The Grays Document ~ Part Two
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Becky pulls at her handcuffs until her wrists are raw. Her perspiration gave her hope that they might slip off, but her efforts only made her hands swell, defeating the attempt. Outside, she can hear her captor whistling casually at what must have been his own parked car. There was no way to see, so no way to tell the cops. If she lived to see the cops at all, she morbidly corrects herself.
She startles a little as he enters the motel room, banging the large case on the doorjamb, "Whoops!" he chides himself, "Don't want to tear the leather." She sees now that it is a folding table of some sort, heavy and padded. He puts it down and leaves again, returning with a large black satchel. He winks at her, "The 'Bag O' Tricks!'"
He hums and whistles pleasantly as he sets up. The table unfolds, legs clacking solidly in place. He grunts as he moves the other bed over some to make more room. The unit is high and resembles a massage table, but with articulated arms and legs; a bizarre and horrid gingerbread man of ill intent. It's heavy straps loll over the sides like lazy snakes in wait.
Becky cranes to see what he begins to pull from his bag and lay out on the other bed. Items that are not all identifiable. But some evoke her stomach and throat to tighten; whips, clamps, a bamboo cane. Some of the things have electrical cords. There are also things meant to be inserted, or worse. Becky begins to whimper anew.
"Music to my ears, girl. Keep it up." he mocks.
"Please, PLEASE!!! Mister, don't do this! Please, just let me go! I won't tell anyone."
"Careful what you wish for," he states low and under his breath.
"I want to go home! I WANT TO GO HOME!" Becky cries and rattles her handcuffs.
The man continues the layout and, satisfied, gives the table some test pushes while making adjustments, "There. Alright then, this will be a lot easier on you if you just jump up on here when I key you loose. Just pop your ass up here and lay back on your cuffs," he moves to the dresser and re-cocks his pistol to put a point on his request, "Understood?"
Becky nods. Her hair ragged with sweat and ordeal.
"Good," he bends to release her, waving the gun before her eyes "I have no qualms about breaking your nose, so do as you are told."
Weakly, Becky hefts herself up backwards onto the table and trembles as she lies back. He waists no time buckling each of her legs to the armatures; ankles, knees, and thighs. A large belt is pulled over her ribcage and pulled snug under her breasts; the leather is thick and it bites. She in very conscious of the odor of tanning and sour metal clasps and fasteners. She also smells a hint of old perspiration, the table had been used recently. Everything abruptly becomes very real, and Becky starts to thrash. He is on her immediately, rough hands pushing her down by the collarbone.
"Ah! Now, now. You were doing so well. Settle down," his voice is stern but amused, "Relax..."
"Fah... fuck you! FUCK YOU! F..." full on panic.
Becky sees bright flashing lights, momentarily like little colored sparkles, then smells another odd odor. It is the smell of a nose in shock. Then her face warms where she was slapped. She finds herself quite still on her back, waiting for the stars to fade.
"...relax," He says low, and begins to buckle her arms outstretched on the arms of the torture table.
He leaves her to consider her position, and she hears him behind her as he happily washes his hands and face in the low, cigarette burned, bathroom sink. She tests and pulls at her bonds with no satisfaction. She is as stoic as the table now, bonded together as one. Movement is no longer a luxury.
He comes back and stares into her makeup stained eyes, "You see? It's all quite real now, isn't it?" he half smiles, "So, I'll ask again... The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
A long pause. Only the rattle of the ancient air conditioning between them.
"No? Okay." He grabs at her blouse with both hands and begins to tug and pull violently, the thin material does not resist and Becky sobs as it tears and shreds, her resistance abandons her with the fabric. Her bra is manipulated and pulled away from under, her young breasts feel the naked cool of the room. Her favorite skirt, the one she 'borrowed permanently' from her sister comes away in three loud rips. Her panties fare even less fortunate, forcefully torn away in his meaty grip. Becky cries to an uncaring room. She strains to look at herself, half unbelieving that her most intimate self is exposed to this nightmarish stranger.
"Oh, don't act so surprised. This is par for the course. When I start to torture you we can't have your threads in the way can we?" he smiles, "Nice skin. Sensitive?" he runs a finger the length of her and Becky squirms, "Whoops! No shoes either, I'm afraid," And he pops off each of her heels in turn, pausing to inhale deeply as he cups one over his nose.
"...mmmmm. The smell of sexy perspiration. Such dainty feet," and caresses one, "Nice and damp and soft."
"You SICK FUCK! You're a sick fuck!" Becky spits, "Let me fucking go!"
"No," he returns with lengths of nylon rope, "That's not going to happen. Quite the opposite actually. I really don't like the make of these bondage tables. You would think that people who take so much pride in their fetishes would fashion better restraints. They work well until things get hot and heavy, but a strong young gal, like yourself, could really pop some rivets. That's why I like to add some insurance. You can never have enough bondage, and some good tight rope is torture in itself after awhile."
He begins to tie her lower legs more securely to the armatures, winding and knotting taught like a seaman of old. He does the same for her arms and upper thighs. He captures her breasts between the coils and forces them pink with blood up into the air. He stands back, hand to chin, admiring his work.
"Nice. You're as pretty as a picture."
"Fucker!" Becky cries but moves not.
"Don't be mad. In fact, I'm going to turn that frown upside-down... ticklish?" he runs another finger down her arm and lingers at the pit, tickling. Becky screws up her face, squinting hard with a hateful grimace but then relents, and bursts into girlish laughter. He continues tickling, "Oh, my. You're too easy. Tsk. Tsk. A grown woman, and here you are giggling uncontrollably like a little girl. Tickle tickle tickle!"
Becky erupts into hatred and curses vitriol at him, spit flying.. But then, she has no choice but to submit to his madding fingers, and she bursts again into agonized laughter. He smiles, his fingers dancing and pulling mirth from her core, "Oh no. There's no intimidation. There's no stopping me. You have no choice but to suffer as I see fit. He tweaks and pokes at her ribs and flesh and she howls with pained squeals. He pauses.
"We have time for all that fun and more. But let's not rush. There's so much to do and we have the time to do it. Let's find out if Rebbecca has more sensitivities, shall we?"
"Let's explore her flesh."
— To be continued
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. M/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
Becky pulls at her handcuffs until her wrists are raw. Her perspiration gave her hope that they might slip off, but her efforts only made her hands swell, defeating the attempt. Outside, she can hear her captor whistling casually at what must have been his own parked car. There was no way to see, so no way to tell the cops. If she lived to see the cops at all, she morbidly corrects herself.
She startles a little as he enters the motel room, banging the large case on the doorjamb, "Whoops!" he chides himself, "Don't want to tear the leather." She sees now that it is a folding table of some sort, heavy and padded. He puts it down and leaves again, returning with a large black satchel. He winks at her, "The 'Bag O' Tricks!'"
He hums and whistles pleasantly as he sets up. The table unfolds, legs clacking solidly in place. He grunts as he moves the other bed over some to make more room. The unit is high and resembles a massage table, but with articulated arms and legs; a bizarre and horrid gingerbread man of ill intent. It's heavy straps loll over the sides like lazy snakes in wait.
Becky cranes to see what he begins to pull from his bag and lay out on the other bed. Items that are not all identifiable. But some evoke her stomach and throat to tighten; whips, clamps, a bamboo cane. Some of the things have electrical cords. There are also things meant to be inserted, or worse. Becky begins to whimper anew.
"Music to my ears, girl. Keep it up." he mocks.
"Please, PLEASE!!! Mister, don't do this! Please, just let me go! I won't tell anyone."
"Careful what you wish for," he states low and under his breath.
"I want to go home! I WANT TO GO HOME!" Becky cries and rattles her handcuffs.
The man continues the layout and, satisfied, gives the table some test pushes while making adjustments, "There. Alright then, this will be a lot easier on you if you just jump up on here when I key you loose. Just pop your ass up here and lay back on your cuffs," he moves to the dresser and re-cocks his pistol to put a point on his request, "Understood?"
Becky nods. Her hair ragged with sweat and ordeal.
"Good," he bends to release her, waving the gun before her eyes "I have no qualms about breaking your nose, so do as you are told."
Weakly, Becky hefts herself up backwards onto the table and trembles as she lies back. He waists no time buckling each of her legs to the armatures; ankles, knees, and thighs. A large belt is pulled over her ribcage and pulled snug under her breasts; the leather is thick and it bites. She in very conscious of the odor of tanning and sour metal clasps and fasteners. She also smells a hint of old perspiration, the table had been used recently. Everything abruptly becomes very real, and Becky starts to thrash. He is on her immediately, rough hands pushing her down by the collarbone.
"Ah! Now, now. You were doing so well. Settle down," his voice is stern but amused, "Relax..."
"Fah... fuck you! FUCK YOU! F..." full on panic.
Becky sees bright flashing lights, momentarily like little colored sparkles, then smells another odd odor. It is the smell of a nose in shock. Then her face warms where she was slapped. She finds herself quite still on her back, waiting for the stars to fade.
"...relax," He says low, and begins to buckle her arms outstretched on the arms of the torture table.
He leaves her to consider her position, and she hears him behind her as he happily washes his hands and face in the low, cigarette burned, bathroom sink. She tests and pulls at her bonds with no satisfaction. She is as stoic as the table now, bonded together as one. Movement is no longer a luxury.
He comes back and stares into her makeup stained eyes, "You see? It's all quite real now, isn't it?" he half smiles, "So, I'll ask again... The Grays Document. Name the actionables. All three people. Do it."
A long pause. Only the rattle of the ancient air conditioning between them.
"No? Okay." He grabs at her blouse with both hands and begins to tug and pull violently, the thin material does not resist and Becky sobs as it tears and shreds, her resistance abandons her with the fabric. Her bra is manipulated and pulled away from under, her young breasts feel the naked cool of the room. Her favorite skirt, the one she 'borrowed permanently' from her sister comes away in three loud rips. Her panties fare even less fortunate, forcefully torn away in his meaty grip. Becky cries to an uncaring room. She strains to look at herself, half unbelieving that her most intimate self is exposed to this nightmarish stranger.
"Oh, don't act so surprised. This is par for the course. When I start to torture you we can't have your threads in the way can we?" he smiles, "Nice skin. Sensitive?" he runs a finger the length of her and Becky squirms, "Whoops! No shoes either, I'm afraid," And he pops off each of her heels in turn, pausing to inhale deeply as he cups one over his nose.
"...mmmmm. The smell of sexy perspiration. Such dainty feet," and caresses one, "Nice and damp and soft."
"You SICK FUCK! You're a sick fuck!" Becky spits, "Let me fucking go!"
"No," he returns with lengths of nylon rope, "That's not going to happen. Quite the opposite actually. I really don't like the make of these bondage tables. You would think that people who take so much pride in their fetishes would fashion better restraints. They work well until things get hot and heavy, but a strong young gal, like yourself, could really pop some rivets. That's why I like to add some insurance. You can never have enough bondage, and some good tight rope is torture in itself after awhile."
He begins to tie her lower legs more securely to the armatures, winding and knotting taught like a seaman of old. He does the same for her arms and upper thighs. He captures her breasts between the coils and forces them pink with blood up into the air. He stands back, hand to chin, admiring his work.
"Nice. You're as pretty as a picture."
"Fucker!" Becky cries but moves not.
"Don't be mad. In fact, I'm going to turn that frown upside-down... ticklish?" he runs another finger down her arm and lingers at the pit, tickling. Becky screws up her face, squinting hard with a hateful grimace but then relents, and bursts into girlish laughter. He continues tickling, "Oh, my. You're too easy. Tsk. Tsk. A grown woman, and here you are giggling uncontrollably like a little girl. Tickle tickle tickle!"
Becky erupts into hatred and curses vitriol at him, spit flying.. But then, she has no choice but to submit to his madding fingers, and she bursts again into agonized laughter. He smiles, his fingers dancing and pulling mirth from her core, "Oh no. There's no intimidation. There's no stopping me. You have no choice but to suffer as I see fit. He tweaks and pokes at her ribs and flesh and she howls with pained squeals. He pauses.
"We have time for all that fun and more. But let's not rush. There's so much to do and we have the time to do it. Let's find out if Rebbecca has more sensitivities, shall we?"
"Let's explore her flesh."
— To be continued
