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| Trappers | Back to D | Back to main page |
Collected by Djian
update aug 7 - 2010
Another story by Wolverine | The Two Sisters | The Jogger | Trappers | Slavegirl in Blue
Trappers
by WOLVERINE
PART 3
Tony Jeffs and Sam Barnes are two middle-aged Englishmen who have set up a successful and lucrative business capturing and exporting beautiful girls to appreciative clients around the world, enthusiastically supported by Barnes’ wife Carla. Trappers 2 left the intrepid pair in the middle of enjoying the fruits of a profitable hunting expedition in the course of which they had trapped the teenage daughter of the senior police officer leading the hunt for them, along with her policewoman guard and the Head Girl of the exclusive private girls’ school where they had obtained her, a tall, lithe girl of Indian appearance. The two men had just finished thrashing and screwing the arse off the policewoman and were preparing to do the same to the dusky Head Girl: Barnes had made a sketch of a proposed position and showed it to his friend, who approved.
The sketch showed a tall female bent double, her long legs apart and her head shoved between them upside-down so her arse, her cunt and her eyes all stared out in the same direction and her chin nestled against her public hair. Barnes had filled in the naked figure with pencil strokes to indicate a dark skin colour. Carla peered over and made a kind of sucking sound, a swallowed laugh.
“Is that possible?” she asked.
“Only with a very athletic, fit and quite slim young body,” Barnes replied. “I think our Paki prize fits the bill, don’t you? Anyway, if we fail to get her into position, we’ve lost nothing. We might have broken a few bits on her, but who cares? They recover.”
So Yasmin was stretched and tied as in the sketch. She was an exceptionally fit young woman who had taken good care of her body, not knowing who would benefit. It worked. Her shocked, pained face was now sticking out between her long, smooth, warm brown thighs. Carla took a few photos, both for pleasure and for potential customers.
While she was being bent over, Yasmin had been almost silent, perhaps from shock, perhaps from fear; but now, foolishly, she started talking in her posh, Head Girl voice. Since her head was upside-down, this looked amusing.
“Look, this isn’t going to help. My parents will pay a ransom, though they’re not hugely rich, but…” Barnes shut her up by punching her hard in the mouth. Her lip burst and blood dribbled down into her eyes and hair. He walked with Jeffs round to the other side, where her fine, firm, brown breasts stuck out in lonely magnificence, their protruding nipples and large aureoles looking like an artist’s fantasy. He nipped and twisted them, chatting to his friend about their firmness, that this would add a few hundred to her price. Jeffs, agreeing, took one of her nipples between his fingernails and pinched hard. Out the other side, she screamed. He smiled and pinched harder. The nipple opened out like a flower. The scream rose and fell but never stopped till Jeffs finally released her. Out the other end now was a low, soft moaning.
“Like the sound effects!” Carla commented.
“Yes,” said Barnes, “those’ll push up her price a couple of hundred more when we share the recording.”
The two men strolled back to contemplate her two faces. One was bloody, but the other, the more beautiful and valuable, was still unmarked.
“Cane?” asked Carla.
“Yes, I think so,” her husband replied, “Just for starters.” Barnes offered him first go.
A marked advantage of this position, he thought, was that the caught cunt could see the cane descending on her arse. What was more, you could give the prissy, stuck-up young cow a cut or two on her stupid face too. But the arse must come first. He raised his arm. The plump but superfit brown arse was just asking for it. What did the unco-operative little cunt mean walking around with an arse like that and not sharing it? He’d show her!
The cane cut viciously into her right cheek till the meat nearly closed round it. The meat rebounded and the mouth screamed. Noting the angry red line he’d created, Jeffs sliced into her left cheek with the same result. The wide-open mouth and eyes annoyed him (who did she think she was, protesting?) so he cut one across her neat little nose and face-cheek. It seemed pointless to stop at one, so he cut the next one in across her nice full face-lips before returning to her arse and concentrating on the sensitive undercheeks, ruthless blow after blow landing in the same places. It was not so much of a scream now as a rising, falling wail. Tears mingled with the blood on her face. He was in a passion of anger and joy which only ended when he grew tired, his arm aching. Calming down, he handed over to Barnes.
Ten times the cane sliced into the suffering girl’s arse, across the red lines from Jeff’s cuts, before Barnes amused himself by landing a series of stripes all down the back of her left leg from uppermost thigh to a fraction above the ankle – and then leaving her right leg unmarked. He strolled over to Jeffs and Carla, ready for them to move on to their original target, the daughter of their enemy; but Jeffs had other thoughts.
“Sam, I don’t know what you think, but I reckon this cunt deserves some more,” he said. “Something about her irritates me. I want to hurt her even more and make her scream more. What do you think?”
“Hmm…strange you should say that,” his friend replied. “There IS something about her…poise? Class? Those stupid big brown eyes staring at you? Brown arse? Don’t know what it is, but now you say it, I want to hurt her more, too. Carla?”
“Hurt the bitch more! Just remember not to do anything that cuts her value on the market – so no slicing her tits off or scalping her, right?”
“As if we would!” Jeffs laughed. “Something like that would take hundreds off her price.”
The delay had allowed the Head Girl to compose herself. She had stopped crying except for the occasional snuffle, the blood running from her mouth was beginning to clot and she made the mistake of talking to them:
“Please…why are you doing this to me? Even if you’re, um, selling me somewhere foreign, why are you hurting me? I haven’t done…” She never finished the sentence, for Carla had slapped her hard across the face. Barnes completed the lesson by punching her hard in the mouth again, making the blood flow freely again. Laughing, Carla bent and licked up the blood as it emerged. Jeffs spoke to the girl very slowly as if she was stupid or hardly understood English:
“WE ARE HURTING YOU BECAUSE IT’S FUN. CLIENTS DON’T MIND IF A SLAVE GIRL HAS HAD HER LIPS BUST OR HER TITS SINGED AS LONG AS THEY CAN RECOVER. UNDERSTAND?”
The girl did not reply and Jeffs angrily slapped her.
“UNDERSTAND?”
“Y…Yes.”
“Good – because we’ve hardly started.”
“Boys, I feel like a smoke,” Carla announced. Neither man smoked, but even Jeffs as her husband made allowances for his wife’s occasional urges. On this occasion, though, he suspected something else.
“Go ahead, darling,” he replied. “I’m sure the young ladies won’t mind.” So Carla lit up. Languidly, she blew acrid smoke in the face and the cunt of the bound Yasmin, making her cough and splutter. Then she turned to her husband and said,
“I think we need her straightened up for a while. The poor little girl must be in a lot of pain from that unnatural posture, and besides, as she is, I can’t get at her tits.”
With three experienced operatives at work, the job did not take long. The Head Girl was now laid out on a low, plastic-topped table, head up, arse down, her limbs stretched into an X. Carla lit another cigarette, bent towards their victim, held it tantalisingly just above her left tit and plunged it into the side of the juicy brown toy. Yasmin screamed. Jeffs and Barnes chuckled and waited for what they knew would come next. With an expression that would have suited a musical conductor at the hight of a performance, Carla stubbed another cigarette down on to the Head Girl’s nipple and held it there.
“Something’s burning,” said Barnes.
“No, roasting,” said Jeffs. The girl was sobbing and mumbling incoherently; but Carla had not finished. The third burning cigarette went right into the girl’s cunt, and as she screamed and spasmed, Carla pushed it right in and left it.
“Some people do like their cigarettes in a holder,” Jeffs commented. “It could catch on.”
“Slight problem,” his friend replied, “I don’t fancy shoving my cock in there for a while.”
“Then let’s move on to our policeman’s little pet cunt and come back to the brown one,” Jeffs suggested.
Julie Graham had watched and listened to the torture of her dear friend Yasmin and the poor policewoman who’d been protecting her with horror, so much that she had been struck silent. It seemed to the three trappers that this experience had cowed and trained her even before her own treatment had started, for she barely struggled or protested as they fixed her into the same doubled-up position they had used for the Asian girl, only making little ridiculous noises like “No, please” and “Oh! No!”, or “IAAAAOW!” when Carla slapped her. She looked very enticing laid out, her little pink cunt invitingly displayed and her pert white bottom stretched as far as it would go. Her eyes were fixed on her captors and even her mouth trembled open.
“Good enough to eat!” said Carla.
“No, darling, that would be a waste. She’s a major asset and worth good money,” her husband replied. “Just check if the little tart is a virgin, would you, dear?”
Julie squealed as Carla’s bony hand pressed in. The two men had been confident Julie would turn out to be a virgin – only 18, attending a conservative girls-only school, so virginal-looking.
“No, she’s not. At least one cock’s been up here,” Carla reported.
“Must have been darling daddy. Understandable, really, cunt like that in the house. Was it your darling daddy fucked you, Julie? Was it?” She stared at Jeffs but did not reply, so he hit her hard in the mouth. Blood spurted out and then trickled down her cheeks. “WAS IT?”
“N…NO! It wasn’t daddy! He wouldn’t do that!” she protested.
“Stupid cop – if that’s true. What a missed opportunity! Tight cunt at his beck and call and he doesn’t fuck it! So who was it then, little slut? Brother? Family dog?” Barnes put his face close to her face and cunt and waited for a reply. He more than half expected that she’d need some persuasion to answer, but that didn’t turn out to be true. She started to cry, but through the tears she said:
“It was this man last year! It was awful! I was waiting at a bus stop and this big car drew up and he grabbed me and took me to this car-park and, um, raped me!”
“Don’t know why you’re sounding surprised,” Barnes commented. “Seems a natural enough thing to do. Were you in school uniform?”
“Bhurr, hur, hur, hur…yes.”
“Well, there you are, then. Practically asking to be raped. So did you tell daddy?”
“No! I couldn’t face it!”
“Stupid, deceitful, selfish girl!” Jeffs sneered. “He’d have loved to hear about it! He’d have got off on it!”
“No, he wouldn’t!” she insisted. “He’s NICE! I LOVE him!” Carla slapped her face.
“He doesn’t love you, little cunt, or you’d know the smell of his cock!” she said.
“Hello, little girl, it’s time for the cane!” said her husband.
“You can hear how much your Paki lover and that useless cop cunt liked it,” said Barnes. That was true, for the other two were still crying.
Jeffs raised the cane, grinned wolfishly, and sliced into both Julie’s undercheeks. She squealed delightfully but then was silent, biting her lip. The next stroke left a red line just an inch from the first. The third was another inch towards the height of her buttocks. She was shrieking but not crying. Carla was filming everything: later the footage could be edited and a copy would be sent to Julie’s father, while others would make good money.
The fourth seared right into the teenager’s cunt. The wail that produced was one of the sexiest things the trappers had ever heard; and from then on she was crying.
“I want some of her long, brown hair. I could twist it round my pinewood dildo,” Carla pleaded.
“Take it!” said Jeffs, and she yanked out about a quarter of the girl’s hair.
“Don’t think much of her hairstyle – bit punky,” Barnes commented mildly. “What’s next – tits or fucking?”
“Hmm…tits, I think,” his friend replied. He reached in and grabbed a handful of both Julie’s tight young tits, pulling and squeezing till she was wailing like a baby.
“No self-control, the young people today!” Carla sniffed.
The men tossed a coin for first fuck of the policewoman’s daughter. Jeffs won, and found her the tightest cunt he’d ever had. When he finally pulled out, he pumped all over her sweet face and into her long lovely hair. Barnes chose to force his way into her arsehole first, calling her a stupid, mean slag for resisting him; but the fact was, that she was not resisting – only her body was defending itself mindlessly. The ring snapped open and he bulldozed inside.
By the time he was pumping her cunt, she was staring at him without pride and without resistance.
“I think she’s fully trained,” he said. “She knows who her masters are. More sense than the Paki.”
He was right: Julia was conquered and enslaved. She knew her freedom had gone forever.
That night, after the captives had been fed, Carla pointed out that they had not shat. She brought an ancient tin bath and they forced the policewoman into it. She shat to order. Then the Head Girl followed and last Julie Graham. The three slaves understood why they’d been forced to make three separate steaming, stinking piles when their next order was given.
“You – Miss Piggy!” sneered Jeffs, “bury your face in the Superintendent’s whore’s shit. Yes, that pile there! Then eat it! I want to see it go!” The blonde policewoman hesitated, but did not dare disobey. She lowered her sweet face into the teenager’s stinking shit, but not enough for Carla, who placed a hand firmly on the back of her neck and shoved her face right in, rubbing it about there. She pulled it up a bit by the hair and demanded,
“Now eat! You heard us!” Amazingly, the girl ate. Carla pulled her up so they could all see her shit-blotched face and hair and laugh at it.
“The Cop’s private cunt next,” Jeffs ordered, leering at Julie. “You’ve got Paki shit to eat.” Julie stared at them with frightened, defeated eyes. Without a word, she ate. Carla, grinning, forced the Head Girl’s face into the policewoman’s shit and rubbed it around a bit till the girl took in a gobbet of stinking shit. Carla lifted her face up again just in time to hear the policewoman being sick. Barnes slapped her hard in the face, making her nose bleed.
“Look at the mess you’ve made!” he said. “Now lick it up!”
She licked it up.
Barnes stayed the night and waited till they could make contact with their best clients and finalise a sale. Jeffs took charge of this, staying well out of the way of his blonde, busty assistant Felicity Gower in case she might overhear something. Then he came to his friend with news.
“The Emir will take all three as a job lot, but he wants them prepared a bit more.”
“Prepared? Trained?”
“No, he’s happy with the training we’ve done. He wants them linked.”
“Linked? Which method?”
“The Yamamoto. He used to have a guy who could do that for him, but the inconsiderate man went and died. He knows there’s an expert in Europe and he wants us to get him in.”
“That’ll be expensive!” Barnes protested.
“He’ll make it worth our while – don’t worry,” his friend replied.
And so it was that the Czech Jan Kadar, expert in the Yamamoto, Streicher and Suarez methods of linking and inventer of the Kadar variant on the Suarez, arrived in Birmingham five days later. He was met in the shop by Felicity Gower, who was intrigued by this small, wiry, intense foreigner with the deeply-lined face, musician’s hands and thick accent. The man was charming to her and she actually found him attractive although he was quite old. He said he was an old friend of Mr Jeffs, and Felicity reckoned that either meant precisely that, or that he was a business contact. She did not particularly like the pornographic elements of Mr Jeffs’ bookshop, but the boss was courteous and considerate and the pay was quite good. She rather hoped Mr Kadar was just a friend of the boss and not a pornographer. She picked up the phone and told Mr Jeffs his friend had arrived. Mr Jeffs took quite a while arriving, but the foreign gentleman was very understanding.
“I am sure he is a very busy man,” he said. Felicity thankfully agreed.
Eventually her boss ushered Mr Kadar away and Felicity returned to her record updating. This was interrupted by a very loud thump of a heavy impact. It seemed to come from the basement. Had someone got hurt? Felicity knew that beyond the outer part of the basement, where old books and sundry materials were stored, was an area Mr Jeffs was adamant she should not enter. He said it was photography he did there, and this made sense, though Felicity had a nasty suspicion the kind of photographs he and his wife were producing were not very nice. She decided to run down to the part of the basement where she was allowed to check everything was all right.
When she did so she was surprised to see that the door to the forbidden part was swinging open. No-one was in the open bit and nothing there had been knocked over. She hesitated. She decided to wait for a minute to see if any cries of pain or calls for help came, and then to go back upstairs. She was just turning to go when a female scream rang out, sharp and desperate. It was clearly no play. There followed a female voice shouting
“NO!”
Full of fear, feeling guilty for disobeying instructions, but moved by a sense of duty and compassion, Felicity walked through the open door.
“IS ANYBODY THERE?” she called. Even to her it seemed a stupid question, but hopefully if anyone was up to something bad he would realise she was coming and would stop it. If it was Mr Jeffs, warning him might prevent a very painful incident.
She was in some kind of brick-lined corridor or tunnel. It was lit, but as she advanced, the light went out.
“Oh, gosh!” muttered Felicity; but she pressed on. She never saw, never sensed the man who seized her and muffled her head with some kind of bag. She kicked out, but felt her ankle grabbed, and was dumped heavily on her ample bottom. The bag must have had strings, for she felt it tightened around her head and neck. Then she was dragged along the floor and over some kind of lintel. Then the light around her increased, but she could still see nothing.
“It is correct your assistant is not part of the operation?” asked the Mitteleuropa voice of Mr Kadar.
“Correct,” said Jeffs.
“She is a spy? Police, perhaps?”
“I don’t think so – just a silly, interfering girl. Did you leave that door open, Jan?”
“Yes, Mr Jeffs, but your wife was after me and she also left it.”
“Did you, darling? Why? Oh well, doesn’t matter. So – looks like I’ve got to lose an assistant.”
“Never mind,” his wife replied, “we can soon get another. Might I suggest we could take the bag off her head, dear? I’ve closed that door.”
So Felicity was able to see again, but she might have preferred to remain blind. Before her amazed eyes were three naked, bound young women, dull desperation in their eyes and deep red weals on their skin. At last Felicity realised what activities Mr Jeffs had kept from her – not just pornographic photography, but something much worse. He was the Trapper! Him and Mr Barnes and…and…Mrs Jeffs!
That was not the end of her horror. The foreign gentleman had opened a long bag to reveal a blow-lamp, a long, rather thin metal bar, some smaller metal bars with sharp ends, thick gloves, chains, bells and pliers, a small box of large nails and some things else she could not see clearly, things that were flattish and dull-coloured.
Barnes whispered to Jeffs, who looked slightly surprised but nodded. Barnes used his mobile phone, speaking quietly so Felicity could only hear a few words: “another…really big ones…no trouble…good…done!”
“She’s added to the deal at the same price minus a 10% discount for bulk,” Barnes reported to his friend.
“Excellent!” said Jeffs.
“Let’s get on with it,” said Kadar.
He began to heat the end of one of the small bars; and as he did so he chatted to his audience.
“This one has just turned from a three-piece to a four-piece, of course, but the main bar has a telescoped section that can be locked in place, so it is no problem. Plenty long enough. As you know – the four young ladies do not know, but the rest of you do – this is called a Yamamoto after its inventor. It is very simple really – two or more in a row, facing the same way. One facing one way, the next the opposite way, that is a twisted Yamamoto. He invented that also. But with a curved bar, in a ring, that is a Blanco if it is facing inwards and a Reverse Blanco or a Klein if facing outwards. Those are the commonest types, but in all there are seven types – irrespective of numbers – and I have delivered them all! For today, though, just a simple four-piece Yamamoto.”
All four girls were listening, fearful and not understanding. When he had properly heated up the small bar with the sharp end, though, Yasmin guessed and screamed. That was nothing to the scream she was about to make. While Jeffs held her, Kadar took an implement like a big hypodermic needle and pushed it through the base of her left nipple, repeating the exercise on the right one while she was still screaming. He threaded long wires through the two holes and organised Barnes and Carla to hold them taut, so the brown girl’s tits were held rigid. Then giving the bar a last burst of heat, he approached, grinning at Yasmin’s terrified face, and plunged the red-hot implement through the middle of her left tit, pressing on through the right one. When he slid it out, Yasmin’s animal wail, almost like a death-cry, was still continuing and she had a neat hole bored in each tit. The roasting smell, Barnes thought, was delicious. He found himself salivating. The policewoman was next to have her delicious white tits bored – despite her desperate pleas for mercy - and then Julia the Superintendent’s daughter, whose firm young jugs forced Kadar to press hard. Each girl’s face was a mask of horror; each girl’s tits were neatly bored; and three sets of incoherent wails and moans combined in a symphony of entrancing beauty. Last came Felicity, still looking pleadingly at her employer, who smiled and pinched her big breast. Then she too had the same treatment and added the loudest wails to the music. Then the girls were held still while the big bar was pushed through the holes. No allowance was made for height, so Julia, the shortest, had her breasts pulled upwards and had to stand on tiptoe to avoid simply hanging from the bar, while Yasmin, the tallest, had her breasts pulled down and needed to crouch to level them out. The team released the small wires and watched the moaning, wailing girls adjusting to their new condition.
Yasmin found the others pulling her breasts painfully down, and crouched to avoid this, though the burning pain in her breasts continued. She still could not really believe what had happened. All the raping, all the beating, were things she might get over, but for the rest of her life she would have holes bored through her titties. And imagine that only a few days ago she had looked appreciatively in the mirror, seeing how proud and firm they were, glorying in her beauty and strength, her life all ahead of her. Now she was a slave yoked to other slaves by her tits.
“What’s really funny is watching them do something like feeding or shitting,” Kadar explained. “When one wants to squat, all the others have to squat even if there’s only one shithole. They have to co-ordinate feeding and even all straighten up so that one of them can swallow. It really is hilarious. If you rough-fuck one, all the others get pushed up and down. The Emir will have endless fun with them!”
Within days there was a new head of the hunt for the kidnappers; but the business continued to prosper.
The snatching of three young women from the girls’ school naturally featured prominently in the media. The policewoman’s family had obviously taken note of police advice to keep a low profile and no-one was getting anything out of the devastated Superintendent and his wife. The media pack therefore descended on the parents and other family of Yasmin the Head Girl.
Carla was watching an interview with them, chuckling at the bits about hoping that their dear daughter would be returned to them, when the interviewer turned to another family member and Carla sat up, shouting for her husband.
A girl called Amina was introduced.
“You’re Yasmin’s younger sister, three years younger than her, and you’re actually at the same school,” said the interviewer. “How do you feel about what’s happened?”
The teenage girl who stared angry and unafraid into the camera naturally had long black hair, warm brown skin and big brown almond-shaped eyes. Under her white t-shirt her fifteen-year-old burgeoning breasts pushed out proud and hard. She was much smaller than her elder sister, but somehow looked deadly tough.
“If I met them I’d kill them!” she said flatly.
“We’ve got to have her!” Carla hissed to Tony. “The impertinent little bitch!”
“If you want her, lovebird, we’ll have her!” he replied. “But why not wait a bit? If you see an unripe plum on the tree, you wait for it to ripen. If you have a fishpond and you want to eat this carp, you fatten it up first.”
“We could lose her!” Carla complained; but Tony shrugged and went to his computer. A few minutes later he said flatly,
“She blogs. No way will we lose her. The little vixen’s on borrowed time, but she doesn’t know it.” Carla kissed her husband and they chuckled together. They loved their work.
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