Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
The Guy
“Hey!” The cry came from Pia who for some reason seemed to expect me to be gentle with her now that we had established a sort of rapport, but quite frankly I was about to hurt this girl in a way that held no room for rapport of any sort.
“Shut the fuck up slut,” was my reply as I gripped her hair, pulled her head back and slammed into the wall of my hallway.
Pia made no intelligible sound as she sunk to the wooden floor, nothing other than a dazed grunt, as she lay in a heap, hands still cable-tied behind her back.
Luckily, I had a small driveway, and so being able to pull almost right up to my front door and then rush the still virtually naked Pia into the house amidst the raging storm, had been easy. Now that we were inside, as reward for her whining, she now lay prostrate and dazed, hair still damp from the brief, unavoidable, exposure to the rain.
The rough bandage was hanging loose from her foot, bloody and ragged.
“Now get the fuck up,” to compound my instruction I fisted her hair and dragged and pulled upwards until her face met mine, whereupon, for the first time I kissed her. I felt Pia flinch as my lips touched hers but then she relaxed into me and her mouth opened to allow my tongue access. We embraced as if we were two tragic lovers in the throes of our death clinch, which in a sense, we were.
When finally, I tore myself away from my ‘lover’ she looked at me, wide eyed, still clearly a little stunned and whispered, “Are we really going to do this?”
By way of reply I simply nodded, a look of earnest sincerity on my face, before adding, “Yes, we are.” I could just as well have asked the same question myself.
Pia had somehow sensed that I would have the required ‘tools and accessories’ lodged here at my house, and she was correct. I am a perverted, fantasist, stalker, obsessed with the illusory desire to strip and rape this young girl … she was right.
Reaching in front of her I twisted the black painted knob of the white door to our left and said, simply “Down.”
With a nod of her own and a meek expression on her face she moved into the space and stepped barefooted onto the cold, stone stairs that led down to my basement.
Making sure that my front door was locked, I slipped off my hoody, took the Petronilla text in hand and stepped in behind her.
Even in the gloom, following in her wake down the stairs, her firm ass covered only by the sheer fabric of her panties stared back at me, fuelling my lust, my ardour, my desire. I would fuck her before she died, I needed to be inside her with a desperate ache.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, with the door closed behind us, the gloom was all pervading, yet gradually my eyes adjusted as, I assume, did Pia’s. My basement was a tool room. No more, no less. It had an exit door with stone stairs that led upwards to the garden. I couldn’t come in that way because it was locked and the key was here inside the house.
“That is for you Pia,” I intoned quietly, as we both looked at the wooden saw horse, old and well-used the two sides of which, when closed together, left a surface of around two inches wide. Wider than a true torture device would be but there were plenty of excruciating ways to attach the wood to this delightful slut.
“Oh,” was all that she replied, her tones hushed.
“Oh, indeed,” I responded simply, seeing the confused look on her face as if she could hardly believe what was happening. “Now kneel while I read.”
Looking at me as she lowered her body, with her wrists still cable-tied behind her back, my little captive looking so damn vulnerable, and that excited me so fucking much!
I had lighting, wall based, not bright, enough to help see what I was doing, but it was via the light of a small torch that I read from the book.
“… she finds herself in a cell. Petra looks in as she is dragged into the larger room. It is empty of all but the wood and the metal. There is an ominous wooden post before her, and in the middle of the room is a large chimney shoot, with a fire built up in the middle. She is brought to a stop, made to lift her arms. Petra now pleads again, but she knows that there is nothing to stop it from happening now. She is in the centre of the room, her hands tied above her head, on her toes to try and give herself some slack in her muscles. She cannot see her punishers. She listens, her eyes wide, crying a little. Then there is a shove behind her, on her, and she feels the fabric of her dress being torn down her back. Her back is now shown to the room, the skin white and thin and fragile. She tries to swing herself around, so that she might see, but she cannot, they have tied her too tight, they knew what they were doing. What now? What now? …”
“What now?” Pia repeats from the text looking up at me.
“Now little slut?” I reply, and then pause before adding, “Now, I begin the process of your painful death.”
To Be Continued ...
“Hey!” The cry came from Pia who for some reason seemed to expect me to be gentle with her now that we had established a sort of rapport, but quite frankly I was about to hurt this girl in a way that held no room for rapport of any sort.
“Shut the fuck up slut,” was my reply as I gripped her hair, pulled her head back and slammed into the wall of my hallway.
Pia made no intelligible sound as she sunk to the wooden floor, nothing other than a dazed grunt, as she lay in a heap, hands still cable-tied behind her back.
Luckily, I had a small driveway, and so being able to pull almost right up to my front door and then rush the still virtually naked Pia into the house amidst the raging storm, had been easy. Now that we were inside, as reward for her whining, she now lay prostrate and dazed, hair still damp from the brief, unavoidable, exposure to the rain.
The rough bandage was hanging loose from her foot, bloody and ragged.
“Now get the fuck up,” to compound my instruction I fisted her hair and dragged and pulled upwards until her face met mine, whereupon, for the first time I kissed her. I felt Pia flinch as my lips touched hers but then she relaxed into me and her mouth opened to allow my tongue access. We embraced as if we were two tragic lovers in the throes of our death clinch, which in a sense, we were.
When finally, I tore myself away from my ‘lover’ she looked at me, wide eyed, still clearly a little stunned and whispered, “Are we really going to do this?”
By way of reply I simply nodded, a look of earnest sincerity on my face, before adding, “Yes, we are.” I could just as well have asked the same question myself.
Pia had somehow sensed that I would have the required ‘tools and accessories’ lodged here at my house, and she was correct. I am a perverted, fantasist, stalker, obsessed with the illusory desire to strip and rape this young girl … she was right.
Reaching in front of her I twisted the black painted knob of the white door to our left and said, simply “Down.”
With a nod of her own and a meek expression on her face she moved into the space and stepped barefooted onto the cold, stone stairs that led down to my basement.
Making sure that my front door was locked, I slipped off my hoody, took the Petronilla text in hand and stepped in behind her.
Even in the gloom, following in her wake down the stairs, her firm ass covered only by the sheer fabric of her panties stared back at me, fuelling my lust, my ardour, my desire. I would fuck her before she died, I needed to be inside her with a desperate ache.
When we reached the bottom of the stairs, with the door closed behind us, the gloom was all pervading, yet gradually my eyes adjusted as, I assume, did Pia’s. My basement was a tool room. No more, no less. It had an exit door with stone stairs that led upwards to the garden. I couldn’t come in that way because it was locked and the key was here inside the house.
“That is for you Pia,” I intoned quietly, as we both looked at the wooden saw horse, old and well-used the two sides of which, when closed together, left a surface of around two inches wide. Wider than a true torture device would be but there were plenty of excruciating ways to attach the wood to this delightful slut.
“Oh,” was all that she replied, her tones hushed.
“Oh, indeed,” I responded simply, seeing the confused look on her face as if she could hardly believe what was happening. “Now kneel while I read.”
Looking at me as she lowered her body, with her wrists still cable-tied behind her back, my little captive looking so damn vulnerable, and that excited me so fucking much!
I had lighting, wall based, not bright, enough to help see what I was doing, but it was via the light of a small torch that I read from the book.
“… she finds herself in a cell. Petra looks in as she is dragged into the larger room. It is empty of all but the wood and the metal. There is an ominous wooden post before her, and in the middle of the room is a large chimney shoot, with a fire built up in the middle. She is brought to a stop, made to lift her arms. Petra now pleads again, but she knows that there is nothing to stop it from happening now. She is in the centre of the room, her hands tied above her head, on her toes to try and give herself some slack in her muscles. She cannot see her punishers. She listens, her eyes wide, crying a little. Then there is a shove behind her, on her, and she feels the fabric of her dress being torn down her back. Her back is now shown to the room, the skin white and thin and fragile. She tries to swing herself around, so that she might see, but she cannot, they have tied her too tight, they knew what they were doing. What now? What now? …”
“What now?” Pia repeats from the text looking up at me.
“Now little slut?” I reply, and then pause before adding, “Now, I begin the process of your painful death.”
To Be Continued ...
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