Curious Girls Ch. 32

"Good morning, Beautiful."

Tamara grins as she saunters into the room. I smell the food long before I see it. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.

"Tamara?" I ask groggily, forgetting for the briefest of moments where I am. "What time is it?"

"It's time for breakfast. That's what time it is!"

Tamara strides over, a large plate of food in hand. However, I am not so caught up by the sight of food that I fail to notice her appearance.

Her lips are a dark, metallic pink, standing out in stark contrast to her lily white skin. Her eyes are darkened with eyeshadow. And her red hair is freshly curled, bouncing with each step as it falls in front of her, partially obscuring her cleavage.

She is wearing black leggings and a gray, low-cut tank top. At the top of the tank, right at the cleavage line, her shirt is tied in a loose knot. The way her cleavage strains against the fabric, I'm sure the knot is going to hold.

"You're awfully chipper this morning," I grumble. I've never been much of a morning person. As a rule, I generally hate all morning people, Krista excepted. She's the only person whose cheery morning vivaciousness never rubbed me the wrong way.

"I woke up feeling better than I have in a long time. I went for a run and, while I was out, decided to treat myself. I got a blow-out followed by a mani pedi!"

She smiles broadly, holding out her hands. Her nails are a light pink, obviously picked to match her lipstick.

I just feel--good, you know? It's going to be a great day."

It certainly doesn't feel like a great day to me.

"Is that for me?" I motion my head toward the food.

"Oh! Yes. I made this for you after I got home. But don't expect this kind of cooking every day," she winks. "Just let me loosen those a bit so you can eat."

Thankfully, the taste of Tamara's urine was long gone from my mouth. I still occasionally catch whiffs of it--most likely remnants still remaining on my hair and face. Tamara had left me alone for quite some time, but I spent the entirety of it tied to the bed. There had been precious little to occupy my mind. Most of my waking hours had been spent struggling to keep thoughts of escape from my mind. If I saw an opportunity, I would take it in a heartbeat. But I wasn't willing to take the risk on another hair-brained scheme--not with Tamara's looming threat of ever more extreme punishments.

I had never seen Tamara like this before. She was so upbeat and happy, it was easy to forget about the psychotic version of Tamara that came out when it was time to "play."

How did I even get to this point?

Staying with Tamara wasn't an option. Was it? I loathed the idea of being Tamara's live-in sex slave, But I was petrified by the thought of being punished again. I had no idea if threat is sincere, but I had to assume it is. I had repeatedly underestimated Tamara, and I regretted it every damn time.

Perhaps I could eventually figure out a way to get her to stop. Or maybe even earn her trust until an opportunity for escape presented itself. One thing is certain--I am not going to attempt another escape unless I am confident--completely confident--it will succeed. An image of Tamara stroking her naked ass flashed into my head. The implied punishment was just too severe to risk for another poorly executed escape attempt.

Was she really serious about keeping me down here indefinitely? It had already been at least a day. What would Krista think?

Krista. Fuck. She would have no idea where I was. If it had been business as usual, Krista wouldn't have even realized I had been kidnapped. But I left her a voicemail. If I disappeared, surely she would realize something had happened. Of course, I couldn't be confident she even heard my voice on the phone. Or that she would recognize my voice.

That's when I recalled what Tamara had said the previous evening--that Krista won't miss me. I know better than to believe anything Tamara says, but a part of me can't help worry she's telling the truth. I hadn't seen Krista in so long--not since before the accident. My heart ached thinking of Krista. I hadn't realized how much I depended on my sister--my best friend, really. We had drifted apart after my accident, but I couldn't be sure what was going through her mind. Worse, I had no idea what lies Tamara had been feeding her all this time.

One by one, Tamara loosened the restraints, giving only minimal leeway to the collar. It was enough to sit up and use my arms but not enough to leave the bed.

"Come on, Tamara. Can't you loosen up my neck a little?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Nevermind," I sighed. Her tone and demeanor clearly signaled that her response was rhetorical.

Glancing down at the plate, my stomach growled. The plate was overflowing with generous portions of pancakes, smokies, and scrambled eggs. I hadn't eaten anything since--when? Before arriving at the hotel?

I'd had a lot on my mind. And nothing that had happened over the last 36 hours had exactly put me in the mood for food. The nausea momentarily returned as I recalled the taste of Tamara's never-ending torrent of urine as it flooded down my throat.

Tamara hadn't even provided any food or drink afterward. She hadn't so much as let me touch a toothbrush. That taste had stayed in my mouth for hours.

The first bite, I took cautiously. I was acutely aware she might be trying to pull something. She could have put something in the food to drug me, but what would be the point?

After the first bite, my brain thought of nothing else. I dug in eagerly, my hunger taking over.

"Slow down and drink something," she laughed as she handed me some orange juice.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I ask, eying her suspiciously as I devour one pancake after another, tearing hungrily into them with my teeth. I don't even notice until the third pancake that Tamara had provided me a plastic fork and a container of syrup. Eagerly, I pour the sweet, thick maple over everything on my plate--everything but the eggs, anyway. Fuck it. I drench the eggs too.

"I feel a little bad, I guess," she glances down at the ground. "I didn't like--I didn't want to treat you like that, but--I had to do it."

I couldn't help notice the way she started that sentence. Did that mean she didn't want to, but ended up liking it? God, I hoped not. The last thing I needed was for Tamara to start getting her jollies by peeing on my face. Or worse.

My first instinct as a generally polite person was tell her it was OK. But it wasn't OK. It was never going to be OK. Instead, I said nothing. It didn't seem like Tamara expected a response anyway. She turned her cell phone idly in her hands while she waited for me to finish my meal.

"What the fuck?" Tamara eclaims suddenly. "You made calls last night?"

I stopped eating, her icy stare halting me dead in my tracks. I lick my lips, trying to formulate a response, but Tamara is faster.

"What did you tell Krista? And who else did you call?"

"N-Nothing. No one," I lie. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Tamara reaches behind my head. Grabbing my hair roughly in her hand, she yanks backward--hard.

"Ow! Fuck," the profanity explodes from my lips before I can even process the pain shooting through my scalp.

"Tell me. Now."

I don't have the time to formulate a credible response. All I can do was offer weak protestations I'm sure she will never believe.

"I didn't call anyone, I promise."

"Last chance," Tamara promises. Reaching over with her other hand, she rests it on my left hand, which is still holding my plate.

"Tamara, please," I beg, my eyes watering from the pain.

Abruptly, she brings her two hands toward each other. My own hand involuntarily shoves my plate upward as my head is simultaneously propelled downward. The end result is my face buried in the remaining contents of my plate.

I try to pull away, but her grip is absolute. Sausages and bits of egg tumble onto the bed and floor as Tamara grinds the contents of the plate roughly against my face.

She finally pulled the plate away leaving grease, syrup, and bits of egg and ketchup spread unevenly over my face.

"Tell me who you called", Tamara demands again, her posture threatening to shove the plate back in my face if she doesn't like my answer.

"I didn't call anyone," I protest once again.

Instead of shoving my face back into the plate, Tamara tosses the plate onto the floor and pushes me back onto the bed, climbing atop me as she reaches for the the container of syrup.

"I promise, I didn't call anyone!"

In response, Tamara tightens her knees on either side of my head and begins to pour the thick maple syrup directly onto my face. At first, I'm confused, but as the viscous liquid coats my nose and mouth, I'm suddenly unable to breathe.

"Tell me," she demands again.

I open my mouth, struggling for air as the maple syrup completely coats my lips. But Tamara keeps pouring, and the maple syrup begins to fill my mouth.

I can't even choke out a lie. I close my mouth, swallowing a half a mouthful of the sickly sweet amber syrup. But she continues to pour, and as I open my mouth again, the syrups floods back into my mouth.

"I already know you called Krista. I have her number in my history, and I checked the time on the call."

"Please. I'm not lying," I protest. I'm relieved as I see that she has run out of syrup. My relief doesn't last.

"See? You make me hurt you."

"Tamara, please. Just give me a chance to explain."

She walks to the cabinet near the door and returns a moment later holding a small box full of wooden clothespins.

"Growing up, I always wondered what these were supposed to be used for," she laughs. "It turns out they have a lot of interesting uses--other than hanging clothes and sealing chip bags, that is."

She squeezes the end of the clothespin a few times, as if testing the spring.

"Am I supposed to be scared?" I chortle impulsively, my ever-defiant nature flaring up once again.

She responds by looking up and down over my exposed, vulnerable body--the same way you might look over a piece of meat. I wouldn't have thought it possible to be more uncomfortable, but somehow Tamara found that line and walked right over.

Clothespin primed, she lowers it to my chest and clips it to my right nipple.

I squealed, trying in vain to squirm away. The pain is remarkable for such a small clothespin.

"Ow, Christ!" I exclaim. It is uncomfortable, but tolerable.

I expect Tamara to resume her line of questioning. Instead, she seems more interested in the second clothespin she is already attaching to my left nipple. Whether part of the interrogation or just for fun, it's impossible to tell.

I grimace. My breaths become quick and shallow as new pain shoots through my left breast. I struggle, trying ineffectively to dislodge the clothespins. Instead, I managed only to exacerbate my discomfort as the pins tug against my flesh, swinging back and forth, their grips tightening as they slide ever so slightly from my areola toward my nipple.

I squeal again, unable to contain my pain.

"If you like that, you're going to love this," she grins.

Reaching into her box, Tamara pulls out a long chain of clothespins strung together with string.

"I can't tell you what I don't know," I protest yet again.

I wasn't sure if I was avoiding her questions because I thought it would help in some way or simply for the sake of being stubborn.

Taking each clothespin in succession, she clips them to my abdomen with painstaking precision, starting between my breasts and working her way to just below my belly button. Each pin brings a new world of agony, but they are nothing compared to the searing pain continually shooting through my nipples.

By the time she finishes, there is a line of clothespins sticking out of my torso, stretching nearly down to my pubic hair.

"These are what's known as a 'zipper'," she says calmly, flicking each of the clothespins in succession, playfully watching with delight at my erratic squirming. She seems to be enjoying her interrogation a bit too much.

"Why is it called a zipper?" I ask with confusion, my breathing still ragged.

"Glad you asked." She grabs one end and pulls sharply.

The clothespins tear away from my skin in a cacophonous explosion of agony.

I cry out in pain, unable to focus on anything else. As tears well up in my eyes, Tamara continues either not noticing or not caring.

"So, I know you called Krista," Tamara continues, "But the call was less than a minute. That means you talked to her, but not long enough for an in-depth conversation."

Tamara tried to reason out the sequence of events. "In fact, it was probably just enough time for a voicemail. That's why you had to call someone else."

She was too good at this.

"Then three calls to almost identical numbers. The first two were very short, the third was longer. That means the first two were wrong numbers. Who did you call after Krista?"

She reached toward me, her motion indicating she was about to attach her clothespin zipper to my inner thigh.

"No, wait!" I relent, not wanting to feel that level of pain again. "I called Michael."

Her motion stops. "Now we're getting somewhere. But before we get to that, what did you tell Krista?"

"You were right," I said, crying freely now. "I left a voicemail telling her everything."

It was a lie, but if Tamara thought Krista knew, perhaps it would force her hand. Maybe even force her to let me go.

Tamara reached down and grabbed the two remaining clothespins, one in each hand and pulled. The clothespins stayed attached to my nipple, but sent sharp pain through my breasts.

"Ow, fuck! Stop that," I plead. "I just told her--I told her that you were a mistake and that I was leaving you."

"That's hurtful, Sara." She twists the clothespins teasingly, causing continued pain. "And what about Michael?"

"He just gave me a ride since I couldn't get ahold of Krista."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing! It was just small talk."

Tamara unfastens the clothespins, causing shooting pain as blood rushes back into my nipples. Despite the pain, I find myself strangely aroused.

"Tell me the truth, or you're not going to like where these go next."

"I swear--" I start to protest, but Tamara is already sliding the clothespin onto one of my pussy lips.

"What are you--No. Don't--" I try to squirm away as Tamara releases the ends of the clothespin, allowing the force of the spring to close the wooden vice tightly around my soft flesh.

"No, please!" I continue to beg as the second clothespin clamped into my other pussy lip. The pain is intense, I barely noticed when her hand disappears into the box and comes back out with a fistful of clothespins.

The first thing she does is replace the two she had taken from my breasts. The familiar pain returns but more intense than before, my flesh now sensitive and swollen.

"Shall we see how many of these we can fit?" Tamara asked, grinning wickedly.

"I already told you, we didn't talk about anything!"

Tamara ignores me, continuing to attach the clothespins one by one. It's all I could do to keep my energy focused on enduring the pain. By the time she's attached five clothespins to each of my vaginal lips, the pain is almost too much to take.

"Are you going to talk? Or should I start working my way inward?"

''Wait, wait, wait," I protest, trying to gather my thoughts.

I felt her fingers tugging at my inner vaginal lips. It was getting hard to feel each successive clothespin. My entire pussy was on fire.

I wonder if you could handle one on your clit," she muses. She was enjoying herself far too much.

"You wouldn't." I gasp weakly, knowing full well she would.

"Try me," she grins, slapping the clothespins around playfully. Suddenly, I feel an unexpected sensation. Arousal. The pain is severe, but her knocking the clothespins around was stimulating me in unexpected ways. Tamara giggles, continuing to bat them playfully, almost cat-like.

I wasn't sure how much longer I could resist.

"Someone's getting excited," she grins. I blush, not understanding my own reactions. "Last chance."

"I'm never going to--"

Before I can finish, Tamara clips the clothespin directly to my clit.

All the pain to this point pales by comparison.

"Stop! I'll talk," I plead desperately. "Stop, and I'll tell you everything."

"Talk first."

Tamara continues playfully slapping the clothespins as I struggle to answer, occasionally tugging at them and stretching my lips apart.

"I told him you forced me to have sex with you," I squeal.

Her eyes flash anger for a split second and is gone just as quickly.

"Now, why would you do a silly thing like that?"

"I don't think he believed me. He thought the idea was--hot."

She laughs. "See? I'm not the only one who thinks so."

I say nothing, relieved to see her smiling, but still a bit in shock from her aggressive interrogation.

"In fact, I think telling the truth should be rewarded. Don't you?"

I hesitate to respond. I had learned two things about Tamara. Open-ended questions were usually dangerous, and Tamara seldom cared about a response.

Tamara removes the clothespins from my clitoris and inner vaginal lips. I gasp as blood floods back, causing intense pain. While I recover, she saunters back to the cabinet. I hear some rummaging before she returns holding a large wand-style massager in one hand and a couple of scarves in the other.

She plugs the wand in next to the bed and brings it over.

"What's all that for?" I ask warily.

She just grins and slaps at the clothespins a few more times. Despite my efforts to hide the arousal, a slight moan escapes my lips.

Pulling the clothespins to their respective thigh, she ties them to each leg with the scarves.

Before I can ask what she is planning, a loud vibrating noise begins emanating from the wand. With my pussy lips pulled open, my inner vaginal lips and clitoris are completely exposed.

"This is your reward for cooperating."

Tamara slowly directs the massager between my legs, stopping just short of my exposed vulva. However, after a few minutes, Tamara abruptly pulls the wand away and lays it next to me.

"Fuck, I can't wait any longer," Tamara moans breathily, "I'm too horny to think straight."

With little regard for presentation, Tamara shoves down both panties and leggings, kicking them off in a flurry of eager excitement. She is already climbing back onto me before I know what's happening.

Using her panties, she wipes the syrup from my face. My brain is slow to register the context switch. I'm so close to orgasm that my brain is having trouble recognizing that Tamara's legs are now on either side of my head. She has them stretched out with her feet against the headboard. Leaning back, she gropes for places to grip for balance.

Annoyed now at the clothespins in her way, Tamara sweeps her hand forcefully over my breasts. The clothespins pop off several at a time as she shoves them off my skin impatiently. Her nails dig in to my breasts as she squeezes my tender flesh in her hands. I grunt with the mixture of pain and relief. However, the relief is short-lived.

Tamara's hand abruptly slaps my left breast.

What the hell?

Just as abruptly, she shifts her weight and slaps the other. A pained moan slips through my lips.

"God, it makes me so fucking horny when you squeal like that."

Resting her weight on both hands as she shifts her hips upward, she pushes her wet lips into my chin.

Her breathing intensifies as her lips glide over my throat. With each thrust, my neck grows increasingly damp. Her downward pressure against my chin increasing as she savors the way it feels against her clitoris.

She is clearly getting worked up. Her moans are proof of that, but I can tell she is trying to show restraint--to prolong her enjoyment. However, the pain from the clothespins is quickly approaching unbearable. I really need her to hurry.