Archive-name: Bondage/the_bed.txt
Archive-author:
Archive-title: Bed, The
Wimples' first conscious thought was surprise at having one. Eyes
still closed his mind took inventory; A throbbing headache and a sore
neck served both to demonstrate that his experience had not been a
dream and that he was painfully alive. He tried to move and found
that something restrained him; obviously it was not over.
Still he was relatively unhurt, they probably frighten, not
actually kill their victims, he reasoned. All he had to do was play
their game, go along as though he believed and they would alternately
tire of cat and mouse and let him go. Probably a little shop warn,
certainly humiliated, but at least alive.
In spite of his predicament, his deductions afforded him more
than a small measure of comfort. Wimple could face anything so long
as he had some feeling of control. Even though he was clearly still
their prisoner he now possessed his wits and perception of reality.
Before their motives had been so utterly alien and unexpected as to
leave him confused and helpless, like a navigator sailing into the
void without celestial sights, horizon or even sea to fix on.
Now he knew them for what they where; sadistic rapists.
Countless women have faced and prevailed over such encounters in the
past, so could he. All he had to do was think as they had; placate,
plead even grovel, but above all wait for just the right moment to
act. Like all rapists before them, humiliation was their only true
passion, they would inevitably become careless in their driving need
to gloat. With care and a little psychology he could vastly improve
his chances.
The fact that the traditional roles where reversed made no
important difference. If anything, he had one advantage over his
female counterparts; his physical superiority. When the opportunity
presents, he plotted, he would use that strength to do more than
escape.
With that thought resolutely in mind he opened his eyes only to
be plunged again into confusion. At first he thought that he must be
hallucinating; he saw himself far below, fully clothed save shoes and
socks, bound hand and foot, spread-eagled, to the four corners of a
massive brass bed. For a split second he felt the nausea of falling
and then the realization of the absurd; the image was not below, but
above. A huge mirror spanned the four posts of the canopied monster.
His orientation restored, he took in the details of his
surroundings with the precision automatic to his nature. The bed,
pillows under his head, curtains festooning the overhead mirror and
even his bindings looked to be of black satin. Everything about the
bed and its appointments spoke of expense and permanence. This
did not bode well with his theory of ultimate release. He had
expected to find himself hog-tied among the rubbish in some back
forgotten alley. This was an exotic boudoir or at least what he
could see of it, would they let him go, to tell of it?
A footstep brought his attention abruptly from his reverie, the
top of a woman's head appeared to the left of his twin in the
mirror. He looked to his left and saw no one, only powder blue
walls atop oak wainscoting vaulted out of view. Furious with
himself for his stupidity in allowing preoccupation with the man
above to disorient him, he flung his head to the right and met
the gaze of the real world.
Raven surveyed him coldly like a butcher seizing up a roast, his
optimism collapsed into despair. Once again his reflection
mocked him, not in the mirrored surface overhead, but the evil
glint of a very large kitchen knife held lightly in what would
have otherwise been a graceful hand. She was clad only in a
brief black satin bra and panties, a perfect match for the bed.
He had always considered black an erotic color, now he was
reminded of its more traditional use.
Wimple wondered if its brevity was designed to tease him or
simply prevent her from soiling he clothes. Her maniacal manner made
him strongly suspect the later.
He struggled frantically against his bonds. Her free hand
flicked out with blurring speed and slapped his face hard in a mind
numbing staccato burst. His tear fogged vision revealed Her leer
had deepened with obvious satisfaction.
She put her index finger to her lips, admonishing him not to
speak, while at the same time brandishing her blade to and fro
like a deadly metronome counting out a dirge. She towered over
him, well over six feet tall, her manner made her seem even
taller. Raven was as hard as Jennifer was soft.
Jennifers' body was a single liquid curve, ripe melon smooth
breasts, petite flowing torso, Earth Mother hips, all gentle,
delicate and inviting. Even in the last moments at the cobbled
circle she had been comforting.
Ravens' body seemed chiseled in stone, hard, angular, muscled
like a dancer, rigid yet poised as though an Olympic gymnast or jungle
cat just before a leap. She was without question the most bountiful
woman Wimple had every seen, immensely female, but in no way feminine.
Her bosoms thrust outwards like unassailable peaks, hips wide and
defiant, everything about her was quietly dangerous, dark, unyielding
and formidable.
Raven climbed slowly onto the bed, brandishing her knife like a
pirate boarding a captured ship. She come to rest heavily astride
Wimples' chest, pinning him tightly down. He felt like a insect on a
card as she coolly examined him. She looked down at him with
dispassionate curiosity, not with an intercourse of minds, but the way
one scrutinizes a thing.
Wimple averted his gaze nervously from hers in a vain attempt to
scan the room for help he knew would not be there. His attention was
quickly recaptured by the feel of cold steel against his throat. Her
blade lay flat against his neck, edge directed under his chin.
Wimple took the only defense left to him; he went limp.
Convinced his struggles would incite her the way a fleeing mouse
excites a cat, he gaped transfixed into her unsympathetic eyes,
daring not even to breath.
She returned an almost human smile of approval, tapped his nose
playfully with the flat of her blade and laid it aside with a
reassuring gesture. Almost forgotten, his breath returned in short
restrained gasps as though afraid to annoy by his need for air. If
anything, her mood lightened further in response to his obvious
deference. Wimple began once again to hope.
As if in answer, like a tide slowly rising up a beach, she slid
forward until his face was buried deep in the cleft of her warm
crotch. In spite of his rising fear the fragrance of her
womanhood brought back hungry pulsating need to his loins. She
swayed in perfect rhythm to his accelerating heart beat, closing
her thighs a little tighter with the period of each arch. The
wetness of her perfume soaked through the satin of her panties
filling every pore of his face, her smell became his world. His
breath gone, buzzing dizziness ringing in his ears his body began
to writhe in desperate need for air.
She slide down his chest, coming to rest astride his groin and
allowed him to gasp noisily for air. Her playful mood gone,
replaced by her usual deadly leer, she waited patently for him to
grasp what she was about to do.
Once again he felt the chill of her blade, this time against the
soft of his belly. Edge upward, between skin and shirt, she drew it
slowly toward his chin slicing through his clothing as though cleaning
a fish. The symbolisms of her gesture was crystal clear and
profoundly threatening.
His shirt laid open, her blade embedded in his throat,
restrained, hovering on the threshold of piercing his flesh, she
paused just long enough for him to get the other point. Satisfied
that he understood, she averted its edge down his sleeve. More
quickly this time, severing the fabric of the left and then the right
until finally his shirt lay open in ruins, like a freshly skinned
pelt.
Again she paused, this time much longer, drinking in the smell of
his fear as if a connoisseur sniffing a cork. Her body and his
quivered in unison; hers with evil passion, his in mounting terror.
She turned her blade downward, clutched firmly with both hands and
raised it high above his throat, as if preparing to plunge it with all
her might.
Instead it drifted down like a Autumn leaf, an act in slow
motion, until its tip touched his throat transverse to his body. Eyes
crossed and bulging he peered into the idiot countenance of his
reflection in the knife. Poised delicately she drew it broadside
down his body, marking its passage in light pain and heavy
anguish, mimicking where wounds might have been and yet may be
with a descending line of gooseflesh.
Agonizing moments later the point met the feeble resistance of
cloth. She dismounted, knelt beside him and turned the razor keen
edge under the fabric as before, cleaving the denim of his pants, it
fell aside like a plow through sod. All the while keeping delicate
contact with his flesh beneath, scraping over the tip of his penis,
down its shaft and over the scrotum. Wimple would have screamed in
horror but he dare not, her expression left no doubt.
Again her blade descended under cloth, first down one leg and then
the other, leaving his pants, like the shirt before it, disemboweled
in effigy. His skivvies where the last intact garment, Wimples'
barely functioning logic assumed they would go next. But as always
Raven did the unexpected, the woman was a craftsman, a student of
theater, she instinctively understood drama. He wasn't quite ready.
Somehow he still had partial a erection, certainly not supported
by passion, but rather forgotten in his anguish, like his breath
earlier. Raven turned her attention on the bulge under the white
cotton. She unsheathed her teeth in an evil grin and lowered her mouth
over his swollen member. Chewing just short of pain, expertly up and
down its rapidly expanding length until it seemed as though it would
burst.
Wimple couldn't believe his own response! How could his body
react to what his mind loathed? As in the lamp lit court, he felt
betrayed by his own body. The degradation committed against him was
nothing compared to the loathing he felt for himself.
Raven watched his reaction with intense interest, studying his
slightest twitch of expression. As though confirmed by some subtle
response in him, she intensified her manipulations. Wimple groaned
loudly, NO!, NO!, NO!, he shouted in whimpering frustration. Exactly
in concert with his cry, she plunged the knife under his shorts
rending them down to the crotch, and laid its cruel edge threateningly
against his impending eruption.
Everything fell with his erection; mind, purpose, self esteem,
will and even fear. All gone, extracted by Ravens' promised surgery
and his disgust for himself. Even the desire to breath seemed like too
much bother. He lay there, totally deflated, he felt nothing.
Now dispassionate and merely efficient, Raven finished cutting
away the remains of his shorts. Wimple stared blankly into space,
oblivious to her acts. She could have slit his throat an inch at a
time and he wouldn't have noticed or cared. She pulled the tattered
fragments of his clothing from under him, as though making the morning
bed. His head lulled back and forth unattached to his
consciousness.
Finally she finished her housekeeping and returned her attention
to Wimple, he wasn`t there. His body still occupied the surface of
the bed, but his mind had fled. With a great show of boredom she
remounted his chest. No reaction from Wimple. She slapped him hard
in the face. Wimple looked back with disinterest. Raven beamed in
autocratic triumph.
From somewhere deep inside Wimple a gurgling growl found its way
to the surface. His eyes, once vacant, now blazed back at Raven in
hateful defiance. You sadistic bitch!, he raged. If ever I get free
I'll have your god forsaken heart for lunch! He didn't care what she
did to him, she had gone to far fore him to care.
Instead of retaliating, she looked down on him with amusement,
shrugged and stepped lightly to the floor. She picked up her
discarded weapon and advanced on his prostrate body. Wimple was
certain that she was about to kill him, but his furry was far to
deep to do anything but glower. He was helpless to act, but if she
got close enough, his teeth would leave a lasting reminder of someone
who was not her groveling slave.
Ravens' knife went to his feet, not to his throat. She cut
through his bindings, left and right. Stepped casually to the head,
stretched over him, her breasts in easy reach of his anger and freed
his left hand, quickly followed by his right. Task complete, she
stepped backwards nimbly to the far side of the room, leaned
insolently against the wall, arms crossed, knife protruding upward.
Wimple didn't exactly leap to his feet, he had been bound to long
for that. His departure was more a resurrection than the vengeful
charge he would have preferred. Emotion more than restraint had left
him wobbly on his feet.
He looked across the room, eyeing Ravens' knife warily, trying to
figure his best option. In reply she twirled it in the air and caught
it by its tip. Raising the weapon over her shoulder, she readied to
throw. Wimple eyed the room for shelter, finding none he balanced his
posture to avoid the forthcoming missile. He was dubious of his
chances, all too familiar with her skill, he doubted she would miss.
Raven never failed to surprise, she threw, embedding the blade
deep in the floor exactly bisecting the distance between them. Wimple
had hardly expected sportsmanship but he wasn't fool enough to waste
an opportunity, he charged. Raven seemed to ignore him, her insolent
stance didn't change a wit, she simply grew in his view as he closed
the distance. A fraction of a second before impact she vanished, to
late to abort the charge. Wimple collided hard against the
wainscoting and fell to the deep pile wool carpet in a heap.
Every joint and bone achieving, he looked bewilderingly around
for the dematerialized woman. Laughter mocked him from behind. She
stood where he had begun, leaning as before against a post at the foot
of the bed. He had been foolish, the woman was younger, fit and
faster. He possessed the power, not the speed, to prevail he must use
it wisely. Wimple closed the distance between them, this time, more
cautiously.
???? TO BE CONTINUED ????
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