Message-ID: <17779eli$9812030430@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: tmquin@ibm.net (Thomas M Quin) Subject: {ASS}SSK: Mary Anne -- Main Story (M/F, NC, B&D) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.bondage Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: tmquin@_NS_ibm.net 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: <3665903b.42564842@news3.ibm.net> ***************************************************************** STANDARD DISCLAIMER =================== The following piece of fiction is intended as ADULT entertainment and has been posted only to an appropriate group on the Internet. If it is found in any other place this is not the responsibility of the author. The author explicitly prohibits. 1) The posting of this story in an incomplete form. 2) The use of this story in a larger work without his express permission. 3) The use of this story on any CD, BBS or Website without the written permission of the author. This work is copyright TM Quin 1998. All characters in this story are fictitious, any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. The author does not necessarily condone or endorse any of the activities detailed in this story, some of which are dangerous or illegal. Quin 1998 tmquin@ibm.net ***************************************************************** Getting Even with Mary Anne by Quin ================================ "Getting Even with Mary Anne" ========================== It had started innocently enough. I'd decided to go to Vegas in person to look up my old friend Bobbie Wright. I figured once I explained the situation to him it wouldn't be too long before he saw things my way. Just to be sure I'd had my guy track down Betty Ross in case I needed someone to collaborate things. I figured she'd cooperate, since life as a "dancer" on the L.A. strip is never easy even when you don't have a three year old daughter to feed. I'd sent Bobbie another card this time explicitly telling him why I was going to call and pointing out the benefits of getting his story out first. I was calling the airport to book a flight when I glanced at my little desktop calendar, and the date hit me. Hard. That Tuesday would have been Mom's birthday. That put things into perspective for me. I felt a need to visit the humble little grave in the corner of St. Paul's churchyard before I started out west -- call it a need for a blessing. Bobbie would just have to stew for awhile while I drove over to McAlister county to see mom. This was my first vacation in fourteen years, after all. I wanted the sky, the sun, the freedom of the open road. So I hopped in the car, not realizing the events I'd set in motion. Even before I reached McAlister City I realized that they'd been hit hard. The farming crisis had just started to hit when dad's place had gone down. He'd just been the weakest, the one with the least capital, but he hadn't been the last. Of course I'd read about it in jail, I'd read just about everything. I knew that old McAlister had used the crisis as a springboard to build his national platform. No real surprise -- Christ, his family have lived of the backs of these folks for generations, and even when those dirt farmers had reached their lowest ebb there was a McAlister profiting from it. I suppose I was guilty in some ways too. A Federal judge had decided that beating a confession from me and tainting my trial meant that the City of McAlister had infringed my civil rights. After that, a six figure settlement had come as no surprise. Of course I figured I deserved the money after what they'd done but it wasn't until I reached town and saw the closed schools and the unpainted buildings that I understood where that money had come from. I suppose I liked to imagine that old man McAlister had written out a check and paid it himself but of course he hadn't. That type never do. It had been the ordinary folks that paid while life in the big house on the hill had gone on as normal. Still, I was sure his loyal constituents probably wouldn't see it like that. So I kept my head down, cursing that the new Toyota looked so obviously out of place. Fortunately the early morning streets were deserted. It wasn't too hard to park the car, turn the collar of my leather ja cket up and slip over the churchyard wall. The first thing that hit me was how overgrown the place was. I suppose the city couldn't afford to tend it, and it took me some time to find Momma's grave. The headstone was small and unassuming; if I knew my mom, she picked the cheapest she could find so I'd have money for my defense. I admit I cried. All those years in jail, she probably only managed to visit me two or three times. It had been easy to trick myself into thinking she was just somewhere else. Now I knew differently. Of course dad wasn't there, Momma had him cremated and then snuck up to the old farm and scattered his ashes there. She said she wanted him to have his dream, then and forever in a way that meant than no one could take it from him again. I decided then and there to move her. There was no way I was going to let her end up here, surrounded by people that had despised and looked down on her in life. I figured I'd get the body shipped to California, maybe to a spot near my house. Momma always loved the ocean, but she'd never seen the Pacific. I'd find her a spot with a view. Of course I couldn't do anything about dad, but I decided to visit the farm one last time, just to be close to him. Hopping the cemetery fence, I got back in the Toyota and headed for this old farm road that cut up the far side of town. Taking Route 6 would've been faster, but the farm road let me stop next to the Ultine Bridge and walk down to the last place I'd been free. I drove on, hitting the scan button on the radio and listening to bits of assorted God talk and country music in search of good solid rock station And then I heard my name. I hit the STOP button and tuned back, listening to the news report with a feeling of shock. Apparently after receiving my second card, Bobbie Wright had sat down and written out a complete confession. Naming names, telling it as it really was. He'd left nothing out, the drugs, the sex, Mary Anne's little plan. Everything I'd wanted. Then the idiot hung himself. Like I said, Bobbie wasn't smart. The news had broken while I was on the road, and from the sound of it there were a bunch of frustrated journalists trying to find me. There was even talk of warrants for Mary Anne's arrest, if they could find her. Little miss bitch on wheels had dropped completely out of sight. I breathed a sigh of relief; getting to the farm the usual way would have meant passing the McAlister house. I could only imagine what kind of media circus would be camped out there. Of course I felt vindicated. Bobbie's statement would go a long way to burying Mary Anne. I admit, though, that even then I worried that she could wiggle out of it. A live Bobbie made a much better witness than a dead one. I found I'd driven to the farm on autopilot. The road was overgrown, the house shielded from the road by woods that hadn't been cleared in a long time. I suppose it made sense; the place had only ever been marginal, that was why it had folded in the first place. With so many larger and more modern places going for a song it hardly seemed surprising that it was still empty. For a crazy second I even thought of buying it back, as a gesture to dad, but common sense prevailed. The house itself, when I finally got a good look at it, was a real mess. All the clapboards were peeling paint, and the patchy layer that was left had been faded gray by the sun. The front gutter was hanging off the eaves at a crazy angle, and it looked like someone had just ripped off some of the shutters and left them on the ground underneath each window. I felt a lump in my throat. It wasn't something you would've seen in "House and Garden" when we'd lived there, but at least we'd tried to keep the place looking nice. Now it just looked like a dump. But a dump that had an occupant. There was a shiny new Taurus parked outside, looking about as out of place as my Toyota had back in town. Someone was obviously in the house, though by the looks of things they'd just arrived. I parked back near the woods, not wanting to risk my tires on the road, and crept up to the house. Something weird was definitely going on there. Dad had once told me that he'd seen people here on days when he'd sneaked over to brood on his failure. In fact, it was the risk of these mysterious people discovering him that had caused him to sneak around in the first place. After we lost the place it had been too painful to come up here myself, so I'd just thought it was the booze talking through my old man. But damn if someone wasn't here. For a second I thought about heading back, just hitting the highway and going home. But what the hell, a car like that wasn't likely to be from around here. The people probably didn't even know who I was. I'd just go over quiet and respectful and if they asked, well this was my dad's grave site. I figured that was a good-enough reason. As I got closer to the car I noticed some other details about it. It stood out like my Camry did, all bright and polished, but there were these little paper mats on the floors, and a pass to a long term airport parking space. The Taurus had to be an airport rental. It hit me that maybe one of the press had come here to do some feature on me. Well, if you were in town anyway, stopping off and getting pictures of the victims house made sense. I started to compose just what I'd say if someone asked about Miss Mary Anne McAlister. Then suddenly the screen door opened and Mary Anne just walked out onto the porch. We both froze, and I could see she was gearing up to ask this guy what the hell he was doing on her property. Then she recognized me. The sudden, wide-eyed look of horror on her face said it all. For an instant we just stared at each other, speechless. She was dressed in a white blouse, lilac miniskirt and a pair of patent high heeled knee boots. For a second she rocked back on those heels as if she'd been hit, then she turned and ran back inside, squealing. I have no idea what made me follow her. Like I said, the thing I most wanted was to see her rot in jail, but all those dark lonely nights planning my revenge just bubbled to the surface. Before I knew it, I was inside the house. I paused then, confused, as memory and reality fought it out in my head. Inside, the place was nice, much nicer than when we had lived there. The kitchen was modern, and very well equipped. Our battered old hand-me-down appliances had been replaced with some seriously expensive French kitchenware, and the chipped white wall tiles replaced with shiny new ones. My mind tried to make sense of it -- a new kitchen in a house with busted gutters and peeling paint? My hesitation had given her a chance to take the lead and she hadn't wasted it. She was already in the living room, screaming like a banshee and heading for the phone. Luckily for me the high heeled boots hampered her and I managed to get between her and the phone. Darting sideways, she faked towards the front door, then suddenly switched back and headed for one of the cabinets. I spotted the gun as she tried desperately to pull it from the drawer. It got caught on the desktop's underside, and she fought to free it. I have no doubt that her panic saved my life. With the blood pounding through my head, I swung back my hand and hit her, hard. She folded like a broken doll. I took the gun and for a second just stood there. I suppose it dawned on me that I could just walk away at this point. She'd cried wolf once already and I had a reasonable explanation for being here. She'd seen me, freaked and pulled a gun; I slugged her in self defense and then left. No one else was around -- if they had been, they would've come running with all the noise she'd been making. No, at the moment it was her word against mine and hers had already been proved to be tainted. Then I got to thinking that I could possibly extend that principle, that I had in my hands a way to get a little natural justice. I started to search the kitchen. There was a door at the back that led to a large root cellar. Back when we lived here, we'd just dumped our junk inside. Opening the door I found that the new occupants did likewise; a coil of rope, probably a clothes line, was tossed in a corner. A search of the kitchen drawers came up with a variety of towels and a pair of pink rubber kitchen gloves. Beggars can't be choosers. I pulled on the gloves and wiped down all the surfaces I was likely to have touched. Then, I walked back though to where Mary Anne lay unconscious on the floor and went to work. I shoved a towel in her lying little mouth and used the scarf she was wearing to tie it in place. The rope I cut into sections with a kitchen knife and used to tie her wrists, upper arms and ankles. I had just enough to manage a hog-tie, then I picked her up and dumped her on the couch. She was still out of it so I decided to take a quick look around. I didn't really figure out what was going on or what she was doing here until I reached the master bedroom. The room was huge, taking up almost half of the second floor. Back when we'd lived here this had been two rooms, but someone had obviously knocked them together. I figured the construction work was probably necessary to accommodate the bed, a huge emperor-sized waterbed complete with canopy. The sheets and drapes were black silk, highlighted in silver with matching toss pillows and cushions. I looked under the canopy -- yup. There were mirrors on the ceiling. The wardrobe was filled with a selection of "interesting" outfits, most of them for a woman, but the sizes covered a fairly large range which made me think that this wasn't a woman's room. Shit, who am I kidding -- this was Hugh Hefner's fantasy playroom, and I knew the moment I walked in who had built it and why *she* was here. This was daddy's secret little hideaway. Even when I'd lived in McAlister there had been rumors of the old man's infidelity. It was widely known that his marriage was a political alliance -- Mrs. McAlister came from a long line of Republican politicians, and McAlister loved that enough to overlook her skinny body and buck teeth. Most people seemed to accept this and were willing to turn a blind eye as a result. The hypocrisy of it all, that this man could preach to the nation on moral values and have absolutely none of his own, was completely lost on them. They continued to go on with their lives, ignoring his flirting with the same blind eye they turned to all the McAlister excesses. Of course, there were certain conventions. He didn't flaunt his funky stuff in front of the local townspeople's faces -- he did it discreetly in Ogden like everyone else. Or rather, he had back then. I could see how our farm could have looked attractive. It bordered his property, across the fields, and through the woods it was probably only a couple of miles door to door. For a fit man like him that was hardly a problem. In addition, it was far enough from town to discourage visitors. I figure he'd bought the place quietly, had the work done by out of state contractors, then continued to let the outside become suitably decrepit to disguise that it was in use. With a working kitchen and bathroom he could install a mistress up here quite comfortably and have her on hand when he needed her. And by the look of some of the interesting little leather and rubber outfits in the closet, the old man had a few interesting little kinks of his own. I suppose it was better to keep everything out of the way rather than risk having someone find them at his house. And of course that was why *she* was here. Right now with the press in a feeding frenzy she needed somewhere to hide out, somewhere where daddy could use his influence to protect her. The main house was ringed with reporters by now, and since his wife was now dead he probably saw no need to keep this place secret from his daughter. I smiled, seeing the joke. All of those reporters clamoring around McAlister's house, and their target was here, just a few miles away, safe and sound. Or so *he* thought. It was then I realized that I was going to fuck her. I mean, I'd thought about it while I was tying her up, but then it had been, well, just an idea. Now I knew it for sure, I was going to fuck her here on her daddy's bed. Yes, I'd calmed down, I knew what I was doing and yes, I know I should have walked away, but I didn't. I suppose I justified it by thinking it was natural justice. Shit, I'd done the time -- why shouldn't I do the crime? I looked outside into the bright sunshine of the late morning and considered things. I figured we wouldn't be disturbed for some time by Daddy Dearest, as there was hardly any point keeping this place a secret, then leading the press here. I doubt anyone from the main house would head this way until way after sundown, and that gave me all the time in the world. I went downstairs to find her struggling on the couch. She looked up and tried to say something. Of course, the gag swallowed it whole, but it didn't matter. That wild, hateful look said it all. Still, I wanted to hear what she wanted to say of herself. Reaching behind her head I untied the scarf and pulled the sodden towel free. She spat a few times, to clear her mouth, and I noticed she was aiming for my shoes. "You fuckin' bastard," she howled. "Untie me now!" I smiled. "Or what? You'll run to daddy? I don't think you'll be running anywhere right now, do you?" I said. "You fuckin' pig. They'll throw you back in jail so fast--" "Oh, yeah, that's right, Mary Anne," I laughed. "You're the expert at having people thrown in jail." "You won't even get to jail, you prick," she snarled. "If you think you had it bad with the cops before you just wait until they get through with you this time!" She raged on -- all that time in Washington had taught the bitch some interesting new words. I tried to keep a lid on my anger, I really did, but I could feel it building. And when she said something incredibly filthy about my momma, the dam just burst. I leaned down and slapped her hard. The words cut off in mid-tirade, and she looked stunned. I don't think anyone had ever hit her before in her life. I found I was shocked, too; prior to this morning I'd never hit a woman before in *my* life, as deep down I'd always viewed it as cowardice. Just what was happening to me? I pushed the questions away until later -- if I was to control her, I had to make her believe *I* was in control of myself. "Don't you *ever* mention my mom, understand?" I said, making my voice as cold as ice. "A lying, cheating little slut like you isn't even worthy to mention her name." She started to say something, so I drew my arm back as if I were going to backhand her. She whimpered. "That's better," I said. "The next outburst like that, and I hit you twice." She shrunk into the couch, glaring at me. I took the chair opposite and got comfortable. "Well, here we are, all alone just like we were supposed to have been back then," I said, feeling a little more cheerful. "Now that I have your undivided attention, there's one thing I've always wanted to know." I leaned forward. "Why me? Why the fuck did you frame me? I mean, what was it -- I wasn't a local, I was a stoner, what? Why did you pick *me*?" She turned her head away, into the couch pillow. "What are you talking about?" she muttered. "Oh, please, honeybunch. I know all about it," I said. "Your old friend Betty took great delight in sharing it with me. I've spent the last seven years inside, knowing that it wasn't some innocent mistake. I know that you planned it all." She struggled a little but only to get a better position. I pushed her upright until she was leaning against the back of the couch, her feet still bound beneath her. She looked at me and I could see this incredible mixture of emotions in her eyes, but one look will always stay with me. It was this barely suppressed look of triumph, as if the little bitch had actually *enjoyed* the idea of me rotting in jail. If I'd had any remaining doubts about what I was about to do, they evaporated then and there. "Well?" I demanded. "Let's hear it!" For a second, I thought she wouldn't answer. Hell, if I'd have been her I'd have said nothing. But she was flushed and angry, too. And well, we both did things that day that we'd later regret. "You want to know why, you stupid fuck?" she sneered. "I'll tell you why. Because I could, okay? Is that good enough for you?' She grinned, her teeth parted ferally. "I knew I had to blame someone, so I looked for the person people cared least about, someone I could just throw away. "Your family was a joke the moment you got here. We thought you were dumb city folk who knew fuck all about anything. And you know, never once did any member of your miserable family ever prove us wrong. Hell, I was charitable, I let you hang with the coolest group in school -- I even offered you a date, I still can't believe I did that, and you turned me down, you stupid fuck. That's when I knew you were just as stupid as the rest of your stupid family." She actually laughed. "Oh, I could have said it was anyone -- Bobbie, Lance, any of them would've done. But that would've been dangerous -- I mean, Sheriff Parker never would've come down that hard on Bobbie. He dated Bobbie's momma in school, played little league with his dad, he was practically family. If I'd have pointed at them, someone in town would have shaken their heads and said they didn't believe it. But you were so *easy.* You, they believed, you'd lived down to their expectations. The whole town despised you so much, I didn't have to try very hard at all. And it all worked out like a dream." She continued, but I'd stopped listening. I realized in that instant that she was right, the whole damned town had enjoyed watching us fail, seeing our family come apart. For some reason I thought of an article I'd read in National Geographic about tar pits, how animals just wandered in and struggled to death. Ironically, the more they struggled the deeper they'd sink. McAlister had been my family's tar pit and the good citizens had just set up camp around us and watched while we went down. Suddenly, all those boarded-up houses and dilapidated schools no longer made me feel guilty. In a way, I'd already gotten even with them. Now there was only Mary Anne. I released the hog-tie and rebound her ankles with a short length of cord in between, figuring she'd be less trouble hobbled. She struggled, of course, and continued to yap on. I let her -- as long as her attention was divided, she was easier to handle. I pushed her towards the stairs, and suddenly all the bad mouthing just dried up. Her eyes were full of fear as she looked back over her shoulder at me. "Y-you're not--" "That's right, sweetheart," I said. "That's exactly what's going to happen." "You c-can't!" she stammered. "They'll throw you back in jail!" I gave her a twisted smile. "Hell, I'm not even going to make it out of the county, remember? Seems to me I've got nothing to lose." Her eyes went wild. "Look, let me go now and we'll call it even," she begged. "I won't press charges, I won't even tell anyone about this!" "Honey, we are far from even. I plan on fixing that right now." I paused, and pulled out her daddy's gun. "You know, I think I'll give you a choice you never gave me. You can decide how it goes from here. You can either shut up and walk up those stairs, or I take this gun and do your kneecaps so you'll never walk anywhere again. Your choice." Of course I would never have done that kneecap thing, but I needed something nasty and permanent as an alternative. I watched as she trembled, then slowly started up the stairs. At the top she needed no prompting, heading straight for the bedroom and her date with destiny. Once inside, she sat on the bed shivering while I went through daddy's closet. There were skirts, shorts, and top in a variety of interesting fabrics, even dresses made from leather and latex. There was underwear, some nice, some not so nice. It looked as if about a third of the stuff would fit Mary Anne, maybe as much as half if she didn't have to be comfortable, which of course she didn't. There was a drawer containing various sex toys, too, even some more rope and two pairs of leather cuffs which I eagerly grabbed. Seems that bondage was only a fringe interest for the old man, though -- with the exception of the cuffs, the only bondage gear I could find was a collar and a ball gag made with a whiffleball. Still, I lucked out when I found a whip thing and more rope in a bag behind the door. I walked over to her, holding the heavy leather collar in my hands. At first she tried to pull away, but then she seemed to realize it was useless. She sat still while I buckled the collar around her neck, then locked it there with a small padlock. Next, I took a length of the rope and threaded it through a D ring at the back of the collar. Doubling it over so that it was now two strands with the D ring in the middle, I tied it to one of the supports of the canopy with a solid sheepshank. Now that she was loosely tied to the bed, I could afford to free her hands and feet. Like I said, I'd worked out in jail, so there was no way she was my physical equal. Deprived of her ability to run, she was as helpless as when she was tied. I sat in the old wooden chair by the bedside. "Okay, whore," I announced, "I want you to strip for me nice and slow, with lots of bump an' grind." Mary Anne wasn't stupid, I had to give her that much. Hesitantly at first, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, giving herself as much leeway as she could with the rope. I don't know what I expected to see. I suppose I wanted her to sob with humiliation, beg me to let her stop. Instead, she teased me, doing all those little things that professional dancers do. She licked her lips, ran her hands along her thighs, pouted. She removed each item real slow, letting it down some way then snatching it back. Her bra she removed with her back to me, looking over her shoulder and licking her lips suggestively. When she did turn around her hands were covering her titties, and as she drew them away she caught the nipples between thumb and finger and rolled them. Of course I was hard. I doubt any red-blooded man wouldn't be at that moment. I sat mesmerized like a cobra before a snake charmer, deadly but unable to move. When she let the skirt drop I almost creamed my pants. As she edged her panties down two inches, then snatched them back one, I almost cried with frustration. Next she raised her hands up and laced her fingers together behind her head, thrusting those titties out and grinding her crotch in my direction. Somewhere inside my head, a memory clicked into place and I recognized the irony in the situation. Back when I'd hung with her, I'd seen her dancing on table tops in some of the sleazier Ogden bars. I'd *known* that the little whore was an exhibitionist. Despite that, I'd tried to punish her by making her strip? What had I been thinking? There was no humiliation here -- in fact, if anything she was getting off on it. I shook my head. Only a fool would think he could humiliate a slut like this. "Enough," I grunted. I stood up and headed back towards the closet. There was a mirror on the inside of the door and I could see her smiling at my back. "Let's do it," she begged, her voice husky. "Right here, right now." Yeah, right. Reaching inside the closet, I grabbed a hanger and tossed it to her. At first glance it appeared to be a rat's nest of leather straps. Catching it, she looked at it thoughtfully. "Put it on," I demanded. It was the kinkiest, most out and out weird thing in the old man's collection, and I wanted her to be wearing it when we did it. See, I was fully aware that forensics would find enough evidence linking me to the place even with my precautions -- in the run-up to my appeal I'd read everything I could find on the subject. However, I had no intention of denying I'd been here, just what I'd been doing. I could imagine this little outfit being given a forensic exam, then being presented as evidence in court. Details of her being found bound and gagged in her daddy's private little brothel being given to the scandal hungry press was the last thing the McAlisters wanted. I figured if I played my cards right, I stood a reasonable chance that she'd save herself the embarrassment and wouldn't even press charges. Hell, even if she did, with a track record like hers I'd be assured of some reasonable doubt. It took her a few minutes to figure out where the straps went on that outfit. I think she would have argued but then I drew out the whip from the closet. Trembling slightly, she put the costume on. It consisted of a waistbelt/garterbelt contraption made from black leather, and a bra-like harness that managed to hold up her nice little titties without covering them. Oh, there were straps in between and lots and lots of D rings, but right now they weren't important. Once everything was on and buckled, I tossed her the cuffs. I had her put on the ankle set first, buckling them over the knee boots. This presented her behind at an interesting angle and I took a couple of wide swipes at it with the whip just to keep her nervous. Next, I had her fasten the wrist cuffs and stand with her arms behind her back. I came in close, pulling her in to me while I fumbled behind her for the cuffs. The harness had done its work well, thrusting her nice titties squarely into my chest. I could feel the hardness of her nipples as they dug into my chest. The cuffs locked together and I looked down to see her giving me those big bedroom eyes. I pulled her a little closer, enjoying the feel of her breasts squishing against me. Reaching over, I cut the rope that bound the collar to the bed. She suddenly let out a sigh and throwing her head back she puckered up and closed her eyes. I adjusted my position so that I could bend down and kiss her. She opened her eyes and flashed me a little twisted smile. Then she kneed me in the groin. If her aim had been better I think I'd have had a new set of tonsils. As it was, my right thigh caught enough of the blow that, though I still doubled over, I wasn't rolling on the ground in agony. She took the chance to sprint for the window, cursing the heels. That seemed to have been an unfortunate dress choice for her -- this was the second time it had hampered her escape. She screamed, long and hard enough that my ears rang. I think she then realized that this was the wrong side of the house. That window faced the woods heading out of town and away from daddy's property. As quick as she could, she turned and hobbled over to the windows that faced the road. I'd recovered by then and set off after her. Just as she reached the windows I grabbed her and clamped a hand over her mouth, dragging her back towards the bed. She struggled, so I got in a little payback and gave a swift punch to the solar plexus. She folded over for the second time that afternoon, wheezing. Of course I'd left the gag stuff down stairs and I didn't think the whiffle ball would cut it, so I tore her discarded blouse into strips. The majority of it I forced into her mouth, packing it completely, then I took a sleeve and tied a knot in the center. I forced the knot into her mouth over the packing and pulled hard on the trailing ends. It must have hurt like fuck and she whimpered, but I didn't care. I tied it off, then spun her round to admire my handiwork. The white cotton band dug deeply into her cheeks, cleaving her lips apart and shoving the packing home. Her mouth was so well packed that nothing she said even sounded like speech, just a series of low moans and grunts. Satisfied, I tied the collar to the bed again and did a quick walk around the windows to see if she'd gotten a reaction. The place remained as quiet as the grave. Turning I smiled at her and she flashed me that hateful look. It was time for us to finish our business. ######## Mary Anne moaned and tugged at the ropes. After I'd done a better check outside to confirm that we wouldn't be disturbed, I tied her spread-eagle on the bed. It hadn't come as an enormous surprise to find anchor points on the bed frame, but it had made life easier, which was good since she'd fought me at every turn. Now she was completely spread and helpless, arms and legs stretched tightly towards the bedposts and two more ropes tied at her knees forcing her legs open and back. A quick check of the bedside cabinet found a number of items I'd previously overlooked, like a pair of handcuffs and some kind of padded leather blindfold. I put them to one side for now and pulled out a large box or Trojans. It pays to be careful these days, especially when you're fucking a whore as easy as this one. My pecker had recovered from Mary Anne's little assault and the sight of her all bound open and helpless was enough to encourage him to harden. I jacked off for a while until everything was nice and firm, then rolled on the rubber and dived right in. Needless to say she was dry, and she squealed like a pig when I first thrust in. Seeing I was getting nowhere I used some of the lube I'd found in the drawer. For a popular girl she seemed awfully tight -- I wondered if she was still trading on her specialty. Hell, for most guys a girl who likes giving blow jobs would seem like heaven. I continued to thrust, gradually building speed. I don't know at what point I realized something was wrong. Perhaps it was the little grunts of encouragement that came from behind the gag or the way she thrust against me and clamped down as I withdrew. In any case I soon realized that she was fucking me as hard as the bonds would allow. Puzzled, I looked into her eyes, and saw that little look of triumph and hate again. Then I understood. The bitch was deliberately consenting. Now that may seem strange until you realize just what rape is. I confess that like a lot of people I just thought the rapist wanted to get his rocks off, but while in prison I'd been forced to attend these group therapy sessions with some of the other sex offenders and I finally realized that rape has nothing at all to do with sex. It's about power and the ability to force someone to do something against their will. Raping a woman is an attack at a deep emotional level; it cheapens her, attacks her concept of self-worth, violates her identity. That was exactly why a lot of guys in that room did what they did. As they confessed their crimes, told details and motivations it became clear that I'd been forced to join a club for misogynists. Still, I learned a few things about how women react during rape -- some cry, some beg, some fight, some surrender, most react with fear, some just switch off and attempt to deny what's happening. Mary Anne did none of those things. Mary Anne fucked back, not from lust or as an act of surrender but out of hate. She wasn't giving me the satisfaction of control, she turned the situation around took control back, making the act hollow, robbing me of my victory. The bitch. I realized then that she'd won. Oh, the guys in that room back at the pen may have hit her or killed her or whatever, but I couldn't do that. The funny thing was that back before they'd locked me up I wouldn't have done this at all, no matter what the provocation. It wasn't who I was. Or rather it wasn't who I'd been. I realized that I wasn't even doing this for the power -- this was plain and simple revenge, in the Old Testament tradition of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Because of that, I couldn't escalate the action. And she knew it, thrusting her little pelvis up with that look of victory in her eye. Like I said, she's a sociopath. There was nothing I could do to injure her supreme self-confidence. Unless. . . Withdrawing, I grabbed the padded blindfold and strapped it over her eyes. She seemed confused but didn't resist. Why should she -- even bound and helpless, she had the situation under control? I started at her neck, finding the join between collar and skin and following it with my tongue. She tasted of salt and faintly of perfume. A small gurgling moan emerged from her throat which I took to be encouragement. Next, I removed her right boot replacing the cuff on her bare ankle. She tried to resist but with her knee still tied she wasn't able to stop me. Slowly I ran my tongue over the sole of her foot, feeling relieved that she'd showered that morning. The gargle had become a muffled scream by the time I started sucking on her big toe. She moaned, thrust her little mound in the air and wiggling it, begging, pleading for release. I pressed on, taking the power from her, the only power she cared about at that moment -- the power to make her cum. I removed the other boot but it was a feint and instead I licked the backs of her knees and the inside of her thighs. There was a point, about six inches bellow her crotch where the thigh seemed especially sensitive. A lick there was almost guaranteed a scream, so I picked at it in between working her feet and those oh so sensitive nipples. By the time I reached her pussy the lips were already parted, and a quick flick of my tongue inside was like an electric shock passing through her. She reared up and screamed into the gag. I moved elsewhere, then surprised her by lapping the entire length of her pussy from just above the anus to just below the clit. She sobbed and moaned with frustration, muscles tense as they fought the bonds. Gently, I blew on her engorged clit, listening to her going wild. Again she th rust her pussy towards me and again I denied her. Reaching up, I removed the blindfold and was surprised to find her eyes wet with tears. This time she begged, really begged, probably the first time in her life that she'd had to lower herself to this. I felt the warm, satisfied glow of a job well done. You can't humiliate a slut, you can't humble a sociopath, but you *can* tease a woman until she begs you to fuck her. If I'd been really nasty, I suppose I could have left her hanging there impossibly horny and unable to do anything about it. I admit to considering it, and for a second I wondered if women get blue ovaries. In the end, of course, I fucked her. Again she cooperated, although this time it was with a strange, almost puppy dog-ish enthusiasm. She came about thirty second before me, her pussy spasms feeling wonderful as I shot my load into the rubber. We were both exhausted but I realized I didn't have time to linger. I wanted to be a good distance away before they found her and I still had some cleaning up to do. She was too exhausted to fight, so it proved easy to free her from the bed and tie her hands behind her. I tied some rope to the collar and led her to the large attached bathroom. First I started running a bath while I let her sit on the toilet and pee, enjoying the fact that it made her uncomfortable for me to watch. Then I removed her gag and gave her a drink. She started to croak something but I put a finger to her lips. She looked up, her harsh hating looks gone for the moment, then she glanced down submissively. She knew better than to fight me when I put the gag back. By now the bath was ready so I removed the harness and helped her into it. I bathed her, slow and sensual, letting my gloved hand slide freely over her naked body. She cooed a little, even more so when I gently cleaned between the folds of her pussy. I slipped a finger inside, cleaning and probing, feeling the heat building there again. Next I dried her down, even powdering her body and applying perfume. I think she thought I was doing it for her benefit because she closed her eyes, arching her back and cooing into the gag. I smiled. I doubted that anyone could find any forensic evidence on her now. I decided to tie her to a chair rather than the bed, since I was still toying with the idea of taking the sheets with me when I left. Still, the chair proved more than adequate and though the fire had started to reappear in her eyes it wasn't to difficult to tie her down. "I'm leaving," I told her as soon as I finished tying the knots. "My guess is that your daddy will be here sometime this evening and he'll free you then." She nodded, weakly. "Good," I said, letting my voice harden. "I'm going to tell you what will happen now. That is, if you and daddy have any sense." She glared at me, much to my satisfaction. "Now, you could report this to the police, although you'd be arrested because of all the warrants out on you," I said. "I'll cut you some slack and tell you exactly what I'm going to say. First up, I won't deny I was here. See, my momma spread dad's ashes outside, so I came to visit the old homestead and found you here. I'll tell them that you panicked and pulled a gun. I hit you in self defense, brought you up here and put you on the bed. When you came round we fought and I left and that's it." I folded my arms and leaned against the doorway. "Just to let you know, that bath was to make sure there was no evidence left on your body, so you can't say I attacked you anywhere but here. Ultimately, your word ain't worth shit at the moment, and the only evidence that *anything* happened is in this house. Of course, if you want to explain your daddy's private little brothel, go ahead." I held up the harness. "You can start by explaining how you came to be wearing this. I think your daddy will see the benefits of keeping this between ourselves, don't you?" She sighed, then nodded. "Thought so." I grinned. "Bye, apple pie. It's been a pleasure." I collected up a pile of things I would have to burn, like the bed sheet and the rubber, and left her tied to the chair. ************************************************************************** To send E-mail to the Author please remove the _NS_ from the return address. This story was brought to you by the SSK. 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