Posted 20030423 to alt.sex.stories.moderated. 
Sylvia's New Life (MF,rape)
by Philip Harris

Sylvia's breasts were cold.  For hours she'd been left tied 
to a chair in a cold cellar, blindfolded, her blouse torn 
open and her bra ripped from her.  There were no sounds 
other than the echoes of her own mumbled cries.  The ball 
gag in her mouth prevented from using words to articulate 
her pleas.  Her breasts were cold and she had to go to the 
toilet.

Sylvia wanted her captor to return.  She wanted to tell him 
that she was ready to surrender.  She'd fought viciously 
when he'd first grabbed her in the shopping center parking 
lot.  She'd yelled and screamed.  She'd kicked him and 
tried scratching him with her fingernails.  She grabbed the 
frame of his van as he'd forced her inside, but he'd been 
too strong for her.  Then he had handcuffed her, locking 
her wrists to a ringbolt in the van's floorboard.  He'd 
forced the gag into her mouth and put a pillowcase over her 
eyes, and that had been it.  She was trapped.  

She heard and felt the van driving along roads for at least 
an hour.  Sylvia imagined passing by warm, safe homes where 
people lived, and she cried to think that she might never 
again know how it feels to be safe.  

She could tell when the van was driven onto a highway.  The 
driver only slowed down once, and from the sounds Sylvia 
heard, she knew that he was driving through a tollbooth.  
She kicked and fought again then, trying to be heard or 
seen, but then she'd recognized the sound of coins dropping 
into an automatic toll basket, and the van had started 
moving again.

Finally the van slowed, stopped.  Sylvia heard something 
familiar, and when the van started again it moved only a 
short distance.  Through the pillowcase covering her head 
Sylvia could see a sudden darkening of the light around 
her.  There was the familiar sound again--oh, it was a 
garage door closing.  

Sylvia's captor grabbed her ankles and tied them together 
tightly.  Then, unlocking her from the ringbolt, he lifted 
her to his shoulder and carried her somewhere outside of 
the van, into someplace else, and then down some stairs.  
When he put her down he seated her in a chair, and then 
tied her securely.

That was when he'd ripped open her blouse and exposed her 
breasts.  How many hours ago was that, she wondered?  
Several, at least.  She'd heard him walk up the stairs, and 
then she'd heard nothing more.

She'd struggled against her bounds, pulling hard to try and 
free herself.  Her efforts were hopeless.

It was obvious what he wanted her for.  Her exposed breasts 
explained everything.  She sat in the chair and 
contemplated what was coming.  She'd have to do every sex 
act; that was inevitable.  How brutal would he be, she 
wondered?  Would he always keep her tied up?  Tied down to 
the bed?  Retied into positions of convenience for him?

What about oral sex?  Sylvia had never liked having a man 
in her mouth.  Would he make her do that?  Would he trust 
her with him vulnerable like that?  Would he use his mouth 
on her?  Sylvia liked that, but not if the boy was rough.  
It felt so good if the boy was gentle, but if he was rough 
then it just hurt Sylvia.  Her captor could be as rough 
with her as he liked, she realized.  There wouldn't be any 
pleading and coaxing; he would just take what he wanted of 
her.

That's when Sylvia first noticed that her breasts were 
getting cold.  Being exposed to the cool, damp cellar air 
chilled them.  The handcuffs hurt her wrists, the gag hurt 
her mouth, but somehow the cold on her breasts seemed to 
bother her the most.  She felt--neglected--that way.

For a moment her imagination got away with her, and she 
pictured herself being in a store window instead of a 
cellar; exposed in her vulnerability to the sight of any 
passer-by.  Would there be a line of gawkers, thinking that 
this free show was a publicity stunt, not realizing that 
she was truly helpless?

No, her breasts were too cold.  She wasn't sitting at a 
window.  Her breasts were naked in darkness, and nobody was 
looking at them.

After a while she wanted to pee.  She tried not thinking 
about it.  She didn't even want to think about down there, 
but she couldn't help herself, and thinking about down 
there made her wonder again at the things he'd do.

Would his fingers be rough on her?  Would he use things 
inside her?  Sylvia had read about that.  She'd read once 
about a woman who was raped in her own home, who'd been 
tied bent over her own living room hassock with her pants 
pulled down.  The rapist had used nearly everything he 
could find that he could force into her.  He'd used the 
handle of a hairbrush from her bedroom.  He'd used 
vegetables from the refrigerator.  He'd used the handles of 
her big kitchen knives, which had been the most scary thing 
of all to her.

Thinking of that was the first time, really, that Sylvia 
felt panic, when she realized that he might hurt her 
instead of just using her for sex.  Or that maybe hurting 
her might be the way he'd use her for sex!

Sylvia's breasts felt really cold now.  She felt resentful 
that they were exposed and that there was darkness and that 
nobody was looking.

And down there, near where she had to pee, she felt 
anxiousness.  She felt an uncomfortable sexual anticipation 
that Sylvia recognized from when she was a college girl, 
when she'd be getting ready to go out on a date for the 
evening, when she'd already made up her mind to have sex 
with the boy.  Oh god, she realized, she was sexually 
anticipating the rape.  She knew what that meant, that she 
was going to cum.  She was going to cum when she was raped!

Whenever Sylvia got those feelings at home, well, she took 
care of them herself.  She couldn't do that now, not with 
her wrists tied behind her back and her breasts out in the 
cold.

Sylvia had read a story once where a man kidnapped a woman 
and forced her to masturbate every hour.  He'd kept her in 
a room with a video camera, and with a timer that rang a 
bell every hour, all day long.  Whenever the bell rang, the 
girl had to masturbate to climax for the camera.  When the 
man would return to her, he'd make her watch the video with 
him and he'd count hours and the climaxes.  If the girl 
hadn't "been good," then he didn't give her food that 
evening.

There was another story too, about a woman kept tied in a 
chair all day, sitting on a vibrating dildo that switched 
on and off randomly all day long, keeping her ready for her 
man's return.

Or was that just a fiction story?  Sylvia had read it in a 
womens' magazine, and had thought it a fiction, but now she 
realized that this was all happening to her for real and 
that she'd have to do whatever her captor demanded of her.

Would he whip her?  Sylvia had seen those photos of tied 
women hanging from ceilings, or strapped to motorized dildo 
machines.  How long would she be able to stand that, she 
wondered, having a dildo plunge in and out of her long 
after she'd exhausted herself of climaxes?  

Would he tie her breasts, forcing them to swell cruelly and 
become super sensitive?  She'd seen that in pictures.  
Would he clamp her nipples, making her orgasm between her 
legs while she was in pain at the tits?  

She couldn't even feel her nipples now, her breasts were so 
cold.

Sylvia recalled many stories of cruelty to rape victims.  
Sex slaves!  She realized that now that's what she was--a 
sex slave.  She wasn't taken just for a quick rape, she was 
taken for keeps.

The best thing to do, she realized, was to act like a good, 
loving woman.  Why would a man be cruel if his woman gave 
him all the sex he wanted?  And any way he wanted it.  
Sylvia realized that the best thing would be to go along.  
Yes she'd read stories of women surviving in that way.  The 
best thing, Sylvia decided, would be to love her new 
master--if he would just give her the chance.

There!  She heard a creak from the ceiling above her.  She 
heard the sound of a door opening, and of footsteps coming 
down the cellar stairs.  

Whoever it was sounded the same as the man who'd taken her.  
He heard him pause before her; she could tell that he was 
right in front of her, looking at his prize.  Then she 
heard him step behind her.

Oh yes, oh yes!  His hands felt so warm on Sylvia's 
breasts!  She couldn't help herself, she leaned forward, 
enjoying his warmth.  It felt good to her; and besides she 
knew that it was best to try and please him.  Now she could 
feel her nipples, poking through his fingers as he teased 
them.

"Do you need to pee?" he asked, his voice close to Sylvia's 
ear.  She was hearing him for the first time.

She nodded her head yes.

"Will you be a willing fuck if I let you use the toilet?" 
he asked.

Sylvia nodded yes again, grunting "yes" through her gag.  
She tried to grunt "yes master."  Sylvia knew that she 
would have to surrender.  He was going to be the only 
warmth that she was going to know from now on.  By exposing 
her breasts he'd let Sylvia understand her fate: unless 
Sylvia used her body to win his love, she'd have to live a 
life alone in the cold basement, with his body for her only 
warmth.

-end-

More stories by Philip Harris can be found on http://www.asstr.org/~pharris/.
