Message-ID: <42671asstr$1054037402@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: Quaana X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 27 May 2003 10:15:27 +0200 Subject: {ASSM} WHITEHALL {nc,mc} Date: Tue, 27 May 2003 08:10:02 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, IceAltar Thanks! -------------- Standard disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidential. Bla bla. WHITEHALL Chapter 1 It was surprisingly easy to kidnap her. From TV, you get the impression that you have be a SWAT team or something to get your hands on a girl. In reality, most women don't see it coming. The last thing they expect is for a co-worker to prick them with an anaestethia needle on their wayto their car and stow them away in a broom cupboard until the coast is clear. Sarah didn't see it coming, that's for sure. As I stood over my CD collection, I was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of power and responsibility. Whatever song I chose would have an indelible impact on this woman's future. I dithered between a few choices, but finally settled on Billy Ray Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart". It was upbeat, quick to annoy and, most importantly, short. Three twenty-three. I loaded it in the CD player and savoured the moment of silence before I pressed play. Soon after the music started blaring inside her box, Sarah woke up. I had exchanged the mild anaestethic in her right arm with a guarana drop, a stimulant, so I knew that the music would easily wake her. "Hello?", she slurred. Slight pause. "Excuse me?". Her foot knocked on the wall of her box. Aw. How cute. She hadn't panicked yet, being clear and rational, acting as if all this was a dreadful mistake. "Hello?". More panic in her voice now. She had probably realized that she was sealed inside a dark box. Frantic kicking at the sides of the box now, followed by a scream. She'd noticed that her arms and head were firmly held in place with metal rings in the walls, and that there were intravenous needles coming out of each arm. I'd secured her head firmly between the two loudspeakers, now screaming the second verse of Billy Ray Cyrus' country classic. "..You can tell my arms go back to the farm, You can tell my feet to hit the floor, Or you can tell my lips to tell my fingertips, They won't be reaching out for you no more..." "Hello?! HEELP!!" Sarah screamed over the music. More kicking on the walls. It gets tiresome to listen to. I danced around, singing along to the chorus, double-checking that everything was in order. I had a protein bag and a glucose water drip in her arms, enough to keep her body alive in the lack of other food and drink. Other than that, the all-important guarana drip to avoid having her black out all the time. This stuff will keep you awake, heart-pounding and lucid for incredible lengths of time. It all seemed in order. I stood around, listening to the ending of the song and Sarah's kicks and screams. The second the song was over, it started over again. Ah, the glory of the CD player's "repeat" function. I turned off the light in my basement and locked the music and her screams in behind sound-proofed doors. Quiet at last. Even after just one and a half repeats, "Achy Breaky Heart" gets on your nerves. "...Don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, I just don't think he'd understand..." People started worrying about Sarah's absence from work on Thursday morning. It was a pretty big, dog-eat-dog company, and the first couple of days a cubicle is empty just means that the rest of us have a chance to get ahead. I would look across into her cubicle, where she'd used to sit, filing down her nails while talking forcefully into a phone headset. Always liked the look of her. Feminine, yet strong. Now, there was just the walls of the cubicle to look at, but that was OK. She had a lot of postcards hanging on the wall that I could see, and I could spend most of the day squinting at them, trying to make out where in the world they came from. She had tons of little-kid drawings all over the walls, penned by her three-year old niece, too. I knew her cubicle well. "Bill, you haven't seen Sarah around, have you?". Chuck had sauntered into my cubicle un-noticed with an old, stained coffee-mug resting on his pot belly. "Only she was supposed to hand in a report yesterday, and the boss is trying to pin the blame on ol' Chuck here!". He snorted and rolled his eyes. "Nah, haven't seen her. Guess she's just off sick", I said absently and turned back to my computer screen. I wasn't asked again, and on Friday people started stealing stationary from Sarah's cubicle. "...And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, he might blow up and kill this man..." I went back down into the basement after 10 days. I figured that by now, basic physiological mechanisms were beginning to kick in for real, blocking the effects I had intended with this little incarceration. I had been looking forward to this moment, I had to confess. I'd calculated in my spreadsheet at work that "Achy Breaky Heart" had been playing to Sarah, non-stop, unceasingly, for 234 hours, or about 4.150 times in a row. I could hear Billy Ray, singing as happily as ever, as soon as I opened the basement door. I walked across to the CD player and pressed the stop button. Immediately, a long, hoarse, rasping scream burst from the box. Poor Sarah had gotten accustomed to the music, and this deafening silence was even worse than that. I let her scream until she stopped. It took a long time, but she needed the time to re-adjust to reality. Then I opened the box. The first thing that hit me was the stench of vomit, shit, piss and sweat, but I'd expected that. Once I got over that, I took a good look at Sarah in the box. She was thinner, but not thin, paler, but not pale. She was breathing heavily, squinting her eyes together at the first light in ten days, her pretty white teeth bared in a horrible grimace. She screamed again, hoarsely. A thick, white, viscuous drop of drool stretched from the side of her mouth, un-noticed. I looked her up and down, and saw that she had completely smashed both her feet and lower legs from kicking at the sides of the box. Her left foot was hanging off by a few tendons, all bones in the joint shattered. A large black-brown patch of blood coated the bottom of the box. Lucky she hadn't severed any major arteries in her self-destruction, or all this would have been wasted. But she was alive. I pulled out the needles in her arms and released her. She couldn't walk, of course, so I threw her across my shoulder and heaved her into my bathroom. She was gurgling, screaming, rambling, singing the song she'd been forced to hear over four thousand times. She had clearly lost her mind. I placed her gently in the bath tub and cut her soaked clothes off her body with a razor, being careful not to hurt her. I washed her entire body free from caked shit and sweat patches, shaved her pussy without her even noticing it, rubbed ointment on her bedsores, dried her with a big, soft towel and lifted her into a chair in my kitchen, where I prepared a large, protein and sugar-rich meal for her. She had to get her health back, after all, if not her mind. She ate the steak dinner and the pancakes with a wolf-like ferocity, not noticing that she was drooling, spilling down her naked breasts, or that I was masturbating right next to her face as she ate. I came on her cheek and she didn't even react. She was mine; I had broken her. I didn't even have to tie her up in my house when I left for work. Even though I had bandaged her feet as best I could, there was no way she'd ever walk on them again. Anyway, she seemed to have no interest in leaving the house, being content lying on the bed, gurgling and speaking about strange and pointless experiences of her past. Time dragged at work that day, even more than a usual Friday. Nobody asked about Sarah anymore. The rumors about her being transferred to another department were convincing enough to everybody. I couldn't believe my luck. I rushed home and couldn't resist yelling "Honey, I'm home!" as I walked in the door. Sarah was looking better - clean and healthier as she lay on her bed in the guest room. Her eyes were still wild and insane, of course, but that was the point. "Hi, Sarah", I said slowly and deliberately. "I'm Bill. Remember me?". Sarah made a muffled sound and moved her head in an undeciphrable way. "I'm the one who put you in the box. I did it because I wanted to own you. Do you understand." A glimmering of understanding and anger flickered across Sarah's face. She was taking it in, I could tell. Impressive, forceful mind she has. Ten days of torture doesn't break it completely. "Now, what I want you to do, Sarah, is suck my cock." I took down my pants and moved my expectant penis up towards her face. She screamed and moved a little bit away from me. She was furiously trying to string words together, words about kidnapping, about rape, about the police... I sighed and pressed play on my CD remote. "Achy Breaky Heart" burst out of the guest room hi-fi. Sarah reacted as if somebody had poured acid in her face. She threw herself down, badly banging her head against the wall, squealing like a woman possessed, trying to escape, trying to claw her ears off...I stopped the music. Tears were running down her face, her breathing short and irregular. "I want you to suck it", I repeated. And she did. She slid my aching penis into her mouth and sucked gently on it, running her tongue up and down its shaft, playing hopscotch on the head... I quickly grew bored of the sensation of Sarah's gentle tongue and grabbed her by the sides of the head. I brutally face-fucked her, ignoring her gagging noises and squelching in her throat, until I finally blew my load deep into her throat. When I pulled out my cock, I repeated to her "I own you. Your name is no longer Sarah Whitehall. You have no name. You have no identity. Everything you know is wrong. There is only one truth. I am the Master. You are the Slave. Do you understand?". The Slave glanced quickly to the remote in my hand. "Yes", she gurgled. I locked her in. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+