CHAPTER ONE

 

Some tiny sixth sense prickled Rosemary's consciousness; guilt maybe? It warned her against keeping her secret assignation with her lover, Michael. She somehow anticipated that Fate, her old adversary, would punish her deceit. Should she return home to her husband, Donald, and a cosy existence? Then her fiery, fun-loving friend, Lindsey, would laugh at her misgivings, would regard her as a wimp. Anyway, Rosemary realised, she wasn't made for a mundane life of boring routine - something she had precious little of during the last year or so with her various adventures. In addition, she had recently found it increasingly difficult to enjoy Donald's advances - they were more an unpleasant wifely duty now!

The tyres of Lindsey's car scrunched over the gravel of the secluded car park. Michael's Jaguar was in its usual Monday evening spot.

"Take it when you can," beamed Lindsey, "and enjoy yourself - have one for me." She gave a low, dirty chuckle. "I know what Mike's got to offer, remember. I'll wait till you're safely in his car, then meet you back here at 11 pm. Have some wine, you're telling hubby that we stopped off for a drink after our aerobics," she reminded.

Closing the door, Rosemary tugged down her sweatshirt and smoothed her expensive jeans against the curves of her bottom. With unseasonably mild winter weather, she hadn't bothered with a jacket, which helped to foster the illusion of a gym session. Collecting her bags, she walked to Michael's car. In her middle twenties, she knew she was beautiful. Deliberately, provocatively, she seductively wiggled the few yards. Seeing Michael dozing behind the wheel, she figured he'd had another busy day trying to build up his security-firm business: she knew how to wake him, though.

"Sorry I'm late," she sat beside him. "Donald had a few friends round and I couldn't get away ..."

Michael failed to stir when her lips brushed his waxen cheek.

Whoosh!

A leather bag, jerked down over her head, plunged Rosemary into stifling darkness. She clawed at the draw-strings tightening around her neck, practically throttling her. Sharp pain stabbed through her knees as they thrashed against the parcel shelf.

"Don't struggle and you won't be hurt. This isn't murder or rape." The authoritative female voice, from whoever had been hiding in the back, calmed her immediate panic.

"What ..?" Rosemary's muffled voice came weakly from the bag.

"No talking," interrupted the voice, "Hands behind you. If you make this difficult, you and Michael will suffer - I have a knife. This is what you get for cheating."

Despite her SAS training, any thoughts of resistance were banished. Rosemary could only hope that Lindsey would raise the alarm. She guessed that her captor had been expecting her, perhaps following her regular illicit liaisons. She was blind, choking, Michael unconscious. The woman was prepared and had the upper hand. She could feel the reins of freedom and control slipping from her hands as she reluctantly, obediently, placed them behind her.

 

***

 

A calming sense of almost relief washed strangely through Rosemary's cramped body, removing any guilt. The inevitable had happened again. Life was kicking her for bending its rules. Now she could relax, let someone else worry, she was no longer responsible for her actions - that had been taken out of her control. Grimacing, she realised that perhaps relax wasn't the appropriate term. Her wrists secured, the bag had been pulled off for a filthy rag to be pushed into her mouth and secured with a wide band of tape. With the bag tugged down again, her captor pushed her from the car. Scuffling footsteps suggested to her sinking spirits that Lindsey had also been caught. As she was manhandled into a vehicle, she heard the creak of an opening trapdoor.

"Put them under the false floor," someone instructed before she was pushed down into a confined space and tied with additional bonds.

Two other squirming, gasping bodies were squashed in with her before the lid closed, the perfume and after-shave confirming it was Michael and Lindsey. She was thankful that it was him, rather than Donald, who shared her imprisonment. Claustrophobically, she heard objects drawn back over the floor above, entombing them. Although their prison was lined with sacking, every bump jarred through her. With ankles tied back to her wrists, she was drawn back into a bowstring, unable to brace herself.

The journey seemed endless. Placed head to tail, Rosemary couldn't communicate through her gag and, anyway, the noise of the engine made hearing very difficult. When the movement stopped she assumed they had reached their destination. A radio blared somewhere above. By straining her ears, she just could just hear her kidnapper responding to someone in a low, flirting, voice and the words 'officer' and 'speeding?' No one would ever find them under the floor. Desperately she and Michael grunted, thumping their feet, but it was drowned by the radio. The driver, maybe guessing their intentions, cruelly called out when they resumed their journey.

"Only a warning, nothing to worry about - we'll be there soon."

Just as Rosemary felt sure she must be sick, the movement stopped again. The floor was opened up and her ankles untied. With strong arms gripping her, she was hustled helplessly along, over gravel, then down echoing stairs and through doors which clanged ominously.

The relief of having the hot smelly hood whisked off was tempered by the harsh white blinding light which replaced it. She screwed up her eyes, looking away but hands re-positioned her again to face it.

"Haagh," she gasped as the tape was savagely ripped from her lips and the gag extracted.

"Remain still, face the light and don't move," ordered a frightening, robotic voice in staccato tones. She realised from her training that it was a male voice and he was using a voice-disguising throat mike. At least, she considered, their captors' wish to conceal their identity gave some hope of eventual release.

When her cuffs were removed, she gingerly rubbed her wrists, trembling, then thrust her hands in her pockets, trying to be brave. It was difficult to feel too confident about the future with the cold and dampness of her surroundings seeping into her body. Squinting against the incandescent brightness, she could just make out the outline of a seated figure at a desk. From the corner of her eyes, where the light was less bright, she could see another figure seated casually on top of a table, one leg swinging over the other. It looked like a woman's shape, but a black mask obscured some of her face.

"Frisk her," ordered the figure at the desk. The staccato speech was in feminine tones.

The man who had removed her cuffs pulled her hands above her head.

"Keep 'em there," he demanded. He ran his hands through her hair, then crudely squeezed her breasts, then pushing between her thighs. Finally he patted down her legs as she stood obediently still.

"Hand me your trainers, socks, top and jeans," instructed the woman.

"Please ... why?" Rosemary began, automatically crossing her arms over her chest.

Crack! Crack!

Like a panther, the woman who had been relaxing on the side desk was holding her in a savage grip, her hand leaving a stinging imprint of pain across both cheeks, jolting Rosemary's head to and fro.

"Silence! No speaking unless replying to a question. When you're given an order here, you'll soon learn to obey," snapped her attacker, with a trace of an Afro-American accent through the distorter. " When you do speak, it's with respect, 'Madam',' Miss,' or 'Sir.' Now, get them off yourself ... or the gentleman here will assist you."

Although she had suffered similar ordeals before at the hands of men and women, it was not easy to endure. Having been free from those various forms of slavery for months she was now used to being an independent woman again. Horrible memories of numerous gloating male and female faces, young and old, white, black and yellow, came to haunt her as she began to publicly undress.

She couldn't properly see her captors but she heard the appreciative intake of breath from the man when she handed her garments to the seated woman - who extracted every item from the pockets. She also tipped the belongings from her handbag and gym-bag into the pile and sorted through them. Rosemary gritted her teeth in anger as the bitch casually used her expensive perfume.

"Quite nice. I'll keep this," she announced.

Rosemary wished she had chosen more practical underwear. A tiny red lace bra and pants clung to her curves, designed to titillate rather than conceal - and intended for Michael's eyes only. Again, her hands protectively crossed her heaving chest, covering the thrusting orbs. Her nipples, hard with cold and fear, strained through the flimsy material. Somehow she resisted the urge to place a hand over her bottom - only fractionally covered by the frilly undies. It would only draw attention to them and add to the pleasure of the man behind her.

"Quite the slut, aren't you?" the woman spoke despisingly, eyes flicking over her body. "Watch, earrings, jewellery, then hands clasped together full stretch above your head, legs apart," she demanded.

Rosemary was standing vulnerably before them. They were gradually, stripping away her dignity. The pile on the woman's desk grew whilst Rosemary was left with virtually nothing. Cards, diary, identity, her life, was as exposed as her taut body and methodically examined. She felt like a naughty girl at school, or a shop-lifter caught stealing.

The man again ran his hands slowly, lovingly, over the soft, trembling flesh, making her hold her position. He eased aside her bra to cup and squeeze the ripe fruit within, the nipples like buttons. Then moving under the waistband of her panties, sliding a little into the cool cleft of her buttocks, smoothing and patting the tight, firm globes. After sliding down her slim legs, he pushed hard up into the inviting apex of her thighs. The thin strip of material slid into the soft lips of her succulent sex accompanied by a probing, insistent figure. She gasped and squirmed delightfully, especially when her tightly gripping sphincter tried to eject his finger from her anus. She was exquisite.

After that indignity, she stood for an age like an obscene ballerina in the spotlight, shivering, goose pimples covering her smooth flesh. Her mind turned to her friends. Michael was tough and had recently shared her American torture ordeal. However, she wondered how Lindsey would cope. Her friend sometimes snapped if anyone simply brushed against her, let alone this deliberate humiliation.

Desperately she wondered who had kidnapped them and why. Maybe one of her old adversaries had escaped the justice she had consigned them to and was now seeking revenge. However, the bright lights and masks ensured that her captors remained anonymous.

"Your name, age, address," the voice jolted her back to her predicament.

Rosemary whispered the familiar details, hearing them echo unfamiliarly around the gloomy chamber. She screamed as hands came from the darkness to slap her thighs. They made her repeat the details time and again, louder, making her practically shout as if in an army, addressing her tormentor as 'Madam'.

"Now to begin knocking you into shape," announced the woman behind the light.

The man grabbed her wrists, turned and drew her against his back. Her hands, imprisoned under his, pressed against his chest. As he pulled, her body was drawn tightly over his, breasts squashed against his back. She felt the power of his large, muscular body, also his ponytail tickling her nose.

"The prisoner to receive six strokes on the bare buttocks," the woman spoke as if to an audience.

The American-sounding woman delved into the waistband of Rosemary's knickers and, despite her fruitless squirming, roughly tugged them halfway down her thighs. Now the man leaned forward, forcing her body into a tighter curve, thrusting out her bottom.

Looking in terror over her shoulder away from the harsh light, she saw that her tormentor was a Negress. Large and powerful, she viciously flexed a long cane. The old memories came flooding back of previous thrashings, nearly making her wet herself.

Whack!

"Please, no ... haaarghh."

She could imagine the pleasure she was giving the man as she squirmed forward against him, feeling that first stroke bit into her flinching globes like a hot band. Breath hissing past clenched teeth, she gasped into his ear, clutching his chest. Desperately she pressed herself harder against him in a vain attempt to mitigate the effect of the subsequent strokes. She didn't care about her pubis grinding against his buttocks, or him thrusting back against her. Indeed, deep inside, certain feelings surfaced - a frisson of pleasure at the touch. She shook her head to scatter such thoughts.

The pain was, however, completely unwanted, unavoidable - and just as bad as she recalled from previous such torments. Soon, her soft bottom carried the ridges of six throbbing red lines of fire eating into her. Sobbing profusely, her hot tears trickled onto the man's shoulders.

Although she longed to press her hands against her burning flesh, that was denied her. The woman yanked her pants up with a painful twang, making her gasp and squirm anew. The man tied a large leather blindfold in place, rendering her sightless again and they each twisted an arm up her back, thrusting her forward, nearly spilling her breasts from their flimsy covering. She felt them briefly hold something against her body, sensing a camera flash beyond the blindfold, then the seated woman's voice again.

"Cell 1."

"Please," she begged as they began dragging her away. The entreaty was useless. They savagely jerked her hands higher, making her scream at the near dislocation, a hand slapping her agonised bottom as if she was a horse. Bare feet scrabbling, she was taken down more cold, steps, then over flagstones before being pushed to stumble to a halt against a dank wall. A door locked behind her with a resounding crash.

"Whenever the door is unlocked you put the blindfold back on, sit against the wall, hands on head and legs wide so you cannot rush us," he laughed. "No talking or calling out, no noise at all. You're under constant observation and you'll be real sorry if you aren't a good girl." He laughed again - a dirty chuckle. "Count to ten before removing the blindfold."

The man looked appreciatively at the curvy, scantily clad figure. He shivered in the chilly air, maybe feeling a tiny pang of pity for the prisoner, before closing the peep-hole.

Slumped in her cell, teeth chattering, Rosemary couldn't prevent tears of self-pity. From a stolen evening of lust she had been reduced to sitting, nearly naked, in a freezing, gloomy cell with only a thin sleeping bag, an empty bucket, a roll of toilet paper, a bowl of water and a closed circuit camera! She didn't know where or why she was being held, or by whom.

Eventually she heard the clanging of doors and Lindsey's voice being silenced by a slap. It was repeated with Michael before silence returned.

The dim light allowed the watcher at the bank of video monitors to see the shivering, tousle-haired blonde sip some water and then wrap herself in the sleeping bag, attempting to sleep.