Captured Caroline - Chapter 10

Chapter 10: "Patriarch Games"

I helped her up. She seemed apprehensive. I suppose I 
couldn't blame her -- we had hardly parted on the best 
of terms. Her eye makeup was smeared and I could tell 
she'd been crying again. I looked into her eyes and she 
tried to look away. The posture collar made that 
impossible and I grabbed her chin and forced her to 
look at me.

As I looked into those need-filled eyes, I knew that 
I'd succeeded, that over a period of just a few days 
I'd made Caroline Conway -- the preacher's daughter, 
the good little girl -- hopelessly addicted to sex. She 
thrust her hips against me again and moaned. She was 
ungagged and perfectly capable of asking for what she 
wanted, but these were animal needs and she begged as 
any animal in heat would. There was more in that look, 
a silent capitulation that told me that she was all set 
for another back down. If there was ever a time when 
she was disposed to talk, this was it.

I led her to the toilet and removed the vibrator. She 
sat, embarrassed as before to have me watching her. I 
looked at her damp box, no surprise there. She was the 
juiciest female I'd ever known. She squirmed a little 
but did her business and afterwards I cleaned her up, 
finishing by pushing the vibrator back inside and 
upping the setting slightly. Subconsciously, she thrust 
her latex covered twat in my direction and her eyes 
asked a silent question. Just last week she had been a 
struggling student living in a tiny apartment. Now she 
stood next to me, a fetish queen begging a man to fuck 
her, almost a nymphomaniac, and very nearly a slave. 
The thought amused me.

I smiled, caressing her naked breast for a moment to 
ensure that her nipples had some attention too, then 
led her into the dungeon. I forced her onto the bondage 
chair (without dildos) and started to strap her in. I 
paused, letting my touch linger, as I fastened her 
ankles to the legs. She was hot and ready so I reached 
down to her throbbing crotch and as she gasped, begging 
soundlessly for more, removed the vibrator. She cried 
out in frustration, horny but denied. I just smiled. 
That would make things easier.

"Ok. I've calmed down a little and I want to hear what 
you have to say."

"Please..."

"Want to cum, slave?"

"Oh...yes."

"Then you won't have any problem telling me what it's 
all about."

She looked up hopefully, "What, about my offer?"

"No, not about your offer."

"Please Master, I will do any..."

"Enough!"

She fell silent, sensing my annoyance. I reached down 
and forced her to look at me. Best get this over with.

I smiled. "Ok, so you want to talk about your *offer*. 
So let's deal with that first, shall we?" I wanted to 
make sure that she realized the permanency of her 
position. It would perhaps persuade her to tell me what 
I needed to know. "It is my intention to keep you 
forever, but assuming that I did tire of you, what 
makes you think you would be released? How do you know 
there isn't a shallow grave in your future?"

She shuddered and for an instant a look of fear crossed 
her face, but then she tried to shake her head. Finding 
that impossible she licked her lips. "I don't think you 
could do that," she said quietly. There was perhaps a 
little flicker of doubt behind those blue eyes, but she 
did her best to sound sure.

I laughed. "What do you base that on?" I asked. "And I 
hope that isn't a psychological opinion. I wouldn't bet 
my life on it, not with your grades!"

"No," she said, her voice almost a whisper.

"Then what?"

"A slave must know her Master's mind," she said. "I 
don't, not completely, but I do know that rules are 
important to you. I don't think you'd kill me for no 
reason, I realized that yesterday."

I was beginning to see. "You thought I was going to 
kill you?"

She looked up, "I thought that it was likely," she 
admitted. "I thought I'd have a couple of weeks, a 
month at most. I tried not to provoke you, not to 
attempt to escape unless I knew it was going to work... 
yesterday, when I tried to escape, I thought you would 
kill me for sure, but you didn't. Then I realized that 
you were serious about keeping me as a slave and that I 
had a future to plan for." She looked at me with those 
big blue eyes, pleading. "My offer is good," she said. 
"I'll willingly be your slave, do anything in return, 
the piercing, the brand, even a baby if that's what you 
want."

I smiled again, as I understood. "What you're offering 
is to be my girlfriend," I said. "Well, it may surprise 
you to learn that I can get a girl with no trouble 
whatsoever. If not from love then form the fact that I 
am a very wealthy man." I brought my hand up and 
stroked her cheek, again. She didn't try to stop me.

"If I'd wanted, I could have bought your pretty little 
ass," I said.

"You could deny it but think; how much did you owe? If 
I'd have come to you and offered say a thousand dollars 
for one night would you have really turned it down?" 
The look on her face told me she didn't know. "We could 
go on," I said. "How much would the piercing cost me, 
or the brand, or the baby? Probably a lot less than 
it's already cost me to bring you here. You remember 
the outfit you wore last night.

Those boots were probably the most expensive footwear 
you've ever had, that corset alone cost more than half 
your wardrobe. Taking a slave is a very expensive hobby 
but it's worth it because in return I get something I 
could never buy -- complete control of your life. If I 
decide to throw you out in ten years and you are forced 
to make your way in the world with no education, that's 
my choice. I could just as easily sell you to a brothel 
in Mexico, that's my choice too. That's what ownership 
buys me."

She'd looked upset, almost terrified when I mentioned 
the brothel.

I smiled as I explained, "Caroline Conway doesn't have 
a future to plan for, slave. She died in that alleyway. 
My slave has a long and interesting future ahead of her 
once she accepts her situation and starts looking 
forward instead of looking back."

She was silent, fidgeting nervously like a schoolgirl 
in front of the principal and perhaps sulking a little.

"Now, slave, what I want to know is why you almost hung 
yourself today."

She said nothing. I thought back to Maggie.

"Did you have an abortion?"

She looked shocked, scandalized. "No. I..."

"Then what? Why such a dramatic reaction?"

Still nothing.

"Slave," I said as kindly as I could, "Ownership means 
responsibility. You are my slave, I am your Master. I 
want to help you, and you must need that help otherwise 
you wouldn't have done something so melodramatic. Now 
tell me!" I could tell she wanted to but something deep 
and old was fighting me for her soul.

"Tell me!"

Still nothing. Then I remembered what Maggie had said, 
that she may have been threatened punishment if she 
told. Well, two could play at that game. I allowed the 
vicious quality to creep into my voice.

"I don't have all day, Slut!"

"I'm sorry Master."

"That is nowhere near good enough," I said coldly. 
"What is rule one?"

"Obey first time, every time." She said without 
hesitation.

"Or?"

"Be punished," she whispered.

"And this is the creed you live by, the rules you say I 
always keep."

"Yes." It was almost a gasp.

"Well then, I have given you a direct order. You are 
that far away from a major punishment, Slave. That 
close. You are going to tell me all about whatever it 
is that's going on here and I mean *now*." I slammed 
the crop against the table.

She started crying. "Please, I can't," she moaned.

"A pussy whipping then? Twenty lashes?"

She stiffened. One had been painful enough, twenty must 
have seemed unimaginable.

"Please!"

"Do I hear thirty?"

"No!"

"Thirty from the dumb bitch tied to the chair!" I said 
like a mock auctioneer.

"Please!"

I could tell she didn't want to say it whatever it was. 
Coercion was obviously needed and I had to sell her on 
the idea that major pain would result from a refusal. 
In an instant my decision was made. I brought the crop 
down hard on her unprotected nipple and yelled, "Sold!" 
She screamed and cried but still said nothing. I waited 
a few moments, then shook my head. "I see. A pussy 
whipping it is then!" I said with a trace of 
disappointment in my voice.

"No, please!" she screamed. It was agony for her, torn 
between wanting to obey me and the fear or 
embarrassment holding her back. I stood and turned 
towards the cabinet. I'd deliberately left it open so 
that the floggers hung on the back of the door were 
visible to her. Of course I knew that these were 
designed for sexual play, and at worst they could 
deliver only mild pain and discomfort. But God, they 
looked marvelous. I heard the gasp as I went towards 
them.

"I-I... I'm a bastard!"

I stopped. Not the sort of thing you expect a lady to 
say, especially about herself. It took me a moment to 
realize that she meant it literally. Thinking about it, 
I kicked myself for not spotting it sooner. Caroline's 
parents' wedding date had been one of the first things 
I'd checked, as it wouldn't have done for the dutiful 
daughter to miss such an important anniversary. The 
date popped into my head and I realized immediately 
that it was wrong. Or rather, that it didn't match up 
with Caroline's age. In my defense, a lot of my married 
friends have cohabited for a while and I no longer tend 
to directly link married time with length of 
relationship. The Reverend Conway did not strike me as 
the cohab type.

A quick calculation told me that Caroline was almost 
eighteen months old when the happy event happened. Then 
my words came back to me:

"...if it's a girl, you can look after it yourself. I 
don't want to be stuck with your bastards."

"You're illegitimate," I said with some relief, 
remembering the horror stories told by Maggie. Part of 
me thought she had overreacted; after all, huge numbers 
of kids are born out of wedlock these days. Then I 
remembered she hadn't grown up in the real world but in 
the weird twilight zone that was small town middle 
America. I could imagine the comments, the knowing 
looks, the gossip -- and then, another part of the 
puzzle fell into place.

"The Reverend Conway isn't your real father, is he?" I 
said softly. "He married your mother after you were 
born."

"Yes," Her face flushed with shame. She looked like a 
heroine from a Victorian melodrama, the foundling child 
born from sin.

I couldn't even begin to imagine the Reverend's motive 
for marrying a single mother, but knowing the Bible 
Belt I felt sure he could find some way to sell it to 
his loyal congregation. "So who is your real father?"

She tried to shake her head. "I don't know." She 
started to cry and my concerns returned. So she was a 
bastard, but even in darkest Iowa it didn't constitute 
this much grief. Then I remembered her reaction to my 
words, the begging letter home to her mother.

Mother.

"So the good reverend isn't your father. So what?" She 
said nothing. I took a risk. "He still scares you that 
much?"

She looked at me in surprise, obviously disturbed now. 
"Y-you know?"

"Tell me!"

She wobbled her head, sobbing.

It was so clear. I don't know why I didn't spot it 
sooner. I turned to her, making a sweeping gesture with 
my hand. "All this, all the histrionics," I demanded. 
"It's all about your father, isn't it?"

A look came across her face, a strange mixture of fear 
and relief. If Maggie was right, Caroline had carried a 
dark secret with her for many years, afraid to tell 
anyone because she thought they would hate her. Part of 
her mind wanted so desperately to tell, to free herself 
from the guilt. Confession is a powerful aid to 
conditioning someone; it builds trust because inside we 
all have something to hide. It's hardly surprising that 
it is used extensively as part of the brainwashing 
process.

I nodded to myself. "I want you to tell me all about 
it. Everything, understand?"

"No, please--"

"Not the right answer!" I said. "Slave, there is 
nothing you can tell me that can shock me in any way. 
It's not possible for me to think any less of you than 
I do at the moment. Make no mistake -- you will tell 
me, sooner or later. I have a lot of interesting and 
painful ways to make you tell me. Speak now before I 
have to whip it out of you, and you may buy a little of 
my respect."

She looked up at that. "Respect?" Her voice was quiet 
but emotional.

"Winning her Master's respect is the only thing that 
should matter to a slave," I said. "It's the only way 
she'll ever be anything more than an object."

"Please."

"What's the matter, afraid I'll spread it around? What 
do you think I'd say?" I slipped into a fake Texas 
drawl. "Hey, Bob, old buddy old pal. You'll never guess 
what I found out -- Caroline, the kidnapped girl I have 
locked in my basement? Hell, I found out she fucks farm 
animals."

That caused her to smile a little, but there was still 
the fear in her eyes.

"No matter what you did, I'm not likely to throw you 
out," I continued. "You might as well tell me. Now."

"He said he'd..." She closed her eyes, the tears 
gleaming on her cheeks.

"You're afraid he'll hurt you!"

She would have nodded but the posture collar prevented 
it. "Yes," she whispered.

I laughed harshly. "You've been kidnapped, taken 
countless miles away, locked in a hidden room behind a 
door a tank couldn't get though, and you're still 
afraid he'll punish you?"

"Yes."

"Well, he won't," I said, leaning down until I was 
almost nose to nose with her. "Because to get you he 
has to come through me, and I'm the scariest thing in 
heaven or hell that bastard will ever meet."

She looked at me with those doe eyes. She wanted so 
much to believe.

"I am your Master, slave," I said, in the purr of a 
jungle cat. All sleek and powerful and razor-tipped, 
something that could kill in an eye blink. "You are my 
property and I defend my property. No matter what."

I released her, then, sitting down and pulling her onto 
my lap. She curled up like a frightened little girl. I 
held her close, letting her feel the warmth of my body, 
the tangible physical contact.

Remembering what Maggie had said, I gently brushed her 
breast in a deliberately calming sensation, especially 
for someone as needful as she was at that moment. "Tell 
me everything," I said. "No one will punish you for 
what happened."

She looked up at me. It was so close to the surface.

"Tell me," I whispered. "I can free you from the 
guilt." For a while she cried, but I knew it would be 
soon so I punched a button on the remote. Somewhere 
upstairs the sound system started recording.

She had begun speaking like a child, using simple 
grammatical sentences like a five or six year old. As 
the story progressed, her use of language improved, 
almost as if she'd been hypnotically regressed. Or 
perhaps she had rehearsed it in her mind for all those 
years, waiting for that trusted adult that had never 
arrived to save her from the hell that was her home. In 
any case, it took several hours for her to get through 
it. She would periodically break down and I would have 
to comfort her before she went on.

She recounted it slowly, and at my insistence she had 
described everything in a vivid, almost grotesque 
detail. When she had finally calmed down, I retrieved a 
bottle of whisky from the cellar and we drank ourselves 
into a minor stupor. This time she hadn't argued, as 
grateful for the liquor as I was. Then I had taken her 
back to the cell and reattached the wire. She just 
looked up at me, and I felt the need to hold her. She 
was stiff and tense, and I knew she could never sleep 
like this.

I started to caress her, rekindling the burning need 
buried deep inside her womb, feeling her body relax, 
finally accepting absolution and the freedom from 
guilt. Then I very gently parted her legs and started 
to lick and tease her pussy, feeling the warmth, the 
need sweep across her, obliterating all other concerns. 
I concentrated on her clit, building the sensation 
still further, listening as she lost control and her 
screams of lust filled the room.

Then, when I judged the moment was right, I stopped and 
shifted so that I could gently play with her nipples, 
listening as the volume of her cries increased still 
further. I prolonged the moment, kept her on the edge 
for minute after minute, knowing that to her it was an 
eternity of sweet agony, a torture far more intense 
than any pain. I found myself thinking of Maggie and 
her moment earlier that night, had it been this intense 
for her? Did I really care?

Then I slipped my cock into her warm hole and fucked 
her slowly, feeling her tightness drawing me in, 
enveloping me completely. For the first time, I was 
aiming to give her maximum enjoyment, matching my 
stroke to her needs and feeling her body strain against 
the bonds as she crawled over the edge. Then she came 
again and again, a bursting chain of climaxes, as if 
all those orgasms her guilt had denied her had finally 
found release.

Slowly, finally, she smiled and almost instantly fell 
asleep. I paused to loosen some of the straps and 
relieve the pressure on her arms. She looked like an 
angel, fine wisps of blond hair framing her beautiful 
face. She seemed calm, with that strange look of peace 
in her face that you only associate with children. It 
was as if all those terrible years had just slipped 
away and she was a little girl once more, enjoying the 
deep sleep of a renewed innocence.

I was not so lucky. At first I had been enthused by my 
new power. I knew that the demons of her past were the 
only obstacle to my total control of her, and went to 
bed in hog heaven; I had tied up and fucked two 
beautiful women today, and perhaps Vicky would be 
number three. I remembered the embarrassment of Maggie 
in her hooker outfit, those huge begging eyes above her 
gag as we had traveled up in the lift. I heard 
Caroline's screams as she came again and again, 
remembered the sweet taste of her pussy, the look in 
her eyes that told me she was nearly mine. I had 
drifted off feeling drunk and very satisfied. It didn't 
last.

I awoke around three with the unpleasant feeling that 
I'd just had another bad dream and a pounding headache. 
It had taken two Advil, three cups of coffee and almost 
two hours of Animaniacs before I felt I could sleep 
without nightmares.

The next morning I woke early. The suggestion of a 
headache still lurked in the back of my skull so more 
tablets and coffee were in order. A quick check showed 
her still asleep, so I cleaned myself up and trudged 
into my office. I unpacked her little box, quickly 
sorting the diaries and pictures from the rest of her 
life. Then I replayed the recording, editing out the 
pauses and the worst of the anguished cries. Over the 
next few hours I systematically took her story and 
turned it into a continuous monologue, telling a 
harrowing story of her life. I played it a few times to 
get a feel for it, then used the pictures in the albums 
and those little locked diaries to add in those little 
details she had missed.

She had begun with a simple statement.

"Momma didn't really want me. She never told me so, but 
I know. I guess I was an accident. It's kind of weird 
to think about it like that, but it's true. It almost 
sounds like a movie of the week -- a cheerleader and 
some high school kid got together in the back seat of 
one of those big old cars, took their clothes off, 
and...well, you know. Momma said they had used 
protection despite her being Catholic, but God had 
punished her anyway and she got me.

"I used to think that I could remember the days... 
before, but Momma says that isn't possible. My first 
real memory is of him throwing me to my mother and 
ordering her to make me stop crying. If she couldn't, 
he hit her. Somehow, I understood even then that the 
only way to stop him hurting her was to do as he said. 
That was the first time he told me not to tell the 
neighbors or anyone outside our house about what he did 
to Momma. He said he would hurt her even worse if I 
did."

I looked at her first school photographs, of the sullen 
blond- haired girl at the back of rows and rows of 
smiling children.

"I didn't understand that we were different until my 
first day at school. Momma took me to the gate and 
waved to me as I went inside. The other mothers waited 
around for a while. They stood there talking, 
exchanging favorite stories about their children -- 
normal stuff. But Momma went straight back to make his 
breakfast. If she had stayed like the other mothers, 
he'd have gone hungry for a few minutes. Then he'd beat 
her. That's when I started to understand.

The other kids told me that their parents married 
because they fell in love. I guess I thought mine had, 
too. And maybe, if they fell out of love, that maybe it 
was my fault. As I started getting older, though, I 
realized that she had been young and pretty with a 
daughter and no husband. Momma was -- I don't know. 
Vulnerable, I guess. Vulnerable, and weak, and she 
couldn't stand the gossip and the pointed fingers. So 
when he offered to make her respectable, she took it 
even though he demanded her soul in return. You know, 
she actually told me once that even though she knew he 
was cruel, she thought she could change him. But he was 
the one who destroyed her."

I looked at the family portrait again. At that stern 
look, at the way Judith looked down in subservience.

"She wasn't really human anymore, the way she'd do 
anything he said. She...God. She degraded herself on 
demand. He'd make her do horrible things. I could never 
understand why -- I didn't know about what it was like 
for a single woman with a daughter. He held that over 
her head. Every so often, he would get so mad and 
threaten to throw us out, tell everybody that Momma was 
a ten-cent whore who would sleep with anyone. She would 
cry and beg, and throw herself at his mercy. He never 
did it, of course -- it was just a way of exercising 
his power. But she couldn't take that risk."

I plucked out a picture taken on someone's backyard. 
Pretty little girls in light summer dresses, smiling, 
laughing all except the blond, freckled Caroline.

"When I was six, he started...he... he started getting 
interested in me. Before that, he just used to call me 
"the Bastard" when we where at home and hit me if I got 
in the way. But all of a sudden he started to be nice, 
almost like other fathers. I could tell Momma was 
scared, but I didn't know why. She kept trying to make 
sure we were never alone together, but he started to 
beat her more and more. Then one day he went out to 
visit a sick parishioner, some old woman who didn't get 
a lot of visitors.

He kept complaining that she'd almost talk his ear off, 
but he had to go visit her. After he left, Momma said 
we would play a game. She gave me a suitcase and said 
we would pretend to pack for a vacation and would see 
how fast we could get ready. I pretended we were going 
to Hawaii, and I packed all my bathing suits so that I 
could be a mermaid when we got there.

We almost made it. We were on the stairs when he came 
home. I remember his face, and his eyes -- they scared 
me so much. He ran upstairs and grabbed me, then he 
told Momma to get upstairs into the attic.

I could tell she was scared -- she kept looking at me, 
then at him. Looking back on it, I now know that he was 
standing by the rail on purpose. If she put up any sort 
of a fight, he would have thrown me over. He could 
always claim later on that it was an accident -- kids 
love sliding down banisters, she must have 
overbalanced, slipped.

I can still feel his hand holding my arm, almost 
crushing it, and how Momma slowly put the suitcases 
down and walked up the stairs to the attic. He sent me 
to my room, and then I heard his steps on the attic 
stairs. I didn't see Momma again for nearly two 
months."

I listened on a ghostly chill spreading through my 
body, the almost primeval feeling of being in the 
presence of pure evil. I stopped the recording and made 
myself a drink. Then I spun on.

"After Momma went up to the attic, he found a lady to 
come in and do the housekeeping. The Peterssons took 
Anna -- he told them that Momma had gone on retreat, 
and he needed help with the baby. They were happy to 
help out -- I mean, this was Reverend Conway, right? 
The nicest man in town. Of course they'd take Anna. He 
kept telling everyone about Momma's retreat, how she 
was trying to find some spiritual strength and get some 
rest from caring for two small girls.

It was summertime then, and since school was out I'd 
stay in the house all day long. I remember people would 
stop by and ask him questions about the socials, or 
talk to him about church business. Sometimes I went up 
to the attic, when I knew he was talking to someone, 
and I'd tap on the door. Once, I thought I could hear 
something moving inside. But nobody ever answered.

Then, one day, I came in from playing in the back yard. 
He was in the kitchen, doing something at the sink. I 
don't know why I did it, but I went up to the attic. 
The door was open, just a little bit, and I stepped 
inside. I remember how dark it was, with just a tiny 
bit of light coming in from the dirty windows. At 
first, I couldn't see anything, and I thought maybe he 
let Momma come back downstairs.

Then I heard the noise. And I turned around.

She...oh, Momma. She was hanging from one of the roof 
beams. He had tied her arms behind her with thin cord, 
the kind that you used for baling hay. It was wrapped 
tight around her arms, from elbows to wrists, and the 
skin was bulging purple at each end. It couldn't have 
been used just to tie her -- it was there to punish. 
One leg was trussed up tightly against her body, 
forcing her to balance on the other leg.

On that foot, she was wearing the highest heeled shoe I 
had ever seen -- I didn't understand how she could even 
stand up in it. Then I saw the rope above her. It was 
tied to her elbows, yanking her arms back at this 
horrible, hurtful angle. She had to stand there like 
that, her arms almost pulled out of their sockets from 
the rope tied to the beam. She wobbled a little, and I 
saw all these red marks and welts across her back, like 
somebody had been whipping her.

Him. He had been whipping her.

I must've made some sound, then, because she turned 
around, and I saw my Momma's face. I almost didn't 
recognize her -- she was gagged with this filthy rag, 
and her eyes were huge. They stared at me, and she 
tried to say something. I took a step forward... she 
didn't want me to come any closer. She tried to stop 
me, and she lost her balance. She made the most 
horrible noise, then, as she fell and her whole weight 
came down on her arms.

I could have sworn I heard a crack as they jerked back 
in the air. She screamed behind the rag and wiggled, 
wriggling until she could get her foot under her again. 
It was horrible. She finally managed to get her balance 
back and stood there, staring at me. And I stared back. 
The only place that wasn't bruised or welted or hurt in 
some way was her face. Somehow, I knew she wanted me to 
run away and hide.

I did. God help me, I did. And I almost knocked him 
over on my way down the stairs -- he was coming back up 
for more. The bastard grabbed me and clapped a hand 
over my mouth, then picked me up and carried me into 
his bedroom. He threw me onto their bed and shoved a 
handkerchief into my mouth, tying it there with one of 
Momma's summer scarves. I couldn't stop him. I tried, 
but he was bigger than me, and so strong. He tied my 
wrists behind my back, then tied them to my pony tail, 
jerking my head back. I read about it later on -- it's 
called a hammer lock. Then he started tying up my legs 
and all I could think was oh no, oh no, not like Momma, 
please God not like Momma.

He would have, too -- he would've carried me upstairs 
and hung me up next her, I know it. But the doorbell 
rang right then. He swore at me and dragged me to the 
closet. He stood me on a clothes hamper as he tied my 
neck to the clothes rail. Then he told me what would 
happen if I moved. He said I'd fall over because I 
couldn't use my legs, and I'd hang myself. I'd hang 
myself and die. That if I wanted to live I should stay 
still and quiet. Then he closed the closet door. I 
heard the key turn in the lock, and his footsteps go 
upstairs. The attic door slammed shut, then he went 
downstairs and answered the front door.

I don't know how long I stood there. I could feel my 
legs getting numb from the ropes, and I stared into the 
darkness, praying for him to come back soon because I 
didn't want to die. I started crying, and I almost 
choked under the gag as my nose got stuffy. Then I 
heard steps on the staircase, and a lady's voice. I 
screamed, then, as loud as I could. All I heard was 
this muted sound, like a bird cry. I kept screaming, 
and she walked right past the closet. I kept screaming, 
and she never even heard me. She used the toilet 
because I heard it flushing, then she went back 
downstairs. Finally, the door slammed, and I heard him 
coming back upstairs for me.

He opened the door and untied the rope, then took me 
down off the hamper. He was...nice. I don't know why. 
He started untying all the ropes, rubbing my legs when 
they cramped. He said it was all just a bad dream, and 
that everything was all right. I knew it wasn't, but I 
thought he'd hurt me again if I said so, so I didn't."

Her father was kind to her for the next three days, 
playing and laughing with her, to the point were she 
almost believed that that terrible sight upstairs was 
only a nightmare. On the fourth day he introduced her 
to the game.

"It started with syrup. He liked good maple syrup, not 
the stuff that you got from the store but real maple 
syrup from Vermont. He'd pour a few drops onto his 
finger, then tell me to pretend that I was a kitten and 
lick them off. So I did. It was fun, and the syrup 
tasted good. I never got candy because he didn't 
believe in it, so something like the syrup was a 
special treat. Then he told me that if I was a good 
girl and did all my chores, he'd give me another lick 
of syrup. I'd clean up my room, and take out the 
garbage, and put the papers in the bin on the porch, 
and he'd pour more maple syrup onto his fingers and I'd 
lick it off. Like a kitten.

"Then, one evening, he took me into his bedroom. He 
said we were going to play a new game with the maple 
syrup. He took off his pants and got into bed, and told 
me to get in with him. I didn't want to look at him -- 
it was all funny and hairy between his legs, and there 
was this thing hanging there. He took the maple syrup 
and poured a little bit onto his thing, and told me to 
lick it off. It was just a game, he said. So I did."

I remembered the embarrassed look she gave me.

Gradually the amount of syrup was reduced and poor 
technique discouraged by frequent beatings. By the time 
Judith "returned," quiet and broken, her daughter was 
an accomplished cock sucker. For the next ten years, 
her warm mouth would service her father at least twice 
a week. As Maggie had predicted, Charles moved the 
blame for this abuse to his daughter, telling her that 
she was evil and that she and her mother would be 
punished if anyone found out. He got his broken and 
submissive wife to support him and the frightened child 
never told.

I fast forwarded, moving through ten years of 
systematic and frequent abuse in a matter of moments.

"Sometimes, it seemed like Momma was about to stand up 
to him again. Then he'd take her back up into the attic 
for a few days, or a week. She'd come back downstairs, 
quiet and moving carefully. You could never actually 
see anything wrong with her -- he was too smart for 
that. He made sure all the welts and bruises could be 
covered by her dress. When I got old enough, he'd make 
me sleep in his bed during these times. He'd make me 
suck him, and swallow afterwards, and he'd push his 
thing into my ass even though it hurt horribly.

"But he wouldn't actually fuck me -- he said it 
wouldn't do for the reverend's daughter not to be a 
virgin. Then he'd laugh and tell me he was saving that 
for when I was older. He did other things to me, too, 
things he'd read about in books, and sometimes, I-I... 
don't know. Sometimes it felt... but he told me only 
bad girls liked that sort of thing. If I liked it, I 
was a slut, I was evil and worthless. Just like my 
Momma.

He never did any of this to Anna, though. Anna was his 
angel, pure and sweet and born in holy wedlock. I was a 
bastard , I deserved everything I got but Anna was a 
'good girl.' She knew it, and she made my life a living 
hell with it. If she broke something, or tore her 
dress, or lost her homework, she blamed it on me. And 
he would take me up to his bedroom and beat me while 
Momma and Anna waited downstairs. When I came back 
down, she'd be sitting there in the living room, 
smiling at me.

She got worse as she got older. When I was about 
twelve, I started hearing the girls at school talk 
about sex. One of them, an older girl, said it was 
supposed to be fun, and there was a way that you could 
have fun all by yourself. What you had to do was find 
this little nub between your legs and rub it gently. I 
didn't believe them at first -- it sounded stupid. Sex 
wasn't fun, sex hurt. But one time, when I was taking a 
bath, I decided to look for the nub.

It was kind of hard, but eventually I found it and 
rubbed it like they said. At first, nothing happened, 
but then I started to get this funny feeling down low 
in my stomach, all warm and tingly. Kind of like, 
sometimes, what happened when... you know. I kept on 
trying it in the bathroom, and sometimes in bed. One 
time, it felt like fireworks were going off down there, 
it felt so good. That was my first orgasm, I suppose. 
And that was when Anna walked in and caught me.

I was in bed, under the covers, but she knew something 
was wrong and started chanting, "I'm gonna tell 
Daaaddy, I'm gonna tell Daaaaady." She ran out before I 
could stop her, and a few minutes later I heard him 
coming up the stairs. He opened the door and stood 
there, staring at me. I couldn't move, couldn't even 
breathe, I was so afraid. He closed the door and walked 
over to the bed, grabbing the covers and ripping them 
off me. It happened so fast. He grabbed my legs and 
yanked them apart, staring down between them, then said 
that I was a wicked, sinful girl and would burn in Hell 
from what I just did.

He took one arm and one leg and flipped me over, onto 
my stomach, then pulled up my nightgown. I hid my eyes 
in the crook of my arm and waited. I heard the hissing 
noise before I felt it. It was a wire hanger, just like 
in the movie 'Mommie Dearest.' And they hurt like fire, 
thin lines of fire all up and down my back, my ass, my 
legs. I started crying, then I started screaming. He 
stopped just long enough to stuff a handkerchief in my 
mouth, tying it with a pair of panties, then kept 
whipping me with the hanger. He spread my legs and 
started whipping my thighs, then whipped me once right 
between my legs. I screamed and fainted.

When I woke up, I was tied spread-eagle to the bed. He 
left me there like that all night as punishment, and 
Anna laughed at me from the doorway. I had to sleep on 
my stomach for two weeks. I never touched myself down 
there again, until... until you.

This went on...God, for years, until I got into high 
school. Then, about six months before my fifteenth 
birthday, I met Josh Petersson. That isn't exactly 
right -- I mean, the Petersson's had lived in the town 
all my life. Our families hung out together. I just 
never paid very much attention to Josh before -- I 
mean, he was just some boy in the neighborhood.

But in my sophomore year we both entered projects in 
the science fair. He had the table next to mine and we 
started talking. We started to study together sometimes 
in the school library. Since the Petersson farm was out 
of town he always offered to walk me home after school. 
Our house was on the edge of town you see, near the 
church.

That's when it started. He was so sweet and funny, and 
I loved listening to him tell about his family's trips 
to the Grand Canyon or what he wanted to do when he got 
older. He'd tease me, trying to make me laugh, and I 
started to feel safe with him. Somehow, we started 
holding hands on the way home, and then I let him kiss 
me. It was nothing like...him. Josh was sweet, and 
innocent, and it felt so wonderful when he put his arms 
around me. He asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said 
yes.

Oh, God. Now, I wish I had said no.

But I didn't care then. I was so happy that Josh liked 
me -- it was something all my own, something pure and 
good. On the other hand, I was terrified that... he... 
would find out, from Anna or one of my friends. I told 
Josh that we had to keep it secret -- I made up some 
lie about reverends' daughters not being allowed to 
date until they were sixteen. He believed me and 
promised he wouldn't tell a soul.

We kept it up like that for months. Sometimes, I'd 
manage to sneak away and meet him at this little house 
on his parent's property. He called it Patrick's house, 
and said that it would be his someday. We'd wander 
through it, pretending that we were married and living 
there, and it was the happiest time of my life.

Then, the day before my fifteenth birthday, Josh said 
that he had a surprise for me and I was supposed to 
meet him at Patrick's house in the afternoon. I told 
Momma that I had to stay after school and help one of 
the teachers mark papers. I don't think she really 
believed me, but she let me go anyway -- it sounded 
reasonable, and would keep him happy.

After school, I ran to Patrick's house, dodging showers 
feeling somehow alive. Josh was waiting for me inside, 
and swept me into his arms the minute I came through 
the door. We just stood like that for a minute, the two 
of us safe against the world, as he kissed my hair and 
told me that I was beautiful, wonderful, that he loved 
me so much. I looked up at him, and saw the love in his 
eyes. I knew, then, that he was the only one I wanted 
to spend my life with.

He led me up the dark, narrow stairs, to one of the 
little bedrooms. There, he had set up a checkered red 
cloth on the floor with this gorgeous little picnic 
lunch -- he even managed to filch a bottle of wine from 
his dad's basement. We sat down, and he insisted on 
serving me my fried chicken and salad and cookies. It 
was all part of the service, he said, laughing. My 
first glass of wine was in one of those little plastic 
wineglasses, like you can get in the grocery store. It 
was the best meal I ever had, and I leaned over to kiss 
him afterwards, as a thank you.

I'm not quite sure how it happened. I don't remember a 
lot of it -- I thought later on that maybe I was 
blanking on some of it, because of what he did to me. 
We lay down on the blanket, in a square of sunlight 
that came streaming through one of the windows. It was 
a funny day, sunlight and showers, like the world 
couldn't make up its mind. I do remember watching the 
dust motes dance in the sunlight, like golden bubbles 
in the wine.

I remember I was happy, and I remember Josh kissing me, 
and telling me that he loved me. I must have helped him 
take off my dress -- I don't see how he could've gotten 
it off in one piece, otherwise. He kept kissing me all 
over, telling me I was beautiful, so white and smooth, 
like ivory.

He...we...made love, I guess. It wasn't just sex, like 
with him. It was love, and Josh cried out my name at 
the end. I lay there, under him, and felt the love 
coming out of him, and tried to ignore the voices in my 
head telling me I was dirty, a whore. I couldn't be -- 
someone like Josh wouldn't love a whore.

He held me afterwards, and told me not to worry -- he 
wanted to marry me, and if I got pregnant he'd just 
marry me that much sooner. He even brought out this 
little box, covered in velvet, and gave it to me. It 
contained a thin gold band, his great-grandmother's 
wedding ring, he said. It would do until he could 
afford a real engagement ring -- then he stopped, and 
looked at me.

Will you marry me, Caroline, he asked. I said yes, and 
started crying.

That's...that's when it started to go wrong. Josh 
wanted to talk to him and get his permission to marry 
me. I told him he couldn't -- my father would never 
agree. He insisted that this was something he had to 
do, that he was proud of his love for me and didn't 
want to hide it anymore. We fought about it, and 
finally I stood up and grabbed my dress, crying. I told 
him that if he really loved me he would listen to me 
and not say anything to my father. I was so scared -- 
for me, for him.

Somehow, I knew what would happen if anyone tried to 
take me away from the Conway house. I ran out of there, 
buttoning my dress and crying. I could hear Josh 
calling my name, but I just kept going -- I couldn't 
think, I was so confused and scared. The next day, I 
had my birthday party. He had allowed me to invite some 
of the kids from school, but Josh didn't come. I kept 
checking the door, hoping that he would forgive me and 
come anyway. I wanted to see him so badly. But he never 
showed up.

The party was nice, I guess. I had a cake, and candles, 
and presents from everybody. I couldn't really enjoy 
it, though, I was so worried about Josh. I didn't 
really notice as all the guests started leaving, until 
the house was quiet again. Just us four. Anna wound up 
going to sleep early -- I think she was mad that I was 
the center of attention for once, and she couldn't do a 
thing about it. Maybe an hour later, he took me by the 
shoulders and said that he had a special present to 
give me.

I still remember that smile, and Momma sitting at the 
kitchen table, not daring to look up. He took me 
upstairs, to their bedroom, and told me to pull my 
shorts down and unbutton my shirt. I thought we were 
going to do what we'd always done, but he pushed me on 
the bed and told me to stay on my back this time.

I closed my eyes, and prayed to God to let me die. I 
heard the zipper, then the rustle of cloth as he took 
his pants off. The bedsprings creaked as he climbed on. 
He... he... oh, he got on top of me, and I could feel 
it between my legs, poking me. Then he pushed it in, 
hard. He...I know now, he must have been trying to 
break my maidenhead. Josh had been so careful, so 
gentle. All he wanted to do was hurt me.

His face...changed. I could see it, see the realization 
that there was nothing in his way. I wasn't a virgin 
anymore. He leaned back, staring at me, then took his 
full weight on one hand and slapped me hard with the 
other one. "You WHORE!" he screamed, right into my 
face. "You filthy whore! You've been fucked before! You 
let someone fuck you!"

He kept slapping me, knocking my head from side to side 
with the blows. I tried not to make a sound, but soon I 
started screaming. I couldn't help it. He pushed 
himself up, then, and grabbed me by the hair, dragging 
me off the bed and opening the door so that he could 
throw me into the hallway. My head slammed into the 
wall opposite, and I shut up, breathless from the pain. 
I thought he was going to kill me, somehow I got enough 
of my breath back and flung myself down the stairs. I 
still don't know how I managed it but I kept my balance 
and somehow realized I had to get to the door -- to 
Josh.

He screamed something and started down after me and I 
started towards the door knowing he wouldn't reach me 
in time. Then suddenly someone grabbed me by the hair, 
I spun around willing to fight to get away. If it had 
been Anna I would have smashed that smug face into the 
wall... It was my mother. I couldn't believe it, and I 
don't think she wanted to. She was broken you see, at 
the time I couldn't imagine why she would side with 
him, didn't fully understand the fear and the pain...

Then he clamped his hand over my mouth and told her to 
get a rope. She did, like a zombie and held me as he 
tied me up. He gagged me with a knotted towel then he 
pulled and pushed me upstairs. I looked down at her as 
she stood there and part of me knew he'd won, knew what 
he'd do next. He'd tied my ankles but it was proving 
too hard to move me like that so he pushed me over and 
retied them as a hobble. I tried to kick but I knew it 
was useless.

Snarling, he grabbed me by the hair again and forced me 
to stand up, then pushed me --

Pushed me --

Towards the attic stairs. He took me up to the attic, 
just like he had taken Momma almost ten years before. 
And he retied me, with my arms roped to a beam in the 
ceiling so high that I had to stand on my tiptoes, then 
he spread my legs and tied each foot to old, rusted 
eyebolts in the floor so that I was stretched even 
further. I read later on that people could suffocate in 
that position, that it was the way people died when 
they were crucified. I could hardly breathe, and my 
face hurt so badly as he grabbed my cheeks, and pulled 
the gag tighter. I could feel my lips puffing up, the 
blood making them sting in the hot, stuffy air.

He cut my clothes off, shredded them with a craft 
knife, and I thought he was going to cut me for sure. 
But he just stood there, examining me like I was a 
piece of sculpture. And nodded, as he took a bullwhip 
off a hook on the wall. He said I had sinned against my 
God and my religion, but most importantly I had sinned 
against him. I had denied him what belonged to him by 
marriage, and was now lower than anything that crawled 
in the dirt. I had to be punished.

I couldn't move as he walked behind me. I could only 
wait, and breathe, and hope to die.

I heard the sound first. Then I felt the burst of fire 
across my back. It was the worst, most intense pain I 
had ever felt, worse that his slaps, worse than the 
pain when he pushed into me. I screamed into my gag, 
arching my back, trying to move away from the pain. He 
whipped me again, and again. He told me later on that 
he had whipped me 40 times, one more than Jesus because 
I was a worthless slut. I didn't know -- I fainted 
after the sixth lash.

When I woke up, all I could feel was the pain. All up 
and down my back, my ass, my legs. I blinked, trying to 
breathe through my stuffed nose. And I saw him sitting 
on a chair in front of me. He straddled the chair with 
an elbow propped on the back, chin on fist. Just 
staring at me. When he saw that I was awake, he smiled 
at me, and asked me who had fucked me first. I don't 
know how I did it, but I shook my head. He said, very 
gently, that God would only forgive me when I told him 
who had defiled me. But I wouldn't.

Afterwards, I found out that I had spent two weeks up 
there. Two weeks in that hot, filthy attic, while 
he...experimented on me. He had all these books and 
magazines, things that he bought mail-order from 
special companies in the city, from farm supply stores, 
from all kinds of places. And he tried them out, one by 
one, on me, always asking me to tell him who had fucked 
me first. He tied my legs to a board and forced my feet 
down until they were pointed, then strapped them down 
and left me there while my calf muscles cramped in 
agony.

He smeared Ben-Gay on a huge dildo and shoved it up my 
ass. He told me about female circumcision, and said he 
was gonna cut off my pussy lips and clit and sew up my 
pussy so that I'd never enjoy sex again. In between, he 
beat me and whipped me, just for the fun of it.

I held out until... he had installed a workbench up 
there, some kind of heavy-duty wooden table. He 
strapped me to it. He forced my legs into these 
homemade stirrups, spreading them wide so that he could 
get at my pussy. He'd been at it a lot, pushing dildos 
and other things into me, fucking me over and over, 
fisting me until I thought I would die from the pain. 
But nothing he had done was as bad as this. I-I... 
didn't like needles.

I didn't like the idea of things being stuck into me, 
being broken off so that I couldn't get at them. He 
found that out when he started sticking pins through my 
nipples, and ...he had this little board, made of thin 
wood and shaped like a butterfly with an oval hole in 
the middle. He called it his butterfly board. I thought 
it was because of the shape until... until he put it 
between my legs and pushed it up against me, hard.

Then he pulled my pussy lips through the hole. He 
pulled and stretched them until I could feel the wood 
scraping against my clit, the insides of my thighs. 
Then he held up the pin. And I screamed. I screamed and 
screamed, and he pushed that pin through my pussy lip, 
pinning it to the board. I couldn't stand it, couldn't 
stand the feeling. And he kept doing it, stretching the 
lips until they were completely pulled through the hole 
and he could pin them to the board like a butterfly.

I...went crazy, I guess. I thrashed my head from side 
to side and cried and begged underneath that gag, and 
all I could feel were those pins opening me up, 
stretching me wide. Then he held up another pin, and 
touched my clit. He was going to push it through my 
clit, he said, and rip it through unless I told him 
what he wanted to know.

I could feel myself snap. I couldn't stand it anymore. 
I made these animal noises and nodded as hard as I 
could, trying to make him come up and take the gag off 
so that I could tell him, tell him all about Josh. When 
he did take the gag off, I started babbling, saying 
that Josh loved me, he wanted to marry me, I would 
never tell anyone about this, oh please please...

He smiled down at me, and brushed the hair out of my 
eyes. He said that I had finally pleased God. Then he 
pushed the gag back in my mouth. And he went down and 
pushed the pin through my clit. And he left me there 
like that, for the rest of the day, screaming.

I finally stopped screaming, I don't know when. I just 
drifted, blind in the dusty darkness. He would always 
find me, always make me do whatever he wanted, always 
hurt me. He enjoyed pain, enjoyed watching it in other 
people. I...gave up. There was nothing I could do. And 
that's when I heard the doorbell. Even up there, I 
could just hear the voices at the door, and I 
recognized Josh's voice. He had come for me, after all, 
but it was too late. I tried to warn him tell him where 
I was but I was gagged. The voices faded, and I fell 
into the darkness.

Sometime later, I felt an aching, gnawing pain and woke 
up. He was standing at the foot of the table, pulling 
the pins out and pushing my lips back through the hole. 
He told me that Josh had come and asked for my hand in 
marriage. I said I needed time to consider the offer, 
he chuckled, and asked Josh to come back in two days.

He unstrapped me from the table and helped me sit up. 
It hurt to close my legs, both from the muscle strain 
and from the damage to my pussy lips, but I managed it. 
Then he put a little padded bed desk on my lap, with a 
piece of my notepaper, and pushed a pen into my hand. I 
was to write down exactly what he said -- I was to tell 
Josh to meet me in the woods, where he usually went 
hunting, tomorrow at three o'clock. I wrote the words 
automatically, my mind blank, and I signed it at the 
bottom. Then he pushed me back onto the table, strapped 
me carefully into place, and covered me with a blanket. 
I stayed up there for another five days, doing whatever 
he wanted when he came to see me.

When I finally came down, I found out about Josh. He 
had gone hunting, his mother said between sobs in our 
front parlor, and must have slipped near a gully. 
Josh's body had been found at the bottom of it, half 
his side blown away in the shotgun blast. His funeral 
had been the day before. She sniffled and said she 
understood why I couldn't come, being as sick as I had 
been. I shouldn't feel bad about it -- Josh would 
understand, too. Then I remembered the note and 
realized that my weakness had killed him, that if I had 
resisted he could still be alive.

I sat there, silently watching as he held Mrs. 
Petersson's hand and patted it. Then he turned his head 
and smiled at me. And I knew I would never get away."

I stopped the tape again, the sick feeling returning to 
my stomach. After this it all made sense, her actions, 
the way she always backed down and those looks of fear 
always out of all proportion to what I was doing to 
her. And above all there was that question, "Why me?" 
Any kidnap victim may think it but they usually refocus 
on the more basic questions of survival.

In Caroline's case?

Well to be tormented by one maniac was bad enough but 
by two unrelated individuals? I could see what she was 
thinking, did she attract them in some way. I scratched 
my head remembering back to my first sight of her. I 
was sure I'd been attracted to her amazing good looks 
but was that true? Could I have instead reacted 
subconsciously to some quirk, some submissive body 
language that marked her as a victim? Was it important?

I looked again at Conway's picture. He was a large 
stocky man with thin graying hair and a thick curly 
beard. In his middle to late fifties I thought and more 
than a match for a terrified girl and her mother. Then 
I thought of tall, lanky, naive, Josh --he hadn't 
really stood much of a chance either. I looked at 
myself in the mirror.

My father's strong Irish temper had already brought a 
flush to my face and once again I thanked my kind 
gentle grandfather for contributing his strong Russian 
genes through my mother. Heavy, agile and resilient I 
knew *He* would have a harder time with me. Even then I 
knew that there would have to be a reckoning, that a 
slave can have only one master. He was a sadist, but 
Maggie said I was a closet sociopath, and I was 
infinitely patient. When we met it would be at a time 
and place of my choosing and I knew I would take great 
delight in crushing him.

It was almost time to wake Caroline I started towards 
the door when the phone rang. Puzzled I answered it but 
with the exception of a few booming noises there seemed 
to be no one there. I was preparing coffee when it rang 
again.

"Hello?"

"Huuumph."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oomph Hee!"

"Sorry?"

"Ummph!" More insistent this time and my brain suddenly 
clicked.

"Maggie? Is that you?"

"Mmmmm!"

"Don't tell me, you decided to try self bondage and now 
you can't get free?" There was an embarrassed silence.

"Mmmmph"

"Ok, I'll be there in two hours. Ummmphhhh!!!!! I'm 
sorry that's the best I can do. I don't live in Boston 
remember! If you like I can call the fire department 
for you?"

"Nnnnmmm!"

"Was that no? Grunt once for yes twice for no."

"Mmmm...Mmmmm!"

"Ok about two hours then, try to sit quietly until I 
get there." Nine in the morning and already a freaky 
day. I looked at Conway again, at those cold dead fish 
eyes and shuddered. Then I headed off to see my slave.