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| Beth | Back to K | Back to main page | ||
Collected by Djian
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| Beth | Back to K | Back to main page | ||
Collected by Djian
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
Beth
By pamela7@juno.com
(s/m, rape, torture, etc)
"Why are your nipples hard, Beth?"
It was a rotten question. But Calvin was a rotten person. That's why I
couldn't stay away from him.
"You know why." It would have been foolish to deny it. I knew he could
see them poking out against my blouse. Even if I'd had a bra on it wouldn't have
helped much. And I didn't. Calvin's orders.
"You tell me," Calvin said.
Of course. I closed my eyes. "Because I--"
"No, no," Calvin interrupted. "Don't close your eyes, Bethy. Look at
Calvin. That's it. Now."
I swallowed. "Because I want you."
"Do you now?"
"You know I do."
"Bullshit, Bethy."
"What?"
"You don't want me," Calvin said. "You want what I can give you. What I
can do to you. Right, Bethy?"
My throat was tight.
Calvin's voice was soft. "Isn't that right, Bethy?"
"Yes," I said chokingly.
"Tell me."
I was shaking. "Oh, please," I got out. "I--Calvin, please--"
"Beg for it," Calvin said.
"Oh..."
"On your knees," Calvin said.
I went to my knees. I knelt in front of him. Panting.
"Beg," Calvin said.
"Please..." I gasped. "I beg you." I didn't know what to say. I would
say anything. I didn't care. I had to have it.
"Go on," Calvin said.
"Please do it," I moaned. "Do it to me. I want it, god, I want it now,
please..."
"Whore," Calvin said.
"Yes," I said. I was throbbing all over.
"Get the whip," Calvin said.
"Yes!" I started to get up.
"Crawl," Calvin said.
I crawled.
#
Calvin didn't whip me very often. Usually he hurt me in other ways. He
had lots of other ways.
I loved them all.
If he got tired of hurting me he would find something else to do with
me. Like give me to other men. I didn't like that so much. Except when they hurt
me too. But I would do anything Calvin told me to do. I was his slave. I loved
him. He was the cruelest man I ever knew.
I would have died for him.
Calvin knew it. And he kept me his slave by being cruel to me in every
way he could think of. Viciously cruel. As if to see how much I could take.
Pain. Humiliation. Debasement.
The worse it got, the more I wanted.
But Calvin would never have sex with me.
#
I lay stretched out on the floor, on my stomach, naked, while Calvin
whipped me.
He hadn't tied me. I wanted him to, but this time he wouldn't. He told
me just to stay stretched out and not to move.
I screamed while he whipped me. He started high on my back and worked
his way down. Methodically and mercilessly. My back, my bottom, and my thighs.
Then back up.
I screamed and howled. I twisted and squirmed and bucked. But I stayed
stretched out.
Calvin stopped after a while. I was twisting and sobbing.
"You hot, Beth?" Calvin said.
"Yes!" I sobbed.
"You want to be fucked?"
"Yes!" I cried. "Oh yes!"
"Want me to fuck you?"
"Yes!" But I knew he wouldn't.
"Tough," Calvin said.
I felt the end of the whip on my back as Calvin brushed it idly over my
aching flesh.
"Want me to get someone else to fuck you?" Calvin said.
"No," I whimpered. "Yes. No. Oh, god..."
"Want to jerk off?" Calvin said. "Make yourself come?"
That was the usual way, when it was just Calvin and me. I would bring
myself off while he watched.
"Yes!" I said. I was so worked up. The pain did it to me. Always.
Always.
"Want to put your hands between your legs and come for old Calvin? Come
as much as you want?"
"Yes!"
"Not yet," Calvin said, moving the whip over me.
"Oh, god..."
"I'm not finished yet," Calvin said. "Turn over."
I did...
#
Calvin would never have sex with me.
#
Calvin came in with two other men. I'd never seen them before. They
looked at me with great interest. I didn't move. I couldn't. I was tied by my
wrists to an overhead pipe, my arms stretched above my head. I had a dress on,
but nothing under it. My stomach turned over.
Calvin came to me. "Ask me to hit you," he said.
I knew better than to hesitate.
"Please hit me," I said.
Calvin did. Very hard across the face.
"Ask me again," he said.
"Please hit me," I said.
He did.
"Again," Calvin said.
I asked him again.
He did.
"Now them," Calvin said.
I looked at one of the other men. I couldn't see him too well because I
was crying. "Please hit me," I said with difficulty.
The man hit me across the breast. I screamed.
"Again," Calvin said.
I said it again.
He hit my other breast. I screamed.
"Next," Calvin said.
The third man approached me. I tried to say it but I was crying and
choking.
"I'm waiting, Beth," Calvin said.
I gasped it out. "Please hit me!"
"Sure, honey," the man said.
He punched me in the stomach.
I was hanging by my wrists and trying to double up with the pain and I
couldn't. I couldn't do anything but jerk my legs around and twist a little.
The man who had punched me in the stomach laughed.
The other man said, "Beautiful."
Calvin said, "You want her?"
"No," the third man said. "Her tits aren't big enough."
"They're big enough for me," the man who had hit them said. He came up
to me and put his hands on my breasts. He squeezed them very hard, and kept
squeezing.
I cried out.
He didn't stop.
"Plenty big for my taste," the man said.
"You want her?" Calvin said.
"No," the man said. He let go of me and stepped back.
"Nobody wants you," Calvin said to me. "What a loser."
I was crying.
Calvin pinched my nipples. "Hard," he said. "Hard as rocks. Told you,
didn't I?"
"She must be frustrated now," the third man said.
"Hell," Calvin said. "Cut her down, she'll jerk herself off right here.
Won't be able to stop herself."
"Let's see," the second man said.
"Sure." Calvin cut me down.
He didn't even order me to do it. He knew I would. He knew I had to. He
knew I couldn't stop myself. He knew.
I did it. I lay there on the floor and I pulled my dress up and I got my
hands up there and jerked off, humping and moaning and squirming on the floor as
they watched me. Laughing. I came and I kept on doing it. I had my eyes closed
at first, but of course Calvin told me to open them, so I did, and I saw them
all watching me and laughing and I couldn't stop. I came over and over and I
still did it, until I was exhausted and I lay there just panting and moaning and
twitching, with my dress around my hips and my legs wide apart and I started to
cry again.
Then the man who had punched me in the stomach fell on top of me and
#
My father came in as I was writing, so I had to stop. I must have looked
guilty. He asked me what I was writing and I said it was a letter to my friend
Joanna. But I think he was suspicious. I'll have to hide this. If he ever saw it
I don't know what he would do.
Maybe I have to stop writing things down.
My father came in as I was writing, so I had to stop. I must have looked guilty. He asked me
what I was writing and I said it was a letter to my friend Joanna. But I think he was
suspicious. I'll have to hide this. If he ever saw it I don't know what he would do.
Maybe I have to stop writing things down.
#
My father is a policeman.
He's a detective now, but for a long time he was a regular cop. With a uniform. He still has it.
I can't remember a time when I wasn't fascinated by that uniform. It thrilled me. Especially
when he would hug me and I could rub up against it. I loved it all. The brass buttons. The
badge. The cap. The billy club.
And the handcuffs.
I think I was twelve when it started. One day when my father was out of the house I started to
play with his handcuffs. The hard, bright steel gave me a funny feeling when I touched it. The
sharp click of the ratchets closing made me tremble. Again and again I squeezed each cuff
closed, slowly, savoring that inexorable click-click-click, then fitting the tiny key in the lock to
open it again.
And then, shaking, I closed one of the cuffs around my wrist.
Click.
Click.
I was really trembling now. Hard steel around my wrist.
Click.
Holding me now. Not tight, but I couldn't pull it off. I looked to reassure myself that the little
key was where I had put it. I was breathing hard.
Click.
The steel pressing into my flesh. Encircling it. Tightly. Inflexibly. I was panting and starting to
perspire. I felt strange. My nipples were hard. I felt...between my legs...I felt...
It was my first orgasm.
Bewildered and ashamed, I unlocked the cuff and put the things away. I was not sure what
had happened, but I knew it must be wrong. I would never do it again, I told myself. Never.
#
After that I couldn't wait for my father to go out. I lived for the touch of the hard metal clasped
around my flesh, imprisoning my wrist. After some cautious experimentation, I found that if I
used the cuffs on both wrists, I could still unlock them when I needed to. That was even
better. I could pull at the cuffs and feel their unyielding strength, feel the restraint I was
under. I started closing them tighter, tighter, until the steel bands were biting into my flesh,
leaving cruel marks when I took them off. The pain, I found, added to my pleasure.
That sweet, guilty pleasure.
Often, expecially at first, I could come just from the feel of those tight cuffs gripping my flesh.
But soon I began to discover the added thrills of touching myself. With my fettered hands,
wrists aching and throbbing, I would rub my still undeveloped breasts, wondering at the
strange hardness of my nipples and the electric sensation I got from touching them. I would
caress my stomach too, and then my thighs, while the squirming, insistent feelings became
more and more intense, and then finally between my legs, where I would bring myself to
thrilling climax, repeatedly, the fingers of one hand rubbing and stroking and thrusting at my
crotch, while with the other hand I pulled at the cuffs to increase the pain...coming over and
over, crying out with ecstasy in the empty house, and wanting it to go on forever.
As time passed, I tried other things. I wished desperately that I could cuff my hands behind
my back rather than in front--just the thought of being that helpless made my heart beat
faster--but I was afraid I wouldn't be able to unlock them that way. The possibility of my
father ever catching me was too horrible to contemplate. I knew what I was doing was
wrong. That was part of the excitement.
But I tried other things. I would cuff my wrists around a table leg or a bedpost, which would
give me something besides myself to pull and strain against, though it made it more difficult
to masturbate. Or I would cuff just one wrist and fasten the other cuff to the post, leaving a
hand free to play with myself.
Then, when I got big enough, there was the hook.
It wasn't really a hook, but I thought of it that way. It was actually a very large nail, set high in
the wall of our living room, and most of the time it held up the mounted head of a moose that
my father had once shot. By standing on a chair I could take the moosehead down, leaving
that heavy nail sticking out, pointing upwards at a sharp angle--like an erect penis, though I
didn't think of that until later.
If I stood beneath the hook, on tiptoe, and reached up, I still couldn't quite touch it. It was just
too high for me to suspend myself from it by both wrists, though again, I wanted to so badly.
To hang there helplessly, pulled taut, straining in every muscle...I could almost come just
thinking about it. But I just couldn't risk it, at least until I got a little taller. But I could hang by
one wrist, because with my free hand I was able to reach up and unlock the cuff. It still pulled
me up on my toes, or made the metal bite agonizingly into my wrist if I stood normally. Of
course I had to be careful to hold on to the key, even while playing with myself. Sometimes I
would hold it in my mouth, but that was dangerous, because I might forget myself and cry out
when I came. Or if I was wearing clothes I could put it in a pocket. Sometimes I was dressed
when I did these things, sometimes I was naked. It depended on my mood.
I was dressed the day Jimmy caught me.
#
I was fifteen by then. I had learned about sex, but only second-hand. I had kissed a few boys,
and even petted a little bit, but that was all. I didn't find it nearly as exciting as my father's
handcuffs.
I looked forward to Wednesday nights because my father played poker every week and I had
the whole evening to myself. On this night I had hung one cuff over the hook and was
stretched on tiptoes, tightening the other one around my left wrist, when there was a knock
on the door.
I was so startled that I dropped the key.
I felt a moment of panic, but I fought it down. The key had fallen on the carpet only a couple of
feet away. I thought I could reach it with my foot; then I could slip my shoe off and pick it up
with my toes. I told myself to stay calm. Then the knock came again.
I was afraid not to answer--there were lights on in the house. I shouted, "Who is it?", and at
the same time I reached out with my foot, trying to move the key closer; but in my haste and
nervousness I only managed to kick it further away. Now I was really frightened.
"It's Jimmy. Jimmy Alonzo."
Jimmy Alonzo worked for my father, doing odd jobs around the house and the garden after
school and Saturdays. He was two years older than me, a senior in high school, so we hadn't
had too much to do with each other.
My head was spinning. I wanted to tell him to go away. But I was afraid I was trapped there.
"What do you want?" I shouted, and I stretched desperately to reach the key again, my arm
aching with the strain, but I couldn't.
"Talk to your father," Jimmy yelled. "Is he home?"
"No," I answered. I was fighting panic again. I stretched up on my toes, even tried to jump, in
what I knew was a futile effort to slide the cuff off the hook. The angle of the nail prevented
that.
"Okay," Jimmy called. "Thanks."
"Wait!" I yelled reflexively.
"What?"
I thought frantically. What could I do? I couldn't get the key, I couldn't get loose--I would have
to stay there all evening, until my father came home and found me... The thought made my
physically ill. I was trembling.
I wasn't very happy at the idea of Jimmy seeing me this way either. But it seemed the only
way. At least it was better than my father...
I took a deep breath. "Jimmy," I called. "Come--come on in."
I heard the doorknob rattle. "It's locked!"
"There's--" I gulped. "There's a key under the flower pot. On the left." My father hated leaving
that extra key there--he said any burglar worth his salt would look there before he even put
his gloves on. But I was always forgetting my keys, so we had to do it.
A pause. Then I heard the key in the lock, and the door opened. Jimmy said, "Beth?"
I told myself to just stay calm. "In here," I said.
Jimmy stopped in the living room doorway. He stared.
"Look," I said quickly. "It's just--I'm just--trying something out, okay? It's--for something I'm
writing. A story. And I just dropped the key, so would you just give it to me please?"
Jimmy didn't move. And he didn't stop staring. On top of my fright and embarrassment, I was
getting very self-conscious about how I looked, standing like that, one arm stretched tautly
upward, my body straining. I had on a skirt and blouse, and even though I was wearing a
brassiere, I knew that the blouse was pulled tight over my breasts. And that my skirt, not a
very long one to begin with, was hiked high over my knees. And though I was trying to stand
as still as possible, my insecure footing caused my body to shift and sway in spite of myself.
Jimmy was not missing any of this.
"Jesus Christ," he said.
"Jimmy," I said as steadily as I could. "The key. It's right there on the floor. Would you hand it
to me, please?"
"What are you doing?" Jimmy said.
"I told you," I said. "I was just--It's nothing. Okay? Please give me the key, Jimmy."
"Looks like something to me," Jimmy said.
I took a long breath to stay calm, then was sorry when Jimmy's eyes dropped to my swelling
blouse. "The key," I said.
Jimmy moved slowly across the room, his eyes still watching me. He bent to pick up the key;
but instead of putting it into my outstretched hand, he stepped back away from me.
I swallowed. "Jimmy--"
"What?"
"Give me the key, okay? Come on, now."
"First tell me what's going on," Jimmy said.
"I--I told you! Nothing! Now please--"
"You get off on this, right?" Jimmy said. "You hang yourself up that way, it turns you on, right?"
"No!"
Jimmy's eyes went over me. Slowly. "You're not such a kid as I thought, Beth."
"Jimmy, please..."
"You want the key?"
"Yes."
"Okay," Jimmy said. "Let's make a deal."
I knew what he meant. My throat was tight. My heart pounded. "What--what kind of a deal?"
"I'll give you the key, and you...do something for me."
"What?"
"Be nice to me," Jimmy said.
I was shaking. I said, "You go to hell, Jimmy Alonzo!"
He looked at me a moment longer, then shrugged. "Okay," he said. He dropped the key on the
floor and turned to go. "See you around." And he moved toward the door.
"No!" I yelled.
He turned again. "How about it, then," he said. "A deal?"
I had tears in my eyes. I hated him, but I couldn't let him leave me there for my father to find. I
had to do what he wanted. I was horrified. I was terribly ashamed.
But that wasn't all.
I didn't realize it right away. I tried not to feel it; god knows I didn't want to. But I did.
I was excited.
I was helpless. I was a prisoner, shackled before a man. And now I was being forced to submit
to him, to do what he wanted of me. I had no choice.
Part of me loved it.
But only a part. And I didn't want to recognize it.
I said, with diffuclty, "Jimmy, look--I-I'm only fifteen, and I--I never--"
"Don't shit me, Beth," Jimmy said.
"I'm not! Please, just--just give me the key and--"
"No way," he said. "You got me turned on here."
"Can't I--do something else..." I didn't know what I meant, if anything.
"Maybe," Jimmy said. "Take your clothes off."
"T-take my--"
"Yeah. Go on. Do it."
"Like--like this? Don't you want--"
"Like that. Now."
"I--How can I--"
"You want me to go?"
"I--No."
"Take your clothes off."
I felt faint. "Jimmy...for god's sake..."
"Last chance, Beth. I mean it."
I swallowed hard. "If--if I do...." My voice was shaking. "You...you'll...I mean...that's all?"
Jimmy said, "Maybe."
"No," I said. "Promise." I knew it was foolish. I was in his power.
Jimmy shook his head. "Do it. Then we'll see."
"Oh, god," I whispered. I began to cry.
And I began to undress.
My free hand was trembling as I brought it to the front of my blouse. I couldn't look at Jimmy.
Sobbing, I started to open the buttons.
The tears were real. The reluctance, the humiliation, the fright was real.
So was the fact that my nipples were hard. And that I was moist between my legs. Because of
the humiliation, and the fright. And the throbbing pain in my handcuffed wrist, the ache of my
taut body. Because I was being forced to bare my body for a man.
I got the buttons open. I had to pull the bottom of the blouse out of my skirt to get to the last
one. I still couldn't look at Jimmy, and anyway my eyes were blurry with tears, but I felt him
watching me every second. Awkwardly I slid the blouse off my right shoulder and pulled
myself free of it on that side. It dangled from my upraised left arm.
I was all too aware that the bra I was wearing was the type that opened in front. One hook. If I
had worn the regular kind it would have been more difficult. I didn't know if that was good or
bad. I was afraid to open the bra. Nobody had ever seen my breasts. I knew they were
heaving because I was breathing hard, and sort of gasping as my sobs diminished.
I took off my skirt instead. It had a button and a little zipper on the side. I opened them. The
skirt dropped around my feet.
I wasn't wearing stockings. Just shoes. And my bra, and panties.
I hesitated. I had almost stopped crying, but I was shaking harder. And I hurt. Blinking at my
tears, I glanced at Jimmy. He was watching very intently, his eyes wide. He was breathing
hard too. And rubbing at the front of his pants. I looked away.
"Don't stop," Jimmy said.
"Jimmy--" I got out.
"Don't stop, damn it!"
The pain was worse. I stood up on my toes to relieve the strain and the throbbing in my cuffed
wrist, but after a few moments my toes would give way under me. I took a long, shuddering
breath and brought my hand to the front of my bra.
It wasn't as easy as I thought, with one hand. It took a couple of tries, but finally I got the
catch open. I felt dizzy. I slipped the shoulder strap off and it hung from my other shoulder
along with my blouse.
I heard Jimmy make a hissing sound. I wanted to cover my breasts with my arm. I knew it was
no use. I stood there and let him look at them.
He said, "Go on." His voice husky.
So I took hold of my panties at the waist and pulled them down. I got them almost to my knees
and then managed to work them down with my legs until they fell the rest of the way.
And I was naked.
Jimmy said, "Jesus!"
I made myself look at him again. He was panting. He started toward me. I held out my hand for
the key, but he ignored it. He just came closer.
"The key," I said shakily. I could hardly get it out.
"Jesus!" he said again. And came closer.
I shrank back against the wall. "Don't touch me!" I gasped. "Don't you touch me, Jimmy
Alonzo!"
"Beth..." he panted. "Just...I just..." He reached toward me. I wanted to raise my free hand to
hold him off. I couldn't.
"Nooo..." I said.
He put his hand on my breast.
I melted.
I was his, he had mastered me, bent me to his will, and I would have done anything he
wanted. Anything.
Jimmy groaned and suddenly thrust his body against me. The movement pulled my wrist
brutally against the metal cuff, and as I cried out with the pain I felt the roughness of his
clothing against my flesh. I cried out again, but this time with passion. I wanted him to hurt
me more, to take me, voilate me, rape me... I clutched at him eagerly...
And I felt his body spasm against me. He groaned again, more loudly, jerked a couple of
times--and then pulled away.
"Jimmy..." I gasped.
He backed off, bent over a little. "Oh, shit," he panted. "Oh, Jesus..."
I was vaguely aware of what had happened. I was still trembling with need. "Jimmy--"
He straightened up now, but avoided my eyes. He held out the key. "Here," he said.
I took it. And Jimmy left. Quickly.
I was trembling so hard it took me a while before I could manage to get the cuff open. When I
did, I fell to the floor, gasping and moaning. I was exhausted and aching in every inch of my
body. And I couldn't even begin to sort out my emotions about what had just happened to me.
But I was more aroused than I had ever been in my life.
Even as I hit the floor, my hand was between my legs. My cramped, agonized muscles,
wanting only relief from the strain they had been under, took second place to the fire in my
flesh. In a few moments I brought myself to blazing, screaming climax. I rolled over onto my
stomach, my hands still at my crotch, and came again.
I don't know how many times I came, or how long it took. I only remember working at my
crotch until my vagina was sore and my fingers were tired, climaxing again and again,
endlessly, while I rolled over and over on the floor...
#
In the next few days, I avoided Jimmy. When he came to the house to work. If I saw him in
school. I stayed away from him.
But I thought about him all the time.
Of course I would never have anything to do with him again.
But I kept thinking about it.
What it had been like.
What it could be like.
With someone else there...I wouldn't have to worry about having to free myself. I could do
those things I'd been afraid to try.
Oh, god.
I could hang from the hook by my wrists. Both wrists.
I could cuff my hands behind me.
I could be tied hand and foot. Spread-eagled. Or...
I would get wet thinking about it.
And with a man to do those things to me. To do other things to me. Whatever he wanted.
Because I would be helpless. A toy for him to play with. A slave.
I thought about it. Day and night. At home, in school. Wherever I went. Night and day. Just like
the song.
Of course it would have to be Jimmy. Because he already knew. Some of it, anyway. I couldn't
take a chance with anyone else.
The following Wednesday I saw him in the corridor at school. I hesitated, but I had no choice
by then. I went up to him. "Come tonight," I said, and walked away.
#
I knew he would come. But still, I was scared at the chance I took. The danger was part of the
pleasure, in a way, though I would never have done it if I wasn't sure he couldn't stay away. I
was damn scared anyway, but I did it.
I hung myself from the hook.
I left the key on a table across the room. I couldn't do anything with it anyway, in that
position.
I used a little stool to stand on as I hung the cuffs over the nail. I locked one wrist in. Then the
other. My heart was pounding.
Then I kicked the stool away. Hard.
And I hung by my wrists.
My toes just barely touched the floor.
And I was naked.
#
My father is suspicious.
He wants to know why I am spending so much time writing. I told him I've always done a lot of
writing--stories, poems... No, he says, this is different. There's something different about it.
My father is a cop.
I have to burn this.
#
I was hanging there, naked, waiting for Jimmy.
My wrists were on fire. I couldn't get any kind of purchase with my toes. My arms felt like they
were being pulled off. My body was stretched taut. If I tried to move at all, it just intensified
the pain.
It was agonizing. And glorious.
I was so helpless.
Every minute that I hung there, the pain got worse. I began to perspire. I could hear my own
breathing gradually growing louder. I wondered when Jimmy would come. If he would ever
come. I wondered how long I could stand it. What if I passed out?
But it was so good.
I gave myself to the pain. I didn't want it to stop. It was my lover.
After a while I was moaning steadily. In anguish. In passion. I didn't know. I didn't care.
I wanted Jimmy to come. I wanted him to take me.
I couldn't keep my head up any more. It drooped onto my chest, rolling slowly back and forth.
At last I heard the door open.
I had expected him to knock. But he had just used the key and come right in. That was all right.
That was better.
For a moment, through the pain, my mind flashed on what he would see when he came in--a
helpless, naked girl, her arms pulled high over her head, her defenseless body stretched and
dangling, breasts thrusting, nipples erect, sweating, panting, moaning--and all his.
I raised my head to look at him as he came into the doorway.
But it wasn't Jimmy.
It was my father.