Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl, Book II

Chapter 4

Denise’s body writhed as she dangled at the end of the chain. She was sobbing, terrified at the prospect of her imminent torture. The Turk savored her fear. Her delectable body was now covered with a sheen of sweat that her fear had wrung out of her. He stepped towards her and ran his hands over the breasts and belly that he owned. He peered deeply into her blue eyes relishing the panic that was reflected in them. He could hear her murmurs of hysterical pleading from behind her mask. It steeled him in his purpose.

It was difficult for Denise’s mind to comprehend what was happening to her. What had she ever done, she thought, to deserve such cruel treatment? How would she be able to stand the pain of whatever torture this dark, hard man had in store for her?

The Turk stepped back and took a long, narrow hickory switch from the wall. He swished it in the air in satisfaction. It would do nicely.

When Denise saw the switch, she realized that she was to be whipped. She remembered the sharp, painful lashes she had received from the Turk in the apartment. She realized that this was not to be several quick, sharp blows meant as a punishment. This was something else. This beating was to be for its own sake. It purpose was for nothing more than the satisfaction of her master’s sadistic pleasure.

Before commencing Denise’s torment, the Turk used small, thick leather belts to fasten Denise’s legs together at the ankles and just below her knees. He connected the ankle belt to a hook recessed in the floor. He then pulled the chain tighter, stretching Denise so that her body presented an unmovable, taut target.

The first blow of the switch fell on the twin globes of Denise’s ass. It produced an immediate red line of damaged flesh. Denise howled at the pain. It stung fiercely and reverberated throughout her body. The Turk’s second target was the back of her thighs. The poor girl’s body convulsed as she absorbed the terrible pain from the slicing of her skin. Blood trickled down from the wounds. The Turk landed three strokes in rapid succession across her back. At each blow, Denise emitted a high pitched screech.

Turk paused to contemplate the results of his cruel treatment of the trussed up woman. He could see her chest heaving as she sobbed uncontrollably. He slowly walked around the object of his anger and lust. When she saw him cross before her, Denise knew that her breasts would soon suffer the vicious bite of the lash. She moaned and shook her body causing the mounds of soft flesh to sway and tremble. Suddenly, the lash bit into the tender orbs. The lash made a loud snapping sound as it bit hard into her taut skin. Methodically, the Turk worked his way down her torso, striking at her belly and her thighs. He then worked his way up again, finishing with a well-aimed blow directly across her tender n*****s.

Denise’s body was now crisscrossed with the evidence of the Turk’s cruelty. She hung there limply, her face awash with tears. The Turk’s anger was abated, but his lust was enflamed. He stripped off his clothes and then lowered Denise to her knees. She looked up at him abjectly, begging with her eyes for pity. He unleashed her mask and removed her gag. He spoke to her for the first time since she had awoken on his island prison.

“You are going to suck my c**k, cunt. And I want it slow and pleasurable. Suck it like you mean it or I’ll have you back on your feet in a second.”

Fearful and trembling, Denise nodded her understanding of the Turk’s threat. She eyed the Turk’s thick, hard c**k and opened her mouth. She would pleasure him well, anything to avoid being beaten.

The Turk guided Denise’s head forward until his c**k passed over her trembling lips. She seized it with her mouth, wrapping her tongue over its meaty end. Slowly she pulled her head back and forth, caressing the length of the hard flesh. She judged the success of her efforts by the moans of pleasure that she heard. The Turk groaned as the hot mouth enflamed his swollen prick. He grabbed the chains from which Denise hung to steady himself as pleasure coursed through him. He began to rock his hips to meet the rhythm of Denise’s efforts.

The room, which moments before had echoed with Denise’s moans of pain, now resounded with the Turk’s moans of pleasure. He could feel his juices rising, but held them back to enjoy the exquisite feeling of teetering on the edge of climax. When he could hold back no more, he thrust his c**k deep into Denise’s mouth and spewed his discharge inside.

Denise cried with joy as he came. She had pleased him, she knew it. She would be spared. For now.

The Turk left the naked and still trembling woman where she was. Her hands were still above her head and her knees were painfully set upon the rough concrete floor. Denise did not look up as he left, but shuddered as she heard the door clang shut. A few moments later she heard it opening again. The Turk had returned. For a moment, Denise feared that he had decided to come back and renew her torment. He stood over her, a looming menace. She dared not raise her head to look for fear of provoking him.

But the Turk had not come back to whip her again. She felt the leather gag being pressed against her mouth and the mask reapplied. It was buckled tightly behind her head. The Turk grabbed her chin and lifted her face. He took a long look, staring deeply into her eyes. He could see the fear and desperation behind them. She had good reason to be afraid. Many a young woman had been broken on the strange instruments of torture that lay throughout the room. Now it would be Denise’s turn.

But there was a spark of pity in the Turk’s eyes. For a moment he imagined that it was Cheryl that knelt there before him. He recalled her frantic pleas when she had thought that he was going to maim her. He remembered their passionate kiss. Would he never be able to forget her?

Disgusted with himself, the Turk turned and left the room.

The Turk had shut off the light as he left and Denise was immersed in total darkness. The stone walls and steel door shut out all sounds. She could hear only the shifting of the chains as she moved to adjust the weight on her knees. The Turk had fastened the bindings just below her knees to the hook recessed in the floor. Denise could not stand up nor could she lie down.

In the darkness, her mind wandered through the day’s events trying to make some sense of them. Her whole world now was these three strange and cruel people. It was hard to believe that it was all real. Would she wake up on Cheryl’s bed sweating and startled at the terrible nightmare she had had? Would she ever learn what had happened to her sister? How many days of torment lay ahead of her before her own ultimate fate would be revealed?

Denise fought back her tears. She felt that she had done nothing but cry since she had awoken in her cell earlier that day. She wanted to stop. If she didn’t, she thought, she would go mad.

Part Eight

SISTERS

Everywhere Denise looked, there was darkness. Open or shut, her eyes could fathom no difference. It was as if she were submerged in a sea of black ink. Not the slightest shimmer of light entered the subterranean tomb in which she knelt, her hands bound above her, her mouth rudely gagged. No sound either, other than the slight echo from her muffled moans or the faint clinking of the chains that held her arms together suspended in the air.

She had been kneeling for what seemed like hours. The man had beaten her, whipped her skin raw, abused her, raped her mouth and then left her here to suffer, alone in the dismal darkness. Her knees, affixed to a ring in the floor, were being rubbed raw by the rough concrete beneath them. Only by pulling on her chain with her bound arms could she alleviate the pain of the abrasions on her skin. But then her arms would begin to ache, extended to their extreme, not really strong enough to bear her weight. The silenced woman tried to maintain a desperate equilibrium between the pain in her arms and her knees. As time wore on, this became more and more difficult, the pain more and more excruciating.

The lithe, young blond woman, naked but for her collar and her leather bracelets, had been condemned to muteness since she had awoken a prisoner in the Turk’s estate house. Except for the purposes of eating, hygiene or to caress the Turk’s rigid manhood with her lips and tongue, she had worn a leather mask over the lower portion of her face. The mask was attached to a long, thick plug that filled her mouth and reduced all but the most violent moans and cries to mere whimpers. Her arms, when not confined as they were now for purposes of abuse or affixed to the headboard of a bed, were kept locked behind her back.

Everything was done for her. She had no right to any volitional activity. A short, rotund old woman, strong as a peasant’s wife, was her keeper; washing her, feeding her, wiping clean her intimate parts and, most importantly, making sure that she was available for the pleasure of the master of the estate. She did not know his name, only that he had kidnapped her 24 hours ago from her sister’s apartment in New York City. She had been there to investigate her sister’s disappearance and had by now surmised that the man who was her captor was responsible for her kidnapping as well.

The only other person that Denise had seen upstairs in the living areas of the mansion was an old man, apparently the old woman’s husband. He had not spoken to her except once, a murmuring in some foreign tongue as he caressed her breast. She had been kneeling, chained to the ‘family’ dinner table, awaiting her master’s pleasure. It was a gentle touch, almost kindly, but laced with a tinge of lust.

Her tormentor was a person known to his milieu only as ‘the Turk’. He was a tall, broad shouldered, well muscled man. His face was scarred and cruel. His jet black hair and dark brooding eyes had greeted many a young woman about to be condemned to s****l slavery. It was his business, his specialty. He had engaged in many of the various industries of crime throughout his life: assault, murder, theft and mayhem. If no drug dealer himself, he had killed for drug dealers or protected them from death. But it was the art of s****l enslavement that truly engaged him. He loved to see the frantic eyes widen as his broad bladed knife traced a thin line beneath their chins. He loved to hear the muzzled pleas to be spared after he had shoved a stifling gag into their mouths. He relished their tender, intimate flesh as he stripped them of their clothes and their dignities.

But Turk had made a serious mistake. He had indeed kidnapped Denise’s sister, Cheryl, months ago. He had sold her to the highest bidder after a forced strip show, web-cast by him to buyers all over the world. He had earned six figures for Cheryl, but he would return it now, in an instant, more, if that was what it took, for her return. For in one desperate moment, when Cheryl was struggling on the living room floor of her apartment, frantic with fear at her cruel captor’s intent, he had kissed her. And in that moment, she had captured his soul.

The worst part of it was that he had no idea where she was. The kiss had come after bids had been closed, bids submitted confidentially to an email account known only to the ruthless shadowy organization that served as the middleman for the Turk’s transactions. No one reneged on a deal with them if they wanted to live. No one. Not even the Turk. So, in spite of his growing reservations, the Turk had delivered her from her New York apartment, as instructed, to the parking lot of a small strip mall outside of Baltimore. Cheryl had traveled in the Turk’s van in one of his specially designed carrier boxes, drugged into a stupor. He had left the box there, in a dark alleyway for pickup by anonymous agents of the organization known only to him by its initial, ‘K’.