Every now and then, some weary slut would finish the night too dragged out to wipe, and Lynsey would catch the pearly gleam of semen on a thigh or a blouse. They even knew several areas where she occasionally went to shop or relax. Sometimes, when one of them had a day off, he'd spend it hanging out, frequenting some area where they believed she hung out. It was a Saturday morning, she was within her patterns. She was mostly just window shopping, she didn't need to buy anything in particular. His grip on her hair was tight and painful, the odour of his crotch filled her nostrils, and his hard rod stabbed and tore at the back of her throat. She'd become one of those worn slags that she used to watch. Lynsey's face was pressed into the harsh artificial carpet in the passenger wells. Get stopped by the cops, and the whole thing would be up. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when he finally arrived at his house. Her body goes into fight or flight mode, all the blood goes to the limbs, she's pumping out adrenalin. So, in a real rape, a woman is incapable of orgasm, hell, she can't feel anything down there hardly. Well, I shouldn't say a lot, but you know, a definite percentage, a minority... Find out if she was confessing to some sexual stimulation, have a nurse go off and check if they're wet. He really does believe that I was totally into it, that I was into everything he did... His last sight was Lynsey stumbling home in a daze, her nipple rings poking through the thin cotton of the dirty T-shirt, the crotch of her absorbent sweat pants slightly but visibly darkened with moisture. After that, she stumbled around the apartment, bathing, laying down, cooking and doing dishes automatically, trying to make sense of her experiences. The memories and incidents were fresh and graphic, but so were her physical reactions. The hooker thing, that was just an abberation, another fluke. She had know way to know it, but her explosive waking was the effect of a methamphetamine suppository countering the narcotic drugs in her system. Her mouth was constricted by some sort of gag, it pushed her jaws open and leather straps pulled tight against her cheek. In her confused, disoriented state she could not even put together the thoughts to wonder why or how she was trussed in this position.To say this turned her on wasn't quite right, rather, it heated her, raised her temperature, fascinated her with its consequences and implications. She caught herself, but I don't want to make it easy, so if you want me, you have to work for it. There was a slim chance she might be passing through on that day. Find a traffic point where everyone had to pass through, find someplace comfortable and wait and watch. Always a little short, a little tall, a little heavy, the earings not quite as described, an article of clothing close but not quite. Fifteen minutes later, she came and as usual, signed off the net. There were six of them to stake out the four areas. If she wore even part of the outfit, hell, even if she didn't wear, there was still a chance they might spot her.... She smiled to herself, her outfit attracted a lot of attention, she was very conscious of being window shopped herself. Lynsey smiled, working the skirt down over her hips. Not looking at them was easier, she clutched her breasts and stared at the brick wall. Hook your thumbs into those panties, it ordered, roll it down really slow. As she performed, Peter asked Ian, So, how you want to do it? Between them, Lynsey gagged, her body heaving, but she was trapped and helpless. They forced another orgasm from her body before Peter came. Her expensive, conservative skirt and blouse and jacket was now smeared with dirt, torn, soiled with urine. Passengers got on and off, she came to her stop, but when she tried to get up, Ian shook his head. Now, put the other pair of cuffs around your wrists. She was almost completely compliant, with only bare hesitations. All that subliminal training in obedience on the net? He activated the door opener for the attached garage. The only thing that mattered, as she was going to find out, was what he wanted. It's like the opposite of a big meal, you know, all the blood goes to internal organs for digestion, your arms and legs feel tired. They were what we'd call rape after the fact.' Some girl does it with her boyfriend and you know, stuff happens, she freaks out that she might be pregnant, she gets an attack of the guilts, he turns out to be a jerk, she gets caught by her daddy or husband... He paused and looked expectancy at Lynsey, putting her on the spot. That's what the physical exam is really for by the way, to see if there's sexual arousal, or if its really rape. * * * * * * * * Lynsey returned home to an angry message on her answering machine from her employer, asking about her whereabouts and why she hadn't shown up for work. The next couple of days she stayed home as well, calling in sick, and ignoring the increasingly frustrated messages left by her office. But now, she looked at her bodies reactions, and could not be sure that they had really happened the way she though they had. She found it difficult to work through, difficult to think. Shame on her for dressing like a hooker, she'd deserved it. The two combined to leave her jangling and disoriented. Lynsey was only aware of her bondage in the center of her own home, and her weak pointless thrashings to free herself. Up to the moment that the strange hands took possession of her, it had not even occurred to her, in her drug and fatigue addled state, to even suspect that she might not be alone.She shaved her pussy for the silent masters on the other side of the screen, her shimmering smoothness making her unbelievably wet. Mike had paid the teenagers a hundred dollars and loaned them the camcorder for the express purpose of getting her on video without her fully realizing who and why. She crossed her legs to draw his attention, slid one hand down a fishnet clad thigh. He trailed her down two streets until the crowd thinned out, and then ducked into a Subway Shoppe. She hesitated, knowing there was no way out, before finally conceding, Yes. A hard shove propelled her forward, she stumbled, almost falling, staggering to the center of the room. You like it, don't you, he said, and ripped her blouse open, glorying in the sound of buttons popping, fabric tearing. He reached between her breasts, pulling the bra out. No, no, she said quickly and tried to smile, offer good for one time only. She simply could not allow herself to think, her mind would not function.
LYNSEY'S GAME Lynsey was bored one night, which isn't the best reason for your life to change completely. It was now a customary ritual, she would sign on, chat, flirt, cyber or role play, but somewhere along the line, she would drop another clue or two. A few fake ones, because, after all, she wasn't stupid. She was always careful not to give away anything critical. No big deal, I'll just shoot my load down her throat. Ian grabbed her soft lanky blond hair and yanked her to her knees, forcing her head down. He didn't know if she was truly aroused, or merely obedient, and he didn't care.
But then, she didn't realize how far it would go or how much she would lose. For my clues, I want you to answer a few questions. I won't make it too easy by giving you an address, she wrote. It would be a restaurant she'd eaten in, or perhaps a favourite brand of coffee, or a description of an article of clothing. His pants were stained, she could smell his crotch, thick with the odour of sour urine. Oh man, you should feel this, as he rudely used his fingers to violate her cunt. I bet she likes it a little rough, gets her going really good. She felt ashamed of herself, immeasurably dirty and filthy. He understood instead, that even as his cock fucked into her face, that his words had fucked into her soul, penetrating her more deeply than she had ever been touched.
* * * * * * * * Mike stared at the screen, stroking his erection. Mike considered himself an artist, and after his first few encounters with Lynsey, he just didn't bother. Ridiculous and infinitely improbable, but exciting nevertheless. Okay, that couldn't possibly happen, not with the bullshit handful of clues she'd given. She had almost no will left, was simply operating on autopilot. He rolled her hair in his hands as she obediently unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out.
She might have known if she'd checked the member logins, but that was her mistake. But worse in his view, she had no respect for the mechanics of a good well structured fantasy. He doubted it, the self absorbed bitch would never really put herself at risk. Then he emailed a few of his internet friends in Vancouver to let them know about this fascinating little game.... She skipped at work, riding the skytrain she couldn't help glancing around, wondering if one of those faces belonged to the someone from her chatroom. He could tell she was still undergoing an internal struggle.
When Lynsey got home, she couldn't wait to masturbate, bring herself to a rich satisfying orgasm. But this one got more exciting each time she played. Lynsey crouched down, unwilling to fully prostrate herself. Finger yourself, he whispered, and watched as one of her hands slid under the wasteband of her sweat pants.
There must be 50,000 girls in Vancouver with her height and build and hair colour, and there was no way that any contact would be anything but totally accidental. She kept thinking back to that internet chat, to the game, and she'd find herself getting wet. Mike was there, revelling in the game, she flirted and dropped a few more clues. * * * * * * * * * * Most internet games wore off, their themes tired, and Lynsey got bored. She wasn't looking at him, so Jack allowed himself a gloating smirk. You're so fucking hot, he whispered, putting his hand on her shoulder and keeping pressure there. Her mouth opened, and she took his hard rod between her wet lips.
And then spreading her legs and letting her cyberpartners push her to splendid orgasm. But of course, she was always careful never to give away too much. Meanwhile, her chatroom masters' had gathered in a restaurant, a real restaurant to celebrate. And then he pulled the rope tight, and she found herself jerked up onto her toes, dangling from the hook, her body almost suspended. Jack walked in front of her, she wouldn't meet his eyes. The signs of involuntary arousal were all over her body. We each figured that the merry go round was good for one ride apiece. He crudely and impersonally shoved his finger up her ass, lubricating it again and again. Even with his weight on her back, she succeeded for a second in raising her upper body. Her shoulders worked, her hips bounced, her legs kicked within their bonds.
It was one thing to dress in slutware, to spread and whimper and beg in front of the computer screen. She didn't go to a peep show on Granville, to the third booth, where a glory hole waited, and so never sucked a cock, was never spotted, photographed, sorted and identified. Fucking A, Mike, Ian crowed, Fucking A, we tracked her. A champagne bottle popped, and soon they were all toasting him. He grabbed her hair and slapped her face twice, the sound of his hand on her flesh, the stinging in his palm, made his cock leap. He stepped around behind, amused when she tried to tip toe away, to escape him. Lynsey, in her haze, even lifted her ass for him, wiggling it in hopes he would go back to fingering her cunt. Mike was indifferent if it caused her pain, in fact, he might enjoy that. His cock hardened even more, grew violently urgent. Lynsey, he told her, I'm going to fuck you up the ass. She went still, he could tell she was absorbing the knowledge. I'm going to take my big cock and shove it hard up your tiny little cherry asshole.... Mike laughed with pure pleasure, enjoying the way she wriggled like a fish on a hook.
Little did she know, the Mike also lived in Vancouver, as did three or four other men who frequented that chatroom from time to time. It didn't matter to her whether her cyberpartner came which was bad enough. Then he instituted a file function to record her visits to the chat room and everything she said. * * * * * * * * * Lynsey found herself flying through the day. Her lips were like putty, she was barely responsive.
She signed off without explanation, as she usually did, and went to watch TV. Abruptly, he created a new database directory, named it Linsey, and dumped all the clues' in there. He lead her to the hallway, and stopped her there, taking her chin and kissing her.
Exhausted worn women, with their smudged make up and too bright lipstick, slouching in their fuck me' outfits. But still, there was the possibility, a real possibility, so faint and illusive that it was almost nonexistent, but just there enough to spark her clit. Gonna put heavy ass rings, maybe 4 gage, gonna braze them so they can't be taken off, make them so big you see them poking through her bra. They knew her birthday, three digits of her social insurance number, and four digits from her Mastercard. Sure, there was a certain fun to it, a certain excitement. So he sat there, reading the same fucking newspaper articles over and over again, scanning over every trainload of incoming passengers as they debarked on the platform and alternately fantasizing about raping the bitch and punching out Mike. It hugged so close he could see the telltale ridge at her hip that people might take for panties, but he knew was a garter belt. All those fucking promises, oh she never thought she'd have to come through, and she'd probably try to weasel out.... The minute she was out of sight, he grabbed for his cell phone. She's here, dressed exactly the way you said, fucking exactly. Only then did he lay the newspaper over his lap so he could unobtrusively stroke his erection, and lift up the camera screen to see what his pictures had captured of her. She gasped as she felt his hardness surge into her, for a second, her breath caught and her mouth gaped open with his fucking, gulping like a fish. It was strapless, and it kept slipping down, exposing her nipples. There were a pair of dirty white stockings that went with it. They stayed with her, making sure she applied make up. Ian walked her to the skytrain, accompanied her on it. I want you to lay face down in the foot area in front of the seat. Once she was wedged in, he covered her over with a blanket. Perhaps heaving up enough to open the door, tumble out, and go hopping away, shouting for help. Instead, she just laid there, staring at the carpet, hating herself for her weakness and her fear. He said, the moment I stuck my hand up between your legs... He controlled the urge, and simply smiled innocently at her. Jack watched the emotions, the confusion and uncertainty warring on her face, she didn't have enough presence of mind to conceal them. Jack again enjoyed her humiliation, but also enjoyed having witnesses who could testify to her consensual intimacy with him. She woke to rushing panic, her heart racing, pulse pounding, muscles clenching, her body washed with cold sweat. She was on her stomach, and there was a pillow under her hips, elevating them.