Captive

A. F. Cronin

March 2006

"Are you into toys?" she asked in a frigid monotone.

I sat up in the bed. "Of course." My interest, obviously, was piqued. "What do you have in mind?"

"Just a little device that will make you beg me to stop." She said cheerily,

I can be a jerk. I admit it-- especially when it comes to women. In response to her statement I whispered, "Whoa, this is getting interesting," (I think she heard me because I noticed a momentary stiffening of her spine after I spoke). She turned around, slowly revealing a thick black object held gently, like an offering to some pagan god, in her slightly trembling hands. For a moment I was intrigued. Fascinated. What could that thing do to me to make me beg her to stop? More importantly, what could it do to her? She flicked a tiny switch on the device and a little red light flashed on. I was confused.

I shifted my glance to her face to ask her what the black device was for and how she would use it to get me off. But the look on her face told me she wanted to give me something other than pleasure. I could feel hate flowing out of Bitch-hag’s pores. I became afraid. In a nano-second the most primitive part of my brain recognized the extreme danger to my person and the run-away-really-fast instinct took over. I swung my feet onto the floor and ran for the door. Foolishly, I tried to grab my pants as I went. This need to cover my nakedness, I feel, was my downfall (I could blame this entire mess on Eve right now, but I think the essay would require a far larger pencil than I have at hand).

A point of observation; bitch-hags are quicker than the average woman when they’re angry. She got herself between the door and me in the blink of an eye. That ostensibly benign black object transformed from an unrecognizable sex toy into a turned-on stun gun and she stuck it full force into my solar plexus. I jerked and jiggled and howled until I crashed to the floor. I writhed around for a minute or so in an extraordinarily keen agony as she stood victorious above me.

Those stun guns really hurt.

I was still naked and on her floor, gasping for breath, when she ordered me to get up. I didn’t reply so she stuck me with the stun gun again--this time in my thigh. I howled like a banshee.

When she asked me to get up again. I acquiesced.

She led me through the house, all the while holding the stun gun close to my quivering skin, and forced me down the basement stairs and into this little room. She pointed to the handcuffs that just happened to be bolted to the floor joists over my head and told me to slip one over my wrist and lock it. I acceded to her wish. Then holding the stun gun millimeters from my stomach she fixed the second handcuff over my other wrist. I was too stunned, literally and figuratively, to even comprehend the situation. She looked at me with an icy stare, turned and left the room, closing the iron door behind her. I heard her slide the dead bolt home.

Bitch-hag had me at her mercy.

I’m not certain if telling you this next part will increase or decrease the sympathy with which you, my potential rescuer, will view my plight. There’s no doubt in my mind that it should increase your sympathy for me as it has caused me an incalculable amount of psychic harm. However, events such as these, as unique and disturbing as they are, can always be interpreted in many ways and I’m sure that some people would consider me, the victim, somehow a beneficiary of this bizarre and traumatic situation.

I’ll just tell what happened and let you be the judge.

Bitch-hag left me hanging, cuffed, and naked in this little room for what seemed an hour. There was a single light bulb that lit the room, so I wasn’t in darkness, and despite the cinder block wall behind me, it was, considering its incarceratory function, a rather cheery room. There was an inexpensive but nice, very thick, peachy colored oriental carpet on the floor, and the walls were painted a bright red and had a few prints of landscapes hung on them. A small wooden desk with a chair was against one wall and I was handcuffed against the other. And, beside the door, directly across from where I was fettered, was one of those old style velvet curved-back couches Victorian Prima Donnas would lounge on as they received their visitors. Not as Spartan a cell as Monte Christo’s, but a cell none-the less.

Eventually Bitch-hag returned. She had changed her outfit. A black leather bustier, a garter belt, fishnet stockings, and black spike heels had replaced her long, flowing, white-cotton-high-necked nightgown. And she had applied different make-up --very red lipstick and a lot of mascara around her eyes–and she wore a long black wig with bangs. Her skin looked really white and she, in that serious-minded dominatrix way, looked quite good. Sexy. She clutched her stun gun, now appropriately color coordinated with her outfit, in her right hand and held a black towel and a bottle of lotion in the left. She knelt in front of me, spread the towel on the floor, and set the stun gun down beside her. She gave me a long and evil stare and then proceeded to fill her hands with lotion and rub it all over me...my... you know.

You might be thinking, as I normally would have been, how kinky. Right on! But, since I had been stun gunned into my present situation, I was a bit wary of her intentions. She managed, to my great surprise and in spite of my apprehension, to bypass my anxieties and to get me aroused quite easily. But, in true Bitch-hag fashion, when I was closing in on the boiling point she simply stopped her rubbing, stood up, and, holding the stun gun against my freshly lubricated apparatus, she reached up and unlocked my left handcuff. Then she backed away from me and reclined on the couch.

I want to reiterate how really good she looked in that outfit. She was OK before, nice, clean, and, although not the hot little number in her photograph, attractive. But now, in that get up, she was hot. H.O.T. So then, after nestling into a comfortable position on the couch, she started to touch herself. Yes, that kind of "touching herself". And, moaning softly as she worked, she locked her eyes to mine and hoarsely whispered, "Finish."

Usually I have no problem finding a clever riposte to even the most elegant of verbal assaults, but this command stymied me. The audacity of this woman! And, since she was not wasting any time in finishing herself off, my visual cortex was overruling the linguistic functioning of my brain and I remained mute. Her breathing, meanwhile, was transforming into a hard, relentless panting, and let’s just say her hands were doing their job with fervor and skill. Since she was still in control of the stun gun, I thought it best to do as she said and not to resist her or interrupt her handiwork. That would have been rude. So I did what she asked of me, as much for her, I reasoned, as for myself. She had gotten me close to the end so it didn’t take me long and as I released she let out a roar of a moan and in a shuddering spasm collapsed back onto the couch.

I had made her scream.

But, instead of a nod of recognition or a word of thanks, she looked me in the eye, slid her tongue over her upper lip, broke the smallest sneer and said, "You were all right. It’ll be better next time."

Flummoxed is the only word to describe my state of mind.

She stood up, went to the door, turned and said, "I left the key in the handcuff. You can let yourself down. Clean yourself off. I’ll be back." She pulled the door closed behind her and locked me in.

Bitch-hag still wields the stun gun. Since that tawdry episode she has forced me to continue this uncivil and perverse behavior. Throughout the night (two more times in the exact same format) and, after a few hours sleep and a quite acceptable French toast and bacon breakfast, into the afternoon and evening (keeping me from the aforementioned date with the horny divorcee, Gillian), she continued the humiliating torture. After lunch and our "desert session" (her words not mine), I requested a pen and paper to chronicle our little liaison and, much to my surprise, she returned with this pencil and legal pad. Then she forced me to perform her perverse mode of lovemaking once again.

She is off somewhere now; doing evil things I’ve no doubt. And I have sat here composing this note. When I am done I will stuff it through the crack of the small cellar window and, hopefully, when you find it, you will contact the police and have them rush to my rescue. She refuses to even discuss my release and if I try to force the issue she waves the stun gun menacingly. I am compelled into silence-- the horror of it all!

I would like to ask you, my rescuer, to provide one more service for me. Destroy this note after you read it! Nothing dramatic is necessary. Burning it in a furnace or tearing it into a hundred pieces and scattering them in different public trash bins is adequate. Shredding is good too. Once freed, I’d like all traces of this horror erased from the world.

I hear the click of her stilettos on the bathroom tile above me. She comes soon! I think she’s applying her make-up now. I have to get this note through the window and out of my pajamas and back into my cuffs before she gets here! She promised to bring a new toy and she likes her entrances just so.

I await your rescue. Hurry! I don’t know how long I can last!

A. F. Cronin resides in Los Angeles. That's in California.

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