Stanton laughed at her. And she managed to get her eyes open enough to see him towering above her, his hand gripping the thick stem of his prick. He began sliding his hand up and down his length rapidly until she wondered what was wrong. Then came the rain of his jism into her face. She cringed away, as if it were acid. He followed her as she struggled to escape. His cum blasted down hot and heavy into her face and her lustrous red hair. No matter how she turned, she wasn't able to elude him. When his balls were entirely drained of cum, he reached down and picked her up with contemptuous ease.
Without saying a word, he carried her to another room and chained her to the bed, her wrists and ankles both fastened with slender links of chain.
And then he left her crying softly, her head buried in the curve of her own arm.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sheryle didn't know how long she lay there on the bed, crying. She had finally drifted off to a troubled sleep plagued with horrible nightmares. She saw the whip descending on her and she awoke in a cold sweat, her heart beating fiercely.
She was alone.
The red-haired teenager sat up and stared around her. The room was deserted. She rattled the chains binding her wrists to the head of the bed and saw that there wasn't any way she could possibly break them. For all their smallness, the links of the steel chain were too strong for her to escape. The same seemed true of the chains on her legs until she noticed they weren't quite as tightly fastened as her wrists bindings.
Straining, she managed to get her feet out of them. She was still a prisoner but she had a little more freedom now. She stood up and paced the room to see what sort of a prison Mr. Stanton had provided.
If this was any example of how convicts were kept, she decided she was sorry she hadn't committed a felony a long time ago. The surroundings were plush and very expensive. Not a single item in sight was cheap and the room was tastefully decorated.
"Not bad for a freak," she mused to herself, grabbing at the chains around her wrists. Tugging harder at them convinced her all over again that she couldn't escape that way. She would have to get the key to the lock if she wanted her freedom.
Still, this wasn't too bad. The velvet spread on the bed felt nice to her hands and the bed was soft and comfortable. The only thing bothering her was the drying cum in her hair. She managed to get the jism off her face where the man had come, but the jizz hung with gluey tenacity to her long hair.
Sitting on the bed, dejected more than scared, she thought about her predicament. There was no escape for her – not right now. She would have to plot and plan carefully before she and Michael could get away from this place. Michael!
She had forgotten all about him. She had stripped him so that Mr. Stanton could beat him with the whip. Her own welts had gone away and only mild bruises remained, but Michael's beating had been more severe. She could tell by the sound of the whip hitting his naked flesh. How could she possibly save him?
Wasn't it supposed to be the man who rescued the woman? Why should she worry about freeing him when he was the one who should get her out? She shook her head, a cascade of red hair falling down into her face. She began to worry. It didn't matter who rescued who as long as they both got away and got home.
Home?
She couldn't go back. How could she face her father? He had spanked her like a little girl and tried to convince her that she wasn't the grownup she thought she was. If she went home and told him she had been raped up the ass by a trucker and then sold into slavery to some maniacal millionaire who forced her to suck his prick while he whipped her, her father would only laugh. He'd use the old line, "I told you so," and she couldn't stand that. She would have to escape with or without Michael and deal with Mr. Stanton on her own terms. After all, if she was as adult as she thought she was, she could make him listen to reason. He would have to let her go.
He'd have to!
Just as she was convincing herself that she could talk the devil out of possessing a damned soul, the lights went out. The room plunged into absolute darkness. It happened so fast that the girl thought she had been struck blind. But the tiny spots of blues and yellows dancing in front of her eyes told her that she hadn't gone blind.
"What's wrong?" she called out. She thought she heard a slight movement but wasn't sure. Her ears could be playing tricks on her. After all, it was so totally dark that she couldn't even begin to tell if the entire U.S. Army was in here with her or not.
She giggled, her foot feeling funny. It was as if someone dragged a feather across her leg, moving it slowly around her ankle. She kicked out, but there was no one there. She thought the darkness was playing tricks on her until she felt the feather again.
This time it was moving across her throat, lightly tormenting her cheek and nose. She sneezed and rolled away, forgetting all about her peril. She laughed and cried out as if she were ten years old again.
"Who's there?" she cried. "Is it you, Michael? Did Stanton let you go? Don't do this to me!"
The feather hit her again and she began to laugh harder and harder. The feather stroked down the front of her blouse and across her tits. Somehow, her blouse had come open – then slipped off.
The feather stroked across her rigid nipples, down the deep slopes of her tits and along the bottom of the canyon between her jugs. It ringed her broad tits and moved lower across her belly. She was convulsed with laughter, unable to stop. The laughter was almost painful to her. Rattling her chains, she tried to grab the hand holding the tickling instrument. She couldn't.
Then, her jeans were stripped off while she was giggling. Her panties were already in tatters from when the trucker had anally raped her. The pitiful strands of fabric were quickly discarded. Only when the feather stroked across her cuntlips did the young teenager realize she was totally naked. She could feel the velvet bedspread under half her body. And the feather danced over her turgid cuntlips and poked toward her asshole.
"Stop! Not there!" she pleaded, her hands out in front of her in supplication. But the darkness prevented anyone from seeing. She wandered how the person holding the feather could direct it so expertly. Sheryle never figured it out. She wasn't given the time to think about it.
The feather stroked over and over until her cunt sprang to rigid attention. The tiny organ between her slender legs got the full treatment from the feather. She laughed and cried at the same time. And then she came – hard! Never in her young life had she climaxed so powerfully. And all because of a feather being used on her in the dark.
She began to vaguely realize the horror in the situation. She had no idea who was doing this to her. Her unseen assailant could do whatever he pleased as long as she was laughing. Her defenses were down and she was more helpless than if she had been tied up like a mummy.
"Stop, stop it! I can't take any more," she laughed. Holding her sides while convulsed with laughter, she turned on one side. And felt the feather wetly drag along her cuntlips again. The tingly feeling racing through her body was unusual, one she had never experienced before. Who ever used the feather was trying to fuck her with it. But her own fuck juices caused it to become too soggy for that.
The bed creaked a little as added weight burdened the springs. She rolled slightly, feeling another warm body near her.
"Michael?" she asked softly. "Did that awful man let you go?"
No answer. She reached out, her chains jingling in the absolute darkness. She felt a surge of panic again. The man beside her was totally silent. All she really knew was that it had to be man – his erect prick lightly brushed against her naked flesh.