Message-ID: <17540eli$9811260427@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "joy paine" Subject: betrayed beauty 5-7 Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19981125214528.6444.qmail@hotmail.com> Betrayed Beauty, Chapters 5-7 NC M/F tort by Joy Paine If you are under legal age, please do not read further. This story is not for you. This is another story in which the characters exist only in imagination, and have no intentional resemblance to any person, living or dead, except one--the author likes to picture himself in the shoes of one or more of the characters. BETRAYED BEAUTY 5 "So if you get any ideas about going to the police, we have evidence that you loved the whole bit. As a matter of fact, I think that you'll decide not to raise a fuss, just to keep these pictures from being passed around. In fact, I'm betting that the mere threat of these pictures turning up among your family and friends will keep you eating out of my hand. After a little training, of course. "Well, not out of my hand, exactly," he added with a grin. He was right, she thought glumly. Anything would be better than having this horrible evidence of her degradation seen back home. Anything at all. The fat man finished zipping up, headed for the door. Then he turned back with an afterthought. "That certainly is a lot of woman you've got there, friend. Maybe some time I could come back and screw her proper, after you've broken her?" "Always ready to talk business," the other replied. "But I'm afraid that you'll find the price is rather steep. No more freebies. Unless... " He leered at the helpless girl. "Unless I find your services necessary to help keep her in line." "Well, I can always dream. So long, now." He kissed her mockingly, then closed the door, leaving her a helpless captive, alone with the tall man. The one with the terrible eyes. He had started taking off his shoes... She shrank helplessly before his lecherous stare, acutely conscious of her near-nudity, which was relieved only by the wispy bikini panties. Her hands were securely manacled behind her back, and the thongs on her ankles kept her legs spread painfully wide. The man tugged a bit on the line binding her pony-tail to the hook in the ceiling, so that she had to rise up on her toes-- doubly difficult with her legs spread--to ease the pain in her scalp. He savored her lush helplessness to the utmost with his eyes and his hands, running both over the seductive curves of her healthy young body, lingering fondly at the areas of greatest interest. Her body was perfectly formed, he noted with gratification--richly rounded in places where a woman should be round, but without a single ounce that would be considered excess, even by the most exacting critic. "Betsy will have a great time with you," he promised the trembling girl. "Especially with your breasts." He increased the pressure of his cupped hands, not enough to really hurt, but to remind her of the rich dark reservoir of pain that was waiting to be tapped. "You'll set to know Betsy intimately, my dear--intimately in every sense of the word. She will explore all the secret parts of your body, and caress you in ways that you will remember as long as you live." The girl's panic was nearing the breaking point. She had long since assumed that she would be subjected to every sort of sexual degradation that the man's warped mind could envisage. That alone was more than she could stand. But this sinister, unknown Lesbian ordeal that he hinted at sounded even worse. He left her for a moment walked to the table at the side of the room, and opened the drawer. He had a superb sense of the dramatic, and of the inevitable response of his one-girl captive audience. At one level, the respite from his physical contact allowed her to get a new measure of control over herself--to drag herself back from the brink of hysteria. And this was what he wanted, of course. He had learned from long experience that there was no fun in torturing a hysterical girl. To serve his purpose, she had to be fully rational, fully aware, fully able to react and respond. True, he wanted to keep her near the edge of breakdown--to drive her again and again to the very brink. But if she slipped over that brink, it would be as bad as if she had lost physical consciousness--her period of irrationality would be just time wasted. On another level, the respite he was granting allowed the fundamental horror of her plight to sink deeper into her consciousness--to convince her, against all her hopes and rationalizations, that this was really happening to her--to seep into those layers of her subconscious where they would erode her willpower, and confirm and enrich his conquest. So he carefully kept his body between the girl and the table, hiding what he had taken from the drawer, and held his hands behind his back as he approached her again. Then, timing his move for the exact psychological effect, he slowly brought his hands into sight. "Darling, meet Betsy." The girl's pent-up terror boiled over into a single scream of pure horror--a scream that was stifled by the tape covering her lips. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes tightly, fruitlessly willing herself to awaken from this ghastly dream. Her tormentor's remarks about Betsy's caresses--how they would explore her breasts and other intimate parts of her nubile body--re-echoed in her ears, blending with her captor's grating laughter. BETRAYED BEAUTY 6 Betsy was a whip! The man brandished it slowly, noting with satisfaction that the helpless girl's eyes followed his movements as if she were hypnotized. And he kept his voice pitched hypnotically, lulling her emotions into a sense of security, even while his words drove her intellectually into deeper and darker corners of terror than she had ever dreamed of. "I'm proud of this beauty," he crooned. "She was designed and constructed to my personal specification in every detail. Her lash is shaped and finished so that it will absolutely not break the skin, no matter how hard it is swung. Besides being esthetically desirable, this has a practical side as well. First, there is no danger of scars or infection or other possible complications. And it is really difficult to keep a lash in good condition if it gets blood on it. "But more important, if the skin is not broken, a whipping can be administered over much longer periods--and at more frequent intervals. For the pain--although many times you will swear (and possibly pray) that the next stroke will kill you--the pain is a different type than it would be if the flesh were shredded. A woman can endure a much higher overall level of this type of pain, and for much longer periods of time, without the nuisance of her losing consciousness. "And you will learn another thing about her design. Although she is very effective when she is used in the normal whipping mode, her tongue is long and supple, with the weight concentrated out near the end, so her kiss is also delightful when it is delivered with a snapping action, like a schoolboy snapping a towel. Watch!" The man's wrist shot out with a precision that bespoke many hours of practice, snapping the lash at the exact moment to make it land with maximum force, delivering its message of pain to the accompaniment of a miniature supersonic boom. Although he took no apparent aim, the blow landed precisely on target--just below the nipple, where the tender flesh was compressed ever so slightly by the weight of the girl's breast. The whip's weighted tip struck with the force of a rubber truncheon, sending a nauseating surge of raw agony through the girl's entire body. She struggled with the wave of blackness that welled up within her, somehow blinked her way back to consciousness. Her scream of pain, muted by the gag, emerged as a pitiable moan. The man chuckled, licked his lips in delight. "Betsy always likes to begin her love affairs with the three formal kisses of domination," he explained, drawing his arm back ostentatiously for the second blow. His aim was perfect again. The now-familiar wave of torture spread from the girl's other breast, eclipsing for the moment the sickening after-pain that remained from Betsy's first kiss. This time, she tried to embrace, to reinforce, the wave of unconsciousness, but her torturer had gauged the force of his blow perfectly, and she was denied the release of fainting. Bit by bit, she floated back to full awareness, her breasts throbbing with remembered agony, her body still held helpless in that absolutely exposed position. Her terror mounted with the realization that there was more--much more--pain and humiliation yet to come. The man gave her another moment of calculated respite, while he got a pair of scissors from the drawer. He bowed mockingly. "And for the third kiss, my dear, I must remove this last wisp of a garment that our departed friend so gallantly let you keep." Two snips, and the bikini fell to the floor. She knew that it had been too skimpy and transparent to afford any effective concealment of her private parts, but its loss was like the death of a friend. Symbolically, the tiny piece of cloth had represented the security of her body against the ultimate invasion of her privacy, and its loss--as her torturer had fully intended--gave her a feeling of final and inescapable vulnerability. Closing her eyes, she could visualize herself as she stood there--utterly naked, utterly helpless, her legs held firmly in a wide inverted V. V for victim, she thought. V for virgin. V for vagina. This time the man made a big deal of positioning Betsy for her kiss, sighting along the handle, and cocking his arm far back. V for vanquished, her mind continued the inane countdown. V for vulva. V for violated. The man's hand snapped forward. "Get her, Betsy!" he hissed. BEAUTY 6 Betsy was a whip! The man brandished it slowly, noting with satisfaction that the helpless girl's eyes followed his movements as if she were hypnotized. And he kept his voice pitched hypnotically, lulling her emotions into a sense of security, even while his words drove her intellectually into deeper and darker corners of terror than she had ever dreamed of. "I'm proud of this beauty," he crooned. "She was designed and constructed to my personal specification in every detail. Her lash is shaped and finished so that it will absolutely not break the skin, no matter how hard it is swung. Besides being esthetically desirable, this has a practical side as well. First, there is no danger of scars or infection or other possible complications. And it is really difficult to keep a lash in good condition if it gets blood on it. "But more important, if the skin is not broken, a whipping can be administered over much longer periods--and at more frequent intervals. For the pain--although many times you will swear (and possibly pray) that the next stroke will kill you--the pain is a different type than it would be if the flesh were shredded. A woman can endure a much higher overall level of this type of pain, and for much longer periods of time, without the nuisance of her losing consciousness. "And you will learn another thing about her design. Although she is very effective when she is used in the normal whipping mode, her tongue is long and supple, with the weight concentrated out near the end, so her kiss is also delightful when it is delivered with a snapping action, like a schoolboy snapping a towel. Watch!" The man's wrist shot out with a precision that bespoke many hours of practice, snapping the lash at the exact moment to make it land with maximum force, delivering its message of pain to the accompaniment of a miniature supersonic boom. Although he took no apparent aim, the blow landed precisely on target--just below the nipple, where the tender flesh was compressed ever so slightly by the weight of the girl's breast. The whip's weighted tip struck with the force of a rubber truncheon, sending a nauseating surge of raw agony through the girl's entire body. She struggled with the wave of blackness that welled up within her, somehow blinked her way back to consciousness. Her scream of pain, muted by the gag, emerged as a pitiable moan. The man chuckled, licked his lips in delight. "Betsy always likes to begin her love affairs with the three formal kisses of domination," he explained, drawing his arm back ostentatiously for the second blow. His aim was perfect again. The now-familiar wave of torture spread from the girl's other breast, eclipsing for the moment the sickening after-pain that remained from Betsy's first kiss. This time, she tried to embrace, to reinforce, the wave of unconsciousness, but her torturer had gauged the force of his blow perfectly, and she was denied the release of fainting. Bit by bit, she floated back to full awareness, her breasts throbbing with remembered agony, her body still held helpless in that absolutely exposed position. Her terror mounted with the realization that there was more--much more--pain and humiliation yet to come. The man gave her another moment of calculated respite, while he got a pair of scissors from the drawer. He bowed mockingly. "And for the third kiss, my dear, I must remove this last wisp of a garment that our departed friend so gallantly let you keep." Two snips, and the bikini fell to the floor. She knew that it had been too skimpy and transparent to afford any effective concealment of her private parts, but its loss was like the death of a friend. Symbolically, the tiny piece of cloth had represented the security of her body against the ultimate invasion of her privacy, and its loss--as her torturer had fully intended--gave her a feeling of final and inescapable vulnerability. Closing her eyes, she could visualize herself as she stood there--utterly naked, utterly helpless, her legs held firmly in a wide inverted V. V for victim, she thought. V for virgin. V for vagina. This time the man made a big deal of positioning Betsy for her kiss, sighting along the handle, and cocking his arm far back. V for vanquished, her mind continued the inane countdown. V for vulva. V for violated. The man's hand snapped forward. "Get her, Betsy!" he hissed. BETRAYED BEAUTY 7 Straining her muscles to the utmost, the girl managed to swing her hips slightly to the side, so that the whip landed high on her inner thigh. The man burst into sudden laughter. "Great!" he roared. "Too bad we don't have any music. C'mon, baby, let's see you dance the hula-hula." He began the cat-and-mouse game, telegraphing his blows, giving her plenty of time to dodge, timing his strokes so that her hips swung rhythmically and sinuously, in seductive cadence. >From time to time, he would vary the sport by shifting his aim abruptly at the last moment, to deliver a stinging slap to one or the other of her full young breasts, which swayed enticingly in rhythm with her hips. Bit by bit, the girl began to tire. The strain of standing continuously on her toes began to tell on her healthy muscles, and the repeated blows of the whip on her inner thighs took their toll, and her movements became more and more perfunctory, losing both strength and control. And her torturer began to tire of the game. Drawing his arm back for the coup de grace, he feinted to one side, then shifted his aim to meet her swing. Betsy's kiss went true, right to the central, most tender, flesh. Every muscle in the girl's being strained in protest at the excruciating pain, stiffening her body into a single agonized, soundless scream. She collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably, her full weight hanging from the line that bound her hair to the hook in the ceiling. He unfastened the end of the line from the wall, and paid out the line, lowering her carefully to the floor, guiding her descent so that she ended on her back, her ankles still held securely apart. He fastened her hair to a ring in the floor, to hold her in this position. Then, to keep her from hiding her nakedness with her knees, he fastened another pair of straps to her calves, just below the knees, spreading her legs apart, and fastened the straps to another pair of rings in the floor. And there she was, in a position of complete vulnerability, with everything she had on open display--and accessible to whatever use or abuse he might have in mind. And he had plenty in mind. First, there was Betsy. Rationing his strokes carefully for the fullest physical and psychological effect, he slashed methodically at her breasts and the tender region between her thighs, systematically reducing her to a mass of quivering, whimpering flesh. Again he paused, just before driving her over the edge of insensibility, whether from unconsciousness or from hysteria. He waited a moment so she could collect herself--and so she could savor to the fullest the greater mental and physical anguish yet to come. He knelt between her outstretched thighs. "Now, Miss Virgin..." * * * * And there the story ends, according to my present intentions. But of course the young lady's ordeal is far from finished. However, my reading habits were influenced by the literature of the '50's (the 1950's, for you Y2K enthusiasts), and it was quite customary in those days to draw the curtain of discretion as soon as the resolution was obviously inevitable. I find that approach to be a stronger one, as it leaves me free to imagine whatever outrages suit my taste of the moment. But some of you do not feel that way. If you are discontented, I invite you to continue the story. Take the poor girl anywhere you want, but with two provisos: 1. Please do me the courtesy of sending me a copy of any sequel you release. My address is Joypaine@hotmail.com. This is not to give me the chance to censor your work (although I will be glad to offer comments, IF ASKED), rather the natural concern of a parent to know of his or her child's development. 2. Try to publish some sort of record of the way your contribution fits into the thread. This can be as simple as a preface which says "this episode fits at the end of Ms Fortune's chapter 11" or the like. Oh yes, and 3. If you want advice in developing some theme, just let me know. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----