Oh, Yes! There was havoc that night. As soon as the three returned upstairs, Emerson ushered all of us out onto the porch, insisting that we keep our voices down. But that wasn’t possible. Kathy Ann was livid, Penelope scowling and critical. They voiced their objections, and both threatened to leave, or even worse, call the police. I sensed that Bo had his objections too. I could see the worry on his face, but the women were vocal enough for us all.
The way the scene started, I thought the place would descend into total chaos, with slammed doors and Penelope and Kathy Ann screeching off into the night, returning to the city. I would have liked to have left myself, but of course, I could go nowhere.
I slumped in a chair, feeling heartsick and nervous as I listened to the heated quarrel. Then, strangely, everything changed, as Emerson’s voice rose above their anger. He gave the soliloquy of his life. His words, his musing, his demons poured from his mouth as if he were defending his very existence. In calm and measured tones, he, for that moment, squelched the panic, and once again, we got caught up in his game, listening with rapt attention to every word. He wound a spell around us as if we were naïve children. He pulled us in when it was most imperative for him to succeed in that task. And he did it so well that afterwards, there were none on that old porch who weren’t convinced, or at least tricked into believing that what we were doing was our moral right.
It was a perfect case of the ends justifying the means. And how his voice still rings in my ears…
‘I know you think me mad as the mad hatter, but this is the most sane and logical thing I’ve ever done. I know, I know,’ he was pounding the doorframe emphatically, ‘that what we are doing here was meant to be done. I know this in my gut. She will be our inspiration, our muse, and what comes of these days will yield remarkable results. I know that to be true. And Veronica X with her petty life, and petty concerns, will be made vital, strong and womanly by our efforts. It is for us to ignite her passion, her physical body and her sorry spirit. I’m amazed that you can’t see it right off. Do I have to explain everything to you?” He sighed deeply and shook his head as if simply couldn’t fathom our hesitation. ‘You look outside the windows of the city and what do you see but mayhem, violence, war, that friggin war. Vietnam will be a plague on our generation’s soul. I know that. But this, this seeming atrocity will be one of our shining hours.’
I remember then his grim face breaking out into a sleazy smile—and Emerson was hardly ever sleazy.
‘It’s just sex, folks. That’s all. We’re going to toy with her, arouse her, teach her, play with her, and let her play right back. She’s going to be fondled and fucked, and whatever we choose to do to her, and you know what?’ He gazed around at us with steady eyes, ‘She’s going to crave it. She will beg for it. I’ve seen it. I know it’s going to happen. If you trust nothing about me, trust that. The little girl is going to become a slut, and that slut is going to have a damn good time.’
I don’t know how he did it, how he could take something so blatantly immoral and turn it into a glorified act of human liberation and have us believe him, but he did. We believed him. We honestly believed him. Maybe we were hypnotized. I don’t know. But I do know that we went to bed that night with the kidnapped Veronica X lying in the cellar and all of our minds focused solely on the next day, when Emerson’s experiment began in earnest. She looks her interviewer in the eye. What of this don’t you believe?
Well, there’s a lot to question here. But I think the most difficult is to believe that you six could create such a tight alliance that would allow your crime to play out without a hitch.
Oh, there were hitches! A lot of them. Every day we doubted ourselves. Penelope, Bo, Kathy Ann would raise objections, but every day we were won over by Emerson’s enthusiasm for his game. In that he became relentless. He ran hard and fast through the drills, her indoctrination, her training—and he wouldn’t let anyone leave until the first signs of her breaking down were clearly apparent and we could begin to see the gift we were to bestow on her.
So, were you more easily accepting of your husband’s scheme than the others?
No, I was not, I was panicked, like the rest of them. Petrified that we’d be caught. I mean when the papers came out with the story about the missing girl, I threatened to bolt, go to the police, and a dozen undoable ideas ran through my head to extricate myself from it. I argued with Emerson, insisted that he take the girl back and leave her in some safe place. I don’t know how many times, I imagined trying to wipe our fingerprints from her body and clothes, so we could get rid of any trace of who kidnapped her. Of course, none of my ideas made any logical sense. The only way to safely extricate ourselves from this mess and avoid potential prosecution was to do exactly as Emerson planned. If his plan worked, there’d be no victim and thus no crime at all. We had to hope that this was possible.
Emerson had thought this carefully through. I often shudder to think how many days and nights were spent as he concocted the plan—it may well have been years in the works. One of his first tasks once he had ensnared our imaginations was to gain our compliance by our participation. We were all indicted by our own inner depravity, and so quickly, too. What horrible creatures we must have been to be so easily swayed!
Was I more accepting of Emerson’s scheme than the others? I think I was more unsettled than anyone else appeared to be. When we were alone in bed that first night, I felt so strange. My husband, the man I thought I loved had just broken the law. He’d kidnapped an innocent woman and was now holding her captive in the same house where we slept. I found that astounding, unnerving. Part of me felt like my entire world was falling away from me, that my future was being written by a madman and there would be no escaping the nightmare. But I had no words then to express my disapproval, so like a coward, I said nothing.
Then you never agreed that this abduction was a noble exploit?
Well, yes, I let myself accept Emerson’s logic. It was the expedient thing to do. To not, I would have been torn apart with fear and regret. But now? Do I think it was a noble exploit? No. It was wrong. That some good came of it doesn’t wipe away the fact that we took away the free will of a woman and sought to remake her in the image we chose for her. It was a crime, pure and simple, a terrible crime for which we were never indicted. But that hasn’t kept the cosmic justice from having its say. Each of us in our own way has paid a price for what we did.
Do you suppose that the nights in the woods and on the beach were deliberately planned to make you ready?
I’ve sometimes wondered that too. However, I believe that while those savage nights certainly tainted our thoughts with deviant lust and a desire for more, they were not intended as part of Emerson’s plan. The fact that our descent into his world of anarchy helped put us in the mood certainly was to his advantage. He used that mindset well. All he had to do was tap into what was already bubbling erotically inside us.
***
The morning after the abduction, the six conspirators went to the cellar for their first session with the girl. It was to be conducted in silence, according to a plan that seemed perfectly clear to Emerson—and that was all that was necessary. He assumed that the rest of the group would catch on. His only instructions were to remain silent and follow his lead.
It was clear when the six descended on small cell that Veronica X was already awake. As they circled the pallet, they watched her test the ropes, and then listened to her groan again in dismay to find them dependably secure.
Emerson knelt at her head and gently stroked her face. “Nothing, nothing will harm you, my dear Veronica,” he whispered softly. “Nothing at all.”
In viewing her face, the kidnap victim seemed more like a child than a woman, with her vivid tangle of red hair and a sprinkle of freckles just barely visible at the bottom of the blindfold across the bridge of her nose. Her lips were full but pale now, as her lipstick was long ago smudged away in her useless battle for freedom. Viewing her body, however, one could not fail to see what a voluptuous woman she had become in nineteen years. Her breasts burst from her white cotton blouse, and her sensuous wide hips strained the seams of her short red skirt. Every time she squirmed, it seemed that a naturally erotic quality billowed from her struggling form.
Emerson nodded to Bo and Zack, who on cue, bent down and raised the pallet from the ground and placed it on the small table that had been moved inside the cell. She was now waist high to the six with her physical body convenient to probing hands and tender lips.
Motioning Penelope, Kathy Ann and Daphne to the table, Emerson indicated that they caress Veronica’s lovely flesh. Meanwhile, Zack began cutting away her clothes. Beginning with the white blouse, he made careful motions using his Swiss Army Knife. With every upward swipe, a little more of the cotton ripped away—it took just two swipes before the girl understood what was happening. She arched her back with a look of anguish crossing her half-hidden features. Her muffled cry followed.
“Shuuuuuush, girl,” Emerson quietly commanded. “My friend’s knife is very sharp. You wouldn’t want to end up cut.”
This seemed to momentarily subdue the girl, but her stress—perhaps humiliation—was no less apparent. She shifted from side to side, rocking in a more careful attempt to communicate her distress. But this only made her body more appealing to the eyes that watched in fascinated admiration.
Soon, Zack tore the remnants of her blouse away, exposing her lovely breasts encased inside a sturdy white brassiere. With every breath, her chest swelled, venting a sensuous lushness that seemed to expand minute by minute. It was hard to believe that the girl was not in some way aroused. Her fear seemed to fall away like icicles warmed by the sun. Kathy Ann ran her warm hands along Veronica’s stretched out legs, noting their smooth and youthful texture. Avoiding Zack’s knife, Daphne grazed her hips and then the girl’s tautly stretched belly. Penelope was, perhaps, the most aggressive of the three, as her hands journeyed along the girl’s arms and caressed her face and neck. She then, without hesitation leaned in and kissed her face, even the lips that had been stretched all night by the cloth gag. The brunette looked toward Emerson as if to ask for him to remove the gag, but he shook his head and mouthed, “In time.” Penelope resumed her play, diving into the girl’s body and pushing the bra aside long before Zack’s knife had a chance to cut it away.
The three women could feel the girl’s conflict; they understood her fight and yet relished every indication that she was slowly submitting to their kind attention. Once Zack removed the white brassiere, both Penelope and Daphne massaged the exposed bounty with a surprisingly eager Daphne being the first to take Veronica’s pink nipple into her mouth. The steamy sensuality made the cellar warm and damp, as the fragrant fire of all four women clouded the air with female essence.
As Zack moved on to cut at Veronica’s little red skirt, the attentive group stopped their play long enough to watch the pretty pussy unveiled by his careful swipes. With the knife poised just under the waistband of the girl’s white panties, he looked up, gazing into all three women’s eyes and smiled broadly. Then with a sudden sweep upward, the nylon fabric split down the center and fell to the side, sending a fresh gust of feminine perfume into the air above, joining what had already become a heady sexual aroma. Two more strategically located swipes of his pocketknife and the panties were pulled aside and tossed to the floor, leaving the girl’s body naked, glowing softly in the incandescent light. Veronica’s pink white flesh was spotted with a few errant freckles and looked like precious alabaster, smooth and almost new. And there at the apex of her thighs was a nymph-like pubic mound with delicate labia lips just barely covered in a cottony fluff of pale red pubic hair.
The girl thrashed more now than she had since their work began, her big breasts knocking back and forth and her hips rocking side to side, looking as if they were straining to close, to cover her nakedness and the private places now brutally bared. Her neck and face reddened. Was she embarrassed or aroused? Her frantic movements panicked or fraught with desire?
Her fighting and thrashing got her nowhere. The warm female hands moved with ease over every inch of her lustrous body. The three massaged her legs, her thighs, her belly, her breasts; their lips tugged at the blindfold, and the buds of her nipples, and in one bold and terrorizing move a finger, Daphne’s to be precise, moved in-between her lower lips and inched its way deep where it might find a wetness gathering there. She shuddered in response, as a vicious but wonderful feeling darting through her body everywhere.
Yes, she must have been blushing to be so boldly toyed with. She’d be thankful for the blindfold now, so she wouldn’t have to look at their faces. And on an even deeper level, she must have realized now that her virgin life was about to come crashing down. At some point during that session, she would understand with some astonishment that her captors wanted her for sex and these moments with their hands and lips and the lovely but somewhat mocking sounds of the man’s voice were just the beginning.
“And that is enough,” Emerson finally announced to them all. He had to pull Penelope from her moment of blissful loving, and extricate Daphne’s fingers from the delicate, pink slit. Even Kathy Ann was reluctant to draw away. She breathed heavily with lips parted, her eyes curiously dreamy with desire. Emerson bent down. “That is all for now, my pet. You behave like a good girl, you’ll have more to enjoy.”
He sent the women upstairs, and had Zack and Bo return the pallet to the floor—a safety precaution.
“She’ll need this, I think,” he said, dragging the bucket he intended for a piss pot next to her bed.
Bo untied her feet, while Zack locked a collar round her neck and loosened the restraints on her hands, enough so she could use them.
“This is your toilet,” Emerson told her, drawing the girl’s hands to the round metal bucket. “Use it now.”
The girl had to think a moment to realize that she was no longer so extremely bound. Once she got her bearings, she moved quickly, crouching over the bucket, with the sound of her tinkling urine raining down against the metal. When she was finished, she fell back to the pallet, sitting on her bottom, her knees bent, and her bound hands falling between her legs, looking in some ways like a forlorn child.
“Now you want something to eat and drink, I imagine?” Emerson declared.
She nodded her head.
“That is fine with me, but if you want to eat and drink you must promise me you won’t scream for help when I remove the gag. That clear?”
She made no response.
“You could scream of course,” he went on, “but you’re locked in a cellar in the middle of nowhere. There’s no one around for miles but us. I’ll remove the gag, and in time, I might even keep it off. But even one plaintive cry from you for help and not only will the gag rarely leave your mouth, I will thrash your ass as punishment. Is that understood?”
She nodded then.
The gag had so strangely distorted Veronica X’s mouth that it was quite lovely seeing her lips as they were naturally formed, their fullness more evident and clearly pleasing. Emerson immediately noted their erotic quality, reminding himself that this simple feature was one of the things that had attracted him to the girl at Zen’s. He thought of how they’d be used, how they would kiss, what they would look like with his wife’s lips pressed against them, or with his wife’s cunt wet and hovering over them in preparation for the way they would suck her to an exuberant orgasm.
Moving on from this momentary reverie, he fed her a bowl of mashed cereal with protein powder and dried fruit. It probably didn’t taste too bad, but taste hadn’t been his aim. He needed to keep her nourished, and gave her just enough food to keep her healthy and able to perform as he desired. After she ate, she drank from a pan of water, lapping the liquid in the only way she could, like a thirsty beast. When she was finished, she sat back on her heels and waited.
“Good girl,” he said, encouragingly.
A new gag was fastened around her neck; this one was a rubber ball gag that should be easier on her mouth. Bo and Zack retied the ropes to secure her to the pallet, arms above her head and legs spread wide. Extinguishing the light, Emerson nodded for his friends to leave by flashlight. He would follow as soon as he heard their footsteps on the stairs. But before he left, in an impulsive move he had not planned, he untied the blindfold where it was knotted behind her head. This was a small kindness, but it wouldn’t mean much in the pitch black of the earthen cellar. The only light she’d be able to see was a small dim crack under the door that led to the stairs.
“We’ll see you again soon,” he said before he made his way in the inky darkness to the door and left Veronica X to the nothingness of her new existence.
***
“It’s a matter of training,” Emerson told them. “We start with sensory deprivation, punctuated by intense moments of physical pleasuring. We’ll do this for about a week, until Veronica is craving the hands that will in seconds arouse her to a sexual state of want. She’ll be so sensitized to her infrequent but astounding sessions of touch that she’ll start liquefying at the sound of our footsteps on stairs. It’s just that simple.” Emerson spoke as if he’d read all this from an instruction manual on the sexual manipulation of female captives.
“Sounds like the perfect torture,” Penelope noted dryly. “I like it.” She seemed more like herself now, less submissive, although without her previous bite. Her own journey to the dark had seen to that, and the effect had surprisingly stuck.
Emerson was pleased to see her enthusiasm since it helped keep Daphne and Kathy Ann in check. He went on, “In a week or so, she should be ready for more freedom. We’ll remove the twenty-four hour restraints, allow her to walk about the cell. But it’s imperative to keep our sessions tactile and sexually oriented. I want her craving and wildly excited, driven mad with need, until she finally asks for what she wants.”
“And that is?” Bo asked, in a rare comment.
“Her virginity taken, of course. It won’t be rape, I’ll see to that. I plan to have the whole thing filmed.”
“You think that’s wise?” Bo looked suspicious.
“Yes, I do. If we capture on film the picture of a woman begging for sex, wild with passion, cunt dripping, mouth hungering for cock, her body moving on us aggressively, it will be a bit of security just in case.”
“In case of what?” Bo asked. “You’re thinking we’ll get caught, aren’t you?”
“Good, God, no!”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be so sure that’s not in your mind.”
“Well, certainly,” Emerson backed off slightly, “we have to be mindful of the possibilities. That’s why the film. Insurance. But it’s been my plan from the start, that Veronica X will be so hot with sexual fever, so eager and ever grateful for what we give her, that once she’s freed, there will be no question of her going to the authorities with some strange story of an abduction and rape. Trust me. It’s systematic and foolproof. One step at a time. We’ll reel her in.”
As Emerson spoke, Bo studied the man, just as he’d been studying Emerson for the last six years since the day of their first meeting. His mental files on his friend were brimming with untold observations, and so it was with a heightened kind curiosity that the entire room waited for his next comment. His reaction to Emerson’s stated mission started with a slow nodding of his head, his expression grim, then slowly his response evolved to a soft, knowing snicker. His eyes lit in an unusually dark way for Bo. “I wouldn’t have believed it, Emerson, if I hadn’t seen it,” he finally said, with the sound of awe in his voice, “but you know, I think it’s going to happen, just the way you describe.”
“Of course, it’s going to happen. Gets into the blood, doesn’t it?” Emerson was relieved to hear that Bo, of all people, put his stamp of approval on the plan.
“Oh, yeah,” Zack followed him. “She’ll take us all, that sweet little bitch, all at the same time; that’s the ultimate fantasy.”
While the three expounded on the rewards of their endeavor, the three women were equally engaged in their own thoughts about Veronica X, although noticibly less vocal. Penelope mused about what taking the virgin would mean to her, while Kathy fumed apparently not as resigned as the rest. Daphne was silent and remote for a long time. Emerson noticed right off the two women quietly brooding. They were an issue to be handled.
When the conversation dwindled for a time, he suddenly turned to Kathy Ann. “So, what’s going on in that head of yours, Kathy?” The comment was intended to cut right through her sour mood, and she practically jumped from her chair at the sound of her name.
“It just troubles me, Emerson,” she stated flatly. She looked around at the others. “Don’t any of you think it’s strange that we’re here jovially discussing the abuse of a woman who’s now tied in the basement? Isn’t that the least bit bizarre?”
“Of course, it’s bizarre,” Emerson said. “It is supposed to be. It’s art; it reflects life. It’s true to our desires, which makes it a true and honest act to illustrate our personal revolution.”
“You’re twisting logic, Emerson.” Kathy’s face contorted defiantly.
“Sure. You can call it that, but is it any different than the twisted logic of our government, our politicians, our priests, our ministers, the fine educators who stick whatever facts may suit the tenor of the times into young brains and call it education? Everything is twisted. Truth, morality are relative to the situation. Right now, thousands of good boys have been pulled from their homes, guns shoved into their hands. They are marched off to war, to fight for what? What truth, what morality do they represent? Huh? Don’t go giving me some stupid line about morality, Kathy Ann. The truth about you is, you wish it were you down here.” He pointed to toward the basement for emphasis.
“That’s bullshit, Emerson!” she spat out.
“Is it really? I don’t think so. I think that’s the whole point of your objections.” His mouth twisted into a surly grin. “You know, a long night in the cellar can be arranged for you. How would that be? Huh? We all know that if Zack wanted to put you there, you’d do it in a heartbeat.”
She pursed her lips.
“Your problem is that you’re suddenly not the center of attention anymore. You want it to be you down there. You don’t care about Veronica, you care only that Zack is paying more attention to the girl downstairs than he’s paying to you. Well, you’d better get used to it, because you’re in this for the long haul, just like everyone else.”
“Stop it, Emerson!” she said tersely. “It is about the rightness of what we do.”
“No, I won’t stop,” he shot out curtly. “And it’s not about the rightness at all. It’s about Kathy Ann feeling left out again.”
She turned toward Zack. “Please make him stop.”
“Why make him stop, luv. Hum?” Zack returned. “You’re acting pretty bratty for a girl who was having a hell of a good time a few minutes ago.”
“Zack…”
“I saw you. We all saw you. And I don’t like it when you lie.”
“Sweetie, please, you can’t…”
“Can’t what? Be serious about Veronica X? I’m damned serious about the girl. I have to be. We all have to be, because like Emerson said, we’re in this for the long haul. He’s right about you, you know.” He got up and walked toward her, reached down, took her hand and pulled her up. “You wanna be the little princess too. Right?”
Everyone could feel Kathy Ann’s energy swell as she reacted to the sound of Zack’s hard words by turning to putty in his cruel hands. She stood motionless, while his arm moved around her torso, his fingers finding her behind and grabbing her cheeks in his hands. She no doubt expected something sexual, but he started to spank her and spank her hard. When the position became too awkward to spank her as hard as he desired, he turned her over his left arm, so he could whack her rear firmly with his open palm. Soon, even that was not enough, so he raised her dress to have her ass naked. Her bare bottom turned from pink to red as one rough smack followed after the one before in a cadence suffused with righteous indignation.
Kathy Ann’s initially responded, twisting fitfully. Although she voiced her objections, they were quickly supplanted by the sounds of her undeniable arousal. Each smack heightened the erotic sensation tearing through her body.
Zack, as equally roused, tore her sundress off over her head, exposing her naked body underneath. She was hot, perspiring, quivering close to cumming as the spanking went on and on and on.
“Oh, oh oh oh…” she panted loudly, as she came close to crashing through the pain and discovering the pleasure on the other side.
But that was at that point Zack chose to stop.
“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he asked as if it were an accusation.
“Oh yes, Zack, darling, please I am,” she replied, pleading.
“Well, you’re not going to come now, you’re gonna wait for what you get.” He drew her upright and looked her in the eye. “I thought you got the picture on the beach, Kathy, but since that didn’t stick with you, I’m going to show you what a slut you are. You think there’s just not enough attention being paid to you… well, guess what? You can spend the next few hours in bondage, just like our Veronica downstairs.” He was mad now, whipped to a frenzy. “Ropes, Emerson.”
He pushed her in front of him through the porch door to the nearest large tree where she was bound face forward. Her mouth was gagged with Penelope’s panties, relinquished at Zack’s request, and her eyes were blindfolded with his t-shirt crudely tied around her head.
“Hope you’re happy now,” he said as he gave her pink fanny one last whack and walked away.
Even Emerson couldn’t top this show of dominance—this was why he admired Zack so. Fitting, he thought. Having now dispensed with the vapid woman at least for now, Emerson turned his attention to his wife.
“So, dear, everyone here has weighed in on the issue of Veronica X but you. You want to tell me what’s been going through your petulant brain?”
“How can you be so sure it’s petulant, Emerson?” Daphne answered him. She spoke evenly, sounding strangely rational when the mood of her friends seemed particularly on edge—for good reason.
“I’m your husband, Daph. I know your moods. You want to be strung up to a tree like Kathy Ann?”
“It has its benefits,” she continued in the same detached manner.
“Yeah, and that would be perfect for you. Hide your feelings against a tree. Go inside yourself and be as happy as one of those anonymous bugs climbing through the tree bark.” He stopped and looked at her, his temper obviously rising. “Back to my question, Daphne. What’s going on for you?”
“Aren’t I doing what I’m told?” She tried again to placate the man with a reasoned reply, but he hated her passive tone.
He looked at her oddly. “What’s going on, Daphne?”
“Nothing. Honestly, Emerson. Really. I swear.”
“Mind if I don’t believe you?” His agitation seemed at the boiling point. Hot. Rugged. Tempestuous. Frightening for Daphne who knew what his temper could do. And yet, she hadn’t the will to stop herself for running right into his trap. She knew how to stop him. All she had to do was tell him that she wasn’t feeling well and he’d back off. But at the moment, the piece of her that needed this confrontation with her husband was in charge; the two were destined to clash and clash aggressively. In her hesitation, she’d stepped over the line and there was no retreating now no matter what excuse she gave.
When Emerson’s blue eyes turned steel gray, it was the signal that his passions were on fire. Even from six feet away, Daphne could feel the throbbing of his cock inside her hand, against her thigh, between her legs. And more than that, she could read his thoughts enough to know where they led. She knew what he wanted to do with her, and how he would choose to end this insignificant quarrel. She waited for it, expecting it, finding an eroticism about it that she craved to complete.
“Excuse me,” Emerson said, making his move. “If you don’t mind, my wife needs to be attended to in private. Since the cellar is already in use, I think we’ll use the shed.”
“Be my guest,” Zack said. He didn’t smile, but there was a look of sadistic satisfaction on his face.
Bo and Penelope just nodded, as they felt the energy between the couple pour out all around them. It was distinctly sexual, fanatic, explosive, even dictatorial on Emerson’s part and, in equal measure, erotically acquiescent on Daphne’s.
This script had been written in advance.
***
“Something in you just begs to be beaten, doesn’t it?” Emerson faced off with his wife inside the creaky confines of the shed, lording a husbandly power over Daphne that reeked with Old World attitudes of male-female relationships.
“Yes, I’m beginning to think so,” she answered, her head bowed.
“What is it? You need your defiance whipped from you?”
“Maybe.” She bit her lip and shrugged. She may have looked calm, but the passive exterior defied the teaming goings-on that had her belly aching and her crotch hot.
Emerson didn’t like her vague replies. “Have I somehow offended you?” he wondered.
“Well, it’s possible that the girl, Veronica, offends me,” Daphne managed to say.
“Really? Have you not heard a thing I’ve said?” he wondered. “I’ve given adequate explanations, you should be satisfied.”
She remained motionless.
“I didn’t see you running away from teasing the girl’s cunt. I didn’t even ask you to do that.”
“I know. I was glad to do it for both of us,” she said.
“But somehow you found it morally reprehensible. Right?”
“No, no…how could I find that any more reprehensible than what’s already happened? I guess I’m just confused, Emerson. I’m sorry.”
He nodded. Daphne was easily confused, battered by her own brain that was so easily swayed, that took every side and every point of view, but found it so difficult to settle on her own opinions. “You’re my wife, and you need to be one with me on this. If you can’t be, Daphne, then we can’t play at marriage very well, can we?”
“I suppose not.”
“Is that what you want to do, end it?”
“No!” she practically shrieked. “I love you, Emerson. I honestly don’t know why sometimes, you stretch my thinking so, but I’d – I’d be so lost without you.”
“Well, then what you have to do, Daphne, if forget about your doubts and your inhibitions and stay with the sexual fervor that drives you, because that is your primary motivation, whether you want to deny it or not. You’ll take your lust into the cellar with me, climb on that girl and make her into the slut she is. All that clear?”
“Yes, yes, it is,” she sounded more sure of herself, but then, that might just be placating her husband.
“Now, take off your clothes. I think it’s time you had a graphic reminder to quell the rebellious beast in you.”
At the sound of the order, Daphne threatened to blush—a queer fact of the moment that made her oddly embarrassed as she faced a husband ready to punish her weakness. But because the strange thrill in her gut would not let her flee the shed, she unbuttoned her blouse like a sheepish kid, unhooked her bra, then pushed her shorts to her feet and stepped out of them and her pink sandals.
Meanwhile, Emerson, who had apparently planned well for such an occasion, pulled a leather strap from the wall. It was not two feet in length, but it was a good three inches wide and would pack a mean punch on a deserving behind. Seeing it, Daphne shivered to the bone.
Emerson’s long shirtsleeves were now rolled to the elbow. Most men on a warm day like this one, in a casual vacation environment would dress in t-shirt and shorts. The fact that Emerson chose instead to dress like a banker in slacks and a crisp white shirt attested to one of the many ways he thumbed his nose at the Woodstock hippie 60’s. For the occasion, it gave him the upper hand with his wife. He looked exactly like the young autocrat that he was pretending to be that day.
As Daphne looked at his bared forearms, the sinewy muscles, the tanned skin and the blanket of bleached-blonde hair, her excited shivering expanded.
This was right for her. She needed a man who could settle her quandaries, who forced her to turn off her obsessive thoughts, who brought her back to the body that longed at its core for ripe, raw, sexual pleasure.
“Grab that bar above your head,” Emerson pointed, and she turned to follow the instruction, noting the yard long steel bar that had been bolted to the wall. It looked like a heavy iron towel rack, although its original purpose in the building was unknown.
A tremor of lust rifled through her body as Daphne reached up and grabbed the bar, stretching to her full height, nearly on tiptoe. Her fists clutched the rod so tightly that her knuckles whitened from the effort. With his wife in place, Emerson stepped up and measured the distance thoughtfully. Then with an angry passion burning in his gut and extending through his arm, he began to thrash his wife with repeated blows to her white round buttocks. Her skin reddened as rapidly as the blows turned plaintive moans into shrieks.
The first smacks were like a tonic that added to her lust, but the lovely feeling ended abruptly as her bottom began to sting. It might have been her imagination, but she felt that with every blow of the leather, Emerson increased the strength. The fiery blade soon delivered such a rain of woe that she nearly slumped to the floor. Thankfully, Emerson chose that moment to pause, which allowed the surface burn to penetrate deeper. The heat wound its way inside where it upped the intensity of her lust, turning pain into another form of pleasure.
This sensation, along with the deep satisfaction she felt in being justifiably punished, made her nearly orgasmic in a matter of minutes. Emerson noted this with some curiosity, but he had no intention of doing anything but punish his wife until his own ire had abated. He then jerked her out of this near ecstasy by changing implements. Using a cat of braided leather falls; the effect was instantaneous. Against her back, her shoulders, her buttocks, her thighs, the nasty tool inflicted a damaging thrashing intended to turn her entire backside raw and her whimpering moans into a pleading scream.
“Oh, please, no more!” she vented over and over. But the blows kept raining down.
He loved to hear that tormented voice, every plea, every cry, every wounded grimace. He wanted her hurt. He wanted this justice hard. It wanted his ire satisfied until it was wiped from his body. He wanted her hurt as much as Daphne desired to be hurt. And more important than anything, he wanted her to understand how much he owned her.
She was his wife, goddammit, and she was bound to be everything he desired her to be. He was the sadist, she the masochist and this was how they would live.
Perhaps there was some cosmic force that joined the two and made them play out this scene with such horrifying fervor. Could it be called cruel or violent if they both reached a heightened state of pleasure in sadomasochistic bliss? Or was this just the way they best knew how to love?
After a time, time being relative so it was difficult for them to gauge, Emerson had had enough. He dropped the whip and moved in close to Daphne’s thrashed behind. He kissed her neck, while his right hand teased its way down her side and fondled the swell of her hip.
She shivered darkly, having just one thought pouring from the mindless stupor of pained pleasure. When Emerson’s hand drifted between her thighs, she gasped, her body jerking slightly.
“You need to come,” he said.
“Un, huh,” she could barely breathe, let alone form words to speak.
It took seconds, not minutes, of one lean finger snaking between her labia and finding her wet clit.
“Oh, my!” Her body instantly tensed. She still clung to the bar, but she leaned back into his chest, her mouth open wide in awe and her body shaking, with the climax moving through her in spasmodic waves.
In the midst of her finish, Emerson withdrew his erection and slipped it without protest into her ass. His orgasm erupted nearly as quickly as hers did, joining in the last of her spasms and breathless cries.
He whispered again: “You may doubt yourself, Daphne, but don’t doubt me. It’s something unique that we do here, exceptional and worthy of our best efforts. It may be morally wrong, but we won’t know that until it’s finished. And if it is, you can trust me, we’ll survive it and move on.”
This is what he believed.