind her back; her legs had been left free and at one time she must
have been kicking frantically at the air, but now she had almost lost
consciousness. Her eyelids had begun to flutter and her legs hardly moved
at all.

She could sit and look at that one for hours, masturbating as she
imagined what it would feel like as her air ran out and she became too weak
to fight anymore.

Sometimes she would hold her breath for as long as she could. But she
knew it wasn't the same. There was no fear and no pain, and most
importantly she could quite any time she wanted to.

It wasn't enough. She wanted to experience it all.

"Ever seen a real snuff film," she asked as she and Darin were eating
their dinner at the kitchen table, after a vigorous session. Her ass still
stung, and it felt damp where it pressed against the chair.

Darin looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before he spoke. "That
shit's illegal, you know. I mean, the stuff I do in my art, that's a
fantasy... and maybe it's better left that way. When you start talking
about the real thing, you're talking about taking a person's life." He
laughed then, making a joke of it. "There aren't enough beautiful women in
the world for me to feel good about that."

"I'm serious," she said.

He was avoiding her eyes, staring a little too hard at his plate as he
rolled the spaghetti onto his fork. "That'll get you sent to jail in a
heartbeat if you're caught. Better ask yourself if it's really worth
taking that risk."

"It's worth fifty thousand dollars to me," she said. "Plus expenses."

He looked at her for a long moment, frowning, and she wondered what was
going through his head. Was he disappointed? Was he thinking it was time
to get rid of this psycho bitch? She was just about ready to laugh and
tell him she was only joking when he nodded. "Alright," he said. "If
you're really set on doing this, there's this guy I know. I've never
really seen him, just someone I meet surfing... but he told me once that
he's seen a snuff film for real. For all I know, he could be shitting me."

"I don't want him, Darin. I want you to do it."

"Oh, for God's sake." He pushed back in his chair and stood up. "You
can't ask me to do something like that, Sally."

"I have someone specific in mind," she said. "And you're the only one I
can trust to do it."

"I can't believe you're talking about actually killing someone."

"One hundred thousand, then. That will give you another fifty to help
pay for Mark and whoever else you want to bring in on this. Mark can work
the camera while you do the actual tying."

Darin looked at her for a long time then shook his head in wonder. "You
must hate this person an awful lot."

Sally smiled. She was starting to have fun with this. "Believe me,"
she said. "I want this very badly."

After another moment he sighed and asked her whom she had in mind.

"Me," she said, without as much as a smile.

3

Sally was having second thoughts.

She had been for a long time--even before she felt the padded hand being
clasped over her mouth and breathed in the soporific fumes. Her last
thoughts before falling unconscious into the awaiting arms was to wonder if
this nauseating smell was chloroform; and then to hope that this was Darin
and not someone else.

She still wasn't completely sure. There were more men than she'd
expected, but perhaps he'd brought someone else in on it. She hadn't been
able to recognized Darin or Mark's voices, either. But then the men hadn't
spoken more than a few words. They obviously knew what they were planning
to do, and the few gestures they used were enough.

The thought that these men might be total stranger, with an agenda of
their own, frightened her tremendously and made it that much more exciting.
But one thing was absolutely certain: she had passed the point of no return
a long time ago. It didn't matter who it was, it was too late now to back
out. Even if the ball gag hadn't been there to prevent her from calling it
off, she didn't think they would believe her. She was supposed to be the
frightened victim. No, it was far too late to change her mind now. The
inevitability of it was part of the fun. Her entire body seemed to vibrate
with the thrill of it, as if she'd downed a few too many cups of strong
coffee.

Darin had already taken her a lot further during this session than he
had during any of the others. That was exactly what she had asked for,
although she hadn't specified any specific tortures. She preferred to
leave that to his discretion. He could come up with tortures that she
wouldn't have dared suggest on her own.

But now, her crotch seemed to be on fire as she straddled this horse. 
She wouldn't have believed that her own body could feel like such a
crushing weight. It tingled with a feeling of numbness that did little to
quiet the pain. She was long past the point when she'd begun to think she
couldn't stand it any longer. But the session seemed to go on and on. Her
body felt battered, both inside and out. It ached with fatigue and stung
where the whips had raised welts. Muscles she didn't even know she had
felt strained, especially the ones in her pussy that cramped when they'd
used the electric currents. And yet, the fact that she was helpless to
prevent whatever he was going to do next was enough to make her giddy with
erotic delight. Her stomach was anxiously fluttering with nervous
butterflies as she breathed heavily around her gag and waited.

They were lowering the horse again. She had been riding it, on and off,
for such a long time that removing the pressure from between her legs was
almost better than an orgasm: like sitting down after a long day of endless
walking and letting someone massage your feet.

It felt good to have the floor beneath her again.

When they began to untie her hands, she breathed a mental sigh. It
meant they wouldn't be using the horse to hoist her off the floor again. 
She stepped over it almost eagerly when one of the men pulled on her nipple
chains. She wondered what they were going to do to her next. Her only
stipulation had been that they couldn't do anything that would cause
permanent damage, and nothing that would be visible when she was wearing
normal street clothes.

Darin's expression had been almost comical when she'd told him she was
the intended target of the snuff film she wanted him to make. "I can't do
that," he shouted, becoming so agitated about it that it had taken her a
very long time indeed to make him understand that she didn't actually want
to die. She wanted him to revive her once she was unconscious. "That
means you can't kill me in a violent method."

"What's not violent about dying?"

"Well, I don't actually have to die, I suppose." She put her hand up to
her throat and firmly gripped her own windpipe, wheezing excessively as she
sucked in her next breath of air. Then she smiled. "I just want it to
look like I have. I want the realism of actually loosing consciousness and
lying there for a few seconds. We can make it look longer when we edit. I
want this to be a fairly high-quality production."

"And what if you don't wake up when we try to revive you?"

"Then you don't get the money," she said with a smile. "Just a
snuff-film for real. That ought to be worth a few thousand on the black
market..."

Sally turned to the sound of something scraping across the concrete
floor and saw one of the men pulling something heavy into the light. When
she got a good look at the narrow table he was dragging, she pulled back,
causing the chain the man was holding to tug at her nipple clamps. The
table's top surface would come to about her hips and its surface was
covered with short, little needles. They were no more than a quarter-inch
long, but they were plentiful and looked sharp enough to break her skin. 
She knew what they wanted from her, and she knew that eventually they would
get it, but she fought as hard as she could.

It took two of the men to force her face down over the table. She
tugged at the ropes that still pinned her elbows to her side, trying to get
her hands into a position to hold her self back. But they batted her hands
away easily and forced her down.

The sharp points pricked at the skin of her belly and breasts, and she
tried to keep as still as possible. Struggling now would only rip at her
skin. She felt the weight of one of the men as he pressed himself down on
top of her; forcing her all the way down on the spiked bed.

It didn't hurt as much as she'd expected. Her skin began to itch, like
a hundred mosquito bites rather than the stab of a half-dozen swords. She
could feel something trickling from at least one of the wounds. Was it
blood? Her crème sweater was already ruined. It would have been even if
they hadn't cut holes for her breasts, but soon it would be soaked with
blood as well as sweat.

It no longer took two men to hold her down. One was enough, his hands
gripping her head and the back of her neck, as he pressed her erection
closer to her mouth. She hadn't noticed when he'd taken it out, but now
she could smell it: musty and hot. It pulsed in front of her eyes. 
Mesmerizing her, like a snake.

Was he going to undo her gag?

She felt a strap being pulled tightly across the small of her back and
tightened down with a buckle at the side of the table. Another strap was
pulled across her shoulder blades. Then she felt hands spreading her legs,
tying them to the metal rings on either side of the table.

The man in front of her was covering his erection with a large, ribbed
dildo harness. It was hollow in the middle, allowing him to slide his
length inside of it; giving him another half-inch in diameter and two
inches in length, once he'd strapped it into place.

Only when he began to walk around behind her, did she realize that it
wasn't for her mouth. He had shown it to her so she would know exactly
what he was going to do.

He gripped the cheeks of her ass, forcing them apart. She felt
something cool and greasy, as fingers probed her sphincter. Then the
rubber shaft was pressing against her ass. Involuntarily, her muscles
tightened. The shaft pressed harder and she could feel her hole slowly
opening up, stretching almost beyond its design's parameters. And then he
was sliding more freely; and he forced himself the rest of the way with one
deep thrust. She screamed into her gag, as her body shook with
delightfully intense pain. The shock of his body collided with hers,
caused her to move against the needles. They seemed to rip at her skin,
but she was tightly strapped to the table. There couldn't be much real
movement.

The needles began to tear again as he pulled out of her.

Then he was shoving back inside her again. In out, in out. He found a
steady rhythm, using his hands against her hips to help force his way in
and out. In and out.

At first there was only the pain, and she reveled in it; but slowly it
began to mix with a deeper pleasure. She began to breathe a little harder
and before long she was moving her hips to meet each new thrust. Her body
was dripping with sweat. As if they could tell just where the pleasure was
coming from, someone had slipped a finger between her legs and was working
her there at the same time.

It seemed to go on and on, and she didn't even notice the belt as it was
slipped around her neck.

Not until she felt the gentle pressure slowly beginning to block off her
air. It didn't take much, just a gentle twist of the wrist to make her
breath come in labored little wheezes. Another thrust seemed to force the
air out of her, and she couldn't force her lung to fill again. Her head
seemed to growing lighter. A vibrating sensation filled her chest, quickly
becoming more erotic as it intensified; swelling, its center moving down in
her body until it was centered at the focus of her pain and pleasure. 
Fingers tugged at her clit. The ribbed dildo was an avalanche washing over
her in waves.

Her body went rigid. An incredible new level of pleasure filled her so
completely; so profoundly. All she could see was white. All she could
hear was an ecstatic buzzing: like bugs in her ears. She wished these
wonderful feelings could go on forever.

Then the world began to fade to black.

