The Prisoner, The Slave

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Two men kidnap & enslave an innocent woman
3.8k words
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88.8k
12
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In a tiny, dim room in an unknown locale lay a small cot. Beside it were a metal sink and a steel toilet bowl. The place was nothing more than a prison cell.

A young woman named Stacey lay in the cot whilst crying herself to exhaustion. She was starving and severely bored. Nothing was present to stimulate her mind: no books, writing equipment, music, human interaction, or television. Her only highlights were when her captor decided to feed her. Her only diversion was experiencing daily torture sessions.

Her sobbing began to taper, though the boredom still seized her. She wiped her wet face and decided to try out an idea that had come to her earlier. She got up and unwound a copious amount of toilet paper. Wetting it, she turned it into a pulp. Mr. Kennedy Monroe, her abductor, had ordered her not to waste the tissue, but she hoped that she could rationalize its use.

Stacey sat on the floor, sniffling while trying to sculpt the tissue pulp into something artistic. She was enjoying her activities as she shaped the small form.

Suddenly, the door was unlocked and yanked opened. Her heart leapt and she tried to hide her activities as Joe rushed inside.

"What the fuck did I tell you about shit like this?" he nonetheless barked.

He had his long, heavy chain in hand. He lifted it over his head; Stacey tried to scramble out of the way but he brought it down right across her back. She gasped at the burning pain it produced.

"You know what this little stunt means, don't you?" He looped the chain around her neck like a leash and padlocked it in place.

Fresh tears moistened her eyes and her heart raced. She looked at the portly but burly bodyguard with his shiny skull and sweaty skin. No amount of pleading would make him sympathetic to her; he'd only be entertained. He stripped the short blue smock she wore off, leaving her nude.

He yanked her out of the little cell and into the den room, which was filled with furniture more suitable for the Inquisition. There was a table reminiscent of The Rack with iron shackles at each corner; pillory and stock devices were bolted to the floor and a chair was present with straps and electrical-shock wires. An iron cage was in the corner and opposite that a spanking bench.

Joe took her to none of that furniture. He bound her into a strappado position: her hands were behind her back and lifted as far up as they could go. They were attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling. This left her bent completely over, placing strain on the ligaments in her shoulders and knees. Joe then attached a spreader bar between her feet to keep them static. Stacey had no energy to fight him and flee during the trussing: she was too weak from hunger and crying.

She panted and trembled but remained stoic. She had learned his repertoire of violence; she also knew that it would eventually come to an end.

He chose the biggest, thickest wooden slapper and began to alternately spank each of her buttocks as hard as he could swing the instrument. She flinched and cried out with each stinging blow. She whimpered in agony, desperate for him to stop. Finally, after a few minutes of three dozen blows, he was finished.

Before shoving her back into the cell, he bound her in a reverse prayer position: her arms were twisted up behind her back and her palms were pressed together. He kept them in place by tying her wrists with nylon rope. Again, there was intense strain in her shoulders. Joe then confiscated the soggy statue and locked her in the cell once more. Stacey lay in bed on her stomach with a burning bottom. Even further depleted, she wept internally.

At thirty years old, she had been a destitute nobody in society. She lived out of a cheap hotel with no family or friends. She worked as a maid and a newspaper deliverer. Her wardrobe mostly came from the Salvation Army and daily meals consisted of cheap fast food. Sometimes she ate at soup kitchens. During a couple of desperate occasions, she had been forced to sleep in homeless shelters. Life was a bleak, hand-to-mouth existence.

As a maid, she worked in one of Mr. Monroe's high-rise towers. He was a real estate tycoon that owned several properties in the city. Wealthy and a minor celebrity in enterprise circles, he was conspicuous enough to warrant Joe as an ever-present bodyguard.

Mr. Monroe mesmerized Stacey. Her heart had always sped up as she surveyed the handsome, impeccably dressed man. He was in his forties but looked better than most men half his age. Joe was always at his side. In the year of her employment, Stacey had observed the bodyguard chauffeuring him around in his black Mercedes Benz, stepping out to fetch him meals, and carrying his larger items. As well as a protector, he was clearly a flunky and an image accessory.

She mopped his floors in her cheap frock but the tycoon always smiled at her with greetings, much to her elation and insecurity. She yearned to be good enough for him. She couldn't resist daydreaming that he'd rescue her, as Prince Charming had done with Cinderella.

After a few hours, Joe came back inside the cell wearing a leather apron, galoshes, and rubber gloves. The chain was again in his hands. Stacey knew what the sight meant. It was time to be tortured for Mr. Kennedy Monroe's entertainment.

To her relief, Joe untied her hands and her arms fell out of the agonizing reverse prayer. He collared her with the chain and yanked her up. She moaned out as the blood painfully coursed through her liberated arms. Her mind spun.

"Please, Sir, I'm so tired," she moaned.

He drew his hand up and brutally slapped the left side of her face. She crashed onto the floor and tasted the saltiness of blood in her mouth.

"Are you too tired to remember rule number one, bitch?" he growled.

She panted weakly. "No, Sir."

"What is it?"

"...Never tell you what to do."

"So if you haven't forgotten it, then it means you knowingly defied the rules."

"No, Sir, I mean- No- I'm sorry."

"Get your pathetic ass up!"

When Stacey pulled herself to her feet, he pushed her face-down onto the bed. He shoved two suppositories into her rectum along with a harnessed plug. After a half hour, she was drenched in sweat and rocking back in forth in a desperate need to use the toilet. Finally, Joe allowed her to, never leaving the room.

He then pulled her from the cell and into a short hallway. It wasn't a residential hall, but looked like one in a commercial building. Over time, Stacey had figured that they were underground: no windows were present but a couple of air ducts were.

In a tiled shower room, Joe thoroughly soaped and scrubbed her body. By hand, he thoroughly massaged soap onto her breasts and hairy crotch as she cringed. After rinsing her, he took her into a small medical room where there was an examination table and a dentist's chair.

He secured her in the chair and gave her hair and combing. Afterwards, He dressed her in a black bustier that pushed her medium-sized breasts firmly up, a spandex mini skirt, and a pair of black pumps. He led her out of the room and back into the den. Mr. Monroe sat on the sofa, sipping on a tumbler of cognac and as usual looking breathtaking.

He puffed on a thick, sweet-smelling cigar and stood up. Predictably, the tycoon was dressed in a consummate three-piece suit, that one navy blue. His silk tie was scarlet. A large face Rolex was on his right wrist and a pinkie ring was on his left hand. The diamonds studs they both contained were huge.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked Stacey.

"...Weak, Master," she honestly replied, wavering on her feet.

"Good. That means I'll get to test your endurance."

She took a weary inhale. Mr. Monroe lacked any compassion for her. Though he was clearly dominating the entire situation of her imprisonment and torture, he never abused her personally. The expression he wore when she suffered was more enchanted than sadistic. In contrast to Joe, he spoke softly to her and didn't call her names. He gazed at her not with anger or detachment but appreciation. He didn't terrify her the way his bodyguard did. He was the closest thing to kindness that she then had contact with.

Joe removed the chain from her neck. The tycoon lifted the lid of the wooden pillory up while Joe forced her neck down into its largest groove. Mr. Monroe held it in place while his bodyguard put her wrists into the smaller slots on either side of her head. The diarrhea that the suppositories had induced had left her limply compliant.

Fighting had always proven to be useless, anyhow. Joe just ended up badly beating her and serving her less during meals.

He closed the pillory lid and padlocked it into place, leaving her head and hands trapped inside of the holes. She felt like a town drunk in the Dark Ages as she watched Joe retrieve a small black whip.

Behind her, he yanked off the skirt she wore. She then felt the sting of the whip as he started to mercilessly flog her backside. It felt like the tail was searing her skin off and she whimpered and thrashed around in anguish.

Mr. Monroe stood nearby, his face placid while watching the torture. Sometimes, he took pictures or masturbated during his voyeurism, particularly when Joe had sex with her. Right then the crotch of his slacks was full and protruding and she knew that the beating was immensely arousing him. He reached down and squeezed his erection. Joe continued to whip her; Stacey stared into space through heavy tears. She once more focused on the notion that her acute pain would eventually conclude. She didn't want to scream because it would just make her throat sore. Her attackers would ignore or ridicule her begging so she refrained from that, too. The best thing to do was to silently endure it. At least she was getting out of the little cell, even if it was to be tortured.

Soon, Mr. Monroe came to stand behind her. She felt him grab her hips and roughly push his penis into her canal. He penetrated her with rapid strokes, pausing every so often, then ramming into her. It was how he always did it. Stacey experienced some stirring, and a heavy contraction when he reached to caress her clitoris. Joe could only sodomize her, but only his boss had access to all three of her orifices.

He climaxed about ten minutes later. Afterward, he ordered his bodyguard to completely disrobe her and lay her eagle-spread on the rack-like table. He did so and shackled her wrists and ankles. He clamped excruciating clothespins onto her nipples and began to drip burning candle wax on her body while the tycoon recuperated on the couch with his tumbler and continued his observation.

Stacey flinched with each hot dropping, but she remained composed. Her stoicism was a contrast to her beginning behavior. During the earliest torture sessions, she screamed loudly, tried to bargain for mercy, and blubbered so much that she'd repeatedly choke and dry heave on her phlegm. Over time, though, she had come to fear the pain less. After a few weeks, it still filled her with dread but she had was almost indifferent to it.

"That's enough, Joe," Mr. Monroe announced after a short spell.

And just like that, the bodyguard removed her from the table and took her back into her room. She thought that the abuse would be more severe because of the toilet tissue she had wasted. Stacey was instead relieved; Joe had cleansed her rectum that day for naught.

She began to pick the wax drippings from her body. It was one of her favorite activities to do besides light humming. She made a game of out trying to pull pieces away without breaking them.

Mr. Monroe soon came inside. She halted her actions and stared down at her wringing hands.

"Keep on," he mildly urged her.

She obeyed self-consciously. The tycoon watched her deeds with intrigue.

"You were very good just now," he tenderly said. "You didn't cry... you didn't scream... I never even had to reach for the gag. And Joe told me that you were just as well-behaved during your punishment earlier."

She nodded. Stacey liked it when he spoke to her. She wouldn't get any conversation at all, otherwise.

"I have a gift for you," he said.

She remained tense; she hoped that it was her freedom.

He left the room momentarily, returning with a tin box. After he set it before her, she opened its lid.

Inside were three paperback books, a blank notepad, and a writing pen. Gloomy joy filled her. Finally, she had something to stimulate her languid mind with.

"What do you say..." he stated.

"Thank you, Master."

He tenderly caressed the right side of her face.

"May I please eat soon?" she dared to ask.

"You'll eat when I decide it's time to."

"...Yes, Master."

He departed and she began reading one of the novels. It was food for her malnourished brain.

She went on to use the pen and notepad to engage herself in drawing. All of her earliest efforts depicted the few items inside of her cell: the heavy, windowed door, the sink and toilet, the cot, the books, and the tin box. She also began to mark the days off, too, without reprimand. One order she had to heed, though, was to never write 'Stacey' down for any reason. Neither Mr. Monroe nor his bodyguard ever uttered the name. She held onto it, however, for her self-awareness was all she had remaining.

It had occurred to her before that compliance might garner her perks from her captor. But like most anyone else, dignity and independence had prevented her from submitting to Mr. Monroe's twisted desires.

The long exile from society and the daily dominance took a huge toll on her will, though. Mr. Monroe kept telling her that he was her Master and, after enough reinforcements in the forms of torture and rapes, she accepted it. He regularly told her that she was a powerless nothing and that he was omnipotent in comparison. His reasoning was always logical and it soon sunk into her head despite herself.

"I know your thoughts at all times," he'd often tell her. "...You didn't know that? I'm reading your mind right now..."

And she'd tremble, because she was usually thinking of how much of a crazy pervert he was.

"You were made to be my slave," he'd also say. "Why do you think that of all the places you ended up working, it was in my building? Because it was destiny, that's why. You were a slave finally being sent to your Master. You were a nothing whose existence was finally being merited."

Stacey would often sit in her cell, distressed for hours by the latter idea. Her imprisonment began after he had kindly invited her to become his personal domestic. He had warned her that the work and living conditions might be "hard" and he might require some "unorthodox" service from her. Conversely, he had promised that she'd never live in destitution again. Due to her poverty and her intense attraction towards him, she agreed after brief contemplation.

Immediately after consenting, though, the tycoon and his bodyguard literally kidnapped her and brought her to the unknown location.

"What are you doing to me?" she had implored upon being forced into the cell.

Mr. Monroe stood there calmly. "I'm making you more than my servant, Stacey. You see, I'm making you my slave."

Her eyes narrowed. "...Is this some sick joke?"

"No, it's not. A long time ago, I decided that I wanted to own another human being, a woman that would be my personal property. And after a long and thorough search, I discovered you."

She was flabbergasted and in disbelief, but there she was bound up in a vault. Each of her wrists was tied to its corresponding ankle. She sat on the floor as her voice resonated in the small enclosure.

"Why me? What have I done to anybody?"

"Why you? Because you're a nobody. You're a nothing in this society, and-"

"I'm somebody."

"You were a bum with a job. Granted, an upstanding one, but a nonentity regardless. You had no friends; you had no family; You had no money. There's no one to report you missing. There's no reason for anyone to. No one out there's going to stop to wonder why some maid living out of a hotel disappeared."

His placid words deeply wounded her, but she resolved to remain civil. "Please, don't do this to me. If you let me go, I won't tell anyone what's happened, I swear."

"You'll get used to it here, I'll see to that."

"I won't."

"But there's no other option. You were a nothing before I took you. Now, you have value because you're my possession."

Mr. Monroe entered the cell some days later, carrying a shoebox. She got on her knees for him as he always expected. Stacey hated herself for it, but she knew that he'd reward her somehow for such obedience, and after the gift books, she was willing to compromise her pride for a while.

He offered her the shoebox, which she hungrily took. Inside was her dinner: a turkey sandwich, a ripe pear, and a carton of skim milk. She ate heartily. He was meanwhile looking at her newest little sketches in the notepad. He didn't take his eyes from the pages, but smiled slightly like a proud father.

"You're getting so much better at drawing. Soon I may get you correct drawing tools. And I can get you some real modeling clay. Would you like that?"

"Yes, Master. Thank you for considering it."

Through his constant verbal training, she had learned the proper way to respond to anything he said. She continued to eat whilst staring at the box lid. In permanent marker was his handwriting declaring 'Property of M.' He always scribbled that on items that he gave to her. At first, she thought that he was reminding her that the items didn't truly belong to her.

But soon after he had forbade her from writing her given name down, she realized that 'Property of M.' was what she in fact was. He was placing her name on things.

Mr. Monroe tested her in the ultimate way the next day. Joe gave her a black silk designer dress to put on and shiny, heeled slippers. He installed a mirror in her cell and for the first time in months, she saw her own reflection. Her face had become slim from the meager meals, her skin was chalky from lack of sunlight, and her eyes were lifeless. The tycoon had presented her with a makeup kit and she embellished her face with lipstick, eye shadow, and mascara. She brushed her hair. He then blindfolded and fettered her feet. She followed him into the open air and he held her hand while they drove a long distance. Light Classical music played.

"You're going to be very well-behaved out here," he said.

"Yes, Master."

"You're going to keep your mouth shut and only do something when I give you the signal to. I want you to keep your eyes down at all times, unless you look to me for guidance."

"Yes, Master."

After a long drive, he took the blindfold off and she discovered that they were in the back of a stretch limousine. She looked out of the window and saw the familiar metropolis surrounding them. Several people were walking the streets. She was observing natural light and rustling breezes for the first time in months. It overwhelmed her, but she was overjoyed with the change in her dismal routine.

He took her to a dentist, who cleaned her teeth and proclaimed that several of her molars and incisors needed to be removed in favor of crowns. Years of poverty had deteriorated them before the kidnapping. Mr. Monroe set up a return visit. Then he took her back to his penthouse suite, where he ordered her into the king-sized bed.

She got undressed as he directed. Then as he commanded, she undressed him. They laid in the bed together and as he wished, she began to slowly, leisurely suck him off. She then straddled him and moved on top in slow, thorough motions, never letting him slip out of her silky-wet canal. As he commanded, she reached an explosive climax and lay relaxed in his arms a while afterwards.

"Was I good, Master?" she asked on the drive away. She was once again blindfolded and restrained.

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